“Your pack. Your thrice-damned werewolf pack. Thought we got rid of the last one in these parts, and now here you are.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about. Werewolves? Are you crazy?” Noah failed miserably in trying to keep his voice steady. “Who are you people?”
“We’re the ones who make sure mangy dogs like you aren’t running loose. Now, where is your pack?” So far, none of the others spoke, which likely made this man the leader. He must be older than Paul, with a mean set to his mouth.
“I live alone in the woods. I don’t even see other people unless I go to town.” Noah’s wildly hammering heart pounded like a drum in his ears. The predator in him searched for escape or a place to make a stand, figuring the odds of himself against five gun-wielding humans.
“I don’t believe you. You animals always have a pack.” The man spat on the ground.
Noah took a step toward the woods. One good head start… “I don’t know what kind of joke Emmett is trying to play—”
A shot went off. Dirt exploded at Noah’s feet. “Ain’t no joke,” the woman who’d shot said. “Now, tell us where your pack is.” No dealing with crazy people.
Paul had warned him often enough.
“Maybe we should give him more incentive. Cover me.” The leader slowly trod toward Noah.
Noah backed away. Strong arms wrapped around him from behind. “What the fuck? Let me go!” He twisted, turned, tried to kick the guy behind him. Other than a grunt, he got no reaction. Where was the superhuman strength Paul said most werewolves possessed?
“Go ahead, Dad,” the man holding Noah panted into his ear.
“Dad” struck.
Noah braced for a blow. A knife blade plunged into his shoulder. He shrieked. Oh, fuck! Pain! His vision blackened around the edges.
“Tell us what we want to know!" the knife-wielder bellowed, spittle flying into Noah’s face.
This close, Noah sensed the anger and fear pouring off his attacker. These people planned to kill him no matter what he said or did.
The man twisted the knife. Oh, gods! Agony radiated from his shoulder.
Noah howled, falling to all fours. An uncontrolled shift started at his face, moving downward. No holding back once the change started. He yanked the knife out of his flesh in a spray of blood, shirt tearing as the wolf burst forth.
His attacker shrank back, clutching at his chest, and fell.
The older woman screamed. “What have you done! What have you done to my Joe?”
The change kept coming, reforming Noah’s body until all humanity fled. Turning wolf partially healed his shoulder wound. A shot grazed his hip. He snarled, turning on the guy who’d held him.
They aimed to kill him. Paul always told Noah to avoid trouble but defend himself if necessary.
If necessaryfinally happened.
A bullet whizzed past, splintering the bark off a pine tree. Nothing would deter Noah from defending himself.
He lunged, wrapping powerful jaws around the guy’s throat. Hot blood flowed over his tongue. The guy dropped the shotgun—big mistake. Bare-handed against a wolf? No contest. Noah kept his jaws locked while the man’s struggles reduced to gurgling and then to nothing. He stalked away from the mangled body.
The woman came next, terror replacing the hatred in her eyes. She pulled the trigger on her .38 again and again. Fire raced down Noah’s side. Still, he stalked his prey. Pointing the gun directly at his head with shaky hands, the woman prepared to fire. Oh, hell no. Noah sprang, taking her to the ground and sending the gun flying. She trembled beneath him, squeezing her eyes shut. Noah closed her eyes for good and circled back to the man who’d knifed him. Dead. Without Noah taking the first bite.
Three down.
The hunted became the hunter, sniffing the air, pinpointing his prey’s location.
The hunters had parked about a mile away, which suited the beast in Noah, who loved a good chase. The remaining man deserted the second woman, pounding toward the trees.
Coward.
Noah stalked his prey. If all humans hunted so poorly, how could any of them kill wolves? He beat the human to the truck, lying down like he’d been there for hours. The man arrived in a dead run, fumbling and dropping his keys. He went down on hands and knees, patting the ground.
