Frostbitten (Otherworld 10)
Page 30
"Weird."
He gave a distracted nod, but we both knew that wasn't the right word. Looking out at that paw-print-covered snow, so close to a werewolf's cabin, the word that came to mind was wrong. More than weird. Downright unnatural.
If new wolves had entered the region and decided to challenge an occupying werewolf, they'd slink around his cabin for a closer look. The Alpha might mark it to make a statement. But here I saw paw prints of every size, right down to yearlings.
"Maybe it's sled dogs," I said.
Clay looked over.
"Dennis could have a neighbor with a team. He comes over, ties them up while he has a few drinks and they get bored, pace around."
"You smell dogs, darling?"
No. I smelled wolf.
I climbed onto the front deck. I walked to the window to peek in, but the drapes were drawn. More prints dotted the sill, as if the wolves had been doing the same thing I was.
The hair on my scalp prickled. I tugged my hat down, then rubbed my icy earlobes. As I turned, I caught a scent that made my breath catch. When I inhaled deeper, though, I couldn't find it again.
I glanced at Clay, crouched by the door, his fingers running down the lower panel, fingertips tracing rough grooves in the wood.
Claw marks. The deep scratches were ridged with splinters. Fresh claw marks.
Clay straightened and banged on the door. "Dennis? It's Clay." He paused, then added, "Clayton Danvers."
The cabin stayed silent. I moved to the window again, looking for any sign of light around the drawn drapes. There was none.
"Dennis?" Clay called. "Jeremy sent me to check on you."
He pounded harder now. The wood buckled under his fist, the door parting from the frame just enough to let out a puff of what I'd smelled earlier.
"Open it," I said.
"What?"
I grabbed the handle and rammed my shoulder into the door. The wood crackled and it flew open. The smell blasted out, sending me reeling back.
I caught a glimpse of what was inside. Then I hurried to the side railing, leaning over it, hands over my mouth, teeth clenched, gorge bobbing.
Clay's hand rested against my back.
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"Sorry, I--" I turned. "I'm sorry."
He nodded, his gaze on the forest. I stepped toward him, uncertain. His hands went around my waist and I moved into his arms, my nose pressed against his warm neck. His arms tightened around me. After a moment, a shuddering sigh rippled through him.
"You stay here," I said. "I'll take care of--"
"I'm okay. It's been a lot of years."
We went inside. When I'd first smelled decomposition, I thought Dennis had been killed by wolves. The threat of a werewolf on their new territory might override whatever warning told them to stay away from people. The moment I'd looked through that door, though, I'd known it hadn't been wolves. Not the kind that walk on four legs, anyway.
Dennis Stillwell sat on a kitchen chair in the middle of the room, bound hand and foot with thick wire cables. It looked like he'd been tortured. How much was hard to tell. Despite the cold, he was starting to decompose. All I knew was that someone had tied him up, tried to get information from him, then killed him.
Clay looked at Dennis, his face unreadable.
"I'm going to find them," he said.