When the Red Wolf Hunts (The Red Wolf Trilogy Book 2) Read online

  When the Red Wolf Hunts

  The Red Wolf Trilogy - Book 2

  Kody Boye

  Contents

  Untitled

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  About the Author

  Other YA Novels by Kody boye

  Untitled

  When the Red Wolf Hunts

  Chapter One

  My thoughts are like fires burning in the night. Of blood. Of vengeance. For the greatest longing of pain—I quickly slip into dream not long after Jackson and the rest of the Meadows family leave, and find myself in a place unlike I could’ve ever imagined.

  In it, I see myself running across a broad field—and toward the woods that exist at the edge of what used to be my family’s home. Fast as could be in a form that is not my own, I rush through the underbrush and into the campsite that is filled with people.

  Then, I act out my primal needs.

  I taste their blood. Their flesh. Their deepest depths, their darkest desires. Bones crack beneath my teeth as they split muscle and sinew, and though my victims scream for mercy at the hands of a beast they do not know, their cries of anguish soon expire.

  But it isn’t enough. Not for me. Not for the people who died such horrible deaths.

  No.

  Their suffering—their pain—must be felt everywhere. From as far as the eye can see, to the deepest depths of torment that exists in the hearts of men, it must be experienced fully, and without remorse.

  Which is why the Wolf takes over.

  It splits them apart. Drags them away. Paints their blood along the forest floor.

  It is, undoubtedly, a feast for saints. But only those most wicked.

  As I stand here, within the forest outside Red Wolf, Texas, I lift my head—and see, within the puddle of blood pooling from the unfortunate victims, my face painted red.

  Then I awaken, so abruptly that at first I cannot determine my location.

  Where, I think, am I?

  It takes a moment for everything to settle in—for the thoughts to die down, for the experience to leave my system. A few moments later, I can now determine my place in the world.

  My bed. My room. In the Meadows family home.

  I inhale, then exhale a long breath, and find my muscles loosening shortly thereafter.

  Belle—who is curled along my side—opens her eyes to look at me.

  “It was just a bad dream,” I whisper. “Don’t worry. Nothing can hurt you.”

  But you can hurt them, a voice says.

  I nearly jump out of my skin.

  Where did that come from? I think.

  Then I remember.

  The forest.

  The ritual.

  The Wolf.

  I blink, stunned, and turn my eyes to find that the creature is resting in the corner of the room—red eyes watching, black fur glistening in the darkness.

  That was… you, I think, allowing my eyes to settle on the being across from me. Wasn’t it?

  It was, the creature says, then stands to approach.

  I stare at it for several long moments as I try to piece together the reality that has become part of my existence. My chest tightens, my lungs ache, my heart races. But it is not fear that consumes my being, that rushes through my system. Rather, it is the thrill of something exciting—of something wondrous—that echoes throughout my conscience, and causes me to look on without fear.

  As the creature comes to a halt before me, I stare into its glowing red eyes and ask, How do I find them?

  You will have to search for clues, the creature says, in the forest, in the town, in the wreckage.

  The wreckage? I ask. You mean—

  The Wolf doesn’t respond.

  Sighing, I reach up to press a hand against my face, and turn my head away shortly thereafter. I don’t think I can do it.

  But you must. Surely you did not call upon a Spirit of Vengeance simply to gain power. Did you?

  No. I shake my head. I didn’t call upon you just to gain power.

  Then why did you call me?

  I called you to avenge them, I think, turning my head toward the window, out which I can see the large field that extends into the far hills. To make right a horrible wrong.

  And what will you do when the time comes?

  When the time comes.

  The thought, haunting as it happens to be, causes my muscles to tense, my hand to ball into a fist. The tension in my body beckons to break free, yet somehow, someway, I am able to control it.

  For now, I think.

  The spirit Wolf steps up to the side of the bed. You will feast upon their fear when the time comes, it says. But until then, you must be smart. You must be brave.

  I can’t help but laugh.

  How can I be brave when so many horrible things have happened?

  You can be brave, the spirit Wolf says, because I am by your side.

  I extend my hand toward it.

  It leans toward me.

  Its snout brushes along my hand—and like velvet, I feel its conscience, its person.

  For a moment, I feel alone.

  Then, slowly, it disappears, and I feel it inside me.

  A rush of air escapes me.

  My nostrils flare. My mouth waters. My eyes dilate. I can see through darkness. Taste the air. Smell the forest and dirt and earth and men. Sadly, I can also smell the ash, the debris, the smoke, and something I instinctively know is death.

  I can also smell nicotine.

  My parents didn’t smoke, I think. And neither do the Meadows.

