"I know."
WE BURIED DENNIS in the woods. We wanted to give him a burial, but more than that, we had to. If Charles or anyone else found him, there would be an investigation and an autopsy, and we couldn't risk either.
Werewolves rarely pass away in their sleep, so it's an unavoidable fact that sometimes there is an autopsy and an investigation, and our world hasn't crumbled yet. The anomalies in our blood and DNA probably left more than one lab tech scratching her head, and maybe a few had made notes of it, put it aside for a personal project, but nothing more. Still, we don't take chances, and even a mutt killing another mutt will dispose of the body. Only, apparently, these ones hadn't bothered. Did they not care? Or was this a message for someone? For Joey?
Clay and I had experience with body disposal. Too much. We'd buried our own and we'd buried mutts, so we knew how to do it. Dennis Stillwell would simply disappear, like so many werewolves before him.
When we finished, we stood at the gravesite, the bitter wind whipping through the trees, freezing every inch of exposed skin and making our eyes water. Those tears were the only ones we'd shed. Nor would we say any words over the grave. That was the human way. Ours was quieter, more private, just a few minutes of silent respect and reflection.
When I felt a familiar prickle at the back of my neck, my head shot up.
"Wait," Clay said, his voice low. "Move slowly."
I turned my head and followed his gaze, sweeping across the forest.
"Oh my God," I whispered.
Reflections of at least a dozen pairs of eyes dotted the forest. I could make out gray shapes against the black forest. Wolves.
"We'll go back inside," Clay murmured. "Are there more behind me?"
"A few."
"Okay. Count to three. Then turn your back to me. We'll walk in that way. Keep your gaze up over their heads."
"Don't look them in the eye."
"Right. If one charges, then meet its gaze. It might back down."
I really hoped so. A dozen wolves against two werewolves? Even Clay wasn't itching to meet this challenge.
Back-to-back we walked into the cabin. As Clay bolted the door, I looked out. The wolves hadn't moved.
"Do you think they smelled the body?" I asked.
"Long winter. Food's getting scarce."
"That would explain the scratch marks on the door."
"Yeah."
Our eyes met, exchanging a look that said we were sticking to our story, even though we both knew it was bullshit. These wolves didn't look as if they were starving. They might take Dennis's body if they found it lying outside, but to trample the snow as if they'd been pacing around the cabin for hours and trying to scratch their way in? It was too much. Too unnatural.
Clay found a battery-operated lantern and an oil one, and we lit both and looked around.
"Well," I said. "I guess we have enough work here to keep us busy until the wolves move on. I'll clean up--"
"You look for clues. Get scents. You're better at that."
And he was better at cleanup--having had more experience, though neither of us pointed that out.
We set to work. As I soon discovered, finding scents under the stench of decomposition wasn't easy.
"I'm going to crack open the window."
I pulled the drape. Glowing green eyes peered in at me. I fell back. Clay grabbed me. With the lanterns reflecting off the glass, all I could see was the dark shape of a wolf leaping off the porch. I cupped my hands against the glass. A dark-colored wolf vanished into the trees.
Black wolf. Green eyes.