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The wolf had rushed forward; Alex had fired. But she thought maybe—probably—her hands had begun to shake, and the bullet went wide, catching something—an ear perhaps—because flames shot into the night. However, she hadn’t hit anything vital since the beast kept coming. She’d known she was dead and—
“That was all right,” Alex whispered, as the steam rose all around her.
But instead of slashing her to shreds, the werewolf had knocked her aside, too, and disappeared into the hills. She should have followed; she should have finished him off. Instead she’d dropped to her knees at her father’s side, and as his blood seeped into her jeans, she’d begged him not to die.
Unfortunately, he was already dead.
When the sun rose, so did she. Leaving Charlie’s body behind, she’d gathered his weapons with hers; then she’d called Edward.
He’d arrived within twenty-four hours, and he’d taken care of everything, including her. Alex had become a Jäger-Sucher in more than name that night. She’d been fifteen years old.
Alex gasped, realizing she’d nearly fallen asleep standing up, with the shower still beating on her face, and she felt a little sick. She shut off the water, ignoring the jitter in her stomach, and went in search of clothes.
She settled on another pair of black slacks and a bulky cable-knit sweater, also black. She didn’t bother with a colorful scarf this time. She just didn’t care.
Alex really needed to get to a store and find something that was more “her.” Not that she had any money. Or that there was a Walmart anywhere nearby.
The idea of a Walmart in the middle of the Arctic, servicing werewolves and the occasional Inuit, made her laugh. Which felt really good until she started to cry. What was wrong with her?
She did not cry. What was the point? Crying wouldn’t bring Charlie back any more than begging had. The only thing crying was good for was making her feel weak, alone, and sadder than she’d been before she started.
Her body languid—great sex appeared to have that effect—she decided to just lie down for a minute. The next thing she knew, she awoke—ears straining for…something.
Then, from the depths of the darkness, the scrape of claws across ice echoed. Alex was drawn to the window at the front of the silent house where she peered out upon an equally silent town.
Except for that click, click, click. It was going to drive her mad.
She shoved her bare feet into the horrible boots, which smelled like the burning remains of an old tire factory, and stepped outside.
The moon fell toward the horizon, throwing strange, elongated shadows across the snow. The village looked like a geometrically challenged children’s game—one where colorful plastic squares, rectangles, and the like needed to be shoved into their matching holes before the timer went off and popped them all back out.
The sound of those claws was like the tick of that clock, creating a sen
se of urgency that caused Alex to head down the steps and into the street.
Alex had thought herself the only one left in Barlowsville after Julian loped off. Just like the previous night, all the werewolves were running beneath the moon.
Alex reached the end of the street that spilled into the town square and caught sight of a tail disappearing around an ATV parked at the edge. She hurried after, wincing as her boots crunched in the snow like newspaper crushed in her hands.
She paused in case she had to duck around the side of the ice cream shop—who ate ice cream in the Arctic?—to avoid being seen. Why she wanted to avoid that, she wasn’t sure, but she did.
However, the animal kept going. With his super-duper ears he had to have heard her, but he didn’t even glance back.
Who was this wolf? Why was it here? What did it want?
Alex had already rushed through the common and followed the four-legged shadow across the street before her brain caught up to her questions.
“Rogue,” she whispered, then she cursed.
Why hadn’t she brought a gun?
Oh, right. She no longer had a gun.
For an instant, Alex could barely think past the thunder of her heart in her head. Then she realized she had a better weapon within.
She’d just begun to slide Ella’s slacks from her hips when she caught sight of the wolf again. Though the moon leached the color from everything, it couldn’t change the shape of the body, the particular shagginess of the coat, the size of the paws, or the arrogant tilt of the head.
“Barlow,” she muttered.
