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

  She hisses and swipes at, but thankfully doesn’t scratch, me. Instead, she offers a low growl and retreats further under the bed.

  “This whole thing has taken a turn for the worst,” Jackson says with a sigh. He scoots himself along the floor—half crab-walking in the process—until he comes to sit beside me. “I mean,” he then says in a whisper, “on one hand, you’d think it’d die down.”

  “But on another,” I then offer, and lift my phone to show a picture of the sectioned-off area at Wolf Creek, where four makeshift crosses have been erected to commemorate the boys’ losses.

  Jackson nods. “Yeah. I know.”

  We remain silent for several moments, during which time he stares at me, and I at him. A smile crosses his features after a moment.

  “What?” I ask. “Are you all right?”

  “It’s nothing,” he replies, then averts his eyes.

  “What? Tell me.”

  “It’s just…”

  “Just… what?”

  “You’ve adapted so well to… well… everything… and… honestly?” He lifts his eyes to face me. “I admire you a lot for that.”

  “I don’t feel like I’ve adapted well,” I reply, and lower my eyes.

  He reaches out to tilt my chin up and smiles. “You have. Seriously, Oaklynn. Most people would’ve broke under the pressure you’ve been under.”

  I stare at him for several long moments and try to determine what, if anything, he wants. It seems highly unlikely that he would just be slinging praise at me just because; and fact is: he’s been my constant companion since this whole thing begun.

  Would it be so wrong, I wonder, to wish for more?

  No, I think. It wouldn’t.

  After everything I’ve been through—after all the calamity, the mayhem, the destruction and the chaos—it seems only right that I do this.

  “Jackson,” I say after a moment.

  “Yeah?” he asks.

  I lean forward and press a kiss to his lips.

  We linger there, for what seems like eternity but is only a few moments, absorbing each other’s sorrows, our woes, our complete and utter devastation. I reach up to touch a hand against his shoulder—and when he breaks free and pulls me into a hug, I can’t help but shed a few tears.

  Everything—my life, his arrival, my parents’ deaths, and those boys’ destructions—led to this single moment.

  I only question if I can save myself for what may come.

  Chapter Twelve

  “You want us to what?” I ask.

  “Get tattoos,” Jackson replies.

  We stand on his porch looking out at the empty lot across from us—where my home once stood, my family once thrived, and where I was once shaped and prepared for the world as it is now. My mind racing, my heart pounding, I lift my eyes to face him, only to see that he is dead serious.

  My only question is: “Why?”

  “For one,” he says, “your arm is scarred, and people are going to ask what happened to you, considering that you didn’t get injured in the fire.”

  “And for two?” I ask.

  “For two,” he says, “I’ve been wanting to do it for some time. I just couldn’t because of school.”

  “I see,” I say, unsure if his personal vanity project is more for his own wellbeing rather than both of ours. I cross my arms over my chest and consider him for several long moments—hoping that, by remaining silent, he will elaborate further, and therefor give me a better reason as to why I should go along with this plan.

  Frowning, Jackson reaches up to push his hair away from his eyes and says, “People are going to ask, Oaklynn.”

  “Who are?”

  “J’vonte, for one.”

  “I haven’t seen J’vonte for days.”

  “She may be giving you the space you need now, but eventually?” Jackson shakes his head. “She’s going to ask about the cut on your arm. Better to cover it up with something nice than to leave it there for someone to question.”

  “I—“ I start, then pause and frown as I contemplate his words, the reality, and the truth of it all. “I… I guess you’re right.”

  “Cool,” he says. “I have some money saved up, but Dad’s offering to give you some to get your own.”

  “Wait. Your dad is in on this?”

  Jackson nods. “Yeah. He doesn’t want people asking about your cut either.”

  I can’t help but laugh.

  “Oaklynn,” Jackson mumbles. “This is serious.”

  “I know it is. It’s just… what kind of parent helps their kid’s friend get a tattoo?”

