Hemlock 03: Willowgrove (7 page)

I grabbed Serena’s arm, trying to pull her to the front of the house.

“I’m not leaving him!”

“We have to!” I dug my fingers into her arm as hard as I could, forcing her to look at me. “They’re after you, not him. If we run, they’ll follow. It’ll give Trey a chance to get away.” I had no idea if that was true, but Trey would never forgive me if I let anything happen to Serena.
I
would never forgive me.

“Serena, please!” I pleaded. “He’ll be safer if he doesn’t have to protect us!”

She shook off my grip. For a second, I thought she was going to fight me, but then two men rounded the back corner of the house and raised the alarm.

With an anguished glance at the window, Serena grabbed my hand and broke into a run.

We reached the front yard. Serena’s car was blocked in the driveway. By unspoken agreement, we veered left, fleeing on foot and heading deeper into the Meadows.

If we could lose them among the ramshackle buildings
and vacant lots, we might stand a chance.

The sky had started to clear and the snow was rapidly melting. I slipped and slid on the slush-covered ground as we sprinted across lawns and darted around houses. More than once, Serena kept me from falling. She had lost her werewolf strength but was still more graceful than a reg.

My lungs burned and my muscles ached, but I pushed myself to go faster as shouts sounded in the distance. I concentrated so hard on putting one foot in front of the other that when I finally looked up, I had lost my bearings.

We were still in the Meadows, but I wasn’t sure where—not until we ran across an expanse of broken pavement that was wet with melted snow and ducked into an alley created by two hulking shipping containers. Not until we came face-to-face with a dead end.

T
HE WOODEN FENCE TOWERED ABOVE US AND STRETCHED
for blocks in both directions. Something in me sagged in relief as I stumbled to a stop and wiped the sweat from my eyes.

Serena let out a low, frustrated cry and turned to retrace our steps, but I grabbed her arm.

“Wait,” I gasped. Forcing my shaking legs back into action, I jogged to the fence and squeezed into the gap behind the storage container on the left. I scanned each board. It was here; it had to be.

“Mac . . .” Serena peered around the edge of the container.

I finally found what I was looking for: a small carving of a skull in one of the planks. I jumped as high as I could and slapped the top of the board. Both it and the plank next to it popped out, revealing piles of scrap metal on the other side.

We had reached the junkyard on the edge of the Meadows—a place Amy and I used to go on dares. The secret entrance had been used by generations of students
and was probably as old as the fence itself. Amy’s brother had told us about it one lazy summer afternoon, and we had spent all of the following day searching for it.

I glanced back at Serena. Judging by the surprise on her face, the junkyard was one Hemlock experience she had managed to miss.

“Go!” I said, stepping aside so she could slip through.

The shouting came again—closer, this time—as I squeezed through after her and pulled the boards back into place.

I hauled in a deep breath as my heart hammered in my chest. After a moment, voices drifted over the fence, but I couldn’t make out what they were saying.

“They’re checking the nearby buildings,” whispered Serena.

“Good.” The word came out a relieved sigh as I glanced around. We were in a lane between a wall of scrap metal and the fence. Melting snow dripped off stacks of cars, filling the air with the sound of a hundred leaky faucets.

“We can’t stay here,” I said, straightening. Staying near the fence was practically asking to get caught.

Serena hesitated, then nodded. Together, we made our way deeper into the maze of precariously stacked scrap. The place became more of a mess the farther we went. Walls of cars were piled four and five high, and mounds of hubcaps reflected the light as the sun slipped out from behind a cloud.

Serena pulled her sweater tightly around herself and shivered.

A chill began creeping through my own bones—a contrast to the ache that was spreading through my muscles like wildfire—as the adrenaline started to wear off. My jacket was back at Serena’s.

When we were far enough from the fence that conversation no longer felt like a risk, Serena stopped. “What now?”

It was a good question. The man who owned the junkyard—a crotchety old guy with a beer belly that looked as hard as his head—kept the gate locked unless someone was dropping off scrap or looking for parts.

