Complete strangers hated him enough to kill him. They hated wolves. Hated him for being a wolf. Nothing personal. Just business.
The business of hunting those thought of as “lesser” or “abominations,” as Paul said the few humans who knew of their kind called them.
The coffee can lay dented on the floor, false bottom intact. Noah shoved the money and papers into his backpack.
From the kitchen area, he strode into the space arranged as part living room, part Paul’s sleeping area. Bullet holes marred the trunk they’d used for a coffee table. Deep gashes scored every cushion, every pillow, stuffing spilling over onto the floor. Ripped pieces of clothing lay like colorful snow: a sleeve, a pair of shredded boxers, socks and shoes knife-slashed, unusable. The bookcase lay overturned on the floor.
His books! Everything fromFrankensteintoStranger in a Strange Landto school textbooks lay torn apart on the floor: bindings slashed with a knife; pages shredded into pieces. The distinct scent of old books fought a dominance battle with the tang of spices from the kitchen. Occasionally, Noah caught sight of a familiar passage, pausing to read and remember. Anger spiked when he reached a torn edge.
He climbed the ladder to the loft—more devastation. Lifting the loose floorboard, he reached inside, took out his store of cash and the pendant he’d worn when Paul found him, moved to Noah’s loft after Paul left. The image of the moon, overlaid by a woman’s face.
Fastening the pendant around his neck, he lay back on his bed, staring—for the very last time—at the familiar ceiling he’d seen every night for the last fifteen years. Home. The only home he’d ever known, stolen from him.
Without a doubt, there’d be more hunters. He’d made this personal. Next time, they might send better shooters. Or more. Either way, he must go. His heart clenched at the thought. For a moment, he imagined Paul calling him down to breakfast or telling him goodnight.
Never again.
After one last indulgent moment, Noah returned to ground level. The bathroom mirror lay in shards upon the floor, the toilet and sink smashed, a tire tool lying nearby. Water pooled on the floor.
They’d no right! He’d done nothing to them.
Tears came. Hot and choking and desperate. Paul planned for this, sure, but no place Noah found would be permanent or safe. He sat on the floor in the living area, glass from broken windows around him, wind whipping inside, and screamed. So what if they heard him and came back?Kill menow,get this over with, don’t make me live out the rest of my life in fear!
“Come back and get me, you assholes!” he screeched. “I’ll take you with me!”
He yanked his clothes off, lying on the floor on his side, seeking the comfort of his wolf. Wolves mourned, not cried. The pain lessened to a dull ache in fur. Time passed, Noah lying with his head on his paws.
No! Like hell would he give up, not after all Paul sacrificed for him. Shifting so many times in a short period left Noah drained. Wolves didn’t mind licking broken eggs off the floor or eating raw steaks tossed out of the freezer.
Calmer, fed, rested, he resumed human form and dressed, taking in the damage around him with new eyes. If he couldn’t use the books in the way intended, he’d use them for another purpose. In a state of total numbness, Noah crouched, arranged the torn pages on the floor, struck a match from the box kept near the fireplace, and brought the flame to paper.
The edges curled, drawing back as if to save themselves from the match, words blackening to nothing. Too late for them.
Too late for Noah.
Tiny flames flickered to life as the other pages caught fire. The scent of burning stung his nose. Once the fire began to spread, Noah rose.
When he passed the kitchen, something caught his eye: an unbroken jar of Paul’s plum jam. Noah shoved the jar into his coat pocket without a backward glance, leaving the once-comforting sanctuary.
For the last time.
Chapter Seven
Agreasyspoondiner.Chipped Formica tables, the scent of last night’s hamburgers haunting the place like wraiths, soon to be overpowered by bacon. Slade sat at a table in the back, keeping an eye on the entrance.
How had his life gone to hell?
The bell over the door rang, announcing Chuck’s arrival.
“Damn, bro. You look like shit.” Chuck said the same thing the last time they’d met.
“Fuck you, too!” Slade countered, standing and giving his brother a back-slapping hug. He murmured, “Thanks for coming,” into Chuck’s ear.
“Anything for you, man.” Chuck slid into the other side of the booth.
Slade sat a bit more cautiously. Not his first time at this diner, which put the “greasy” into “greasy spoon.” Sliding too fast across the booth might land him out the window into the parking lot.
A server approached.
