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I was tempted to crumple the note up and toss it in the bin, but I resisted the temptation. The note was evidence, and I had a feeling I'd need that - especially given that Denny was the son of the pack's second. It would be his word against mine without this note, and his father's status in the pack would matter, even if it wasn't supposed to.
So I went through the kitchen cupboards until I found some plastic wrap, then covered the note with it, trying to touch the paper as little as possible so there'd be less chance of smudging whatever prints might be on it. Then I shoved it inside my jeans pocket. I wasn't about to leave it here. They'd already proven locked doors didn't stop them, and I wouldn't put it past them to have someone waiting for me to leave so they could come back in and grab the note.
So where the hell was the old whaling station?
Frowning, I walked around the kitchen counter and grabbed the information booklet that was sitting near the phone. After flicking through several pages, I found it. It was, according to the map, at least a two-and-a-halfhour drive. I glanced over my shoulder to the clock. It was almost nine - I'd never make it if I drove. But then, I had other options - options Denny and his friends couldn't know about.
So why would they bother giving me a time limit they knew I couldn't make? Unless the whole point was to panic me so that I'd simply rush there without thought or aid?
After all, if they did have someone watching the house, they'd know when I left and could estimate my arrival. Which meant I'd have to at least make a show of being panicked, just in case.
I blew out a breath, then walked back to the kitchen and opened the drawers. There wasn't much in the way of weapons - a set of old steak knives was about the extent of it. But they were better than nothing, so I shoved one down each sock.
I went back into my bedroom to change from my warm and sturdy shirt to something a little more flimsy, then grabbed my coat, found the car keys, and raced out, making a pretense of fumbling the locks.
I didn't see anyone, didn't scent anyone, yet I had a feeling they were out there all the same. The back of my neck crawled with the sensation of being watched.
I jumped into the car, started it up, then spun it around and fishtailed down the drive. I kept my foot flattened, racing through town and out into the dark hills. By the time I was a good ten or twenty miles out, it was obvious I wasn't being tailed, so I slowed down and starting looking for someplace to hide the car.
There weren't a whole lot of options in this land of endlessly rolling sand hills, so I simply drove off the road, then up and over the nearest hill. The tracks in the soil would give me away if anyone bothered looking hard enough, but hopefully they wouldn't be.
I climbed out, locked the car, then closed my eyes and imagined the seagull shape. For a heartbeat, pain flared, but unlike when I tried reaching for the wolf, it was a distant, insubstantial thing that didn't hold the strength to prevent the change.
Power surged, sweeping around me, through me, changing and molding my body, forcing the limbs of a human down into those of a gull. And the mere act of changing when I actually wanted to felt so good that part of me raged again against those who had contained my wolf. Then the anger was swept away, because I was leaping skyward.
I followed the long dusty road north, seeing nothing, hearing nothing, except the roar of the surf far below me. This part of Australia was a wild and empty place.
Eventually, a warm light began to flicker through the darkness. I swooped toward it, and the light became a campfire burning brightly near the shoreline. Meaning no one was likely to notice a curious seagull.
There were three men sitting near the fire. Their laughter rode across the night, filled with anticipation. One of those men was Denny, but the other two I didn't recognize.
I dipped a wing and swung around to the left. There was another man standing behind a rusting hulk of machinery, and a fifth on the opposite side of the camp, squatting next to a huge metal tank. Inside the tank lay Evin. He was trussed up tight and wasn't moving. Despite my fears about his involvement in whatever was happening to me, I found myself hoping he was okay. That he was merely tied and sleeping rather than unconscious.
Or, worse still, dead.
I swooped upward again and swung back to the campfire. Five men. Even for me, those were pretty tough odds. If I was to have any hope in this fight, I'd need to even the numbers out a little.
I swung around again and headed for the man near the machinery, landing on one of the metal struts then waddling toward him. I was downwind of him, so any sound was being carried away rather than toward him, and he didn't pay me any attention. His gaze continually swept the night and his posture was alert, tense, but he had a beer in one hand, and the smell of alcohol was sharp enough that I was aware of it even in bird form.
Which meant, I hoped, that his reflexes would be crap.
I took to the air again and flew across to the next rusting hulk, where I landed and quickly changed back to human form. My flimsy shirt had all but shredded, and a good bit of breast was on show.
With any luck it would be enough to distract the men, because the firelight would eliminate any possibility of shadowing.
Although - ideally - I'd like to take this guard out without being seen.
I turned around and padded down to the end of the rusting tank. With my back pressed against the still-warm metal, I peered around the corner. The guard hadn't moved.
I wrapped the shadows around me and dashed across the short distance between us. As I neared him, he spun around, his nostrils flaring as he scanned the night. He could obviously scent me, but he couldn't see me. I gave him no time to react, simply hit him hard and fast - chopping him across the throat then kneeing him in the balls - and he went down like a ton of bricks. I let him slump to the ground, trusting the sand to dampen the sound of his fall, but I caught his beer can before it could clatter against the metal.
After looking around to ensure that no one had seen anything, I grabbed his arms and dragged him into a sitting position, propping him against one of the machine's struts. I put his beer beside him then stepped back. If the others glanced this way, they might think he was just sitting down. Which was good. But I needed to ensure he couldn't actually get back up.
I bit my bottom lip and scanned the rusting hulk, seeing nothing useful in the way of rope or wire. So I spun and walked back to the tank. Again, there wasn't anything I could use, but several yards away from the tank sat the semirotten wooden remains of an old shed of some kind, and inside, the snaking remains of the building's wiring. I ripped several yards free then retraced my steps back to the guard.
I tore off his shirt, used that to gag him, then trussed him up.
One down, four to go.
