Release Me (Stark Trilogy, #1)(28)

It shakes its head furiously, trying to tear away from the tree. Wood cracks but does not give. Needles rain down. The weight of her body knocks the deer free, the two of them a mess of flailing limbs, and then it is too late, her claws dragging across its throat. Its bones are pearly. Its blood is warm and steams like a ghost released. For a long time she is lost to hunger.

Then her muscles tighten, knot up. For the first time she feels the air’s chill. She is aware of herself as a wolf and a woman, the woman only faintly realized, like a burr in a sock, an abrasion that makes her lift her head from the carcass and recognize the danger of the night.

A cloud spills over the moon and momentarily dims the forest. She feels a pang of dread and rises from her crouch. Her sense of smell is compromised by the blood that sleeves her arms, masks her face, clots the hair that has risen from her skin. A scudding sound makes her flip around. The moon breaks from the clouds and splashes its light across what at first appears to be a boulder furred over with moss.

Its eyes sparkle like bits of quartz and its teeth glimmer when it rises into the massive figure of Morris Magog. She can see his breath trailing upward and imagines it as hot as the breath of an oven.

She does not whimper. She is not paralyzed by the terrible sight of him. A gust of wind is the only prompting she needs. She runs on all fours, letting the wolf lead her. Branches claw at her. The deer’s blood dries against her in a tacky patina. The thrill of the earlier chase is gone, replaced by a cold, emotionless need to escape. Fear can come later.

She never glances over her shoulder, but she can hear his passage close behind—wood snapping, a deep-throated growling that sounds like shifting stone—and she can picture him clearly enough, appearing more bear than wolf, a surging mass of hair and muscle with a mouth of darkest black.

There it is. The woods open into a clearing with a driveway snaking through it. The shed. The Ramcharger. The squat shape of the cabin. She feels more vulnerable in the open space and wonders for the first time if Magog is alone. An explosion of light blinds her. The motion detector. Through the yellow haze she finds the steps and clambers up them—the open door waits for her, a rectangular black slash that she dives through. She does not allow herself the time to look, to see how close he is behind her, but slams the deadbolt home and backs away from the door, certain it will explode inward at any moment.

Already she is retreating into her human form, and as always she feels small and bewildered and achy, like someone rising from a dreamscape to find herself gripped by a hangover. Without looking, she crabs her hand across the coffee table and finds the Glock.

She knows she should retrieve the shotgun, the machete, the extra clips of ammo. But right now her body only wants to curl up in the corner, the wood of the wall digging into her naked back. She hears the porch boards rasp. And then, a moment later, a faint scratching at the door, a nail teased across its exterior. The knob turns slowly—catches against the lock—then rattles back into place.

A minute passes. The motion detector clicks off. The harsh white light is replaced by a watery blue glow seeping through the window slots. One of them goes suddenly dark. She breathes through her nose with a high-pitched whistle. She wills her body to recede into the wall, to appear as another piece of furniture in the room. She aims the Glock. Her finger tightens on the trigger. A half pound of pressure is all it takes.

The darkness retreats and the space glows blue again—and then, a moment later, white, the motion detector activated.

She does not feel relieved. She feels like she has a noose around her neck and it is only a matter of time before the trapdoor gives out beneath her. She waits for one of the longest silences of her life, barely breathing in an effort to listen more closely. Then the cabin shakes as something lights upon the roof. She does not cry out but brings a hand to her mouth and bites down on it.

The pitched ceiling is made of tongue-and-groove fitted pine planks. When the footsteps come, slow and thudding, fifty years of dust rains down. She blinks away the grit in her eyes and squeezes the pistol so tightly that the grip bites her palm. She concentrates on the impact of each footstep, the complaint of the wood, until she feels she could sketch a circle on the ceiling that targets Magog.

He is f*cking with her. She is done being f*cked with. She raises the Glock and fires.

She squeezes off five rounds, and the spent hulls litter her lap and burn her but she hardly notices. The cabin quakes as though struck by a car. She has hit her mark. The fallen body rolls, thundering its way down the roof. There comes a brief silence punctuated by a heavy whump.





Chapter 11



CHASE REMEMBERS the first time he talked to Augustus. Seventh grade, Obsidian Junior High, after gym class, he walks into the locker room. Showers sizzle. Steam fills the air. Boys are scrubbing their armpits with soap or toweling off in front of their open lockers. He spins his combo and pauses before yanking the lock—because of the voices he hears, jeering, laughing like jackals.

Three boys—still in their shorts and tank tops—stand outside a toilet stall and kick at the door hard enough to dent the thin sheet metal. “Come on,” they say. “Come out and show us your *.” Another kick and the door jars open.

Chase recognizes the kid inside. They’re in the same section of math, and the other day, in line at the cafeteria, a girl wearing bell-bottoms and her hair pulled back in a ponytail turned to the kid, who had accidentally rubbed up against her, and said, “Don’t touch me. You haven’t even gone through puberty yet.”