  “One who doesn’t want to draw suspicion,” a voice says.

  I turn my head to regard Zachariah Meadows, who has since cracked the door open and is looking out at us.

  “Sir,” I reply, and straighten my posture.

  “We want to do everything in our power to make sure that we’re safe,” the man says. “If that means shelling out some cash to hide the result of a ceremony, so be it.”

  “I… I guess.”

  The man offers a slim smile before saying, “It’ll be fine. You just figure out what you want, go in, get out, and everything will be smooth sailing from here on out.”

  “What about—“ I lean forward “—Grandma Meadows and the wolves?”

  “She and Bernard are still trying to determine where they’re located,” Zachariah says.

  “Where are they even staying?” I frown.

  “Grandma has an RV,” Jackson says. “State-of-the-art stuff. One big bedroom, a kitchen, a bathroom, a fold-out couch in the living space. It’s amazing.”

  “It must be if they’ve both been living on it.”

  “They’re on the outskirts of town,” Zachariah explains, “to ensure that they don’t draw suspicion from the townspeople.”

  “Which I’m sure they already have,” Jackson offers, to which his father responds with a frown. “What? It’s not often people roll into a small town in a big RV.”

  “I suppose you’re right,” his father replies.

  I turn my head to regard the woods beyond my home and frown as I consider what might be hiding within them.

  Are there wolves there? I can’t help but wonder. Or hunters illegally setting traps?

  It wouldn’t be out of the question, considering what happened with Easton Wells. I can only imagine what his father must be doing at this moment—how he might be spearheading a movement against the wolf that attacked his son, and that killed four of his friends.

  I frown as I consider all of this, and the implications that could arise as a result of it.

  “Oaklynn?” Jackson asks. “Is something wrong?”

  “No,” I say, and shake my head. “Nothing’s wrong. Just… thinking.”

  “About what you’re going to get tattooed over the cut?”

  “Yeah,” I reply, then spin to face him. “About what I’m getting tattooed over the cut.”

  “So… when are you going?” Zachariah asks.

  “How about this afternoon?” Jackson asks. “I mean, if you can figure something out by then, anyway.”

  “I think I can manage,” I reply.

  Jackson only smiles in response.

  Though there is really no way for me to be confident in my decision, considering I never thought I would ever get a tattoo, I decide on two roses and thorns.

  For my parents, I think, and their strength of heart.

  And the thorns, I then add, for the role I had to play in all of this.

  I keep quiet as we take the taxi to the edge of town. Not knowing what to say, but most importantly, unsure what to feel, I lace my fingers together and place my fists on my thighs, growing more and more doubtful by the moment.

  “Is everything all right?” Jackson asks.

  I lift my eyes to face him, then avert my gaze to the driver before saying, “Everything’s fine.”

  Jackson nods, but doesn’t push the matter further. Rather, he reaches down to set a h
and over mine, and forces a smile I know is born of insecurity more than anything.

  He’s nervous, too, I think.

  But it isn’t for the reasons I am. No. Jackson, I know, is nervous because of the potential question that the tattooist will have, and the possible answer I will have to give as a result of it.

  You just have to say you fell, he’d coached, and cut your arm open. It’s not as if it’s deep.

  While that may be true, the fact is: people are more likely to ask questions in this scenario than any other—because I, as Oaklynn Smith, am simply the girl who survived. Through smoke and pain and fire and torment I’d emerged triumphant through the flames—

  Except, there’s only one problem: I’d emerged alone, and for that, I must be punished, whether it be by nature or the people within it.

  A sigh escapes me as I turn to look out the window—and though I hoped and prayed so desperately that we would take an alternate path, I see my mother’s flower shop rise up like a tattered icon to the masses.

  “Horrible, what happened,” the man driving says.

  “Yeah,” Jackson replies, a bit bristly at that. “It was.”

