Indigo Moon (33 page)

The Alpha panted and pressed her face close. Her snuffle of peace blew into Ren’s twitching ear. She had been accepted. Ren blinked, confused and thankful. She had come so close to losing her last chance.

The forest around her shuddered and shook into life as about twenty Weres emerged onto the trail. They crowded around her pressing, and sniffing, and rumbling in muted, cautious growls. They herded her through the forest and around a sharp bend. Through the trees she could see the sparkle of the Silverthread, and then the compound opened up to her, an enormous pack home of maybe thirty cabins. They were scattered around a central area with a fire pit and dozens of bench tables. Farther back she could make out other cabins crouched quietly in the forest, away from the bustle of the camp. It was a small village and belonged to this one clan. Her clan. She had found her way back to the Garoul home den. A home she had once been cast out of.

*

She was shown a small room. The clothes she had left at her rental car were neatly folded on a chair. Ren had noticed Godfrey and the little dog being shepherded into another building. They were the center of much concerned attention. She was pleased that the man and his dog were finally safe among friends. No harm would come to them here.

She was escorted, fully dressed and in human form, to a central lodge house. It was a larger, more permanent fixture than the vacation feel of some of the other cabins. Ren assumed some of the pack lived in the valley permanently, while others came and went in the outside world.

A tall, dark woman stood by the blazing fireplace. Her long black hair was streaked with silver, and Ren felt an unexpected gut wrench for her own mother. All she had was a black-and-white photograph, and the resemblance to the woman before her was uncanny. She also knew instinctively this was the Alpha who had caught her muzzle and tested her before allowing her to enter the valley. She was flanked by an immense bearded man who, in Were form, would be formidable and a small, intense woman who watched every move Ren made as if she could read her mind. She unnerved Ren, but she could feel the bond between the woman and the Alpha. They were mates, and the smaller woman was Were. Several other pack members filled the room. In human form their family resemblance was unmistakable, and Ren did not doubt for one moment that her own features blended right in. They all shared the same bloodline. They were Garoul.

“Welcome.” The Alpha slowly approached. “I am Marie Garoul.” She indicated the man and woman who still flanked her every move. “This is my brother, Claude, and my partner, Connie.”

Neither welcomed Ren. They gazed at her impassively. The big man remained wary and on guard. The other woman watched her with clever, steely eyes.

Marie continued her introduction. “Little Dip is our home valley, and I am the Alpha here.”

Ren nodded, unable to speak. Her heart thumped in her throat and she did not trust her voice at this important juncture. She needed this clan, but she was an outsider and unsure of their intentions. Isabelle was lost to her, out there somewhere in the wilds. This family had eyes and ears everywhere. If they would help, then it would more than halve her search time, and every hour brought Isabelle closer and closer to her first transmutation.

Marie’s intelligent eyes watched her carefully. Finally, after a short silence, she spoke again. “How are your parents?”

“Dead.”

Marie nodded at this. “I assumed that when I stopped hearing from Dalia.”

Ren said nothing. She did not want to talk about her mother. She watched Marie carefully.

“How?” Marie asked bluntly.

“Cancer. Father had an aneurysm a few years later.” Ren left it at that. Her jaw clenched and she knew her face had hardened into a stubborn mask.

“And which twin are you?” Marie asked next. “Luciana or Floriene?”

“Ren. I’m Ren.”

“Floriene?”

“Ren.”

“Ren Garoul it is.” Marie nodded thoughtfully.

Silence fell again, and again it was Marie who broke it.

“So, Ren Garoul. What can your family do for you?”

“I’ve been tracking my ma—” She took a deep breath. “The woman I wish for my mate. She’s in danger. Godfrey, the blond man who came with me. He and another friend were helping her. She’s beginning transmutation and she’s ill.”

“Where is Godfrey?” Marie asked.

“He’s with the dog,” one of the others answered.

“Go get him,” Marie said. She turned back to Ren. “Does your mate need medicine?”

