Ravensong (Green Creek 2)

I scrubbed a hand over my face and looked back at the man.

His eyes were open.

“Wolves,” he whispered. “Wolves, wolves, wolves—”

“Hey,” I said sharply before he could get more agitated. “Hey. Look at me. King, look at me.”

That got him. His eyes widened briefly as he turned his head toward me. “Who are—” He coughed weakly. “Who are you? How do you know my name?”

“The tattoo on your chest. The mark of your clan.”

“An old life.”

“I figured as much.”

He blinked slowly. “You’re not a wolf.”

“No.”

“Your arms are glowing.”

“They tend to do that.”

“You’re a witch.”

“Astute, for a hunter.”

His teeth were bloody when he grinned. “I told you. That was an old life.”

“Was he here?”

King closed his eyes. “The beast. Yes. Yes. He was here.”

Fuck. We must have missed him by an hour. Maybe less. For all I knew, he could still be somewhere nearby. I needed more. I remembered the words of my father and muttered under my breath, a hand outstretched over King’s body. A mark on my left wrist flared to life, and I pulled some of the pain, the agony, the hurt from the hunter and into me. I grimaced against the sharpness of it, the way it rolled up my arm and into my chest and gut, moving like molten lava. If he lived, it’d be slow going for a while.

“Ahhh,” he said, relaxing into the shredded mattress. “That’s… that’s nice.”

“It isn’t much,” I warned him. “And it’s not permanent.”

“That’s okay. Pain means I’m alive. Probably won’t win any beauty contests, but if I hurt, it means I’m still here.”

“Richard Collins.”

His eyes opened again. They were clearer than they’d been before. “He came for me. I thought—I grew lazy. I didn’t look over my shoulder as much. It’d been years since—” He shook his head. “I didn’t even hear him coming.”

“You know why he came.”

“Yes.”

“Because of what your clan did.”

“Yes.”

“The wolves outside. Do you know who they are?”

“Does it matter?”

“Bennetts. All of them. And I am Gordo Livingstone.”