  I bite my tongue to keep from responding, and close my eyes to prevent tears from following.

  While it takes only a moment to pass, the impression it leaves is like a brand burning into my side—permanent and disfiguring and plain for all to see.

  I feel like going home almost immediately after we arrive at the tattoo shop.

  “You’re not having second thoughts?” Jackson asks after we’ve exited the cab and paid the fare. “Are you?”

  “No.” I shake my head. “I’m… I’m not.”

  “You don’t have to lie to me, Oaklynn.”

  “It’s not a lie so much as it is a reservation.”

  He presses a hand against my arm. “You’re sure you’re up for this?”

  “It’s not like I really have much of a choice in the matter, do I? Preservation of the pack and all.”

  Jackson sighs, but nods and says, “I guess not.”

  I turn to face the shop—whose entrance simply proclaims Red Wold Tattoo in grisly metal-music lettering—and force myself to nod.

  As much as I don’t want to do this, I understand that I have to—not only for Jackson, his family, and myself, but for the wolves that are hiding on the outskirts of town.

  With that in mind, I step forward.

  The whole process is cathartic, in a way. Entering the shop, consulting with the artist, having my idea drawn out, the stencil applied to my skin—it’s like a rite of passage in which I am a butterfly emerging from the chrysalis. Gone is the girl that I once knew, as into the cocoon she has entered. In her place emerges the woman I am becoming in her stead.

  As the needle slowly begins to draw across my skin, and injects into my flesh the purpose I know I now have, I consider the art around me and try, with little success, not to allow my heart to wander.

  “How you doin’?” the woman tattooing me asks.

  “Fine,” I reply, rolling my head about my shoulders so I can look her way. “It doesn’t really hurt as bad as I thought it would.”

  “It normally doesn’t,” the tattooist replies. She casts her shock of bright, neon-red hair from her eyes and considers the reds and blues she is tattooing into my skin. Her trained eye and careful hand are sensational in their efforts to deliver me the art of my dreams. “How you been holding up?”

  “You mean, with the tattoo, or—“

  “With what happened to your parents.”

  I frown and say, “Oh.”

  The tattooist draws a line across my skin. “You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to.”

  “I… I know.”

  “I’m just surprised to see you in here. That’s all. You don’t take me for the girl who gets tattoos.”

  “I didn’t want people to look at the scar on my arm and think—“

  “Whatever it is they think?” the artist asks.

  “Yeah.”

  She considers the piece being tattooed onto my skin again and says, “I understand. We women hide our pain as best as we can, because we’re taught to resent weakness, insecurity, fear. But you know what I’ve learned all these years tattooing?”

  “What?”

  “It’s that, no matter how hard you try to fight it—and no matter how hard you try to keep it locked in place and buried deep down within you—it always comes back to haunt you.” She finishes applying the shading on the section she’s working on and says, “Don’t let that fear beat you. Okay?”

  “Okay,” I say.

  She leans back, views the tattoo once more, and says, “We’re done.”

  “We are?”

  She nods. “Yup. We are.”

  She leans forward, wipes the weeping blood from the front of the tattoo, then lifts a mirror up for me to see. “How do you feel?”

  I lift my arm. Twist it around. Look at it. Stare.

  This time, I can’t help but hide the tears in my eyes.

  Arranged, along my upper arm, are the very two roses I requested—one red, one blue. The thorns that sink into my skin to hold them in place are beautiful in their callous portrayal of pain.

  “It’s beautiful,” I say, and reach up to wipe my eyes. “Thank you.”

  “You don’t have to thank me, Oaklynn. Just remember: don’t let the darkness win.”

  Don’t let the darkness win, I think, and nod all the same.

  “Now then,” the tattooist says, “let’s get you bandaged up. Your friend still has a few hours to go.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Jackson’s tattoo, it turns out, is more than just a simple piece. It is a mural, a landscape, a concoction of beauty and pain all the same. In place of flowers there are stars, then beyond that, flames, within which music notes dance. The shading is incomplete, so the full effect is not yet present. It is, however, stupendous.

