Werewolf Academy Book 2: Hunted (33 page)

A form caught Alex’s eye. He turned in time to see a figure disappear down a side hall. His gut told him it was Drogan. Alex charged across the room.

“Alex, where are you going?” Jericho
shouted.

Alex dove through the door as a volley of bullets peppered it. He rolled up to his feet and continued running.

“Alex, go back!” Kalia said with distress in her voice. “What are you doing?”

“I’ve got to finish this,” Alex told her. He tore out his earpiece and threw it to the ground as he ran. The sound of footsteps in front of him propelled him faster. He turned a corner, then another, following Drogan’s scent as well as the sound of his retreat. Alex’s senses locked on the man who had caused him so much pain. He had promised to avenge his parents and brother; he would stop the threat to Cassie
and end the cause of fear in his life.

Alex charged down a flight of stairs and around a corner. The scent of
panic along with Drogan’s musky smell filled his nose. He ran into the dark room. The door slammed shut behind him. Alex dropped into a defensive crouched and turned, expecting to see Drogan standing at the door.

Instead, four men in thick vests and bearing defensive shields barred the way. They each held machine guns. The metallic scent of silver let Alex know that they contained bullets meant to kill werewolves.

Glancing around, he saw four more guards on each wall. That made sixteen guards with machine guns. He knew it was more than he could take down. Four thugs without armor had been hard enough. He didn’t stand a chance against heavily armed, trained soldiers.

They advanced toward him. Alex looked around for an escape around. The wall of shields pressed closer on every side, creating a cage. Panic welled in his throat. He wanted to attack them, but he wanted to return to Cassie and Kalia, to return home to the Academy. Attacking would definitely get him shot. Even if each man only shot him once, he knew he couldn’t survive sixteen silver bullets.
He spun in a circle looking for an escape.

“Alex Davies.”

Alex’s teeth bared of their own accord at the voice.

A sound of footsteps followed. The men with shields shifted on the right side, revealing Drogan. He looked slightly ruffled from his flight, but gave a predatory smile as he
studied his captive.

“Who would have thought you’d come
searching for your beloved Jaze?”

“They’re coming for you, Drogan,” Alex replied, forcing his voice to remain steady. The gun felt heavy in his hand. He lifted it slowly.

“Drop the weapon, Alex. We both know it won’t kill me.”

“It will if I shoot you in the head,” Alex replied.

The guards closest to Drogan shuffled their feet as if anxious to protect him, but he lifted a hand and they held their positions.

“Then my men will kill you and you’ll have lost everything anyway,” Drogan replied calmly.

“At least you’d be gone. The world will be a safer place,” Alex growled.

Drogan’s voice grew deadly. “Give me the gun, Alex.”

Alex shook his head. “Never.”

Drogan lifted a hand. Every gun in the room aimed directly at Alex’s head. “At my signal, your face will no longer be in one piece. You sure you want your body to go home to your sister like that?”

Alex’s hand that held the gun shook. He didn’t want to give it up. It felt like the only lifeline he had. Yet there was no denying the cold attention of sixteen guns aimed with deadly accuracy at his head. He held his breath and opened his hand.

Drogan took the gun from him. “Good boy,” he said. He lifted the
weapon and fired it point blank at Alex’s chest.

Alex stumbled backward with the force of the blow. He fell against the shields behind him as the sleeping agent swept quickly through his veins.

Drogan was about to win. Alex couldn’t let that happen. He gritted his teeth and surged back to his feet. Drogan’s eyes widened. He pulled the trigger two more times. Each bullet slammed into Alex’s chest. Pain ricocheted through his ribs. He fell to the floor. The sleeping agent stole his ability to fight or think. He tried to force his mind to clear, but his eyes closed against his will.

“Werewolves,”
Alex heard Drogan mutter before his thoughts shut off to the world.

“He looks like Jet,” a voice said through the haze that filled Alex’s mind.

Another voice laughed. The sound sent ice rushing through Alex’s veins. “You know that’s impossible.”