Two years ago, he had been up on charges for taking a shot at a group of teens he’d found prowling among the old cars. God only knew what he’d do if he caught us trying to sneak past him.

I reached for my phone before remembering that it, like my jacket, was back at Serena’s.

“I don’t suppose you have your cell?”

Serena shook her head. “I bailed on my bio class yesterday and forgot to grab it out of my locker.”

Okay: think.
We couldn’t call Kyle or Jason. Even if we had a phone, the chance of them being able to help without putting themselves at risk was slim to none. As it was, I was praying neither of them showed up at Serena’s until the last of those men had left.

Trey was the one we really needed to get a hold of. We had to find out if he was okay and we needed to let him know that we were safe—at least for now.

Unfortunately, I had no idea how to do that.

“I think,” I said slowly, each word falling like defeat, “we
should find someplace to hole up for a few hours. An old car or van, maybe. We can’t go back the way we came in, and even if the front gate isn’t locked—which it probably is—we can’t go back into the Meadows. Not yet, anyway.”

Serena stared at me incredulously. “You want to hide?”

I nodded.

“And Trey?” A hint of her pre-Thornhill stubbornness flashed across her face. “Anything could happen to him—could be happening to him right now—while we’re hiding in here.”

“Going out there won’t help him. For all we know, he’s lying low and we’d only draw him out.”

“And if they grabbed him because he made sure you and I got out of the house when he could have been saving himself?” countered Serena.

She glared at me, waiting for an answer.

I didn’t have one. I cared about Trey—I really did—but I cared about Serena more, and she was safer in here than back out in the Meadows.

“If it was Jason or Kyle, you wouldn’t just hide in here.”

I opened my mouth, but she cut me off. “You want to stay, then stay, but I’m going to look for my brother.” She stepped around me and started walking back the way we had come, head high and shoulders stiff.

I stared after her for a long moment and then broke into a jog.

“Serena! Wait!
Please
. . .” I followed her around a corner and almost steamrolled her when she came to a sudden stop.

“Why me?” she demanded, turning. Her eyes shone with tears that didn’t fall. “Lots of wolves were at the camp. Why did they have to come looking for me?” I reached for her arm and she jerked back. “I’m nothing. I’m nothing, and for all I know Trey is hurt or caught or worse all because the LSRB came looking for me.”

I swallowed. “You were part of Willowgrove.” Serena flinched at the name of the sanatorium the camp had been constructed on, the name Sinclair had chosen for her pet project. I rushed on. “What if the explosion at the transition house wasn’t an accident? What if someone targeted Sinclair to keep the truth about the camp from getting out?” I hesitated and then, as gently as I could, added, “If someone wanted to keep Willowgrove secret—wanted to keep it secret so badly that they’d destroy an entire transition house—then going after the wolves from the detention block might be next on their list.”

“But I don’t remember anything!” The tears spilled over as Serena shook her head.

“I know that,” I said softly, “but they don’t. And I don’t think those men were from the LSRB.”

Serena stared at me blankly. “Who else would they be?”

“I don’t know,” I admitted, “but Sinclair was keeping the wolves from the detention block off the LSRB’s records.” I pulled out the business card the man had given me on the porch and handed it to Serena. “Just a phone number. No logo. Nothing official. I don’t think he was LSRB.”

I had no idea who those men were or how they had found Serena, but I had to talk to my father. Two of the wolves
from the detention block were with his pack. Someone had to warn them.

Serena crumpled the business card and then wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. She pulled in a shaky breath and opened her mouth to speak, but was cut off by a deep, male voice.

“I’m telling you: I heard something. They’re definitely in here.”

The gravel bass sounded like it was right on the other side of the wall of scrap on our left.

Serena grabbed my arm and pulled me back. Back around the corner. Back down the lane. We hung turns so sharply that my feet slid in the mud.

A black-clad figure rose up before us as we rounded another corner.

I stumbled, trying to stop my momentum as Serena let go of my arm.

The man reached for a holster at his waist, and a low, animalistic sound erupted from Serena’s throat.

She launched herself forward. In the space between one breath and the next, she thrust her hand—a hand that was no longer human—toward the man’s stomach.

