Page 2 of House of Wolves
Red didn’t just come to Dayton, Washington two years ago for the scenery. She was an investigative journalist for the New York Times, sent back to her hometown to investigate mysterious murders reported in our woods. The victims were werewolves, murdered by Hunters but staged to look like they were regular people killed by werewolves or, more publicly, killed by animals. The problem with a whole group of people having secret identities is that no one knew they were Were except for our own. The police pushed it under the rug and sided with the Hunters, but then Red showed up and, with some help from my idiot brother, got one of the main culprits in the murders to admit his involvement before Cameron ripped his throat out. The confession was recorded and handed over to the police.
“Sergeant Brick doesn’t want us to use that recording yet. He said it’s not time.”
My face heats. “Fuck that pig!” I yell. Okay, maybe I’m being a little harsh. I don’t necessarily hate police or anything. Even if it seemed they had taken the side of Hunters over Weres throughout our history. In fact, I’ve hooked up with a few of the officers and even have a friend who works as the office administrator at the station that gives me inside information. Believe me, I’ll be the last person to hate an entire group of people blindly, but I mean it when I call Brick a pig.
Sergeant Brick is one of the newer editions to the police force. He has connections with the National Department of Supernatural and seems to be sent to Dayton to fix our unequal power dynamic. The Werewolf Council has even accepted him into our pack, inviting him to meetings and sharingwaymore information than anything we’ve ever shared before. Cameron and Red think he’s part Were or something, but I can’t smell it on him. There’s definitely a strange aura about him. The air thickens when he’s around, as if magic coats his skin. But wouldn’t he admit to us that he’s a werewolf if that were the case? I don’t trust him as far as I can throw him, which is saying a lot because he’swellover six feet tall.
“Carmen, he’s on our side,” Cameron butts in.
“We don’t know that. It’s been three years, and no Hunters have been arrested for those murders.”
“There also haven’t been any more murders of werewolves. It could be because of our articles or because Brick keeps things in check behind the scenes,” Red says.
“Or they could be planning something more sinister.”
Red sighs, and I notice the dark circles under her eyes for the first time. “I sure hope not.” Her shoulders seem to sag under the weight of the world. Cameron rushes to her side, rubbing her back. I’m a dick. I shouldn’t be arguing with her in this condition. Instead, I should agree to her rules and ask to rub her feet, but I’m just so tired of letting powerful people get away with horrible things.
Cameron speaks up, his eyes stern. “Carmen, don’t waste your time on this article. We have a council meeting tomorrow. At least bring it up there before you do anything stupid.”
I nod, not feeling my spunky self anymore.
Red smiles at Cameron and turns back to me. “I love how passionate you are about this. I want to stop the Hunters as much as you, if not more.” She rubs her belly. “But we must work as a group and wait until everyone’s on board with our next move. In the meantime, we keep the fire under their ass and enjoy the peace.”
I nod. “Okay.”
She smiles. “Alright, well, don’t work too late today. That’s an order. I need your help deciding on the nursery's wall hangings tonight.”
I nod. “Okay, I promise. I’ll be at your place by six.”
“Good.” She turns to leave. Cameron gives me one last scowl before following after her.
I slump back into my chair, staring at the blinking cursor before me. Am I really just going to put this article away andlistento directions? That’s never been me. It’s the most not me thing possible. I sigh, leaning forward and twisting my nose rings as I read through the last words I wrote. I guess I can wait to annoy everyone until after the baby is here and settled. It’s the least I can do.
An email notification pops up at the top of my screen. It’s from Lucy, my friend at the police station. Perfect. Just what I need. A distraction until I can get back to working on the real work. The email is from a string of random letters and numbers—a burner email. She probably would be fired if the station found out she was sending inside information to the press before it went public. Lucy and I used to work together at the diner. We’ve always been willing to break the rules for each other. Thank God because the only other option is hooking up with one of the two cops on my roster. They’re a decent enough fuck, but a pain to be around without a stiff drink. I'd much rather be stuck in a room with them over Sergeant Brick, but that’s not saying much. Regardless, I would prefer to get my info from Lucy.
The subject line reads:NEW MURDER.
My heart stops. I love getting dirt on Hunters—robberies, embezzlement, ripping people off, but murder is never a good thing. A murder most likely means it's someone I know. I click the email, terror swimming through my veins as I take in the image embedded in the message. It’s a murder, alright. A young girl, barely into adulthood. Blood covers her head, and she lies on the carpet, her eyes lifeless.
I know this girl. Of course, she’s not just a girl. She’s a Were, just growing into her powers. The Hunters shouldn’t have known her identity, but now we’re more vulnerable. We let the police in because we thought hiding in the shadows had been too dangerous. Obviously, being out and in the open has its consequences, and a feeling deep in my gut tells me the violence doesn’t stop here.
2
Pig trap
Nothingbeatsthefeelingof the late-summer breeze slipping through my fur. The full moon shines overhead, lighting my path as I race through the dark and dense forest. Instead of focusing on the emergency meeting with the Werewolf Council, I try my best to stay in this moment—to focus on my breathing, my paws pushing me forward. Of course, I know what the meeting is about. I’m the one who called Grimm and told him the details of Stacy’s murder.
The hidden council building comes into view. From the outside, it looks like an abandoned church—an old wooden building with vines crawling up all sides. The windows are boarded up, and you must travel several miles through the woods to find this place. We never share its location. The only way we can all find the building is that it’s marked with our scent. Yes, we all piss on the side of the building. It’s gross and undignified, but we are intelligent mythical dogs. We’re going to be a little weird. I draw the line at butt sniffing, although the other males don’t always share my sentiment.
I’m alone as I approach the door. My senses heighten, and I take in the environment around me. I twitch my ears, sniff, and stare into the darkened brush, vigilant that nothing gets past me. Satisfied that I’m alone, I enter through the rickety door, stepping into the small entryway, a rack of heavy cloaks to my side and a frosted glass separating me from the main room.
The glass is thin, and the chattering of familiar voices chirps around me—my fellow pack, all in their human forms, on the other side of the door. I shake the damp air from my fur and shift. It happens almost instantly, in the blink of an eye. As a child, up to my early adolescence, it was more difficult for me to switch between forms, but it's natural to me now, thanks to practice and growing into my powers. It’s not as easy for everyone. Some only shift during a full moon. Some need training to control their transformations. Our family line is powerful. Cameron is the most powerful in the pack, a sentiment helovesreminding me of, but I’m close behind him.
I’m naked—an annoyance that comes with shifting. Unfortunately, our clothes don’t magically change with us. I do look fucking fantastic naked, but it would be rude to enter a room full of people tits first. How could anyone concentrate? I remove a black robe from a hanger and slip the heavy fabric over my shoulders. To an outsider, it might seem weird that we’re all wearing matching robes like some weird, comfy cult. But we’re werewolves, the stuff of storybooks. This is the least odd thing about us. I bet some packs meet in groups naked, so considering that, we’re pretty normal.
I step into the meeting room, the lighting low, and everyone sitting in old, wooden pews facing a stage at the front. “Carmen, good you’re here,” Grimm says from the front of the room. “I just filled in the pack on Stacy’s murder. Come tell us what else you know.” The silver-haired man motions for me and steps to the side. He’s the leader of our pack—the voice of reason, level-headed and trustworthy.
I gulp before walking forward. I’m shit at public speaking. I’m barely comfortable talking to people outside my close group. Writing my thoughts for the public is one thing. I can ponder my words before spewing them to the masses. My mouth and brain don’t always connect as quickly as I’d like. I love to talk, but not in such a serious setting.
