Page 14 of Cursed: Ride or Die
After several long hours, the men carried two boxes to their truck, got in, and roared down the dirt road away from the cabin.
Noah sidled up to the house, nosing open the broken door. What a mess! The humans hadn’t merely been searching for something; they’d set out to destroy everything in reach. Between the two of them, Paul and Noah hadn’t owned much of value.
Fuck. The guns. They’d taken guns. And ammo.
Still in wolf form, Noah slowly padded a few miles north, past the crumbling ruins of a burned-out house, through the overgrown back yard, and into the barn. A few good sniffs proved no human presence in quite some time.
Noah found a sheltered spot to sleep. He’d hear intruders with wolf ears long before human ones.
Sunlight streamed through the barn door, waking Noah. He padded outside, his injuries stiffening his gait.
He’d not been to this deserted farm in a while. His keen senses announced water nearby. To his left, dry grass rustled. A rabbit. Paul taught him to hunt here years ago.
Paul. Gone, never to run, chase, or hunt together again, leaving Noah truly alone.
He pushed through head-high brush, worked his way to a small pond, and lapped at the cool water. Peaceful calm. On the outside. Inside, a violent storm raged.
Humans. First his parents, now Paul. Hatred burbled in Noah’s heart. He’d love to bring the hunters back and kill them all over again. And he’d had to stand by and let the last two get away.
Damn it!
Many times, Paul warned him about having to leave one day.The life of a wolf is never easy.Once more, humans took from Noah: this time, his home.
Though not at his best, Noah managed to catch two rabbits. He could practically feel the energy flowing through his body after his meal.
Back at the barn, he lay on rotting hay, summoning enough energy to call forth his human self. In the end, he sat up, the air chilly against suddenly bare skin. A red line ran along his side. Blue and purple showed where he’d been kicked.
Probing the healing knife wound with a finger brought a wince. No blood, though.
He crawled through the trap door hidden beneath hay where Paul used to stash drugs brought over the border.
Leaving hurt. On the slim chance Paul lived, how would he find Noah? Then again, Paul created this contingency plan. A couple of sealed plastic bags provided a few changes of clothes, along with a backpack to carry them.
Noah sorted through shirts and jeans: one stack for Paul’s, another for his. Each piece of clothing dropped onto Paul’s pile ripped another chunk out of Noah’s heart. Dark shirt, dark shirt, dark shirt, blue jeans, blue jeans, blue jeans. The same as Paul used to keep in the trunk at the cabin. Paul’s things, Noah returned to the plastic bags; his, he stuffed into the backpack, leaving out a pair of jeans and a long-sleeved shirt.
He dove into the clothing, sighing in relief when jeans, shirt, shoes, and socks chased away the cold. Apparently, boxers hadn’t made the contingency plan list. No matter. He’d remember next time.
Last night’s shirt lay in stained tatters at the lake. The new shirt he’d worn to impress Emmett. A gift from Paul. Trust a human? Never again.
He’d left his favorite jacket in Emmett’s truck—along with his billfold tucked into the pocket. The Paul-sized parka in the hidey-hole would have to do. Better too big than too little.
Fur offered comfort without clothes. Not so much in skin. Cash, instructions, keys to various safety deposit boxes, new IDs. Paul planned for emergencies as a man who’d spent his whole life on the run from a faceless enemy. Then, last night, Noah saw their faces.
Dressed and in human form, he trudged back to the cabin, stopping every so often to sniff the breeze, listen, and ensure no one lay in wait. Noah had called this cabin home from the day Paul found him in the woods. Fifteen years. A good run in one place, according to Paul, who’d sometimes found himself on the move every couple of years in the past.
Noah entered through the back door, the tomblike atmosphere keeping him quiet where he once laughed freely.
The kitchen cabinet doors stood open, every plate, cup, glass, or bowl smashed on the floor. Paul’s favorite coffee mug lay in pieces, as did the cereal bowl with painted tigers Noah loved as a kid. Egg goo slid down the counters, and Paul’s smashed spice rack fragranced the air.
This wasn’t someone searching for something, but an act of pure hate. What had Paul and Noah ever done to make someone hate them so badly? Yeah, Noah agreed to date another man…
Joe at the lake called Noah a werewolf. Joe’s brother caused this destruction, even without seeming to know of Joe’s death.
They thought Noah belonged to a pack. He’d taken out four humans in less than thirty minutes. Five, if he counted the man who’d apparently died of a heart attack. How did the puny beings hope to stand against a pack?
He’d hunt them all and kill them.
No.Think with your human brain, not with the instincts of your inner predator!
