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Curt’s pack ran their operations out of a dilapidated lumber mill in the mountains not far from the lake where we’d set ours up. It was a huge building constructed of swollen, rotting wood. On one side, a barren watermill squeaked constantly at a slow, tired clip as the river commanded it to move. Inside the rotting building, old sawmill equipment made for an unsettling backdrop.
The blood-red color of the rusting blades and gears felt almost ominous. The smell of mildew consuming the softened pulp of the wood was foreboding.
I’d been there for nearly three days already, and it was clear to me that Curt’s constant exposure to yes-men and ye-women had started rotting his brain. What was once a calculating and, frankly, concerning level of intellect had softened into a sort of self-obsessed, delusional princeling.
I’d worried it would be hard to sell my devotion to him and my disgust with Cole. But it took shockingly little to make him preen. A hand on his knee. Allowing him to lean on me like a piece of lounging furniture. Cooing over the pups and being a good caretaker.
But he’d taken my phone away.
And he was constantly looking through it.
I was never sure if he was looking for evidence of me faking my interest in him or if he was hoping Cole would contact me and leak some valuable information about our pack operations. Whatever it was—the times I’d expressed boredom or wanting to have a phone to contact my brother or parents—Curt always told me I didn’t have a need for it. After all, everything I could ever want was right here with him.
I’d been lucky so far—he hadn’t tried to sleep with me or even kiss or anything. But each day, the miserable slow build of anticipation crept higher and higher. I’d written a check with my mouth that I had no intention of cashing, but that didn’t mean that Curt wouldn’t come to collect.
I thought about it as I sat near the children now, all of them quiet and trying to engage in play the ways they could. It was clear that the pack didn’t encourage them to play, because all of their games had something to do with keeping quiet. I wondered what fear had been instilled in them in the few hours they spent apart from us. In the time between when they were taken and when we orchestrated the trade of Noah for me.
My thoughts drifted into dangerous territory, then, my mind picturing my son and my husband. I hoped against hope that Noah was okay and that Cole was keeping himself together despite my radio silence. We’d come up with a plan, after all. I would learn the lay of the land in here and then get that information to him by contacting him however I could.
I hated that I’d not managed to get my final serum injection before all of this. If I had, it would have been as simple as shifting and howling for my mate. He would have come running in seconds.
“M-Miss Marley?” a small voice said.
I broke out of my reverie to look down at a little girl with messy blonde hair and a smudge of dirt on her face. It took me a moment to recognize her, but I finally did. It was the little human girl who used to play with Noah—or presumably, still did—at school. The one who’d wished she could be a shifter, too.
“Yes, honey?” I said softly, not remembering her name but wanting to give her the comfort of a little pet name, nonetheless. I wanted to give her whatever little links to home and love I could. “What can I do you for?”
“I’m hungry,” she said quietly.
“Oh,” I said, looking out at the other children. A handful of them looked at me, hollow-eyed and wary. Most of them looked like they hadn’t slept since they were taken.
“Is everyone else hungry, too?” I asked.
Most of the children nodded. Now that I thought about it, I’d hardly eaten since I’d come here myself. I had no appetite to speak of, but I would need to eat if I was going to get out of here safely with the children. I would need my strength.
I’d been shown a grubby kitchenette set-up that looked like it hardly got used. Not a terrible surprise, considering the number of empty booze bottles I’d seen strewn around. And the pack members who sniffed up small quantities of a certain white powder I was fairly certain wasn’t table salt.
“Okay, everyone,” I said, clapping my hands on my legs and standing up. “Let’s go make some lunch.”
We all wandered over to the kitchenette. In a strange way, the trip felt vaguely nostalgic. It was like leading my line of students back to class again, only it was a dingy lumber mill covered in hazards rather than a playground.
There wasn’t much by way of food, but I did manage to find a jar of peanut butter and a loaf of bread that wasn’t too stale or moldy. Doing my best to find a clean surface, I started slowly making peanut butter sandwiches that the children scarved down like it was the best thing they’d ever eaten.
My heart broke for them, and I felt a certain measure of guilt that we’d only negotiated for Noah’s release instead of all the children. Then again, this was the chip Curt was using to try and get our pack to surrender.
I fed all the children and even cut up a few extra sandwiches for the ones who needed seconds. I was making the ends of the loaf into a sandwich for myself when I finally saw what I’d been looking for.
Two pallid teens with beer cans in their hands came in through a large, circular opening that seemed to lead to some kind of drainage pipe. They giggled at each other as they sipped their beers, and then they saw me.
They froze. They’d been doing something wrong.
“And just where have you been?” I sneered.
“Uh,” the girl stammered, looking frantically up at the lanky boy she was with. “No-nothing. Nowhere…”
“We’re on the brink of a turf war, and you’re off playing hooky?” I demanded. “What were you even doing?”
“Nothing! I swear! We just snuck away for some privacy, that’s all. Everything is so tightly surveilled, some people don’t like fucking where the whole world can see, you know?”
