The Lost Saint(95)

But at least he’s coming home, I told myself. He’d been lost, but now he was found. And we’d figure out how to help him, whether he knew he wanted help or not.

“As for Daniel,” Gabriel said, grabbing my attention again, “he’s …” Gabriel indicated the large white wolf.

I stared into the beast’s eyes. Yes, those were Daniel’s eyes. The wolf started to rock back and forth, yipping and whining, growing more and more agitated. I didn’t sense any malice in him like any other newly turned werewolf, but he was definitely troubled. I petted his back, trying to calm him.

“I don’t understand,” I said. “How long has it been? How long was I out?”

“A long time.”

I glanced back at the teens at the foot of the bed. They’d shifted to their knees, their heads still bowed in what seemed like reverence.

“I don’t get it. Are these the wolves … the boys … who bowed to Daniel and then turned on Caleb? Why would they do that? I thought they wanted to kill me.”


“Daniel is their alpha now,” Gabriel said. “Although their devotion to him is greater than I’ve usually seen. It must be his true alpha nature. He saved you by exerting his dominance over them—choosing to embrace his true alpha essence—and, in turn, became their new leader.”

But why were they all changed back to human form, and not Daniel?

“I don’t get it,” I said, growing as frantic as the white wolf. “Why hasn’t he changed back? Why hasn’t Daniel changed back into a human?”

The white wolf yelped and shook his large head. I wrapped my arms around his neck. My blood had matted in his white fur. I leaned my head against his chest. I could hear only one heart beating—not two, like when he’d been a werewolf before. Did his true alpha–ness do something to him?

“What the hell is going on?” I asked Daniel.

“I think …,” said Gabriel. “I think he’s stuck.”

“No,” I said, clinging to the white wolf’s neck. “No, that can’t be.”

The wolf arched his head back and let out the most mournful howl I’d ever heard. It sounded almost like a scream.





Acknowledgments


So many people deserve my immense gratitude for helping make this book a reality—and for keeping me from losing it during the process: You, my awesome readers, because without your enthusiasm this book wouldn’t have had a chance to exist. Thank you for all the love.


The agents at Upstart Crow Literary, namely Ted Malawer and Michael Stearns. Thank you for believing in me and helping to share my books with the world.


The amazing folks at Egmont USA. I am often surprised by how many people think I’m responsible for everything that goes into creating my books, from the cover design, the editing, and even all the way down to the choice of the typeface. This couldn’t be further from the truth. I write the stories, but an entire team helps turn those stories into books: Doug Pocock, Elizabeth Law, Mary Albi, Regina Griffin, Nico Medina, Robert Guzman, Alison Weiss, Katie Halata. And especially my intrepid editor Greg Ferguson, who not only puts up with, but embraces, my crazy antics and the “Jimmy Olsen” nickname I’ve inflicted upon him. And who also isn’t afraid to push me until things are as great as they can be—or to whip out his super-editor cape and come to the rescue of a hopelessly stranded author on the streets of NYC. This one’s for you, Greg: Spunkgate! (Yep, I just worked that reference into a book.) JDRIFT DESIGN, I didn’t know it was possible to create a cover even more beautiful than the one for The Dark Divine. Wow, just, wow.


My enthusiastic publicist, Virginia Anagnos.


Noreen Gibbons, for never failing to offer help—even when it’s completely inconvenient to her.


Whitney, for being an eager mother’s helper.


My mom, Nancy Biesinger, for bringing over bags of groceries on the deadline days, and for helping out in hundreds of other ways.


Sara Zarr, who gave me just the right advice at just the moment I needed to hear it.


Mathew J. Kirby, for his ongoing friendship and support—and free psychological guidance, of course.


The SIX—the best critique group and posse of friends an author could have: Brodi Ashton, Emily Wing Smith, Valynne Maetani Nagamatsu, Kimberly Webb Reid, and Sara Bolton. If it weren’t for the suggestion of adding a “Bedazzled stake” to this book by Brodi Ashton at a hilarious lunch on an otherwise no good, very bad day—The Lost Saint may have never come together the way it did. And if it weren’t for the daily input and understanding of The SIX, I may have succumbed to the writer crazies a long time ago. (Or more so than I already have!) The rest of my friends, siblings, nieces, nephews, in-laws, and Dad, who help out in so many ways, from entertaining my boys, to just being a listening ear, or a shoulder to lean on. I feel way too lucky to have so many wonderful people in my life.


My boys, who I couldn’t love more—even when they’re jumping on top of me and pretending to fire-bend lightning bolts at my laptop while I’m working. Nothing makes me prouder than when they ask if they can tell me a story. (Just you wait, publishing world, these boys have got it going on!) And most especially Brick, who held on tight during the insane roller coaster that was this last year. Thank you for never letting go. You are my inspiration, my love, my saint. I know you’re not perfect, but you’re the perfect man for me. I.L.Y.R.U.T.T.M.A.B.A.