As if someone dropped it… or threw it.
I hurry towards it, but I only take a couple of steps before I smell the blood. I trace the scent straight to the woodpile, seeing the smallest splatter of red blood across the white stones in front of it.
I know it’s Lexa’s, but I have to get a better smell of it to be sure. When I bend down and touch it with my fingers, it’s cold, almost frozen. Barely even sticky.
Shit… this happened hours ago!
I bring my fingers up to my nose, and I know with complete certainty it is Lexa’s blood.
“Master Kit?” a questioning voice calls from the cottage. “What is it?”
I whirl around to face Joe, standing at the door of the cottage. I can see Susan standing behind him.
“Lexa’s gone!” I roar, losing my composure. “There’s blood here—did you—I mean—is there—”
Words fail me, and I fight the hopelessness with the only thing I have in me that’s stronger.
Rage.
“Master Kit?” Joe asks, coming across the yard. “What do you mean, blood?”
The light gray dullness of the yard is suddenly cut by a bright beam of sunlight coming over the mountain to the east, on the other side of the lake. It hits the front of the house and lights the courtyard with a shimmering orange glow.
What a beautiful sunrise. This could have been a perfect day.
As the chaotic thoughts crash through my mind, shattering against each other in an endless fall, one clear one shines through.
I’m cracking up.
“Did you hear anything?” I yell, crossing the yard to face down with Joe. “Did you see anything? Anything at all?”
“We’ve been soundly tucked in since sundown, sir. We woke up about half an hour ago. We were just having breakfast when we saw you come out.”
Susan follows Joe hesitantly into the yard, a shawl wrapped around her shoulders. She looks at the red splash on the ground with wide, terrified eyes.
“I was just coming to start cooking for you,” she says. “My God, is that blood?”
“It’s blood,” I confirm. “Lexa’s blood. We’re wasting time!”
I turn away from them, tearing off my pants so I can shift and charge towards the lake. There are the tiniest drops of blood scattered far apart, almost undetectable, but enough for me to follow.
I keep my nose down and swiftly chase the trail. Behind me, I hear the others calling, but I don’t stop. I just keep running into the trees.
As I run, a terrible bloodlust rises in me. I remember many chases just like this, hunting on Grandfather’s order.
“Criminals,” he’d say to me. “Fiends. They don’t deserve our mercy. They threaten the peace of the pack. Kill them!”
The very first time I went out, at fifteen, I hesitated. Our prey was a young boy, a little younger than me. I can’t remember what crime grandfather accused him of—or if there even was one. I was the fastest one, the best tracker, and I brought him down.
The shock took him out of his wolf form, and he looked up at me with huge, fear-filled eyes. I leapt back, shocked by his fear and something far worse—confusion.
Does he know why we’re after him?
After many years under Grandfather’s iron paw, I’ve come to believe that the boy probably didn’t.
The others caught up to me, and Grandfather wanted to know why I hesitated.
“Take the kill! Immediately, you goddamn weakling!”
