Condemned

46 | Jael

I feel the slow left turn from the trunk.

There's tape wrapped around my paws and legs. My muzzle looks taped shut, but it's not connected on the bottom, and I can pop out the lower part of my jaw if I have to.

I take a moment to practice staying stiff. Shilo even cut her own hand, smearing blood on my fur, to make my "death" look convincing. Brock beat me to within an inch of my life and I succumbed to my injuries on the way over. That's what we're going with. It seems entirely plausible to me. If these guys have even heard of Brock, they may take our word for it, and let us deal with the alleged disposal.

We've apparently reached the designated gas station at a remote spot outside of Elkins WV, a location I'm familiar with. I've lived here before and spent more than half of my life in the region. It's been a while, but last I knew, this gas station is surrounded by farmland and forest. The parking lot is expansive, it isn't well-lit, and it should be fairly deserted at this time of night.

Shilo drives over a bumpy patch, presumably sticking to the periphery, and puts the Integra in park. Both the driver and passenger doors open and shut. We're expecting one shifter from Narcia's pack, maybe two, and they must be here already.

This is supposed to be a business transaction between allies. Whether this relationship is a new development or something well-established, I'm not entirely sure and I can't decide if it makes a difference. It's hopefully strained at best either way, and the plan is, we'll never see any of them, ever again. If they decide to go to war with Ishmael over this, it won't be our problem.

In other words, this is it. All—me, Sam, Shilo, Blaise, Faolan, and some hidden place to call home—or nothing.

Shilo does the talking. I can make out some of the discussion, which, understandably, gets a little heated. Faolan has the tracker and a piece of tape, which is intended for the other car. Inside or outside, it doesn't matter. It just has to stick and remain undiscovered for the length of time it takes for them to drive back to their territory.

I expect Shilo to open the trunk for "proof," and she does. And I'm ready for it—stiff, still, and holding my breath.

"Are you sure he's dead? He doesn't look dead." I know that voice. It's Pavel, the alpha male of Narcia's choosing.

It's not supposed to work like that, but like any hypocrite, she's carved out a life for herself, enforcing the wolf rites that appeal to her and disregarding anything that puts her power into question. The position belongs to me since I'm technically still breathing. And sure, it's my obligation to my kind to keep challenging her until I'm either dead or the job is done. I owe it to anyone who might still be loyal to my bloodline. But I never considered it worth the bloodshed. I'd need a small army willing to fight to the death for me. And this wasn't something I ever asked for or wanted, even after a few years of my grandfather's grooming.

So, I ran and never looked back. And I'll do it again. I never felt all that guilty about any of it, not until this moment, when I'm forced to hear that prick cast his doubt on a plan that needs to work.

Someone checks my pulse at my throat. "I don't feel anything," Shilo says.

"I've already confirmed it. Twice," Faolan insists, his fingers replacing Shilo's. He also shakes my ribcage and puts an ear to my chest.

"Let me try." Pavel apparently pushes between them, and in doing so, jostles the whole car. "We have to be sure. And be that as it may, Narcia will want the body."

This wasn't part of the plan. Only the tracker is supposed to leave with them.

At this point, I've held my breath dangerously long. I try to sneak in some air while the car is still settling, but it must not be the right time.