Ren was uncertain how much she should reveal. Her trust did not run as deep as her relief. But she needed them to help her find Isabelle, and she had no idea what state she would be in when found.

She nodded.

The door opened and Godfrey came in. He looked fraught and tried.

“Are you all right, Godfrey?” Marie asked. He nodded.

“Ren saved me from some ferals, but they got Hope, and Isabelle ran after her to help and we lost her, too. Tadpole was hurt pretty bad, but Ren strapped him up until we got here.” It came out in one big rush, as if he simply wanted to get it off his chest and hand over the hopelessness and responsibility of it to someone else. He looked exhausted with the effort, and worried sick. “We need to find Hope, Marie. Jolie will go insane when she finds out. And Isabelle is ill. I think she’s about to change for the first time, and she’s out there all alone.”

Marie digested this. Her eyes narrowed and she bared her teeth. She stared at Ren, her look so sharp Ren felt pinned to the floorboards.

“I thank you for saving Godfrey and tending to Tadpole,” she said curtly. “Who are these ferals? Why have they taken Hope? And give me more information about this Isabelle.”

“Isabelle’s my mate.”

“You sired a mate and did not help her with her first transmutation?”

“Isabelle…left before I could help.”

Marie’s eyes narrowed to suspicious slits. “You sired a mate, and she ran.”

“I did not sire her.” Ren stiffened, as if ready for a fight. Her words were met with silence. “My sister did.” Her tone was harsh. “And I stole her.”

Isabelle followed the directions given by the guy with the crushed chest and headed for Lost Creek. She was maybe three miles out when her nose took over. Once she lifted wolven scents off the wind she abandoned the truck. The air was thick with scent and she became overexcited. Her mutation came almost thoughtlessly, almost painlessly. As soon as she stepped out of the truck the myriad of wolven scents slammed into her like an express train, and she found herself facedown in the dirt pulling at her clothes like they were on fire. She smacked her lips at the blood that filled her mouth while her flesh boiled and erupted.
I can’t control this. It just happens. If there’s a trigger, I need to find it fast.
Her rib cage cracked and popped as she took that first deep, unadulterated breath and the natural world flooded her senses. She was bombarded with information as if the forest had opened like the pages of a book. Growling softly with pure pleasure, she slid through the trees that rolled over hills and crept up the mountainsides. Dusk accentuated her senses even more. Smell became stronger, her sight keener. Before she realized it, she was crouched in the undergrowth, rubbing her flank against a tree trunk and growling contentedly as she scratched. The early evening scents were comforting. Night was drawing in, and she felt more alive than ever.

She moved fast, leaping over fallen logs and across creeks. She thundered through the forest, strong and powerful, much like in her dreams, only there was no Ren by her side. She was alone.

The springtime forest was filled with the sounds of songbird courtship and the musk of animals attracting mates. It filled her with a lust for life. It invigorated her. Her fur hummed and her teeth tingled. She belonged in this body, and in this place. Maybe she would never go back. Maybe she would always hunt alone.

Hunger made her clumsy and careless in her hunting. She scattered four young deer on their way to the higher grazing grounds, chasing wildly after their zigzag runs. Soon, winded, she sank to her haunches and watched the taunting flash of their white tails disappear. She thrashed into a small lake and sent geese and ducks flapping from her greedy claws. Her growling stomach had to make do with frogs. She squatted in the reed water, all her earlier elation deflating along with her appetite. Mushy frogs tasted bitter. She chewed little and swallowed quickly. If she was to be alone then she had to learn to hunt more proteinaceous foods. Her ears flattened and she growled in dissatisfaction. She had no idea how to do that, how to learn any of the skills she needed. Last night’s rabbit had been a lucky kill. She would be in trouble if she could not refuel soon.