“Yeah, but the resemblance is uncanny.”

Someone slapped Alex’s cheek. He jerked back more at the shock of it than the pain.

“Thought I may have killed you with all that sleeping juice,” Drogan drawled, giving Alex a humorless smile. “Thought you might get off lucky.”

Alex willed his gaze to focus on the man’s mismatched eyes. “Where am I?”

Drogan shrugged. “Safe. Or not, depending on how you look at it.”
His gaze narrowed. “I’d go with not.”

“
Why keep me alive?” Alex asked. His head pounded and his wrists burned where they were fastened behind his back. He had no doubts the metal coating the handcuffs was silver. He sat in a hard-backed chair that felt flimsy beneath him. A lone light hanging from the ceiling lit the small cement room. Three guards wearing the same armor Alex recognized from before stood near the door.

“Who said anything about keeping you alive?” Drogan replied.

The man’s fist slammed into Alex’s cheek. Pain flared through his cheekbone so intense that Alex had to blink back tears. He tried to focus on Drogan’s fist to see why it had hurt so badly. He had been punched many times during combat training, but nothing had felt like that.

Drogan grinned and flexed his fingers, revealing a set of brass knuckles coated in silver. “Smarts, doesn’t it?” He hit Alex again.

Alex’s head rocked back. His jaw slid to the left and he bit down, feeling his cheek slice open on the inside from his teeth. A different taste touched his tongue. A memory of a small square of metal in a plain gray box brushed his mind. He had gotten so used to the device he had forgotten it was there. He bit down on it hard. If he could stall Drogan, Jaze might find him in time.

“Why not kill Jaze?”
Alex asked, shaking his head to clear his vision. The second blow had opened his cheekbone. He could feel the blood dripping from the wound.

“Oh, I want
ed to,” Drogan replied. His eyes narrowed. “I can’t tell you how badly I wanted to. But there are others interested in your great leader’s hide.” He gave Alex a stare laced with steel. “But if they’re that slow getting to us next time, I’ll kill Jaze and the rest and tell my father they died in the firefight. Having them dead will make quieting this little rebellion that much easier.”

“This rebellion is
a lot stronger than you think,” Alex told him, picturing the wolves in Red’s warehouse.

“They’re cowards,” Drogan spat. “They’ve gone into hiding, fending for themselves and leaving the others to our mercy. If that’s your rebellion, you’ve got a lot of disappointment coming your way.”

“They’ll beat you,” Alex told him. “They’ll win in the end.”

“Like your brother, Jet?” Drogan’s mouth cracked into a cruel twisted grin. “Oh, wait. My mistake. He’s not your brother, is he?”

Alex followed Drogan’s gaze to a smaller man near the guards at the door.

“He’s not,” the man confirmed with a chuckle. “That would be impossible.”

Alex’s heart burned with indignation. “Jet is my brother,” he growled, trying to stand.

Drogan hit him in the chest so hard
Alex fell over backwards, landing painfully with his wrists locked behind the chair. Drogan put a foot on Alex’s chest and leered down at him. Alex’s ribs ached from being shot. The shells were still lodged in his chest. He could barely breathe.

“It’s about time someone told you the truth, boy.” Drogan’s eyes narrowed. “Your parents adopted you after you were given up by your birth mother. She apparently didn’t like the taint of your bloodlines, and neither do I.”

Alex spit out the blood that coated his mouth. He didn’t want to know what Drogan was talking about, but the man’s words ringed with truth. “What are you talking about?” he forced himself to ask.

Drogan’s eyes narrowed. “My father has issues with werewolves. What I didn’t know is that those issues also included him taking a female werewolf and using her any way that he liked before throwing her to the gutter to die.” He shook his head
and growled, “My father apparently forgot that werewolves don’t die so easily.”

Drogan picked up Alex and the chair in a fit of rage and threw him against the wall. Alex fell to the ground on his knees and face. He lay there struggling to breathe.

