Page 83 of The Pawn

Feet around me. Fear surges within me; I have no idea why this is happening or what will happen next. Curling inward, I try to protect my soft middle, certain I'm about to be beaten, kicked, maybe even hospitalized or killed.

There's a thud. Something cold and wet drops on top of me. I shudder, disgusted, still waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Hands reach down and grab the bag on my head, jerking it off. I open my eyes in the darkness and look up into four faces, all covered in masks, all girls. One of them holds a giant piece of raw meat out in front of her and drops it on me. A smirk plays on what's visible of her mouth.

"Good luck," she says, in a voice pitched low so I can't identify her.

Then the girls leave without even touching me. I listen as their feet disappear, followed by the sound of a gate closing.

At first it doesn't make any sense.

But as I sit up, wrists tied behind me, my eyes adjust to the darkness and I realize with a jolt of horror what's going on.

I've been dumped inside the wolf enclosure, gagged and tied, covered in raw meat and left all alone.

A lamb for the slaughter.

But it's not my only worry. I can't stop thinking about the tattoo I saw on Ferdinand Von Hassell's ankle. Itwasjust exactly like Lukas's tattoo—except, I now realize, it was on the other foot. The left instead of the right.

I watched the video Mariana sent me over and over again, but I didn't realize until just now that I'd paid so much attention to the tattoo that I forgot to double check that it was the right ankle.

Ferdinand Von Hassell is tall, lean, and blond, just like Lukas DuPont. Unlike Lukas, he's got a history of violence—I've seen it for myself—and seems like just exactly the kind of boy to drop a drug in a girl's drink and rape her.

My head whirls at the sound of a wolf howling in the distance. I shiver. Tamed or not, all wolves have teeth, and I have no idea when they were last fed.

I have to get out of here, and not just because of the danger. Right now a post is set to publish to Legacies that aims the finger at the wrong boy. If I don't get to my computer in time to stop it, Lukas DuPont will be falsely accused—just like my brother.

Twisting around, I try to free my wrists from their bonds, but it's impossible with the knot behind my back. So, with a great deal of strain and a lot of effort, I pull them underneath me and scoot my arms forward. It takes all of me to stretch far enough to pull my wrists out in front of my body. By the time I do, my eyes are mostly adjusted to the darkness, and I can see that they tied a simple double knot on the length of cord keeping me bound.

Meanwhile, the howls are getting closer. My heart slams in my chest; despite myself, despite everything. I'm scared shitless. With my arms in front, I manage to scoop up the raw meat and throw it a distance away from me. Then I push up onto my feet and start walking—only to stumble, head pounding, balance off-kilter.

Forms move, barely visible to my night-adjusted eyes.

The wolves are here.

Their eyes reflect moonlight, glowing in the darkness. Every step they take is that of a predator. Dark as it is, human and vulnerable as I am, I can't tell what expression is on their faces: curiosity, hunger, or the intent to kill.

Reaching my bound hands up, I yank the gag out of my mouth, dropping what turns out to be a rag wrapped around dirty socks. Disgusting.

In a low, soothing voice I mutter, "Nice puppies." I back up, eyes flicking to the meat on the ground, then back to the wolves. "Please don't eviscerate me."

I'm not sure they understand, but they don't make any further moves towards me. Gathering my wits, I walk slowly—and carefully—in the direction of the gate, going as slow as possible, careful not to make a peep. The gate, at least, has a few low lights set into it, as well as a sign that screams KEEP OUT. Hands shaking, eyes on the wolves behind me, I scrape my fingernails at the knot binding my wrists until I feel it loosen. As soon as I can flip a finger inside, I undo the whole thing and grab onto the latch of the gate.

It doesn't move.

My heart plummets when I spot the reason why: a lock on the other side of the gate, newly added, one meant to keep people in here—not wolves.

Those vicious girls were thorough. There's no way Georgia planned this on her own; she doesn't have the wit or skills. Searching through the list of other possibilities, I admit to myself that anyone could've helped her. Other than Piper, she has plenty of friends, many who I don't even know by name. Veronica and Heather certainly hate me plenty enough, just from that one encounter in the bathroom.

I've been so busy focusing my sights on the boys of Coleridge that I forgot to watch my back for the vicious, clever girls. There's nothing more dangerous in this world than a girl with a grudge.

Except maybe a fully grown wolf with an empty stomach.

I hear footsteps behind me. Feel the air around me stir with a new presence. And though it's cold here in Connecticut, early winter starting, a bead of sweat rolls down my spine and nestles in my lower back.

Heart in my throat, I very carefully turn just my head back to look behind me, eyes fixed on a shape in the dark. Wally was right, I reflect—they're bigger than you expect.

This close, I can see that the wolf has dark grey fur. The visitor's center names them all, but the only thing I can remember is that the one with dark fur is the mother of the two white wolves and sister of the black one. A bleak thought occurs to me: a mother wolf probably fiercely protects her cubs, just like a mother bear, even after said cubs are fully grown.

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