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

  Though Jackson had laid his plan out in clear and methodical detail, the idea of running headlong into the woods without backup is enough to leave me reeling with uncertainty.

  Everything’ll be okay, my friend had said. All you need to do is stay downwind and follow. I’ll keep my uncle preoccupied.

  Preoccupied, I think, and can’t help but sigh.

  This has bad idea written all over it.

  Still—the nagging feeling that something is wrong will not leave my system, no matter how much I try to shake it. It’s almost like a stubborn sliver, where the tip is just visible but you can’t for the life of you grab onto it with tweezers. It hurts so much; and while you know it’ll work its way out, you can’t help but want to have it over and done with.

  Just like this, I muse as I watch Jackson make his way to the RV from the living room window.

  There is no questioning my feelings on the matter. I want so desperately to just leave—to open this door and run for the woods and change into the thing I know I can be—but know that doing so will only look idiotic.

  No.

  I have to remain calm. I have to be stoic. And most of all: I have to be careful.

  So, with that in mind, I wait—

  First one moment, then two…

  Three, then four…

  Five and six then seven and eight.

  On the ninth, I turn the doorknob.

  On the tenth, I pull the door open.

  In the moments afterward, I’m making my way from the porch and across the dirt road.

  I am in the woods in less than a minute.

  By the time I succumb to my primal instinct to shift, I hear the RV door opening, and Jackson calling to Bernard that he is going to check on Oaklynn.

  I know the inevitable will occur—that Jackson, in all his wisdom, will know how to follow, and when and where to go.

  For that reason, I slip into the woods, and begin to make my way toward Wolf Creek.

  The weeds dance in the wind as I push myself up the riverbed and through the cool waters within the creek. Anticipating Jackson’s arrival, but not sure exactly when he will show up, I take slow, deliberate steps, and listen to the sounds of nature around me as I walk.

  The birds, singing—

  The rodents, scampering—

  The foxes, cavorting—

  I long to see the red wolves of East Texas—to feel their presence, to smell their scents, to brush along their sides—but know that will not happen: not now, not ever.

  No.

  I made a dangerous decision at one point, and now, I will pay for it forever.

  As the sound of something trotting through the underbrush enters my ears, I lift and tilt my ears to attune myself to the noise.

  Jackson appears shortly thereafter.

  What took you so long? I ask.

  I had to give myself time to convince Bernard that I would be fine out here on my own, he replies. Also—I had to inform him that it would be better for all of us if he remained at home.

  In case something happens, I offer.

  Yeah. In case something happens.

  I find myself dreading what may come even more.

  Still—I know that we cannot afford to waste any time, and because of that, push myself forward.

  Up the stream we continue, between the muddy riverbanks we travel, below canopies we walk. The birds continue to sing, the animals in the underbrush still cavort, and the two of us—we are without pause, and make swift progress as a result.

  Things seem fine—so peaceful, in fact, that it appears nothing could go wrong.

  Then, out of nowhere, the sound of a gunshot goes off.

  Jackson and I instantly come to a halt.

  Where did that— I start to say.

  But it comes again—violent in its intensity, and explosive in its potential.

  Jackson doesn’t hesitate.

  He runs.

  Jackson! I call, raising my psychic voice as high as I possibly can. Wait!

  I take after him with the knowledge that any false move could endanger us both. I rush along the stream as if I am the wind, dodging around rocks and jumping over branches that have fallen from the canopy. My chest swells. My body fills with heat. My mind, though, is racing.

  It seems too nightmarish, too unreal to know that someone could have already discovered the wolf pack—and, as a result, have targeted them without mercy.

  This is all my fault, I think as I run. This is all my fault. All my fault. All my—

  A third shot sounds—

  Something shoots past Jackson, then toward me.

  It takes only a moment for the dark-furred wolf to run into the thicket to my left, but in that time, I realize that it can only be Grandma Meadows.

  And worst of all: she’s covered in blood.

  Blood.

  From wounds she’s inflicted, or wounds she’s received?

  Fact is: I don’t know, and I can’t bother to dwell on it now.

  As Jackson and another wolf rush after Grandma Meadows, I spin, bound forward, then take off in a flash.

  The water hides our tracks, but only momentarily.

  Within moments, we are bounding onto dry land—

  Heading through the thicket—

  Passing the Wolf Creek recreational spot—

  And making my way toward my old property line.

  Moments before we can reach it, the dark-furred wolf collapses.

  Alecia! I hear Zachariah’s voice cry. Alecia! Shift! Shift, goddammit!

  I—can’t, the old woman replies. I’m… I’m too weak.

  Grandma? Jackson asks, easing himself toward her.

  I hear another gunshot.

  Spin to face the sound.

  See several wolves come barreling through the underbrush.

  Worst of all: some of them are pups.

  Pups.

  Innocent creatures who have offered or taken nothing from this world.

  I don’t hesitate.

  I bolt in the direction of the shot.

  Oaklynn! Zachariah screams. Oaklynn!

  But I ignore his cries, his wrath, his lamentations, and make my way toward the smell, which sounds sickly of gunpowder and body odor and old tobacco.

