I don't slow down. My hands are locked on the wheel, knuckles white. My breath is coming in short, shallow gasps that I can't synchronize to anything. The rhythm is broken. The machine is spinning out of control.
I glance at the GPS on the dashboard. It’s spinning in circles.Recalculating... Recalculating...
"Useless," I hiss.
The fog is getting thicker. It’s not normal fog. It’s rolling in from the bayou like a white tide, swallowing the headlights. Visibility drops to zero. I can’t see the road markings. I can’t see the trees. I’m driving blind at sixty miles an hour into a void.
The air conditioner vents blast cold air, but I’m sweating through the dress. The smell of ozone is fading, replaced by the heavy, wet stench of the swamp.
Suddenly, the fog parts.
Standing in the middle of the road, illuminated by my high beams, is a shadow.
It’s not a deer. It’s too big. It’s massive—a wall of black fur and muscle standing on four legs, easily the size of a pony. Amber eyes glow in the headlights, burning with an intelligence that stops my breath.
A wolf. A giant, impossible wolf.
It doesn't move. It stands its ground, staring right at me.
"Move!" I scream, slamming on the brakes.
The ABS pulses under my foot, a rapid-fire staccatothud-thud-thud. The tires lock up on the damp asphalt. The car becomes a sled.
I’m going to hit it.
I yank the wheel hard to the right to avoid the impact.
The car responds, swerving violently. I miss the wolf by inches—I see the coarse texture of its fur, the curl of its lip—but I lose the road.
The tires hit the soft shoulder. The gravel gives way to mud.
The world tilts and gravity takes over. The car leaves the ground, weightless for a terrifying second, soaring into the blackness beyond the embankment.
My stomach drops into my shoes. I grip the wheel, bracing for an impact that I know is going to break me.
The nose of the car dips.
Splash.
Water—black, oily, and cold—explodes over the windshield as the car plunges nose-first into the bayou.
4
JAX
The silence after a crash is heavier than the noise itself.
One second, there’s the screech of rubber on asphalt, the scream of an engine pushed past its limit, and the sickening crunch of metal hitting water. The next, the swamp swallows the sound whole. The crickets stop. The bullfrogs go quiet. Even the wind seems to hold its breath, waiting to see what dies and what crawls out of the muck.
I stand on the very edge of the embankment, my paws sunk deep into the cooling mud. The Wolf is high in my blood, adrenaline pumping through my system like liquid fire. I saw the car swerve. I saw the driver yank the wheel to avoid hitting me.
Stupid.
Only a tourist or a death-wish idiot drives sixty on these roads in this fog. And only a lunatic does it this close to the Truce line.
I shake my massive head, the fur along my spine bristling. The car is nose-down in the black water of the bayou, the taillights glowing red under the surface like dying embers. It’s sinking fast. The heavy silt of the bottom acts like quicksand—once it grabs you, it don't let go.
Shift,I command.
