Wolfsong (Green Creek 1)

It said, we need you.

It said, you’re our Alpha and you need to GET UP.

It said, GET UP GET UP GETUPGETUPGETUPGET—

I got up, because I would do anything for them.

Everything hurt, but I got up.

The bridge was tilting now, the roof coming down around me, so close that I could have reached up and touched the ceiling.

I took those remaining steps, and the moment, the second my feet touched dirt, the bridge crashed into the creek below in a cloud of dust.

There was a loud cry through the bonds, the threads that stretched between us, a call of horror, of no no no and OxOxOx DON’T YOU DO THIS OX—

And I said, “Hey, Joe,” because there was no one else that would have screamed for me like that, no one else who would have sounded so desperate to hear my voice.

And the song he howled wa

s a wondrous thing, filled with such green relief that it caused my eyes to burn.

It echoed in the trees around me. He was close. So close.

I needed to see him. To make sure he was okay. To tell him how sorry I was. That I never wanted to leave him. That I never wanted to be anywhere but by his side. All I ever wanted was to keep him safe. Ever since that first day on the road, when he spoke and moved like a little tornado, all I ever wanted was to make sure nothing ever happened to Joe Bennett.

He was coming for me.

I tried to focus on the rest of the pack, to make sure they were all right, but Joe was overwhelming. Everything was him. He was all I could hear and see and taste and smell.

I stumbled my way down into the creek bed as carefully as I could. The debris from the bridge lay spread out in the water, piles of boards and nails strewn everywhere. I didn’t feel them. Richard. Osmond. The Omegas. Not anymore. The poison was gone.

My feet hit the water, boots and pant legs soaked.

I could hear them now.

The pack.

Joe.

I started to climb up the side of the creek bed. Blood dripped down from my arms into the dirt, but it was okay. It was all right. I was almost home.

I reached the top.

And there he was. The white wolf with the red eyes. Only yards away.

There was the familiar shift of bone and muscle. And he stood there, watching me with wide eyes and not a stitch of clothing.

He said, “Ox.” His voice was hoarse and broken. “I thought… I thought—”

So I took a step toward him and said, “No, it’s okay. It’s okay, I promise you, he’s done, it’s done, I promise, Joe. I’m sorry. Please don’t be mad. Please don’t be mad at me. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m—”

There was an explosion from behind me.

I whirled around.

The remains of the bridge were blown apart as a half-shifted Richard Collins rose from underneath and landed in front of me, body bloodied and broken, claws extended.

One hand landed on my shoulder and pulled me toward him.