  In less than a minute, I am breaking into the clearing—

  And staring the man in the face.

  “Easy girl,” he says, lowering his rifle to aim it directly at me. “My quarrel isn’t with you.”

  I snarl—a sound that both surprises and startles not only me, but the man before me.

  He jerks his hand toward the trigger.

  I charge.

  He shoots.

  The bullet goes astray—and I, like the hellion that I am, barrel straight into him.

  I don’t intend to kill. But I know that, the more that time goes on, the more that the rest of the red wolf pack could be in danger. For that reason, I barrel into him, knocking him from his feet and to the ground.

  Fortunately for me, I am able to restrain the urge to bite.

  Unfortunately, he’s struck his head, and is bleeding from a wound at his temple.

  Rather than wait to see if he’s conscious or not, I take hold of him by his shirtsleeve and drag him into the river, taking extra care to ensure that he does not drown.

  He moans.

  I snarl. Gnash my teeth together. Growl in his face.

  Then I turn and run.

  Having incapacitated the man, I rush back toward where I saw Grandma Meadows run—

  Only to find that Jackson and his father have shifted into their human forms…

  And are kneeling before the dark-furred wolf.

  No, I think. This can’t be it. It just can’t be.

  Zachariah Meadows turns to face me—and though I can see the pain painted clearly on his face, all he needs to say are two words to bring about the finality of it all.

  All he needs to say is: “She’s dead.”

  Chapter Seventeen

 
The old wolf is frail and small. Thankfully, she is easy to carry; but because of that, we leave ourselves vulnerable in the span of time in which the Fish and Game warden could come stumbling out.

  By the time they carry Grandma Meadows’ lupine body to the back of Zachariah’s home, I am emotionally taxed, and physically spent.

  All I want to do is cry.

  Don’t you dare, a part of me says. Don’t you dare cry when this is all your fault.

  My fault, I think.

  “My fault,” I whisper.

  Bernard comes barreling around the corner a short moment later. He rushes past me, heads toward Jackson and his father, and cries, “WHAT HAPPENED?” the man cries. “WHAT THE HELL HAPPENED?”

  “We need to bury her,” he says. “Now.”

  “It’s my fault,” I say. “It’s all my fault.”

  “Oaklynn,” Zachariah warns, spinning to face me. “Don’t get hysterical on us.”

  “I’m not!” I say, trying desperately to hold myself together. “I’m… I’m not.”

  “There’s blood all over the road,” Bernard says. “It leads straight back here.”

  “Dammit!” Zachariah cries. “Just… dammit!”

  “It’s gonna be okay,” I reply, lifting my eyes to the sky.

  “How do you know?” Bernard sobs.

  “It’s gonna rain.”

  “What—“

  Lightning flashes.

  Thunder booms.

  Raindrops begin to fall.

  I find myself lifting my hand to acknowledge the droplets as they cascade from the heavens. Turning my palm upright, and flexing my fingers, they fall evenly through my digits as in front of me Bernard sobs and Zachariah scrambles into action. He stumbles forward without the use of his cane, and reaches out to grab on to an old door embedded into the side of the house.

  A garden shed, I think.

  Within moments, he is withdrawing three shovels.

  “What do you want me to do?” I ask.

  “We’ll dig as fast as we can,” he replies. “We need you to go around front and ensure that no one comes snooping around.”

  “You mean—“

  “The warden,” the man replies.

  I glance past Zachariah to look at Jackson’s tear-stained face, then down at Grandma Meadows’ body, before nodding and saying, “Yes sir. I’ll go.”

  Then I’m turning and making my way around the house.

  The rain comes in sheets rather abruptly. Drenching me from head to toe, and pasting my hair to my head, I cross my arms over my chest as I come to stand beneath the slight awning over the front porch and tremble as I face the woods across the road.

  Stay there, I think. Go the other way. Or call for help. Do something other than ruin my life even more.

  I see the bushes across my family’s old property shift, then watch as a slim wolf I immediately identify as Celestina comes bounding forward.

  I crouch down.

  The wolf approaches slowly and hesitantly.

  I ask, “Can you understand me?”

  To which she replies psychically by saying, Yes, human. I can.

  “Are your people safe?”

  My people are in more danger now than they have been since we arrived in these lands.

  “I’m going to make this right,” I say, lifting a hand and extending it toward her. “I promise.”

  How? she asks. What will you do to ensure that we are safe? That our pups survive? That our legacy continues?

  “I—“ I say. “I don’t—“

  She turns and begins to walk away.

  “Celestina!” I say. “Wait!”

  She turns to face me, only to say, Do not interject yourself into our matters any further. You only cause pain and suffering where you go.

  The words hit me harder than I expect them to.

  Unable to refuse myself any further, I seat myself on the porch, close my eyes, then lean forward and brace my head between my hands.

  All I can do is cry.

  I don’t know how long I sit here, on this porch, soaking wet and listening to the rain. It seems like hours, though in reality, probably isn’t. Thoughts bombard my conscience like meteors to a godforsaken planet, and cause me to shiver even harder.

  This is all your fault, the wolf had implied.