Isabelle lurched to her feet and moved on. Her nose was good. She could pick up Patrick’s scent around the lake edge. The dead boy with the crushed chest had told her of this lake and the small shack tucked back on its southern side. She moved away in a southerly direction and followed the telltale odors of Patrick’s sweat and nervousness. When he changed, his wolven smell was cocky and swaggering, but there was always an underlying residue of insecurity that permeated everything he did.

She found the shack in less than an hour, and approached carefully. A truck and a few scattered tents were huddled in a makeshift camp before it. There were multiple Were scents crisscrossing. Some were older than others. She blinked and twitched her nose, intrigued. A small distressed whine vibrated in her throat. She smelled home. Far away home…to the north. And it reminded her of Ren, not that Ren was ever far away from her thoughts. Ren’s shadow forever hovered over Isabelle’s heart, keeping it dark and subdued.

She hunkered behind a tree and watched. The early evening was beginning to steal the light away, but her night vision helped her focus clearly. Nothing moved. It didn’t feel like a trap. She sniffed the air faintly, picking up a memory of Mouse and Joey. Her longing for them grew so great she was unsure if she actually smelled them or imagined it out of longing.

She drew idle designs in the dirt with a long foreclaw as she thought this over. If longing made her imagine scents, then she would smell Ren everywhere. But she didn’t, so that meant the scents were true. Mouse and Joey
had
been here, and recently.

She stood and circled the shack, to creep up from behind. The closer she got, the more scents and stories filled her head. Many wolven had used this place, but only one human. Her friend! Hope!

Isabelle’s heart thrilled. She had found traces of Hope. Her ears crimped back on her skull, and her lips trembled with a low, vicious growl. The scent was faint. Hope was no longer there. Isabelle’s frustration rose.

The shack was empty. She knew it as soon as she drew close. She stepped over large splashes of dried blood and pushed open the door. Broken chain links littered the floor. The place was rank with Patrick’s fear. It overrode everything else. She stood patiently for many minutes trying to decipher the story of the last few hours in this barren hut.

Hope, Mouse, and Joey were here, but had been gone almost a day. They smelled energetic and healthy. Isabelle was pleased that they were well. Patrick’s scent was shrill and panicked. And then came another scent. A sly, subtle smell that Isabelle recognized at once. It held a deep, dark undertone. A bittersweet bite. She had come across it before, in Hope’s backyard and by the body of the crushed man. This was the predator who hunted them all.

Isabelle grabbed a plate of spindly chicken bones and reeled out of the shack, greedily gulping down the free meal. She licked her lips. Her eyes darted around as she thought through the overload of messages, and her task became clearer in her head. Follow Hope, Joey, and Mouse. Patrick, and maybe this other predator, would be following them, too, so she had to race and catch them first. She might not be a good hunter, but Isabelle had faith in her nose. She was a tracker, through and through. She would find them.

Her eyes picked out a large patch of blood-soaked soil in the clearing before the shack. She had not noticed it from her hiding place in the tree line, but standing elevated on the front step it was plain to see. It stained the earth near Patrick’s abandoned truck and the few sagging tents that formed the crude camp.

Isabelle dumped her empty plate and slunk over to investigate. The dirt was black with blood, and the ground littered with fragments of human bone and tissue. The area smelled heavily of stomach bile, and feces. She peeked in the tents and checked out the truck, but found no body. With this much blood there had to be a body. Isabelle was worried—a human had died here—and her fears for Hope grew.

The raucous cry of crows in the treetops caught her attention. Up in the taller branches where the wood met the clearing, several crows fought over tatters, greedy for a free evening meal. More and more birds were descending, their clamor was deafening to her sensitive ears. Like a black blanket they fell on the treetops, screaming and flapping and clawing at each other and the human body parts that festooned the branches. Isabelle’s heart hammered in her throat as her keen eyesight scoured the trees. It was not Hope. It was Patrick. Her shoulders sagged with relief. The scent story came together and made sense now. He had been torn apart where she stood, his limbs and innards tossed in all directions into the surrounding trees to feed the carrion.