An Omega had her. He held her against him, her back to his front. His arm circled around her, elbow against her breasts, hand and claws around her throat.
I said, “No.”
The Omega said, “Call them off.”
I said, “You’ll regret this. Every day for the rest of your miserably short life.”
He said, “I will kill her right now.”
I said, “You will regret this.”
The big bad wolf smiled. “Human,” he spat.
My mom said, “Ox,” and it was so soft and sweet and full of tears and I took a step toward her.
“Let her go.”
The Omega said, “Call. Them. Off.”
And Joe. Joe. Sixteen-year-old Joe. Standing off to the side. Forgotten because the Omega had eyes on me, like he could sense that I had any power here. Like I had any control over the pack. Either he was mistaken or thought he knew something I didn’t.
But Joe. Before I could take another step, he was moving, legs coiled, claws out. Jumped-kicked off the wall. Launched himself up and over the Omega. Brought his claws down into the Omega’s face. Eyes punctured and skin split. The Omega screamed. His hand around my mother’s throat fell away.
Mom wasn’t stupid. She had trained. She saw what was coming. She elbowed the Omega in the stomach. Brought the heel of her foot up into his balls. Ducked away.
Joe spun off him, dropping to the floor.
I took three steps.
The blind Omega growled, “There will always be more.”
I said, “You shouldn’t have touched my mother,” and swung the silver-infused crowbar like a bat. It smashed upside his head, skull cracking, blood flying. Skin burned and hair smoldered. The Omega grunted once and fell to the floor. His chest rose once, hitching, failing. Then it stopped.
The sounds of fighting fell away outside of the house.
I took a deep breath. I tasted copper on my tongue.
Mom said, “You okay?” She touched my arm.
I said, “Yeah. You?”
And she said, “Yeah. Better now.”
I said, “Joe.”
And he looked at me, eyes blown out, hands at his sides dripping blood onto the floor. I didn’t stop to think. I didn’t care. I stepped away from my mother and pulled him close. He fisted his hands in the back of my shirt, claws tearing lightly at my skin. I didn’t care because it told me I wasn’t dreaming and we were alive. His nose was in my neck because he was so tall now. So much bigger than the little boy I first found on the dirt road. He breathed me in and his heart beat against my chest, the blood of the werewolf I’d killed pooling at our feet.
DAYS LATER, I asked Gordo, “What else is out there?”
And he said, “Whatever you can think of.”
As it turned out, I could think of many things.
THOMAS LED me through the trees and told me there were many packs, though not as many as there used to be. They killed each other. Humans hunted and killed them like it was their job. Like it was sport. Other monsters hunted and killed them.
“This was a fluke,” he said. “Others know not to come here.”
I didn’t know who he was trying to convince, him or me. So I asked, “Why?”