Page 26 of Red

“I’m sorry,” I whisper up to the sky. Pratt is screaming, I know it. Mom will be too.

Bracing myself, I pick up speed through a line of trees to a small opening. The feeling of fire rips through me head to toe. I block out all sensations of cold as I push harder, slowing down my breath, then let it out. My vision sharpens, and my claws grip the ground in front of me just as I find a well-used pack trail. The heat becomes comfortable as I charge through the trees, growing in speed. My body sighs. It’s been weeks since I’ve turned.

A howl rings out, making me wonder why I even risked turning so close to other wolves’ homes. I pick up the pace and change course, hitting another wolf’s trail. Home will have to wait. My vision forms an easy-to-follow tunnel as I run, and the sounds of the two wolves behind me start to lessen. They have just reached where my footprints disappeared and massive tracks would have taken their place mixed with others. I step off the previous wolf’s tracks.

Has to be Stark. Look at that print.

We’ll get her soon enough. He can’t protect her forever.

The urge to howl itches my throat, but I hold it back in case they decide to investigate.

Once I’ve run another few miles, I can’t hear a sound from them.

The wind whips past my fur. I accept my fate, slowing to a crouch in the snow as I drain the heat into the air around me until the sharpness of everything fades. The deep snow sinks away.

Back to two feet, I cross the distance toward home, the urgency to run or do anything fading.

The trees get closer together, a sign I’m close. I weave through them, bending under branches. It’s been almost three weeks since I was forced to leave. Three weeks since Pratt risked his life for the pack. The burning appears in an instant, and the snow around my legs becomes slush. If only I could be like Stark and control my emotions. I might be able to control the magic’s push to be front and center.

There are no sounds other than me and the odd squirrel. I pass one deer, but hear no signs of other wolves. Most of the pack doesn’t come up here. The dense trees love to tear at your skin while running through them. Plus, for border patrol, the humans are south, leading cohorts like Stark’s even further away.

An unused roadway comes into view just past the trees, and I turn to walk alongside it. When I reach the edge of the property, my feet stop moving.

Pratt isn’t going to be here.

I need to do this, I tell myself. It’s home. Where I belong.

I force my feet forward until I reach the small clearing of trees. Untouched white snow fills it. The small log home rests off to the right side, lighter than Stark’s, with a chimney that sticks out close to the peak of the roof. Large beams make a fan pattern over the porch, and a thin wooden railing, lines it leaving a space in the middle for a set of stairs. The first time I turned . . . the steps looked the same.

My body hummed, the largest grin on my face as I ran toward home. I did it—I’m not an outcast anymore. My ears flicked with anticipation as I rounded the house into the front yard. The things I could smell. Howling away.

Mom stepped out onto the porch, wiping a tear away from her cheek. It took a few tries, but I turned back and walked up the steps to join her, panting.

“Did you see?” My smile spread across my entire face, my movements jerky as I did a small dance.

“I did, sweetheart. I’m so proud of you.” Her eyes dropped in sorrow and her smile fell away with them.

“What is it?”

“I’m taking you out of school.”

I moved against the railing, away from her. “Why? I finally can keep up with everyone else.”

“Because you’re red, sweetheart. Red werewolves don’t exist.”

I can almost see myself running off the steps all those years ago, taking off for the trees. The sadness and betrayal of that moment crawls back across my skin.

Shifting through the deep snow, I reach the porch and stick my hand into the fake pot beside the door. Pulling out a key, I place it in the lock and turn until the dead bolt clicks. Inside, the smell floods my nose—Pratt, me, Mom. I lock the door behind me and go straight for his room. It’s been next to mine since we were kids. Everything is the same. Even Pratt’s clothes still hang over the end of his bed. The room blurs as tears begin to drip down my cheeks.

I grab his favorite blue sweater off his bed and pull it on. The smell of him wraps me like a comfortable hug. “How did this happen?” I ask the memories of his stuff. I bend down and cross my arms over my legs to sob. A wail breaks free, and I have no desire to stop it. The tears flow harder, until the blue sleeves become filled with dark, wet stains.

If only I could’ve just been like everyone else. Maybe then I’d have friends, or at least some sort of support from those who know me. But no one left has a clue. I lost them all when my mom pulled me out of school.

A few days after, Pratt found me in the forest, my legs dangling over a cliff edge.

“What’s wrong with me?”

“There’s nothing wrong with you. It’s what’s wrong with everyone else that you should be asking.”