Second Skin (Skinned) (2 page)

I glanced down at the earth. At the remains of a bloodstained shoe.

A human. I had attacked a human. My stomach recoiled.

“Help me…” I tried to scream, but my wolf had no words. Mom backed away, shaking her head.

I ran to her, never fast enough to reach her side. She slipped into the mist and vanished.

I was alone. Just me and the beast that had slipped over me like a second skin.

Friends don't let friends fly drunk

I woke on a strangled sob, teeth throbbing in my mouth. The coppery taste of blood lingered. I bolted upright. Pushing my comforter aside, I swung my legs from the warmth of the bed, willing my heart to resume its steady rhythm. I swiped a hand down my face. No use trying to go back to sleep; I’d be up now for hours. That nightmare wasn’t the worst of them—more like the appetizer.

The red glow from my alarm clock confirmed it was midnight. Witching hour. I snorted. Witches were the least of my worries. I padded to my bedroom window, bare feet chilled from the cold hardwood. Witches could control their abilities, weren’t hounded night after night with horrific visions of what might happen if they gave into their power.

Perhaps a midnight run would distract me. I shoved the curtains back to see my friend, Brit, in full dark sprite form, soaring past my second-story window. The whoosh of her wings loud even through the double-paned glass. My bleary eyes widened. What the…? I bit my lip, canines jabbing into sensitive flesh. I cried out, running my tongue over the sore spots. That hurt. A lot. No dream, this was real. Sad that I had to revert to the pain test to ensure I wasn’t still dreaming. Lately it had become difficult to tell, the product of far too many sleepless nights.

Outside Brit glided under branches and over powerlines as she flew through the night. Damn, she knew better than this. To risk being seen by one of Redgrave’s clueless townspeople, inviting the torches and angry mobs Wade had once joked about.

My heart skipped a beat. Wade. I couldn’t think about him. Not now.

I scooped my jeans from the floor, pulled them up and over my hips. Yanked a rust-colored hoodie over my head while my stomach rumbled in a desperate hunger sparked by the dream. The thrill of the hunt. Bloodlust bit at my veins even as bile collected at the back of my throat.

Yeah, witches were the least of my worries.

The cool night air ghosted my breath as I tore through the trees, dodging their heavy, snow-covered branches. I leapt over random tombstones like a pro whipping through a round of mini-golf. It sucked I’d become familiar enough with Crimson Cemetery’s terrain to charge forward on automatic. That I was doing so for the third night that week was just plain irksome.

The hair on the back of my neck trembled. Not a good sign. I inhaled sharply. The pungent scent of hungry, drooling werewolf drifted on the breeze. I was heading right into its path.

It seemed I was always running straight toward the stuff any normal person would be running from. But then, I wasn’t normal. Not really a person either if you wanted to get picky about the details. A low whoosh overhead drew my attention. Against the starry sky, I tracked the dark form that dipped and swooped over the graveyard like some ginormous half-baked prehistoric bat. The moonlight high above acted like a flashlight shining through paper, intensifying the subtle dragonfly-like veins and patterns of her wings. In her dark sprite form Brit retained her human stature of five-foot nothing, though her wingspan was slightly longer. She sliced through the trees, causing mini snowstorms to shower down on me with each impact.

My thighs worked harder as I bolted uphill, keen to take advantage of the higher ground. Brit was closer now. Reachable. Physically, at least.

She was hurting. No one doubted that. She wore her feelings like a shroud, blocking us out. She wouldn’t even talk about it to her boyfriend Matt. But going all clammy wasn’t the extent of the problem.

On a nightly basis, Brit drowned her sorrows in her mother’s liquor cabinet. She was out of control, self-destructing. I should know; self-loathing and I were best buds. I’d slid blades along my own flesh just to feel something, anything. To let my own inner demon free. So I got where Brit was coming from. Unfortunately, a lot of her pain came down to choices I’d been hesitant to make. “We don’t have to do this tonight,” I called as I sprang into

the air, swiping at the scale-covered legs hovering five feet above me. “Let’s just rent a tear-jerker and bawl our eyes out. We’ll both feel better.”

“Leave me ’lone!” Brit glared down at me, though her eyes were slightly unfocused. Her long black hair whipped around her, twitching like the tails of a hundred angry cats. “I’m just goin’ for a walk.”

Still running at top speed while Brit flew above me, I laughed at her interpretation of
walk
.

“I hate to shatter the illusion,” I said, “but this ain’t your average evening constitutional.” I leapt again, swatting at her feet. Once. Twice.

“Stop it!” Brit’s expression changed from rage to shock. “What are you doing?”

“Friends don’t let friends fly drunk,” I shouted. I gripped a hand around her calf and hung on for dear life. Brit plunged at the change in weight, then surged upward and banked hard, pinwheeling us in space.

I looked down. Bad idea.

My Aunt Sammi’s burnt chili supper crawled up my throat as I struggled not to black out.

We’d cleared the hill and now soared twenty feet over the graveyard. My stomach rolled. Werewolves, vampires, and other beasties I could handle. Heights? Not so much. My grip slackened, and my fingers slid down Brit’s leg. Terrified, my body flailing in the air, I grabbed at her ankle with both hands.

“Brit…” I screamed, my hands now sporting three-inch claws that dug ever-so-slightly into her flesh. I’d only managed a few limited shifts, never completely turning into a wolf, but for some reason claws were instinctive. Wolves weren’t meant to fly, and my wolven side knew it. “Take us in for a landing, or so help me, I’ll gut you right now.”

My best friend let out an eerie wail, a cross between an air raid siren and a prehistoric roar. I’d only heard her make that sound during these little freak-out episodes, and each time my sensitive ears almost bled.

