Claimed (The Lair of the Wolven 1)

“Yes. Thanks to Rick.”

“I saw you when you were in there with him. I was out on the porch—” Candy jerked back. “Guess he doesn’t like all humans, huh.”

The snarl that permeated through the door was a low warning.

“He just doesn’t know you.” Lydia drew the woman away. “I’m going to release him tomorrow morning.”

“How?”

“I’m going to tranquilize him. And then take him out into the preserve on the back of the four-wheeler.”

Candy’s brows dropped. “How much does he weigh?”

“Around two hundred pounds. He’s bigger than your average gray wolf.”

“And you can lift that kind of dead weight?”

No, Lydia thought.

“I’ll take care of that somehow,” she said.

“Maybe you can ask Daniel to help.”

“Sure—”

“How are we going to get by?” Candy demanded. “I guess the larger question is, how much longer do you think we’re going on? I don’t mean to be practical, but I have bills to pay. I need to … find another job.”

Lydia shook her head. “I don’t know.”

Candy rubbed her short hair, the bright blond spikes smoothing out under the friction. “I’m sorry. Maybe I shouldn’t be bringing this up so soon after … well, you know—”

“No, it’s okay. Things only stop for the dead, not the living. We need to figure it all out.”

“Where the hell is Peter Wynne?”

“I don’t know. And that’s the truth.”

Candy went over to the pile of mail and started going through the bills. “Well, just so you know, I’ll stay for however long I have a check.” The woman glanced around the clinic area. “And also, I really liked Rick. He was a good man. I don’t know why I feel the need to say that out loud, but I do.”

“I couldn’t agree more. He was … a very good man.”

“But Peter?” Candy’s stare grew hard. “I wouldn’t give you a plug nickel for that piece of shit.”

They both fell silent for a moment.

Then Lydia said abruptly, “Can I ask you for a favor? I need to borrow your car.”

ON THE WAY back from his nicotine purchase, Daniel went past the WSP’s driveway. As he continued on, the turnoff he was looking for was slow in coming—or maybe he just wasn’t sure what the fuck he was doing and that made everything seem fuzzy and sluggish.

Farlan’s Lane was right where they’d left it, and he didn’t cut his speed much as he angled in and picked the right of the two dirt tracks. Heading deep into the trees, he went up to where they’d towed Lydia’s car from, with Paul of Paul’s Garage having done the drag duty.

You had to wonder whether the guy was going to mention to anybody that shit had just been yanked inside the engine. Probably not. Paul seemed like the live and let live kind.

Of course, if he were asked? Who knew.

Killing the engine, Daniel swung a leg free and took the key with him. As he strode forward, he took one of the packs of Marlboros out. The efficiency with which he stripped the plastic proved that a strong past habit could override the “perishable skill” part of almost anything. And as he popped the top and took out one of the filter-first soldiers, he decided that this wagon fall-off was just a temporary thing.

And it wasn’t a slip-up. This was a conscious choice.

So he could un-conscious the choice after all this was over.

Or maybe that was un-choice. Not choice. Whatever.

The fact that Susan the checkout woman had picked a matchy-matchy red for the Bic seemed a declaration of her style philosophy. Meanwhile, on his side of the transaction, all he cared about was the flame—

The coughing fit was immediate after the inhale, and as he put the back of his hand to his mouth, he wondered why it was that he always felt hacking your liver up went better if you had something covering the pie hole part of things. It was like a boxer with a punching bag, he supposed.

You gave things a target, not just bald air.

By the third inhale, the disruption eased off, and he felt a buzzing in his head and under his skin. Halfway through the length, he was back in the swing of things, exhaling great streams of smoke like he was a steam engine, a calming coming over him at the same time he felt an intensifying focus.

Not that he’d been confused.

When he came up to the deer stand, he crushed the lit stub between his forefinger and thumb, the lick of pain something he enjoyed. Then he put the butt in his back pocket and looked toward Peter Wynne’s barn—not that he could see much.

Changing directions, he kept going and found the cave where he’d stashed the body easily enough—and the undisturbed nature of that which he had done his best not to disturb was good news.