It happened so fast that I didn’t realize what she was doing—not until her claws pierced fabric and tore through flesh.

The man tried to scream. No sound came out.

I didn’t want to move forward, but I had no choice: like gravity, the scene before me pulled me in. My eyes struggled
to make sense of what I was seeing as I raised my hands to my mouth to stifle my own cry.

The muscles in Serena’s forearm writhed under her skin, sending ripples through thick, black fur. Everything from the elbow up was human. Everything from the elbow down was . . . not. Her arm disappeared at the wrist. It was like it had been cut off.

No
, I thought, gut churning as I fought the almost overwhelming urge to throw up.
Not cut off, buried.
Serena’s hand was buried in the man’s body.

I turned away, horrified, as she withdrew her hand. The sound the man made as he crumpled to the ground dragged my gaze back.

Serena stood over him, shoulders heaving. “I won’t go back.”

She glanced at me, her eyes more animal than human as her bones snapped and knit back together. Her entire hand transformed from the inside out, but somehow, a red stain remained on her skin. “I won’t go back!” she repeated, her voice breaking over the words.

My hands were still pressed to my mouth. I lowered them as I slowly walked forward. Serena turned away as I crouched next to the man.

I couldn’t bring myself to touch his skin and search for a pulse.

Instead, I stared at his chest, waiting for it to rise and fall. It didn’t.

Black spots danced at the edge of my vision as I pushed
myself back to my feet.
It’s not the first time you’ve seen a werewolf use their claws as a weapon,
I told myself.
She didn’t have a choice.

Serena took a step and stumbled.

Shoving my revulsion aside, I ran forward and caught her weight as her knees buckled. This morning, back in her room, the effort to shift had exhausted her; this time it had drained her batteries dry.

Shouts rang out nearby. They echoed off the walls of scrap, making it sound like the voices were coming at us from all sides.

“Can you walk?” I asked. “We have to move.”

Serena nodded. Leaning on me, she managed to put one foot in front of the other. By the time we reached the end of the lane, she was able to support her own weight.

We turned the corner and my heart plummeted as the fence rose up before us. It was a dead end—one without a secret entrance.

The shouts were getting unmistakably closer. There was no time to double back.

I swallowed. “Can you fight?”

“I don’t know,” admitted Serena. She flexed her bloodstained hand. Pain flashed across her face, but nothing else happened.

“Right. Plan B.”

A rusting Chevy straddled the end of the lane. I headed for it, Serena on my heels.

“What’s plan B?”

“We hide.” I ducked behind the car. Small shards of glass
cut through my jeans and dug into my skin as I knelt in the sludge. I bit down on my lip, hard, to keep from crying out as Serena crouched beside me.

“They went this way.” I recognized the softly accented voice of the man from the porch.

Footsteps churned the slush.

“You might as well come out,” he said. “Otherwise, we’ll just go in and get you.”

For a long moment, the only sounds were the melting snow, the creak of metal, and the pounding in my chest.

I glanced at Serena. I couldn’t let them hurt her. No matter what, I had to at least try to stop them.

Stay here
, I mouthed. Then, before she could argue, I climbed to my feet.

The man from the porch stood seven yards away. His eyes were the color of scotch on the rocks—brown, but cold—and he held himself like someone who was used to fighting. It was in the subtle shift in his stance as I stepped around the car, in the way he curled the fingers on his right hand into a half fist.

“Tell the girl to come out.”

“We split up.” My eyes darted to the wall of muscle at his back: four men whose barrel chests and tree-trunk necks practically blocked the view behind them. “She’s probably halfway across town by now.”

“You’re lying.”

I could hear an engine in the distance. Probably a car they could force us into—assuming they didn’t just kill us on the spot.

A wave of hopelessness and fear crashed over me, but I refused to let it suck me under. I reached for a nearby piece of metal and hefted the chunk of scrap like a baseball bat. They would get to Serena—there was no way I could stop them—but I would inflict as much pain as I could before they eliminated me.

One of the men glanced over his shoulder. “Donovan . . .”