  Maybe this is what the Wolf was talking about. Maybe, just maybe, this is one of the clues that it’d spoken of.

  It could be, a voice inside my head says. You should go. Now. Before the demolition crew comes to clean up the scene.

  I can’t, I reply. They’ll hear.

  Who?

  The Meadows.

  What of them?

  They’ll wonder what I’m doing. Ask what’s going on.

  Then be honest, the Wolf says. Say that you sensed something and decided to investigate.

  But would that really be enough to dissuade them from asking further questions? I mean, if I knew someone was snooping around outside my home, I would certainly be asking questions.

  It isn’t snooping if you have a reason, I think.

  I know I can’t argue with that sentiment.

  For that reason, I carefully pull my legs out from under the blankets, slide them off the bed, then stand.

  I have just pulled my shoes onto my feet and slid my jacket over my shoulders when I hear what sounds like someone breathing.

  Gonna have to get used to that, I think, and grimace as the floor beneath me creaks.

  I pause for a moment to regain my composure—to wait and see if someone will stir beyond the doors—then twist the doorknob and exit the room.

  The moment my bedroom door is closed, I turn and make my way down the hall.

  One, two, three, I count.

  One, two, three.
r />   One, two, three.

  One, two, three.

  Each step sounds gargantuan—like I am a monster destroying a city—and causes me to grit my teeth. I want so desperately to be quiet, but at the same time, know that any noise is going to alert the Meadows to my presence.

  Better to act natural than like you’re sneaking around, I think.

  Then again, would it really matter? Zachariah Meadows had said that this home was just as much mine as it was his.

  We take care of our own, he’d said.

  With that thought in mind, I twist the deadbolt out of place, unlock the door, then step outside.

  I am hit by the same scent almost immediately.

  Okay, I think, inhaling yet another deep breath. So I’m not imagining things.

  The one thing I can’t understand, though, is why the smell would remain. I mean, a single cigarette wouldn’t have survived a blazing fire, nor would a pack of them have. And even if someone had been smoking during the time the fire started, it would make no sense that I would be able to smell it days later, and after such a heavy rain.

  Maybe, I then surmise, it wasn’t an ordinary cigarette.

  Maybe, just maybe, someone had thrown their e-cigarette into the grass to start the blaze.

  As this newfound thought enters my mind, I inhale another deep breath through my nose and begin to cross the street.

  There, I think, coming to a halt near the edge of the road as a sickly sweetness enters my mind. That’s gotta be it.

  I know for a fact that electronic cigarettes can have more than just nicotine in them. Nowadays, they can taste like anything—from fruit, to candy, to everything in between. But this… this is a very distinct smell—like something sour and loaded with sugar. Something like…

  Sour Buds, I think.

  I crouch down and begin to palm through the grass, using my heightened senses to determine where the smell is coming from. I pad, ever so softly, through the earth, using my fingers as my leverage, my nose as the tracker. I’m like a bloodhound in this moment, both figuratively and metaphorically; and though I doubt I will find the exact mechanism, I now know what I am looking for.

  It’s here, I think. It’s got to be. It just…

  My hand falls on something.

  I grasp my fingers around it.

  Lift it into the air.

  See, quite plainly, the melted metal in my grasp.

  The battery pack is still attached, and resembles a mess of misshapen metal. The pen itself, however, bears a name. A company name.

  Carnivore Vape Shop.

  I could almost jump for joy.

  At the same time, though, I realize this is only the tip of the iceberg.

  This means nothing without a name to attach it to.

  Chapter Two

  I slap the vape pen down on Jackson’s desk the following morning.

  “You’re vaping now?” he asks.

  “No, Jackson. I’m not.”

  “Then why—“

  “Look at the name on the pen.”

  Jackson lifts the dirty metal device to eye level. “Carnivore Vape Shop,” he says, and frowns. “That’s here in town, isn’t it?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Why are you showing me this?” he asks. “And where did you find it? It’s dirty as hell.”

  “I found in the rubble where my house used to be.”

  “You mean… you went—“

  “Yeah. I did.”

  Jackson frowns, but considers the pen for a few moments longer before lowering it to his desk and sighing. “I’m surprised the cops didn’t find it,” he then says. “They went over your place with a fine-tooth comb.”

  “But they didn’t find it,” I reply. “Which means they weren’t doing their jobs.”

  “Maybe they just missed it,” my friend offers. “I mean, everyone makes a mistake.”

  “Mistakes cost people lives, Jackson.”

  He doesn’t respond.

  “Either way,” I say, brushing past him to step further into the room. “We have a starting point.”

  “Wait. We?”

  I nod. “Yeah. We.”

  “You’re not thinking of trying to find out who did this by yourself? Are you?”

