I don’t pursue that thought.
I know why Dalton is ignoring the heap—he can’t be distracted from a potential trap. But the unknown pounds at my head, my mouth going dry, and all I can think about is Val agreeing to be our spy with Brady.
And me letting her, despite Dalton’s reservations.
So I look. I suck in breath. Dalton tenses, shoulder blades snapping together under his T-shirt.
“It’s not Val,” I say quickly.
His gaze drops then. And he lets out a quiet oath.
It is a dog.
No, it’s a puppy.
On the path lies what looks like a shepherd puppy, with brown speckles on its muzzle. As soon as I see those, I remember the wolf-dog, the nursing mother.
The cub is dead.
Slaughtered and left on the path.
I pull my gaze from the cub and wrap both hands around my gun. Dalton steps over the tiny corpse.
I lift my foot to follow. Then I stop. Eyes on my surroundings, I crouch and lay my fingertips against the side of the cub’s neck.
Still warm.
I hurry to catch up with Dalton, continuing around the curve and—
He stops and lets out a string of curses under his breath.
There is another heap on the path.
We don’t stop for a better look. I see bloods and entrails, and my stomach churns. I’ve seen plenty of dead animals up here, often in worse shape, half devoured and rotting, but this is not a predator’s kill. These cubs have been planted—a trap that Dalton and I are expected to fall for because we have a dog of our own. So we will see these poor dead cubs and stop, and then—
A whimper sounds in the bushes, and Dalton lets out another curse, this one softer, almost an exhalation.
Fuck, no . . .
What will be worse than seeing dead wolf-dog cubs in the path?
Seeing one that is not yet dead.
24
We take a step. Then the sound comes again, that deep-throated whine, from the brush beside the path.
Dalton glances back at me. It’s the briefest of glances, no more than a flicker of eye contact.
We should keep going. We’re suckers if we don’t, playing right into the trap Brady has set. A third cub has been left alive, horribly injured, as the cruelest of taunts. Punishment for the fact that we are not monsters.
Can you walk by this dying dog? You know you should. It’s a wild thing, a feral beast. But I saw how you left the wolf-dog alone. I heard you say that she must have pups nearby. Heard the relief in your voices when she didn’t attack, an excuse to let her live.
Suckers.
I’ll leave Val by that spot where the sheriff got shot. You know the one. Just go there, and you’ll find her.
The cub whines again.
“Fuck.”
“Val?” I call. Then louder. “Valerie?”
She doesn’t respond, and I know she won’t. She isn’t here. It would make no sense to kill these cubs and leave her with them, where she can warn us of a trap.
Brady is out there, in the forest, with my gun.
He’s watching us. Figuring out how to put us both down before we can fire back. And this is the way to do it. Get us to lower our guard as we go after the wounded cub, because we will do that, of course we will.
Suckers.
I remember reading folklore that said one way to escape a vampire was to throw rice on the path, and it will be compelled to stop and pick up every grain before continuing on. I remember shaking my head at the absolute ridiculousness of it. But that is what Brady has done. He has thrown rice in our path, knowing we must stop to gather it up.
“Sam?” I shout. “Nicki?”
“Here!” Nicole calls back.
“Stay where you are, and stay alert. Brady’s set a trap. There’s no sign of Val. We’re fine. Just hold there while we look for her.”
“Got it!”
I cover Dalton as he takes another step. Then he bends to grab a stick with his bad hand, his knife still clenched in the good one. He pokes the stick around the brush where the noises come from. He jabs the cub by accident, and it lets out a startled yelp. Then it growls, and when he withdraws the stick, a pair of tiny jaws come with it, clamped on the wood before they fall away.
“Well, that’s a good sign,” he murmurs.
Confident he’s not about to step into a literal trap, Dalton walks to the undergrowth, bends, and pushes fronds aside. Inside is a cub. I catch one glimpse of it before I remember what I’m supposed to be doing.
Don’t be any more of a sucker than you need to, Casey.
I stay back and let Dalton handle it. The cub whines and whimpers and then—
“Fuck!”
I look over sharply. He’s pulling back his hand, puncture wounds below his thumb welling with blood.
“It attacked you?”
“Nah, just snapped at me. It’s caught in something.”
“How badly is it injured?”
“I see blood where it’s caught, but otherwise nothing. Looks like a snare wire. I’m probably going to get nipped again, so ignore the cursing.”
“Got it.”
I survey the forest. I know this is a trap. It must be. But there’s no sign of anyone. Dalton works on the cub, swearing as he’s nipped. Then there’s a sound from the forest.
“Eric . . .”
“I hear it.”
He backs away from the cub, who begins whining and yelping in earnest. However much freeing it hurt the cub, it’s even more worried about being abandoned again, and it’s making enough noise that I can’t hear what’s happening in the forest.
Dalton retreats to me, knife still in his hand. “Sound came from that way.”
“Could you tell what it was?”
“Footsteps maybe? Hard to say.”
The brush crackles, loud enough for us to catch it between the cub’s cries. I see it, too, a wave of movement, branches pushed aside, something big crashing toward the path . . .
I aim my gun.
There’s another movement. A dark shape below where I’m aiming.
The mother wolf-dog staggers onto the path. Her gray fur is matted with blood, and she moves with a stiff-legged gait, breath coming so hard I can hear it.
Dalton says, “Fuck, no,” and that seems odd. Yes, it’s a tragedy that the wolf-dog has also been mortally wounded, drawn back by the cries of her cub, but there’s a note of fear in his voice that I do not understand until I see what hangs from her jaws.
Saliva.
Bloody, foaming saliva.
“Rabies?” I whisper.
“I hope not, but presume yes. We’re going to have to take her down. You got a bead on her?”
I nod.
“Okay, take the—”
The wolf-dog charges. One second, she’s shambling along, seeming a heartbeat from keeling over. The next she is in flight, jaws snapping, bloody froth flying.
I fire.
The bullet hits her. And she doesn’t care.
I fire again, and Dalton stays right there, beside me, and I want to shout at him to move. Get out of the way. Dive for cover. Run!
But he just waits as I fire more rounds, and by then she’s so close I can see the proverbial whites of her eyes as they roll.
“Eric!” I shout as I fire one last time.
He pushes me to the side. It’s not a shove, just a push, and I’m scrambling out of the way, and he’s just moving aside and . . .
The wolf-dog falls. Midflight, she collapses, this weird movement, almost like she’s dancing as she folds in on herself. Then she drops, and when she hits the ground, those wild eyes are frozen open in death, a bullet hole between them.
“Nice shot,” he says.
“Next time, can you not stay in the path of a charging wild animal?”
“I knew you’d get her.”
“Just humor me, okay?” I walk over to see I did get her—with every bullet. Two to the chest, both of which would have been fatal, but she’d been too far gone to care.
“Got another one here where the blood’s drying.”
It’s the spot I’d seen on her flank, matted with blood. Dalton pokes at it.
“Bullet’s . . .” he says.
He uses his knife to cut it out. I’ve stood in on countless autopsies without flinching, but I swear Dalton makes me look positively squeamish. There is a question to be answered here, and he digs that bullet free without a moment’s hesitation.
He holds the bullet up, his fingers red with blood.
“Nine-mil?” he asks.