Heart's Price (MxM)

Chapter 42

When I emerge from the library in Wolf form, I'm relieved to see that the others have obeyed me and returned to their rooms.

Ambrose kneels beside his uncle at the bottom of the stairs, his phone to his ear, presumably talking to Dane. August moans and stirs, having apparently survived his tumble, and blinks with confusion and alarm as he spots my approach.

Ambrose turns to see what he's looking at, and as his brows lift I realize he hasn't seen my full Wolf-form yet.

Compared to Freya or Dane—or any of our siblings, really—I'm not the most impressive animal. My fur is dark gray, my eyes are light amber, and I'm about the size of a German Shepherd; which, for a werewolf, is somewhat small.

Still, a wolf is a wolf, and not something most people see every day, and the look on Ambrose's face is gratifyingly impressed.

He takes the phone away from his ear for a moment to speak to me.

"Be careful, love—and don't go far. Your brother's on his way."

I give a sharp yip in reply and turn a few quick circles, chasing my tail. It was a sort of ritual my siblings and I had when beginning a hunt, and was meant to clear the senses before picking up a trail, but now it probably just makes Ambrose wonder if I've had my rabies shots.

Suitably disoriented, I shake myself and snort, then set my nose to the ground and take the scent of the muddy prints.

Ambrose was right. They carry a strange smell—not unpleasant, and not entirely unfamiliar, but which I can't quite name or identify. It's a mix of things, all very faint, and too jumbled to sort through at the moment. It's also already beginning to fade, and if I want to follow it, there's no time to lose.

Turning, I bolt for the door, following the prints out along the path through the yard, straight to the small gate, which I find swinging wide, across the street, and into the forested parkland on the other side.

I halt at the head of the trail that leads to the lake. 

The area is dense with brush and with twists and turns that make it prime ambush territory. On top of that, the scent is so fresh and plain, so almost comically obvious—a trail of literal muddy footprints—I hardly need to be a wolf to follow them, and it's setting off alarm bells in the back of my mind.

It's almost like the thief wants to be followed.

On the other hand, this is my chance to prove myself to Dane, and to prove that Ambrose isn't lying at the same time.

Dane had once told me that most murders weren't complicated, and that most victims know their killers: a friend or a lover, a family-member, a husband or a wife; which is depressing, but which also means that if Dane saw a guy standing over his dead cousin with a bloody fire-poker in hand, 'I don't know what happened, but it wasn't me,' would not hold much water as an alibi. 

If I can catch a glimpse—or better yet, find some material evidence—of whoever made these footprints, it will go a long way towards proving that Ambrose's story is the truth.

On the other other hand, it's the middle of the night, the woods are dark and eerily still, and I'm completely on my own.

I like to think I'm as fierce as any wolf in a fight, but when it comes to cold-blooded nerve, I admit I'm the sort that jumps at shadows. Or owls. Or people who leap out at me from behind things just to hear me scream.

It's actually a small miracle that Freya and I are as close as we are now, given how much she used to enjoy tormenting me.

Giving myself another shake, I put my nose to the ground again and set off along the trail; because even worse than the thought of letting this chance slip by is the thought of Freya finding me here, too afraid to go into the 'dark scary woods' by myself.