Then, there it was. A rustle of movement, something four-legged gliding like fog. That hadn’t taken long at all—the moon was still high.
It was a big one, two hundred pounds or so, three foot at the shoulder. Male. Dark gray, well camouflaged. Big and confident.
He waited. He’d been patient this long; a few more moments wouldn’t matter. Wait until it had the bait, until it was occupied.
He braced the rifle under his arm and sighted down the barrel. There, under the ear, middle of the skull. He had him.
Something exploded. A gunshot, not his. Splinters flew out. Someone had shot the tree they’d sheltered by. Ben skittered sideways and curled up on the ground with his arms over his head.
Cormac looked out, followed the path from where bits of the tree were blown out, up the hill.
A figure dressed for winter hunting moved toward them, holding his own rifle ready to fire a second shot, right at Cormac.
He wasn’t scared. It occurred to him that Ben had the right idea, huddling on the ground for protection. But Cormac found himself staring at the mouth of that weapon and not caring. He’d seen worse. He’d stared down worse. This was nothing. He stood his ground.
The wolf looked up and watched them with interest.
“Put your gun down!” the stranger shouted. His expression twisted with anguish.
“Why should I?” Cormac breathed, in and out, wondering if he was going to have to kill this guy to get to the wolf.
“I won’t let you hurt him.”
He kept moving closer, and Cormac knew he could shoot him. It was self-defense. His second shooting in as many months. The sheriff was going to love this. “That’s close enough. Stop there.”
He did. He looked a little like Cormac himself, young and desperate. Probably not much older. Mirror image. Not quite.
“What business is this of yours, if I shoot that thing on our property?”
“I can’t let you do that. He’s mine. My pet.”
Not likely, not in a million years. Not that big, not that intelligent. The wolf still watched them. A real wolf would have run away by now. But this one knew what was happening, and Cormac grew angry that the stranger with the rifle would lie so blatantly.
“Do you know what it is?”
“Yes. Yes I do. He’s my brother. I look after him.”
Christ, did he think that changed anything? Didn’t matter if he went around twenty-nine days out of the month on two legs, nicest guy in the world. Didn’t matter at all, because that one day he was a killer. They gave men the chair for being killers. Cormac was just part of that process, in a roundabout way.
The wolf growled and started moving toward him. Cormac swung around to aim at it, ready to blow it away, this other guy be damned.
“No, Michael,” the stranger said. “Stay back. Don’t make it worse, please.”
The wolf stopped and wagged its tail. Brothers. Cormac wouldn’t have believed it.
Dad never taught him what to do in a mess like this. Monster was a monster, he’d always said. That was so perfectly clear when he’d been attacked last month. When he’d been killed.
And what if Dad had survived the attack? What if he’d turned into one of those things? What would Cormac have done, shot him?
“He hasn’t hurt anyone,” the stranger said. “Just let us go. Lower your gun and we’ll walk away. I’m telling you, he hasn’t hurt anyone!”
“How am I supposed to believe that?” Cormac’s voice shook, tight with tears that he hadn’t cried, not once.
“It’s true. He listens to me. He’s never hurt anyone.”
He saw his father, his face ripped to shreds, throat torn open so the vertebrae of his neck were visible, blood pouring from arteries.
“But he might. Someday. If you’re not around to stop him.” Do it. He had the shot. For his father.
“You fire and I’ll shoot you!”
He thought that Cormac actually cared, that he actually still had some life in him. “I’ll get my shot off same time you shoot me. Your brother’ll die, too.”
“And I’ll shoot your friend here right after.”
Cormac looked at Ben, who was sprawled at his feet. Ben caught his gaze, begging him with his eyes. Even now he didn’t complain, didn’t shout or cry or anything. But he had those eyes, with fear locked down inside him.
Ben locked it down tight. His voice didn’t waver when he said, “If you kill that wolf, he’ll turn into a person, won’t he? Like the guy that killed your dad.”
Cormac nodded, wondered what he was going to do. Wondered if Ben’s fear was right: that he would just as soon let his cousin die.
“Cormac, you have to let them go. He’s just looking after his family. Like you.”
Cormac almost lost it then, because Ben was wrong. Cormac wasn’t looking after anything. He didn’t care, didn’t they see that? This was pure, meaningless revenge, because Ben was right, he’d already got the one that had killed his dad. And if he’d been faster, been less afraid, more ruthless, he might have been able to save his father. He should have been able to save him.
That would always be true, no matter how many monsters he killed. This wasn’t about looking after family. Cormac should have done better, should have known better. Dad should still be alive. He’d know what to do.
Ben knew what to do.
Cormac lowered his rifle.
A heart-stopping moment later, the stranger lowered his. Cormac wouldn’t have blamed him if he’d shot them all. That would have been the safest, most ruthless thing to do. “Come on, Michael,” he said and backed away.
The wolf picked up the meat and trotted off. His brother followed him to the trees.
Ben got to his feet. His breaths wheezed a little, and Cormac remembered he’d mentioned asthma. Kid shouldn’t have come along. Cormac shouldn’t have let him. He should have helped him up off the ground. He thought about it too late.
Maybe he’d remember next time.
The wolf and the stranger disappeared into the trees, and Cormac’s heart clenched. He’d missed his shot. His father would be disappointed.
At first, Ben wondered how he was going to keep his cousin from shooting—push the rifle away, yell at him, chase off the wolf, anything. He’d start a fight with Cormac, he didn’t doubt that and didn’t doubt that he’d lose badly—and that would get Cormac in trouble all over again with his folks. Wolves were endangered, he knew that much about them. Shooting one would bring down a lot of grief on Cormac, which he didn’t need since his father died.
Then the stranger showed up, and he was the only one who’d walk away from this, Ben was sure.
Ben wondered at the story behind the pair: How did the brother get this way, and how long had they been doing this? How could someone be so devoted to a brother that he’d follow him into this?
How could Cormac be so devoted to his father that he’d follow him into this?
Ben had no doubt Cormac would let it happen. He only cared about killing the wolf, even if it meant they all died for it. Ben wondered if he could make a run for it. His lungs were already hurting. The stranger had hit the tree from farther off. He’d shoot Ben easy. No running away from that, even if his lungs could take it.
Cormac looked at him. His gaze was stony as ever, and the hard look didn’t seem right on a smooth-faced kid. Ben didn’t know if he stared back at a cold killer, or the cousin who shared his room. They couldn’t possibly be the same person. Cormac had to pick one or the other.