  “The cops don’t know what they’re doing.”

  “We haven’t even spoken with them yet.”

  “Come on, Jackson. You know they haven’t found anything.”

  “You don’t know that.”

  “They said they were studying boot prints and tire treads.”

  “That’s something.”

  “But it’s not enough,” I say.

  “What about my dad’s security system then? Or the footage he pulled from it? Doesn’t that mean anything?”

  “It doesn’t mean anything when my parents’ murderer is at large.”

  Sighing, I turn my head away from his window to face him, and find my heartbeat fluttering as my gaze settles upon his.

  “I know you’re scared,” he says after a moment’s hesitation. “But we have to be smart about this.”

  “Why?”

  “Because for one,” he begins, “whoever owns the vape shop is going to get suspicious if we start scoping the place out. And besides—if you go up in there and ask who likes… whatever flavor you smelled—“

  “Sour Bud,” I say.

  “—then they’re going to look at you like you’re a lunatic. Or worse: call the cops on you.”

  “I have to do this, Jackson. I have to.”

  “I know you do, Oaklynn. But this isn’t the right way to go about it.”

  “What do you suggest, then?”

  “I suggest we wait and see what the cops have to say.”

  I must curl my lip, or lower my eyes, or even ball my hand into a fist, because a moment later, Jackson is lifting a hand, and adding, “Then we figure out what to do afterward.”

  “So… you’re just saying I… what? Wait?”

  “Yeah. We wait.”

  A troubled sound escapes me, and though I try my hardest to maintain my composure in light of everything that’s happened, I find myself turning and stomping out the door.

  “Oaklynn—“

  “Just… leave me alone,” I say, and stalk across the hall to my room.

  A short moment later, I’m closing the door, probably a bit too roughly at that.

  As I settle onto my bed—and as I consider the likelihood of everything that’s to occur now and later—I find myself fighting back tears.

  You can do this, a part of me says.

  But can I really? I then question. Can I really, truly keep myself under control when it seems as though I have the entire world against me?

  My parents are dead. My friends are doubtful. The police are incompetent. And me—I’m desperate to keep from breaking down: to keep from changing into a person I am truly not in order to satiate my need for vengeance.

  You have to maintain control, I think.

  If I don’t—and if, by circumstance, one of the Meadows family members ends up finding out what truly happened—then I have no idea what I will do.

  As I lie back, and slowly but surely curl into a ball, I close my eyes and fight back the oppressive nature of reality, but find it closing around me all the same.

  I can do this is the mantra I have to keep repeating to myself. I can do this.

  I can do this.

  I can do this.

  I can do this.

  A knock comes at my door late in the afternoon—long after I succumbed to emotional exhaustion and fallen asleep. Tired, now, more than anything, and not wanting to deal with anyone or anything, I lift my eyes from where I lie in bed and wait for someone to speak.

  “Oaklynn?” Zachariah Meadows’ familiar voice asks.

  “Yeah?” I reply.

  “Your friend is here.”

  J’vonte.

  I lift myself from my place in bed and approach the door, unsure whether or not I truly want to face her. A part
of me does. Another doesn’t. But, at the same time, I feel as though I need to face her—because if I don’t, I know she will never forgive me

  With that in mind, I open the door.

  J’vonte stands outside—eyes set, lips pursed into a frown. Though she smiles when I set my eyes on her, her lips, nor her teeth, are what draw my eyes.

  No.

  It’s what’s in her hands that does.

  “What is it?” I ask, looking down at what appears to be a small pot.

  “It’s… from your mother’s shop,” she says.

  “Mom’s shop?” I frown.

  J’vonte nods. “My mom found it in her closet and thought you’d like to have it.”

  “I—“ I start, then find myself stepping forward. “I don’t—“

  It’s a simple pot—small and brown, with an intricate curved lip upon it—but it isn’t exactly the pot itself that strikes me, but the soil within.

  “Why is there soil?” I ask.

  “My mom had starts from Flora Fantastica,” J’vonte replies. “I… I think they’re just… daisies, or something, but, well… she thought that she’d plant them and give them to you.”

  “Oh, J’vonte,” I say, and this time, can’t help the tears that come.

  Stepping forward, J’vonte wraps me in a one-armed hug and allows me to lean against her for several long moments. My friend’s grip is strong; and her compassion envelops me.

  If only she could know, a part of me says. Then maybe I wouldn’t feel so burdened.

  A few moments later, we split apart; and I, without hesitation, step out of the room. “Mr. Meadows?” I call down the hall. “Can I put the flower pot in the living room window?”

  “You know you can,” Mr. Meadows replies.

  “I’d put them in my room,” I say, and then laugh, “but Belle would probably start digging through them.”