A howl rang through the night in reply to Brit’s call. Fantastic. Now I’d have drunken-master Brit
and
a werewolf to deal with. Pressure built in my head from Brit’s high-pitched screech. I covered my ears with my hands. My efforts marginally blocked the piercing sound that echoed down from the sky and ricocheted off the trees.

I didn’t realize I’d let go of Brit until I struck the snow- covered earth with enough force to shatter a few bones—if I’d been human, that is. Being half wolven, I merely let out a pained groan, thankful I hadn’t landed on top of a tombstone.
That
might have been uncomfortable.

I rolled to my feet, and with a little shimmy of my hips, like a dog shaking out its fur, cleared snow from my shoulders and butt. I pulled off my hat and slapped it hard against my thigh to get rid of the white stuff caked into the rust-colored wool.

A sudden gust of wind at my back announced Brit’s presence. I spun to witness the crazy flapping of bat-like, iridescent wings as Brit’s stocky form plummeted to earth in a jumble of claws, arms, legs, and waist-length black hair. She crash-landed a few feet from me.

Tugging my hat back on, I heaved my way through knee- deep snow and hauled Brit upright.

“Aren’t you getting tired of this?” I shook her none too gently. “What the hell are you doing to yourself? Getting smashed and smashed-up in a graveyard isn’t going to bring Blake back. He’s not hanging around his tombstone waiting for you to appear,” I said, voicing the truth the rest of our hunting crew refused to acknowledge. Sometimes a person needed to hear the words. “He isn’t your brother anymore. He wouldn’t even recognize you.”

Brit glared, her pupils narrowed to vertical slits. She tottered on her feet like a newborn chick, wings outstretched for balance. She laughed as she stumbled, but it wasn’t a sound of amusement. “Sure he would. I bet I look a lot like Mom right now. Drunk and stupid, but minus the wings.” She stabilized and pressed her lips together. Her black-rimmed gaze focused over my shoulder, eyes narrowed with pain.

I recognized that look. I’d seen it in my reflection many times. It spoke of determination to see a thing through no matter how much it hurt. As if Brit had decided to jump from a speeding vehicle knowing she’d be carved to bits when she hit the concrete. I couldn’t let her keep punishing herself. Self-punishment was my gig, not hers. I was the key to saving Redgrave, our small, paranormally infested town. And, just maybe, I could save Brit’s brother, Blake, who had been turned into some freakish sprite/ werewolf hybrid against his will—if I could deal with the collateral damage.

I had a marginal possibility of snagging a drug that might reverse what had happened to Blake. The same drug my pharmaceutical-company-owning, paranormal-hunter father had concocted to keep my beast at bay. However, Brit had no concept of the things I’d have to do to get it. That my very soul would be a bargaining chip in a game I’d likely lose.

Was it too much to ask for a little time to adjust to the idea? A strange mixture of odors blanketed the night. I lifted my chin, inhaling deep. Dank earth. Blood. Werewolf. The same burned-rubber smell that came from Brit’s wings when she overused them.

Brit grasped my shoulders with her gnarled hands and wheeled me around. I stared in silence at the creature in front of us. Brit released me and came to stand by my side. My jaw dropped. I shot her a sideways glance and met her triumphant look.

“Wouldn’t recognize me, huh?” Brit said. “Wasn’t waiting for me?”

Blake crouched low in his morphed werewolf/ dark sprite form. His wings, three times the span of Brit’s and sporting dagger-like hooks at the ends, were arched high over his back, ready to strike. He dwarfed Brit, standing about six feet tall. Black scales covered his body, making his already muscular build appear encased in armor. His human features had warped into a wolf snout complete with a set of razor-deadly teeth. Saliva dripped from them with an eagerness that should have had me running. The intelligence in his very human green eyes held me in place. He stalked forward on legs more canine than man.

Whether he was going to take us both out, or just me, I wasn’t sure, but the shifting breeze brought another scent into the equation. We turned as two massive werewolves came thundering toward us from the trees.

Lovely.

Brit and Blake circled me, eyeing each other warily, while the werewolves drew ever closer.
This just figures.
Some kids have acne, lack social skills, seek refuge in the library, or lose themselves in sports. I end up between a couple of feuding dark sprites and two hulking, soulless beasts.

Rock. Hard place… Story of my life.

Okay, yes, Brit appeared to be as conflicted as I was—half human, family issues up the ying-yang—that’s why we got along so well. Brit’s life story had some similarities to mine. Her mom was a dark sprite who gave up her powers to marry a human. Brit’s dad was a Redgrave cop who appeared to be under the thrall of Logan, a master vampire and the town’s chief of police. But in our rock, paper, scissors/ who-has-the-worst-screwed-up-supernatural- life competition, I won every time.

Because Brit wasn’t the one who knew what had to be done to rid the town of Logan and his ilk. Forever. She also didn’t know who or what would factor in the casualties.

I did.

And it broke my heart.

The stench of carrion grew stronger, chasing away my self- absorption like Agent Orange seeking out guys in trenches, burning my nose, making me gag.
Ugh.
The only thing worse than the loping approach of two salivating werewolves was being downwind from them.

The beasts stalked closer. They skimmed the snow, not sinking into the white depths as any other natural animal of their bulk and weight would.

Part of me wanted to rip them apart—and another, quieter, sadder part forced me to look at the beasts with new eyes. Wolven eyes. These were beasts, paranormal creatures. What made me any different? A few more human-ish braincells? My soul? Did I really have one, or was it dying now that my wolven side had raised its head?