Kelly Meding - Wrong Side of Dead

“Which one’s next?” Sandburg asked.

“787 Cherryvale,” I said. “Next block over.”

“Awesome. Let’s—do you smell that?”

Baylor fumbled his phone.

“It’s coming from over there,” Autumn said, to the sound of loud footsteps.

“Do not engage,” Baylor said.

“Look out!”

The phone line exploded with snarls, grunts, and shouts. Baylor yanked the gearshift down and slammed his foot on the gas. A car honked as he cut it off. I gripped the dash with both hands, adrenaline kicking my heartbeat up a notch. Phin’s knife was tucked carefully between my thigh and the seat, and as soon as Baylor slammed to a halt I grabbed it and bolted out of the van.

A waist-high, untrimmed hedge bordered the property of a house that had once been expensive but now simply looked tired. The eaves were cracked, the paint was peeling, the front walk stones were uneven and broken. It was one of the few unmaintained homes I’d seen in the neighborhood, and its wild lawn was the sight of a standoff. Autumn was on the ground, both hands clutching her bleeding throat, gasping for breath. A black wolf the size of a small horse had Sandburg by the back of the neck, teeth sunk in deep enough to draw blood. A flex of his jaw, and the Lupa would break Sandburg’s spine.

The Lupa snarled, and I stumbled to a halt halfway between them and Autumn. I felt, more than saw, Baylor, Paul, and Carly draw up behind me. For one brief, irrational moment, I had visions of Autumn and Sandburg in the infirmary, as sick and feverish as Wyatt. But then I remembered that they weren’t human—they were Therian, just like the Lupa. The infection wouldn’t affect them.

“You boys are just a bucket of trouble, aren’t you?” I said. Insects buzzed around us, a soft accompaniment to Autumn’s ragged breathing. “Danny says hello.”

He snarled again, louder. Sandburg’s eyes bulged, and his fingers dug into the grass. A loud whistle cut the quiet, bouncing off the homes around us, making the origin of the sound impossible to detect. The black Lupa dropped Sandburg and sprinted toward the back of the yard.

I gave chase, trusting the others to stay behind and tend to our wounded. Blackie charged through the tall grass of the front yard, past the aging house, and into the even taller grass of the backyard. I ran as fast as I could, little bursts of energy keeping me from feeling the instant burn in my legs. Someone was behind me, and I didn’t waste time or strength by looking over my shoulder.

Blackie sailed over the rear hedge and into another yard. I’d never run hurdles, but I didn’t stop or slow down. Just pushed off and hoped I didn’t break a bone on the landing. My foot caught the edge of the hedge, and I tumbled to the grass. Came up in a roll, left arm and ribs sore from the fall, and kept going. Miraculously, I hadn’t cut myself with the knife. A shout from behind told me that my companion hadn’t fared much better than I had.

Blackie veered left, crossing the new backyard at a diagonal. I kept my focus on him, so I missed who screamed and didn’t much care. I was chasing a full-grown werewolf through an historic neighborhood in broad daylight, with an ancient Coni weapon in my hand. Explaining it away to civilians was not on my To Do list. I just didn’t want to lose the damned Lupa.

And he was quickly putting distance between us.

A fence loomed ahead of him, this one solid wood and at least five feet high. I could scramble over, but I’d lose precious seconds doing so. Blackie galloped full-steam at the fence.

Shit, shit, shit …

He shifted hard right at the last moment and took off toward the front yard. I skidded a little, but had a wider angle to turn. My lungs burned, and my legs felt like jelly from the hard run. Up ahead in the street was an idling work van, plain white, its side door open. A pale face peered out from the dark square. Waiting.

Fuck no!

If Blackie got into the van, we’d lose them again. I pushed harder, desperate.

The Lupa in the back of the van shoved a large black-wrapped bundle onto the sidewalk—a bundle the size of a person. Blackie leapt over the bundle and into the van, which tore away from the curb before he was fully inside. Rubber squealed and exhaust plumed.

“Get the plate number!” I screamed as loudly as I could, given my severe lack of oxygen.

Paul raced past me. I fell to my hands and knees near the bundle, panting and sucking air into my starved lungs. Sweat dripped into my eyes and down my back, and I was mildly grateful I’d managed only a few bites of dry pancake at breakfast, or I’d probably be chucking it back up right about now.

The black sheet was bound with bungee cords. No damp spots indicated blood or wounds. Absolutely no movement—whoever was inside wasn’t breathing.

Still trying to control my own erratic lung functions, I chose the end of the bundle that looked most like a head and unsnapped the first bungee. Unwound it far enough to begin pulling back the sheet. Wide, empty eyes stared up at me from a too-pale, too-familiar face. I choked.

Something was tucked into his mouth. I pulled it out with trembling fingers and unfolded a handwritten note.

FOR MY BOYS. AN EYE FOR AN EYE.

Rage coursed through me stronger and more bitter than any adrenaline rush. Tears stung my eyes and closed my throat.

“Stone?” Paul came up behind me, breathing hard. “Holy shit, is that—?”

“Yeah.”

“Is he dead?”

I nodded, numbly reaching for my phone. Fumbled it twice before I managed to speed dial. Didn’t even know who until someone picked up.

“Kismet.” When I didn’t speak right away, she asked, “Stone? You there?”

“We need a car on, uh …” I had no idea where we were.

“840 Palmer Drive,” Paul said.

“On the eight-hundred block of Palmer Drive, Uptown.”

“What happened?” Kismet asked.

“Thackery sent us a message. Michael Jenner is dead.”

Sitting on a well-manicured lawn behind a trio of ornamentally cut trees with the dead body of a friend baking in the summer sun served as the perfect reminder of why I resented my afterlife. Jenner was a tall guy. Paul and I were not. Between the two of us, we had barely managed to drag the black-wrapped bundle off the sidewalk and into the yard next door.

We didn’t speak. After my initial call to Kismet, I turned the phone on vibrate and ignored it. Help was on the way. All that was left to do was wait and grieve.

The first car nearly overshot our position. Paul stood up and waved, and the car came to a brake-burning halt. All four doors opened simultaneously. Astrid, Marcus, Tybalt, and Kyle climbed out. Marcus still wore the walking cast, but he showed no sign of a limp from his wound. A thundercloud of fury hung over him, shared equally by Astrid and Kyle. Jenner had been one of theirs.

“What about the lockdown?” I asked dumbly, curious as to their appearance. I’d expected the Assembly to send someone outside the Watchtower to collect Jenner.

“Baylor and I overrode the decision,” Astrid said. “The Assembly is convening an emergency session in half an hour to discuss what’s to be done.”

Marcus crouched next to Jenner’s head and lifted the drape. He winced, then frowned.

“What’s to be done?” I parroted, confused now.

Astrid glared. “Yes, done. Kidnapping Clan members was bad enough, but the cold-blooded murder of the Assembly’s Speaker may be considered an act of war. If that determination is made, retribution will be required.”

Just like with the Sunset Terrace slaughter. For the deaths of his people, Phineas had asked the Assembly for the execution of former Handler Rufus St. James, who’d led the devastating raid. Only some complicated maneuvering had saved Rufus’s life all those months ago.