Reagan considers herself to be a fair and just daughter of Emma Austen, so when she's showed the dirty underside of werewolf communities, it's difficult to wrap her mind around it. Stray alpha wolves start to cause havoc around her father's town in...
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I spent several days downtown with Jillian, at least, whenever I got the chance. In the evening, she always promised to take me out on Louise, just so we could read out in the middle of the bay with the water lapping around us, swishing and churning. Even when she worked all day at the book store, she was just as energetic as she was in the morning, and dragged me away from Dad. Some days I spent so much time walking about that by the time I collapsed on the boat, my heels ached and my feet begged to be weightless for once.
True to his word, Dad refused to let me out on night runs until I knew the area. Knowing the area required a lot of hiking, and hours spent out and about burning my calves off my bones trying to climb the steep, mountainous terrain. Stonecroft didn't have a single mountain, but mountains were just as difficult to climb as a ravine was, or the canyon back at home.
Dad had the endurance of a marathoner, and refused to let up unless mealtime came, or if someone called him for this or that reason. Everett rarely ever joined our excursions anymore, especially after the first incident with the "rogue". "I don't want to be responsible for Reagan's death, Dad," he snapped. Dad rolled his eyes and said something about how I wasn't dead, nor would I die—not on his watch anyway. The entire situation was just ridiculous, but I didn't butt in. I was getting kind of sick of Everett's snot attitude, just four days into my stay.
Three days brought us to Wednesday.
I still hadn't gone for a run—at least, not the type of run I'd prefer. I compensated that for runs that made my aching feet all the more agonizing to deal with.
The road to downtown was three miles long, and the way across the bay was another five. I jogged through those neighborhoods, as I had the past several days, and became acquainted with counting the number of homes. Fifteen, sixteen, seventeen...
I reached the dead end cul-de-sac, and slowed my pace until I stood in the center of it, surrounded by homes underneath the canopy of massive pine trees. Dad and I hiked through the mountains on this side yesterday, and how beyond those peaks were where the wolves ran wild. I glanced towards the western horizon, where the sun hovered over the water.
Panting hard, I looked down to the watch on my wrist and ignored the time ticking there. My brain went blank, except for the conscious effort to memorize the rhythm of my blood pulsing in my ears, and the effortless way my fingers curved. I traced the hair on my forearm, and slowed my breathing. I pushed outward, searching for that itchy feeling I pegged as Dad's fault—blocking my shift. It erupted underneath my flesh, and red bumps swelled across the surface. I pressed harder, clenching my fist until my nails dug into my palms, and the red rash spread across my wrist, up my forearm, the crook of my elbow, until it overtook my arm. The red bumps erupted in patches of heavy dark hair—fur. I breathed out heavily, and leant over my knees, heaving for air, as if suddenly escaping from the ground.