  “How long were you saving up for that?” I ask.

  “A long time,” Jackson says. He considers the weeping spots of blood along his arm before sliding a jacket over his T-shirt and says, “Thank you” to his artist.

  The man only offers a small nod in response.

  “Yours is looking good,” Jackson says as we begin to make our way out of the shop. “It suits you.”

  “Thanks,” I reply.

  We exit into the cold, dark and dreary East Texas night and begin to make our way down the road, upon which we will walk until we make our way home. Colder, now, more than ever, and still tense from the pain I’d experienced in the tattoo shop, I allow the breaths to come into my chest and then escape out them slowly.

  “This will keep us safer,” Jackson says after several moments of quiet.

  I turn my head to regard him. “You’re afraid,” I then say, “aren’t you?”

  “About what people will think?” he asks, then waits for me to nod before saying, “Yeah. I am.”

  “About me, or—“

  “The wolf men?” he asks.

  I nod once more.

  With a sigh, Jackson reaches up to brush a hand through his hair and says, “We don’t know how much people know about the legends, or whether or not some people believe they’re true.”

  “Are there other people like you?” I say, then correct myself by saying, “I mean, like us?”

  “What? Do you mean, like, other shifters? Werewolves? Vampires?” He waits for me to confirm this before laughing. “Honestly? I wouldn’t doubt it. We live in a world where things are strange, life makes no sense, and anything seems capable of happening. I wouldn’t be surprised if there were vampires in this world, or anything else you might be able to think of.”

  “I guess that makes sense,” I offer, sliding my hands into my pockets.

  And it did, too—at least, in theory. Because if the Meadows family exists, and I too as a result of them, then who else could be in this world, in this place, in this land or even in lands beyond? If
people can change into wolves—and can, as a result, run free—then just what might be out there?

  You don’t know, a part of me says.

  But would I really want to? My whole worldview has changed so drastically in such a short amount of time. I’m not sure I could handle knowing anything more.

  “You okay?” Jackson asks.

  “I’m fine,” I reply. “Why?”

  “You spaced out for a moment there.”

  “Just… thinking, is all.”

  “Ah. I see.”

  I nod—and though a part of me believes that he may want to say more, Jackson remains silent and continues on.

  We arrive home late that night to find the lights are off—and a massive RV is sitting in front of the home.

  “Is that—“

  “Grandma Meadows?” Jackson asks, stepping forward. “Yeah. I think so.”

  A flicker of light appears from beside the window, illuminating Bernard’s face as a cigarette is lit.

  “Uncle Bernard,” Jackson says, stepping forward.

  “Hello, Jackson,” the man says. “Oaklynn.”

  “What’s going on?” I ask. “Why are you here?”

  “We found them.”

  “Them?” I reply.

  The man casts a glance up, then down the road, before turning his attention back to us. “Go inside,” he then says. “Mom will explain.”

  A frown tugs at my lips, pulling them ever-downward as Jackson starts forward. I, meanwhile, can only stand there and watch as the two men begin to speak in hushed tones with one another.

  They found them, I think, knowing now more than ever that this is the case. They found the wolf pack of East Texas.

  This thought, wondrous as it happens to be on one hand, is sobering on another.

  If Alecia and Bernard Meadows happened to find them, then that means—

  I shake my head.

  No. I can’t think about that. Surely everything is fine—will be fine. Surely—

  Jackson opens the RV door, turns to look at me, and beckons me forward.

  I make my way up the few stairs and into the RV.

  The space is small—incredibly so. With stained glass appliances and cream furniture, it appears like any traditional modern motor home would be, albeit with a little more flair. A map lies on the table, with locations marked with red circles and slash marks through them. There is, however, a single mark—an X, clear and bold in black ink—that draws me forward.