Kelley Armstrong - Frostbitten

"Yeah."

"Something's out there. Wolves?"

"Maybe."

It wasn't wolves. We both knew it. Both felt it. Clay's taut face turned my way, gaze scanning the trees.

"You sense trouble?" he asked.

"I don't think so." I rubbed the back of my neck. "Let's find that trail again."

THE MOON APPEARED then, lighting our way back to the trail. Even through the trees, it cast enough of a glow for us to follow. The wolf tracks continued as we drew closer to our destination. When I caught another whiff of scent, I stopped.

"Werewolf. Probably Dennis."

"Is he out here?"

I shook my head. "It's a trail."

Clay inhaled. "I'm not getting it."

I resumed walking. "It's faint. But a trail means he's been here recently. And that looks like a cabin just ahead."

Clay squinted at the black shape through the trees. "No lights on."

"Out here, off the grid, you don't use any more than you need to."

The moon against the snow lit the clearing to twilight. We looked across the yard.

"Shit, is that…?" Clay blinked, as if seeing things. He wasn't. The snow was crisscrossed with wolf tracks. Not a square foot in the clearing had been left untouched.

I walked a few feet, then bent. "Definitely wolf."

"That's… "

"Weird."

He gave a distracted nod, but we both knew that wasn't the right word. Looking out at that paw-print-covered snow, so close to a werewolf's cabin, the word that came to mind was wrong . More than weird. Downright unnatural.

If new wolves had entered the region and decided to challenge an occupying werewolf, they'd slink around his cabin for a closer look. The Alpha might mark it to make a statement. But here I saw paw prints of every size, right down to yearlings.

"Maybe it's sled dogs," I said.

Clay looked over.

"Dennis could have a neighbor with a team. He comes over, ties them up while he has a few drinks and they get bored, pace around."

"You smell dogs, darling?"

No. I smelled wolf.

I climbed onto the front deck. I walked to the window to peek in, but the drapes were drawn. More prints dotted the sill, as if the wolves had been doing the same thing I was.

The hair on my scalp prickled. I tugged my hat down, then rubbed my icy earlobes. As I turned, I caught a scent that made my breath catch. When I inhaled deeper, though, I couldn't find it again.

I glanced at Clay, crouched by the door, his fingers running down the lower panel, fingertips tracing rough grooves in the wood.

Claw marks. The deep scratches were ridged with splinters. Fresh claw marks.

Clay straightened and banged on the door. "Dennis? It's Clay." He paused, then added, "Clayton Danvers."

The cabin stayed silent. I moved to the window again, looking for any sign of light around the drawn drapes. There was none.

"Dennis?" Clay called. "Jeremy sent me to check on you."

He pounded harder now. The wood buckled under his fist, the door parting from the frame just enough to let out a puff of what I'd smelled earlier.

"Open it," I said.

"What?"

I grabbed the handle and rammed my shoulder into the door. The wood crackled and it flew open. The smell blasted out, sending me reeling back.

I caught a glimpse of what was inside. Then I hurried to the side railing, leaning over it, hands over my mouth, teeth clenched, gorge bobbing.

Clay's hand rested against my back.

"Sorry, I-" I turned. "I'm sorry."

He nodded, his gaze on the forest. I stepped toward him, uncertain. His hands went around my waist and I moved into his arms, my nose pressed against his warm neck. His arms tightened around me. After a moment, a shuddering sigh rippled through him.

"You stay here," I said. "I'll take care of-"

"I'm okay. It's been a lot of years."

We went inside. When I'd first smelled decomposition, I thought Dennis had been killed by wolves. The threat of a werewolf on their new territory might override whatever warning told them to stay away from people. The moment I'd looked through that door, though, I'd known it hadn't been wolves. Not the kind that walk on four legs, anyway.

Dennis Stillwell sat on a kitchen chair In the middle of the room, bound hand and foot with thick wire cables. It looked like he'd been tortured. How much was hard to tell. Despite the cold, he was starting to decompose. All I knew was that someone had tied him up, tried to get information from him, then killed him.

Clay looked at Dennis, his face unreadable.

"I'm going to find them," he said.

"I know."

WE BURIED DENNIS in the woods. We wanted to give him a burial, but more than that, we had to. If Charles or anyone else found him, there would be an investigation and an autopsy, and we couldn't risk either.

Werewolves rarely pass away in their sleep, so it's an unavoidable fact that sometimes there is an autopsy and an investigation, and our world hasn't crumbled yet. The anomalies in our blood and DNA probably left more than one lab tech scratching her head, and maybe a few had made notes of it, put it aside for a personal project, but nothing more. Still, we don't take chances, and even a mutt killing another mutt will dispose of the body. Only, apparently, these ones hadn't bothered. Did they not care? Or was this a message for someone? For Joey?

Clay and I had experience with body disposal. Too much. We'd buried our own and we'd buried mutts, so we knew how to do it. Dennis Stillwell would simply disappear, like so many werewolves before him.

When we finished, we stood at the gravesite, the bitter wind whipping through the trees, freezing every inch of exposed skin and making our eyes water. Those tears were the only ones we'd shed. Nor would we say any words over the grave. That was the human way. Ours was quieter, more private, just a few minutes of silent respect and reflection.

When I felt a familiar prickle at the back of my neck, my head shot up.

"Wait," Clay said, his voice low. "Move slowly."

I turned my head and followed his gaze, sweeping across the forest.

"Oh my God," I whispered.

Reflections of at least a dozen pair of eyes dotted the forest. I could make out gray shapes against the black forest. Wolves.

"We'll go back inside," Clay murmured. "Are there more behind me?"

"A few."

"Okay. Count to three. Then turn your back to me. We'll walk in that way. Keep your gaze up over their heads."

"Don't look them in the eye."

"Right. If one charges, then meet its gaze. It might back down."

I really hoped so. A dozen wolves against two werewolves? Even Clay wasn't itching to meet this challenge.

Back-to-back we walked into the cabin. As Clay bolted the door, I looked out. The wolves hadn't moved.

"Do you think they smelled the body?" I asked.

"Long winter. Food's getting scarce."

"That would explain the scratch marks on the door."

"Yeah."

Our eyes met, exchanging a look that said we were sticking to our story, even though we both knew it was bullshit. These wolves didn't look as if they were starving. They might take Dennis's body if they found it lying outside, but to trample the snow as if they'd been pacing around the cabin for hours and trying to scratch their way in? It was too much. Too unnatural.

Clay found a battery-operated lantern and an oil one, and we lit both and looked around.

"Well," I said. "I guess we have enough work here to keep us busy until the wolves move on. I'll clean up-"

"You look for clues. Get scents. You're better at that."

And he was better at cleanup-having had more experience, though neither of us pointed that out.

We set to work. As I soon discovered, finding scents under the stench of decomposition wasn't easy.

"I'm going to crack open the window."