N. Walters - Isaiah's Haven

“Sure enough,” Red agreed. “What about those purist werewolves who are on our tail?”

Steve picked up his rifle and loaded it with silver bullets. “I need a new winter coat.”

Red laughed at the joke and rose from the table. “Let’s get Quinn and my boys and do us some hunting.”

He grabbed his gear and followed Red out to the truck. He shut the door of the dingy motel room behind him, eager for the chase. Steve knew it was time to leave Chicago behind and start searching the surrounding states. He had a female to find.

And when he did there would be hell to pay.

He smiled as he tossed his belongings behind the seat, stowed his rifle in the gun rack and climbed into his truck.

Quinn lay on his back, arms stacked behind his head, staring at the ceiling. The mattress sagged and several springs dug into his back. The room stank of stale cigarette smoke. The faucet in the bathroom dripped—a never-ending torture.

He closed his eyes, shutting out the sight of water stains. Unfortunately, there was nothing he could do about the smell or the dripping faucet. It was simply another crappy room in an equally crappy motel.

He didn’t have a book to read. Nor did he have his wood carving tools. Nothing to pass the time. Like the rest of his life, everything was packed away. Waiting.

All he could do was lie here and think. Remember.

He’d been doing this for a year and it was starting to eat at his soul.

Was it worth it?

His pale blue eyes snapped open and he rolled over and sat on the side of the bed. “Hell, yes,” he muttered. If it took another year or ten, he wasn’t stopping. Not until he found—

The ringing of his phone rudely interrupted his thoughts. He glanced at the call display. He thumbed the talk button and held the phone to his ear. “Yeah?”

“We’re moving out.” Macmillan didn’t bother to identify himself. He rarely did. “We’re heading to Kentucky.” He rattled off the meeting point and hung up.

Quinn stared at his phone. It would be so easy just to walk away from all of this. His duffle bag contained a few changes of clothing and weapons. He had no ID, nothing that could trace him to his old life.

He raked his hand through his shoulder-length hair and stood. “Not today.”

He shouldered his duffle and left the room, closing the door softly behind him. He would find out what happened to his twin if it was the last thing he did.

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