Page 67 of Cold Moon

“Look, I have no idea who the hell you are. Either of you. I’m not Emile, and I’m not going to sit here and let you keep insulting me for the crime of being a werewolf.” I turned to the other man, who in better lighting, was clearly a ginger guy in his twenties. Maybe thirties? He looked horrified, which I was hoping played in my favor. “I was in the hospital for tests, and your crazy gun-toting grandfather showed up and kidnapped me. Help?”

The old man snarled as effectively as any wolf, and he did that thing to the gun where it makes a clicking noise and everyone goes quiet. Sure enough, everyone went quiet. Yes, including me.

“Grandfather?” the redhead whispered. “I don’t know why you’re doing this, but shooting this boy isn’t the answer. He’s just a kid, and he’s scared. And frankly, so am I.”

“I told you to go home, Archer.”

“I can’t do that, Grandfather.”

So, I didn’t know this Archer guy. Or his murderous grandfather. But if I had to be in this situation, I was suddenly glad it was with Archer. Stand-up guy, Archer. Not gonna let his grandfather murder me. I was there for that kind of guy.

If I survived the next hour, I’d name my first kid Archer. Or, like, a cat, since I didn’t even know if I wanted kids. I had to swallow down the terrified giggle that tried to force its way up my throat at the thought. Murder grandpa didn’t seem the type to appreciate me finding levity in the situation.

“You can stay and help, then,” murder grandpa said, turning to glance at the guy. “But the mutt needs to die. Then everything can go back to normal.”

Archer’s mouth fell open, and he held up a scrunched handful of paper. His voice was soft and hurt when he spoke. “You already know. You know that there’s something in the products.”

The old man’s upper lip pulled away from his teeth in another wolfish snarl. “Of course Iknow,” he sneered. “Icreatedit. It was my masterpiece. I spent years on that formula. How many drugs are there than only affect the dogs? Just one. Just mine. And it’s going to wipe them off the face of the earth, just like they deserve.”

Archer stared at him in shocked horror, and the crumpled papers dropped from his lax hands to the floor. He gave a tiny shake of his head, a ghost of a motion, like he had to deny it, couldn’t stop himself, even if it was obvious that it was true.

Every word.

Sterlings.

These people were Sterlings.

But who was Emile, and why had the old man been talking about him like the abuser in a bad relationship?

Everything clicked into place with sudden clarity.

“No way,” I whispered. “No fucking way.”

Two heads snapped toward me, and well, I’d have felt better if it had been one. Or none, since if it had been one, it probably would have been murder grandpa.

“What?” he demanded, teeth still bared in a wolfish threat. I doubted he’d take too kindly to the comparison, so I didn’t point that out.

Really, I should have just shut up again. But I had to know. “Emile. You called me Emile, but my name is Skye. Was Emile another werewolf? Another omega wolf, maybe, one you abused?”

“Abused!” he roared, taking a step toward me, free hand clenched into a fist, like shooting me wasn’t enough. Like he had to hit me with his own hands. “I would have given you”—he paused, squeezing his eyes shut for a second before continuing—“I would have given him the world. But no. He needed another dog. Analpha. You mutts don’t belong in human society. We need to be free of you. All of you.”

He lifted the barrel of his gun again, pointing it at me.

“Grandfather—”

“Leave, Archer, unless you want to help me incinerate the body.”

The body. My body. Holy hell, he was talking about me like I was already dead. I’d fought back the Condition too long to give up so easily. I glanced to both sides. Maybe if I rolled off the bed. Maybe—

The pop of the gun going off was somehow louder and quieter than I had expected, but no pain followed.

No. Archer Sterling was the one who clutched himself in shock. Who had put himself between his grandfather’s gun and me. Who fell against the bed, with red spreading beneath his fingers, where he had his hand pressed to the center of his chest.

Sterling hissed in anger, but he didn’t reach for Archer. Didn’t rush to call an ambulance. No, he stalked out of the room, slamming the door behind him.

And then locking it.

Archer fell onto his back, struggling to breathe, gasping in irregular lungfuls of air. It might have been the shock or damage caused by the bullet, but that was when my training snapped to the forefront of my mind.

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