Wolves Among Us(75)

He emptied the bag into his palm as he approached, nodding at Mia to hold out her hand. She did. Erick poured dark, firm black seeds into the folds of her palm. She did not recognize them.

“For flowers. I want you to have something beautiful to look at out your window while you tend to Alma.”

Mia’s breath caught in her chest. She forced herself to look up, into his eyes. She wanted him to know what she felt. She would keep her promise to herself never to run again.

“You are so kind to us. I do not know what to say,” she replied. She truly didn’t. She wanted to put it all into words, but they did not seem enough, after all he had done, after all they had survived together.

“You don’t need to say anything.” Erick smiled at her.

She found it hard to think with him so close. “Well, I thank you. But tell me, what are these seeds called?”

“Bride’s flowers.”

She knew the blush was rising in her cheeks.

His smile widened as he reached for her hand. “We mustn’t waste another spring.”





… a little more …

When a delightful concert comes to an end,

the orchestra might offer an encore.

When a fine meal comes to an end,

it’s always nice to savor a bit of dessert.

When a great story comes to an end,

we think you may want to linger.

And so, we offer ...

AfterWords—just a little something more after you

have finished a David C Cook novel.

We invite you to stay awhile in the story.

Thanks for reading!

Turn the page for ...

? Bonus Chapter (for readers of the Chronicles of the Scribe series)

? Author’s Note

? Discussion Questions

? Supernatural Housekeeping





Bonus Chapter

For readers of the Chronicles of the Scribe series

Reporters spilled out onto the sidewalk as satellite trucks jockeyed for parking. Everyone scrambled to be the first to the door and into the building. Seasoned pros waved large bills in the air.

Amber-Marie held the foul bag away from her body as she waited in the alley across from the hotel. Her driver, Jim, would start the car as soon as he saw her. Until the press disappeared inside the building, chasing down the story she just gave them, she’d stay hidden.

A greasy stench from the manuscript Amber-Marie just stole nauseated her. The author she represented, Mariskka, had lost her mind writing a sequel to her surprise best seller. She was up there now. Those reporters would get a good dose of crazy. Let them have Mariskka. Amber-Marie had gotten what she wanted. She peered around the corner. Jim watched for her, the engine already running. Good man.

She had to get rid of the source of this smell first. One fast breath and she opened the bag. A violent blast of burned hair and skin stung her nostrils as something sharp latched onto her ribs from behind. She flew backward so fast her stomach lurched forward. She tried to scream.

Shoved into darkness and dropped, she recognized the sound of a bolt sliding into a lock. She could not detect walls around her or anything else—just a dark void. Then the smell hit her again, stronger now. She put her hand over her mouth, trying not to breathe. Something burned in here, a combination like fast-food grease and melting vacuum belts.

“Is anyone here?” she whispered.

A torch burst into flames near her head.

“Take this,” a man’s voice said.

Her whole body went cold. She couldn’t move her arms. The light was brilliant yellow against the black void.

“Take this.”

A hand grabbed hers and forced the handle of the torch into her palm. Her fingers closed around it out of instinct.

“Start it,” he said.

His hand grabbed hers again, forcing it down, pointing the torch at the ground.

The flames lit a narrow stream of fluid, flames shooting down a straight line before bursting into a starburst of rivers.

At the end of each river of flames, women stood chained upright to wooden posts. They screamed when they saw Amber-Marie holding the torch. Flames shot along the rivers, igniting the pyres of wood beneath their feet.

“Why?” they howled, hair blowing straight up, carried above their heads by the smoke. The flames ate up the pyres, igniting their long skirts. They would die, all of them.

Amber-Marie had killed them. The vision of the burning women grew brighter, and she shielded her eyes, looking for the man in the shadows. He stepped into the light, and she sank to her knees in terror. His face was more beautiful than she expected, smooth like a newborn’s, with dead, dull gray eyes. He lowered his face to hers as he spoke.

“What do I love more than innuendo, rumor, half-truth? Do you even remember the feel, the smell, of real truth? Or do all your words stink of burning flesh?”

“I don’t understand.”

He patted her head. “Of course you don’t. I just love you for that.”



When Amber-Marie opened her eyes, Mariskka was sitting beside her. Amber-Marie was lying on a hard board, with tubes and strange hoses dangling from the ceiling of the vehicle. She understood. She was in an ambulance, but Mariskka was not the patient. Amber-Marie was. “I didn’t see an angel,” Amber-Marie said. “Or I did. But not like yours. I don’t want to go back.”