Page 121 of Claimed

Linc moves closer and his nostrils are flaring as he looks at the soup cooking on a propane stove. I peer into the pots and see it’s broth with some beans and rice in it. But there’s a cloyingly sweet smell in the space, too.

“What the fuck is in this shit?” Linc begins rifling through shelves sniffing bags and containers of dry goods and grabs a paper bag and turns to me, holding it out. “This.”

Me and Linc peer in. It looks like loose spices. There’s a tablespoon sitting in the bag and it smells mossy but also sweet.

Linc looks to Larry. “You’re puttingthisin the soup?” He gestures to the big pot, then looks to the smaller pot and his nostrils flare.

The guy is sweating profusely. He’s also pissing his filthy pants.

“My alpha’s orders. Thu-there are fuh-folks that get that soup and some thu-that guh-get thu-that soup. Sick ones get that one. It’s mah-medicine.”

I get in the guy’s face and back him up, tilting my head to glare straight into his eyes. This fucker knows that’s not medicine; I’m sure of it.

I step away from the puddle of piss at his feet.

“Where is everyone who’s here?” I demand.

He’s looking off to the side, showing me his neck. “Got some sick folks in bed. Others are looking after the sick ones mostly. Sittin’ around. D-doing some chores. Some of the pack is gone on a mission with our alpha. Some are off on a… another mission.”

“What medicine is this?” Linc demands.

“Don’t know. Just following orders,” the fucker lies.

“What do the tripwires do?” I demand.

He shrugs. “I’m just the cook.”

“Who’s in charge?” Linc clips.

“We’re just waiting on our alpha to come back from his mission.”

“Take us, show us where your people are,” I command and the guy shuffles along, us following.

I eyeball Luke and he looks ticked, also like he’s found some bravery, likely because we’re all at his back.

“Stop,” I tell Larry and open the door to another building. Six sets of triple bunks with thin mattresses on them. It looks like a prison-style barracks. I smell old blood, body odor, piss, and musty mattresses. The place also has the faint odor of Wyatt Meadows, though I can tell it’s been days or longer since he’s been here.

I move along while Mitch steps inside with his phone, being thorough with his filming.

We move past a dumping area with a rotting wolf smell coming from a faintly smoking burn pile. I’m smelling charred flesh.

“What’s been burnt there?” I ask.

“Dunno,” Larry shrugs, ambling along toward a large, newer looking modular home, but he’s not climbing the back steps, he’s walking past it.

I grab him by the scruff and glare into his eyes. I want fucking answers, damn it.

“What got burnt back there?”

Heat pools behind my eyes.

“Th-the dead,” he says, terrified, “We burn our dead.”

“What dead?”

“Any that die.”

“Why are they dyin’? At least two of your dead have been burnt back there in the past twenty-four hours.”

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