Drogan flipped him over. “That woman had twins.” His lips lifted in a snarl. “My baby half-brother and sister who turned out to be filthy werewolves like their tramp of a mother.” The man’s green and blue eyes glittered in the half-light. He pulled out a knife. Alex’s heart slowed when he recognized it as the same blade Drogan had used to slit his parents’ throats. Drogan leaned down.

“I’
m going to end your revolting lives so that my father doesn’t find out he gave life to such vile offspring. When you and Cassie are out of the way for good, we can blow up your precious Academy and I’ll know for certain that you’re dead.” The corners of his lips lifted at the thought. “I can’t think of a better way to get rid of several generations of cursed werewolves.”

Alex’s mind reeled. He couldn’t take in everything Drogan was saying. It didn’t make sense; yet the back of his mind argued that it did. He could hear the truth in the human’s foul words. His soul rebelled against them.

Drogan’s knife pressed against Alex’s throat. Alex could feel the burn of the silver-coated metal as the razor sharp blade touched his skin.

“I can think of a better way
to get rid of them,” Alex said, his voice tight.

The pressure against his throat lessened slightly. Drogan grinned down at him. “Feeling like some revenge
against your classmates?” the human asked. He glanced up at the man by the door. “What do you think, Jenkins. Should I slit his throat or listen to him?”

Alex lifted his head just enough to see the man lace his hands together as he thought.

“It couldn’t hurt to listen,” the man said. “Maybe his ideas are more creative than yours.”

Drogan leaned forward. “I’m
all ears,” he said.

Alex kept his voice carefully quiet. “I think you should go to the school.”

Drogan bent closer to hear him better.

Alex dropped his voice even quieter. “Go through the front doors, up the stairs to the left.” He spoke softer and Drogan crouched lower. “Go to the end of the hallway and open the window.” Alex felt the weight of the knife lessen as Drogan’s interest was
piqued. “Then jump out of it so the wolves can tear you from limb to limb when you end up broken on the ground,” he finished with a shout so loud Drogan jumped.

Alex jerked to the side and turned as soon as his knees hit the ground. The legs of the chair caught Drogan on the back of his legs and sent him tumbling to the
floor. Alex spun sideways, slamming his shoulder and the top of the chair into Drogan’s back before the guards could pull him off.

Drogan gave a shout of pain. Rough hands grabbed Alex and tore him away from the Extremist leader. He was thrown onto his back again. The clatter of the metal chair against the cement floor echoed through the room.

Drogan clambered heavily to his feet. He gripped the knife so tight his knuckles turned white. He limped back to tower over Alex.

“You think you’re funny?” Drogan demanded.

Before Alex could move, Drogan slammed the knife into his stomach.

A ringing sound filled Alex’s ears. The pain from the silver blade made his legs go numb. He could see Drogan shouting, but couldn’t make out the words. Drogan looked like a mad man. Spittle flew from his lips and landed on Alex’s cheek. Alex wished with one line of strangely coherent thought that he could wipe it away so he didn’t die with Drogan’s slobber on his
face.

Drogan’s eyes widened. He looked over Alex’s chair to the door beyond. Alex wished
through the hum that he could see who entered. Shots rang out. Drogan fell back clawing at his chest. Alex stared at the three pools of blood that began to flow down the Extremist leader’s shirt. Drogan’s eyes lock on Alex’s. His legs buckled and he hit the ground.

“Alex, are you alright?”

Alex blinked, focusing on Jaze’s concerned face. The werewolf motioned and Alex was lifted up to a sitting position. His handcuffs were unfastened.

Jaze touched the blood that coated Alex’s cheek. He ran his hands quickly over Alex’s sides and back. They paused at his chest.

“You were shot,” he said. Before Alex could reply, Jaze tore open Alex’s shirt. Jaze’s brow furrowed as his gaze shifted from the bullet holes to the knife wound in Alex’s stomach. Blood pooled down to Alex’s pants.

“
Lyra, Alex needs your help,” Jaze said, looking past him.