  You only cause pain and suffering where you go.

  Is this true? Is this really, truly true? Because the more I think about it, the more that it makes some kind of cruel and horrible sense.

  First, I’d spurred this whole conflict into action. Then I’d spilled the fuel. The flame had come shortly thereafter—and both literally and metaphorically, had burned everything in its path. A shop had fallen, a home soon after; and though two innocents had died, even more would fall prey to my anguish, my fury, my rage.

  And now look what’s happened, I think.

  Alecia Meadows is dead.

  And it’s all my fault.

  I have not been able to shake the dread from my heart, the hurt from my mind, the anger from my bones. It seems that no matter what I do—no matter what I think—I can’t distance myself from the guilt that plagues me.

  You’ll never get over it, that wicked part that exists within all of us says. You’ll never be able to survive.

  Shut up, I think. Just shut up!

  You’ll take this to your grave, Oaklynn. And when you finally lay your head down for that final rest, all you’ll be able to think about is—

  The door behind me opens.

  Someone steps out.

  Jackson says, “Oaklynn.”

  And I, so lost in my thoughts and torment, can only reply with, “What?”

  “We finished.”

  “Already?” I asked, turning my head to face him.

  His slow but sad nod is the only answer I receive.

  With a sigh, I push myself upright, then turn and follow him into the house.

  Zachariah is on me instantly. “How did you distract him?” he asks, his voice cold and filled with contempt.

  “I didn’t hurt him, if that’s what you’re asking,” I reply. “I mean… he hit his head on the way down, but I didn’t savage him.”

  “Goddammit, Oaklynn. You attacked another person?”

  “I didn’t attack him, sir. I tackled him so he wouldn’t shoot me or anyone else.”

  Zachariah lets loose a long exhale and turns to face Bernard—who, seated at the kitchen counter, is nursing what appears to be a strong drink. Its bitter odor burns my nostrils. “Bernard. Bernard.”

  “Yes?” the man asks, refusing to lift his eyes from his drink.

  “We have to figure out what we’re doing before they go after the wolves.”

  “You mean if they haven’t already,” Jackson says.

  I turn to face him. “They won’t have,” I say.

  “How do you know?” he asks. “You’re not psychic. You didn’t see the future Grandma Meadows did.”

  “But the future can be altered,” I reply, reaching out to take hold of his arms. “It isn’t set in stone. She said that herself.”

  “What’s going to be set in stone,” Zachariah says, “is their future, if we don’t do something now.”

  Bernard stands. Turns to face his brother-in-law. Stares him straight in the eyes. He says, “I just buried my mother.”

  “And Jackson just buried his grandmother, but you don’t see him nursing whiskey.”

  Jackson shakes his head before walking out of the room.

  “Jackson!” I say.

  I am just about to pursue him when a hand falls upon my shoulder.

  “Don’t,” Zachariah says. “He needs time.”

  I am about to open my mouth to argue, but stop before I can do so.

  My shoulders sag.

  Zachariah removes his hand.

  I, in response, turn to face the man.

  I ask, “What do we do?”

  And he says, “We lead them away.”

  “But… Celestina
—“

  “Doesn’t want to see you,” Bernard says. He lifts his eyes from the drink he is nursing to face me—and though I know he is mourning, and can feel the sadness radiating off of him, I understand that he knows far more than I originally thought him to.

  “How do you know that?” Zachariah asks.

  “I know,” he says, “because I saw them talking when I came in to pour myself this drink.”

  “What’d she say?” Zachariah asks, returning his gaze to mine.

  “She said,” I start, “that I bring pain and suffering everywhere I go.” I close my eyes and take a deep breath. “They don’t want my help, Mister Meadows. They just want to leave in peace.”

  “But will they leave, though? That is the question.”

  “I… I don’t—“

  Zachariah turns his head to look out the nearby window.

  “They’d be crazy not too,” Bernard says after a few moments of silence has passed.

  “But they know these lands,” I say. “Probably every inch of them.”

  “But that doesn’t mean they should stay,” Zachariah offers, and sighs a short moment later. He reaches up to brush a hair across his stubbly face, then lifts his eyes to and gazes toward the threshold.

  “What’re you thinking?” I ask.

  “I think,” the man says, “that we have to go back.”

  “Back?”

  “To the woods,” he says. “All of us. And this time, we have to make them leave.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  “Make them leave?” I frown. “How are we going to make them do that?”

  “Alecia was almost ready to tell them about the vision when the hunter took his shot,” Zachariah explains. “She was darker in color… like your wolf was… so he must’ve thought that she was the Dark Wolf.”

  “The one that killed the boys,” Bernard says, “and injured another.”

  “So… it really is my fault she’s dead,” I say, and close my eyes.

  “This isn’t time to feel sorry for ourselves, or guilty about what’s happened,” Zachariah continues. “What we have to do now is make sure the last of the red wolves in Texas know about the safe grounds beyond.”

  “The safe grounds?” I ask.

  Bernard sighs.

  Zachariah nods.

  I look from the red-headed man, to the other, then back to Bernard before asking, “What’s wrong? Why did you sigh?”