dark and swift, roared endlessly.
The waiting was torture, but Claire reveled in it. The awfulness of the anticipation was the only thing that made her believe she hadn't turned into a monster yet.
There was a tiny part of her that hoped if she could hold enough hurt, bear enough pain, then she could do this one horrible thing without shattering.
But it still seemed like an unbelievably big maybe.
She shivered in the cold, thinking how much easier it would be to do this if she were in her wolf form. The bridge rail was too high, though. There was no way to throw Amy over without using her arms, and besides, even in her human form, Claire was more than strong enough to lift Amy. To drop her over the side, into the wide, deep, hungry river below.
At four minutes past eight, she heard the sound of a car pulling into the lot. A door slamming. And then a creaking complaint from the boards at the other end of the bridge. Claire's gaze swept over the scene—the road was deserted except for Amy's car. Claire could barely make out Amy's blond curls bouncing in the darkness. She'd be practically invisible to anyone without the sort of acute senses that Claire had.
This was the moment. Claire just had to stand up and walk to the center of the bridge.
Then it would all be over. Claire would be safe and the pack would be protected and they could all start to put the whole ugly thing behind them.
Except that Amy would be dead.
On the bridge, Amy started to whistle. A thready, faint whistle that was hopeful and scared all at once.
The sound of it—so very human and so very alive—broke Claire. She felt it deep inside herself, as she cracked under the strain of it all. The shock of the fracture traveled through her. She jumped, recoiling, filled with the sort of near-miss fear that came with slamming on a car's breaks the moment before a crash. As Claire stood, shaking from the jolt, one shining realization stared back at her.
She couldn't kill Amy. She wouldn't. No matter what it meant. There was no time to think about the decision. Every second brought Amy farther along the bridge—closer to where Claire was waiting. She snuck out of her hiding spot before Amy was close enough to see her, and then she ran. Fast and hard and as far away from Amy as she could get. She tore through the streets, running as fast as she could in her human form, trusting the darkness to hide her unnatural speed.
The Engles' driveway was empty, and Claire was grateful. She slipped around to the back door, and Matthew opened it before she even had a chance to knock.
His face was worried and relieved as he pulled her into the house and shut the door behind her.
"Is it . . . done?" he whispered.
Claire's legs shook. "No. I couldn't do it. She's down at some pottery store that never asked to see her work in the first place, probably confused as hell. But she's alive." Her knees started to buckle. "I have to sit down." She staggered over to a kitchen chair and collapsed into it.
Leaving Amy alive might get Claire killed, but she knew with absolute certainty that it was the only way. If she took Amy's life, it would destroy her. It would be worse than dying.
"What are we going to do?" Matthew asked.
"I don't know," Claire admitted. Between the fingers of terror that squeezed her, a leaping sort of joy slipped through, like a fish flashing through a net. It was the exhilaration of being right. Of being almost whole.
Almost.
She'd been able to accept the idea of killing Amy, even if she hadn't been able to do it. And it had cracked something inside her. She would have to live with that—and she could. Because deciding not to go through with it had taken the pressure off her broken places.
She might be cracked, but she wasn't going to shatter.
"I have to talk to her," Claire said, thinking furiously. "Maybe you can, too. She likes you, so maybe she'll listen to you. She can't be a gardien—my mother already rejected that idea—but there must be some humans who know and just don't say anything because they understand. Maybe if I get her to understand, she'll keep her mouth shut."
Matthew gripped her shoulders. "Claire, it's too big a risk. If she tells, you'll be caught. Or worse."
"I know," she said grimly.
He licked his lips. "And what about the pack? What about your mother? What are they going to do? You disobeyed them by not killing her tonight. Claire, it's their law. Your law."
She closed her eyes. She didn't want to disobey an order. Break the law. But there had to be a way. She just needed some time. . . . Her eyes flew open.
"Right. Right! And the law says I have to kill her."
Matthew nodded, looking like he'd just pulled her off a ledge. Like she was finally talking sense. "Okay. So let's just figure out—"
"But it doesn't say when," she interrupted. "I could do it in five years. Ten years. When we're eighty."