Otherworlder.
And she turns out to be a werewolf.
Mya watched me. To avoid saying something nasty—which, seriously, I wanted to, but it would probably get me into more trouble—I asked, “How long have you all been here?”
Her eyes narrowed. It didn’t seem like she would answer. “A while. A deadly disease swept through this area in the forties. It did a lot of damage to our numbers.”
“Oh.” I’d heard about the disease, studied it in history.
In the 1940s, a breakout of canine distemper swept the northwest and moved up through Canada. It spread quickly, wiping out a handful of wild dogs, including Otherworlder canines. That’s why I hadn’t suspected her of being werewolf—any of the remaining packs reside in the Canadian forests. Today, the Canadian PIU has tagged only one: the Red Tails, which are miles away near Washington. While both their government and ours are aware of another pack called the Jackals, no one could locate them and we don’t know much. To come across a werewolf was extremely rare.
“How do you know about us?” Mya demanded.
I zoned back into reality. “Um.” Should I tell her? “I just . . . do.”
She growled.
“Ilume.” The black-haired woman on the porch straightened up. Her jaw was tight as she focused on something behind us.
Mya—that wasn’t her real name, was it?—snapped her head to the side, sniffing the air. I smelled it, too: fur, fresh kill, and muddy water. My ears perked at the sounds of heavy, loping steps. We had some big feet coming through the woods (never a good sign when you’re caged and weaponless).
Shadows moved among the pine. Two bulky men emerged, leading the way. One was young—probably my age—the other in his forties. They were both totally ripped, the kind of guys I avoided whether at school or in the clubs. We were talking eight-packs, not six, with arms that could throw you to China. Pretty scary. The boy bringing up the rear wasn’t any better.
If you crossed a wrestler with one of those dudes on the walls at Hollister, you’d get the pack’s alpha. I knew that’s who he was, and it wasn’t just from the name Rex tattooed down his arm in big, jagged print. As he hit the wood’s edge, the older guy and the teenager stepped aside, moving in rhythm like electronic doors. Rex strode through them, blonde head held high as he stepped into the clearing.
The boys on the porch stood up. Quietly, they opened the torn screen door and slipped inside. The woman stayed on the steps. Her golden face went pale as she watched the alpha male approach Mya—er—Ilume.
Rex was barely five feet out of the trees when he came to a halt. His nose twitched, inhaling. I swear his blue eyes went black. His lips peeled back, revealing a pair of sharp fangs, like a nightling’s, only shorter. So now I’d not only seen Guinness’s ugliest mansion, I also witnessed the world’s most malicious look. Rex moved quicker toward Ilume.
Toward me.
I leapt to the back of the cage as he stopped, towering over us like a bear. “What in the hell is this ?” he raged. Grabbing the iron bars, he glowered at me.
I could face dragons, but pissed off werewolves? Trust me, they are worse. They don’t do quick and silent deaths, not to enemies, and they aren’t slow-movers. They are man-eaters, beasts that will eat you—or even their own kind—alive.
I about wet my jeans.
“Rex.” Ilume kept calm, unlike me. “Before you throw a tantrum, let me explain—”
“What is there to explain?” His voice echoed off the trees, the house. “You brought a human here? A human ? God forbid, Ilume, I send you among mortals for a few short days and you’ve lost your mind.”
“If you would let me say something, you’d see why I did it,” she retorted, stretching on her tiptoes. She was all up in his grill, her nose just inches from his. Damn, she was brave.
Rex puffed up, looking even bigger than before. She’s a goner, I thought. Then, to my surprise,
And she turns out to be a werewolf.
Mya watched me. To avoid saying something nasty—which, seriously, I wanted to, but it would probably get me into more trouble—I asked, “How long have you all been here?”
Her eyes narrowed. It didn’t seem like she would answer. “A while. A deadly disease swept through this area in the forties. It did a lot of damage to our numbers.”
“Oh.” I’d heard about the disease, studied it in history.
In the 1940s, a breakout of canine distemper swept the northwest and moved up through Canada. It spread quickly, wiping out a handful of wild dogs, including Otherworlder canines. That’s why I hadn’t suspected her of being werewolf—any of the remaining packs reside in the Canadian forests. Today, the Canadian PIU has tagged only one: the Red Tails, which are miles away near Washington. While both their government and ours are aware of another pack called the Jackals, no one could locate them and we don’t know much. To come across a werewolf was extremely rare.
“How do you know about us?” Mya demanded.
I zoned back into reality. “Um.” Should I tell her? “I just . . . do.”
She growled.
“Ilume.” The black-haired woman on the porch straightened up. Her jaw was tight as she focused on something behind us.
Mya—that wasn’t her real name, was it?—snapped her head to the side, sniffing the air. I smelled it, too: fur, fresh kill, and muddy water. My ears perked at the sounds of heavy, loping steps. We had some big feet coming through the woods (never a good sign when you’re caged and weaponless).
Shadows moved among the pine. Two bulky men emerged, leading the way. One was young—probably my age—the other in his forties. They were both totally ripped, the kind of guys I avoided whether at school or in the clubs. We were talking eight-packs, not six, with arms that could throw you to China. Pretty scary. The boy bringing up the rear wasn’t any better.
If you crossed a wrestler with one of those dudes on the walls at Hollister, you’d get the pack’s alpha. I knew that’s who he was, and it wasn’t just from the name Rex tattooed down his arm in big, jagged print. As he hit the wood’s edge, the older guy and the teenager stepped aside, moving in rhythm like electronic doors. Rex strode through them, blonde head held high as he stepped into the clearing.
The boys on the porch stood up. Quietly, they opened the torn screen door and slipped inside. The woman stayed on the steps. Her golden face went pale as she watched the alpha male approach Mya—er—Ilume.
Rex was barely five feet out of the trees when he came to a halt. His nose twitched, inhaling. I swear his blue eyes went black. His lips peeled back, revealing a pair of sharp fangs, like a nightling’s, only shorter. So now I’d not only seen Guinness’s ugliest mansion, I also witnessed the world’s most malicious look. Rex moved quicker toward Ilume.
Toward me.
I leapt to the back of the cage as he stopped, towering over us like a bear. “What in the hell is this ?” he raged. Grabbing the iron bars, he glowered at me.
I could face dragons, but pissed off werewolves? Trust me, they are worse. They don’t do quick and silent deaths, not to enemies, and they aren’t slow-movers. They are man-eaters, beasts that will eat you—or even their own kind—alive.
I about wet my jeans.
“Rex.” Ilume kept calm, unlike me. “Before you throw a tantrum, let me explain—”
“What is there to explain?” His voice echoed off the trees, the house. “You brought a human here? A human ? God forbid, Ilume, I send you among mortals for a few short days and you’ve lost your mind.”
“If you would let me say something, you’d see why I did it,” she retorted, stretching on her tiptoes. She was all up in his grill, her nose just inches from his. Damn, she was brave.
Rex puffed up, looking even bigger than before. She’s a goner, I thought. Then, to my surprise,
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