“Oh, come on—”
“I am not going to meet your parents.”
I grinned.
Leadville was touted as having the highest elevation of any town in the U.S. Over ten thousand feet. The thin air had a crisp, heady chill to it. I filled my lungs.
“Now what?” I asked.
He pulled the postcard out of a pocket, tapped it on his hand. “I don’t know. Smell anything?”
“Rocky Mountain high,” I said, drawing another deep breath. “Let’s walk around a little bit.”
We went down the old main street, a picturesque stretch of turn-of-the-century brick and stone buildings. Lots of people wandering around like us, looking up and around, checking out the shops.
“Maybe I should get a pound of fudge to take back to Ben, to make up for being all mysterious.” Or maybe I just wanted to buy a pound of fudge because it was there.
Cormac wasn’t paying attention. He stopped, stepped off the curb between parked cars, and studied the front of the postcard. Flipped it over, then back. Held it up at arm’s length, then seemed to sight along it.
“What?”
“Check it out.” He handed the card over, pointing out a little hole that might have been made by a thumbtack. I had only noticed it before as standard wear and tear.
When I held it up, the image in the photo lined up with the scene in front of us. And the pinhole—I squinted, peered through it. I moved the card away just to be sure of what I was looking at, checked the makeshift viewfinder again. It pointed toward a spot on a distant hillside, a small clearing in the pine forest.
“X marks the spot?” I asked.
“Sure, why not?”
Cormac stopped the Jeep a couple of times to double check landmarks as we took one dirt road after another, passing occasional homesteads tucked back in the trees. Finally, we turned onto a two-track path and he got to practice his off-roading skills. I held tight to the doorframe as we rocked and bounced over stones and hillocks. I looked back once to see a great view of the town, and yes, we seemed to be headed to the right place. Finally, he parked.
We’d come to a small mountain meadow, bounded on one side by a patch of aspens, bright green among the darker conifers. This was how he’d identified the spot back in town, the landmark he’d used to guide us. The clearing was maybe fifty yards across, quiet and isolated. Elk came here to graze—lots of droppings lay scattered, and their scent was everywhere.
A small cabin sat tucked up against the trees, almost invisible. Made of rough-cut logs, its low roof was covered in pine boughs. The whole thing was barely big enough to count as a closet. But someone was living here, I could smell it.
Cormac stalked forward, studying the cabin’s exterior and the space around it. On a bare patch of ground, he found a fire circle, ashes ringed by scorched stones. A blackened stick still had a shred of burnt meat on it.
“Fire’s still warm,” he said. “Whoever it is was just here.”
“Is this who you’re supposed to deliver the message to, or another clue?”
He looked around, agitated, like he was searching for the hidden camera.
I settled myself. Breathed deep, took in the calm of the forest, the hush of a soft breeze through the trees. Let my Wolf side out, just a little. Her senses, hearing, vision, and sense of smell that could track a rabbit across a prairie. Felt the itch across my shoulders of invisible hackles rising. This was a hunt, and Wolf was ready.
The firepit. The door. The wall outside—and a pile of clothes, army surplus camo pants and a ratty sweatshirt. The scent was all over them. And it wasn’t entirely human. I didn’t know what it was, except . . . lycanthrope. Canine.
I looked back at Cormac. “It’s the same scent as the fur in the box. It’s a guy, he’s shapeshifted.”
He pulled the fur out of his jacket pocket, and I held it to my nose. It had lost some of its strength and had taken on some of Cormac’s own smells of leather jacket and maleness. But yeah, it was the same.
“He headed into the woods. Probably saw us coming. I can track it. Or Wolf can track it.” If I shifted, Wolf would able to follow that smell anywhere.
“You don’t have to do that.”
I was already taking off my shirt. I wanted to see this through to the end, to find who that fur had come from. Cormac looked away, frustrated, as I shoved my jeans down around my ankles.
“It’s too dangerous,” he said.
“Yeah, probably. I’ll be careful. We’ve come too far to not keep going.”
Cormac turned his back as I stripped off the rest of my clothes. He’d seen this before, and I’d been a werewolf too long to be self-conscious. But he would never be comfortable with it.
The chill mountain air felt good on my skin, and Wolf was ready.
Werewolves had to change on nights of the full moon, but we could shift voluntarily whenever we wanted. Sometimes, I wanted to an awful lot. To be Wolf was to be strong, free. To flee worry. Wolf was always there, just under the surface.
I imagined my ribs were a cage, holding her in. Most of the time, except for full moon days, she slept. A presence, but not obtrusive, unless I was angry or scared or in danger. Then, she woke up. Then, I could feel her pressing against the bars of the cage, fighting to get out. Claws pressing at the tips of my fingers, ready to burst through the skin.
Most of the time she slept. But when I called her, she was always ready.
“Kitty,” Cormac said. I glanced over my shoulder. “I’m right behind you.”
“Thanks,” I said.
I knelt, put a hand on the ground, my fingers digging into the earth, and I imagined a door opening, the bars of a cage dissolving. And she was there. Hundreds of pinpricks stabbed my skin, fur bursting through. My back arched, and I grunted as bones melted, broke, reformed, my whole body wrenching into something else. This pain was familiar, and the best way to cope was to let it happen, let it wash through, fast, fierce—
—blinks at the sun, she so rarely sees daylight, she is a nighttime creature, a child of the moon. She shakes out her fur, remembers . . . she has a job. The scent. Strange, mysterious, like her but not. Muzzle to ground, her nose lights up and she finds the trail. Runs.
She is followed, two-legged footfalls. Hesitates, glances over her shoulder. She knows him, his scent, he is pack, so she continues on. A true hunt, friend at her back, quarry ahead.
The trail is strong, growing stronger. The prey flees, weaving around trees but moving constantly uphill. So wonderful to run, free, surrounded by wild, soft earth under her paws, cool air through her fur, she can keep running, just keep going—
No. Remember the job. Her other self drives her.
She catches sight of her target. Pushes harder. Closes. Her quarry wheels, dances in place. Curious, she pulls up. Studies it, nose flaring. Doesn’t bare her teeth because she doesn’t feel threatened. It has four gangly legs, scraggily tawny coat, narrow face, smaller nose.
Wary, tail straight out, she waits for a challenge. Braced to spring if she needs to. The other paws the ground, backs up. Isn’t staring but isn’t backing down. Offers a yip, an uncertain greeting. And then she has a name for him.
Coyote.
A thrill. She—her other self—wants to meet him, speak to him. But he is wary. She circles. He springs. She dashes ahead, cuts him off. He whirls on hind legs and again she blocks his way. He’s bigger, but she’s faster. She is no threat, her hackles are down. If she can show him that she only wants to talk—