At least that explained his presence by the door and not in the line with the rest of them. My conspiracy theory that Sam set me up shriveled.
Sam sighed and rubbed a hand over his face, “There are two things I can promise you. Though he is technically Forlorn, he’s always chosen to follow pack law. He has no issue with humans. With him, you are safe. His control over the change is unusually strong.”
When over stimulated, the change can burst upon a werewolf with less than adequate control. Sam had drilled that into me when I first started hanging out with Paul and Henry unsupervised. He didn’t want me to freak out if one of them went wolf on me for no reason. He’d stressed that whether in their fur or in their skin, they had the same intelligence and instinct. The change was just a defense mechanism because in their fur, they had teeth and claws to fight with. So, saying Clay had control meant he kept his emotions in check.
“And he won’t give up,” Sam added.
Clay hadn’t been looking for a mate like most werewolves did once they reach puberty. Did that give me any advantage? I doubted it. Sam had repeatedly stressed that instinct ruled this business. And fighting instinct proved extremely difficult for them. So Sam’s final warning was a given. Once they scented their mate, they couldn’t turn back. Why couldn’t werewolves get strategically timed head colds like the rest of us?
I sighed. “Alright, where is he?”
“I think he’s still tinkering with my truck. Try there.”
Sam slid back under his covers and I turned off the lights for him before walking out the door. My sock covered feet, the only thing on me that didn’t seem too dirty, muffled the sound of my passing. By the front door, I found my mud caked shoes and put them on. They hadn’t been mud caked when I took them off last night. I couldn’t believe he’d put them back on me before abducting me. Had I really been that tired? Maybe there’d been something wrong with that water. And why were my shoes caked with mud if he carried me?
When I stepped out the door, the sun shone bright, already high in the cloudless sky. Moving off the porch, I closed my eyes for a moment, tilting my face to soak in the warmth. The sound of a ratchet drew me back to my purpose.
I found Clay right where Sam had said, his torso bent over the grill of the pickup looking closely at the engine. Purposefully relaxing my shoulders, I started toward the truck. The yard had emptied of many of the vehicles from yesterday, leaving Clay more room to spread out the pieces he continued to remove.
Slowing my approach, I studied him a bit. The mid-day sun didn’t show him in any better light than he’d looked in last night’s shadows. He still wore that heavy jacket despite the warm day, and some type of very dirty, very baggy cargo pants. His bare feet looked surprisingly clean after walking miles last night, following me, and then carrying or dragging me back.
Frowning, I looked at his feet again and then down at my shoes. No way! How were his feet cleaner than my shoes? With feet larger than mine, he couldn’t have worn my shoes. Didn’t Sam just tell me he had complete control over his change? Couldn’t he have partially shifted his feet? Maybe. It still didn’t explain how I slept through being carried.
He continued his examination of the truck. I knew he could hear me coming, but I waited to speak until I stood next to the truck.
“We weren’t officially introduced last night. My name’s Gabby. Gabrielle May Winters, officially.” I tucked my hands in my back pockets hoping I wouldn’t have to shake his hand or anything.
He straightened, turning toward me, giving me his undivided attention. I didn’t think it would be possible, but he was even dirtier than I’d first thought. Long hair hung in clotted strands obscuring his eyes while his unkempt facial hair covered the rest of his face. I kept my thoughts about his hygiene to myself.
At no less than six feet to my five foot five inches, he intimidated me and I fought not to show it. His continued silence didn’t help matters. It puzzled me until I remembered Sam’s comments about his upbringing. Maybe he didn’t even have the social skills to return a greeting.
There had to be a way out of this. Please let there be a way out of this, I thought.
“Sam said that your name is Clay.” I waited for some type of acknowledgement, but got none. He just continued to look at me. At least, I assumed I had his attention. I couldn’t really see his eyes to know for sure.