Greykin Mountain

| 17 | Guilt

⥐ ⋞ ☽ ⋟ ⥐

Jackson stared at what he'd done.

          Blood. So much blood.

          He didn't know the name of the slaughtered wolf in front of him, but he knew he was one of Damon's. Jackson recognized his beige fur. It was one of the Etas—the wolves who kept watch at night.

          And Jackson had killed him.

          He had torn at his throat, ripped open his body, and devoured his heart...just like he'd done to Daniel.

          Why?

          Why had this happened? Why couldn't he stop himself? Was it because he couldn't control his wolf? Would this keep happening? Why hadn't anyone stopped him—where were Tokala or Damon? Weren't they supposed to be watching him? Helping him?

          He dug his claws into the ground beneath the snow, his body trembling as his mind raced. What was he going to do now? Someone was going to find him—someone would see this...and if they didn't kill him, they'd chase him away and leave him to fend for himself. He was as good as dead.

          With a stifled exhale, he turned his head in the direction of the opening.

          Then, he looked down at the dead wolf.

          Back at the opening.

          Down at the wolf.

          They'd understand, wouldn't they? Would Damon? This wasn't his fault—he couldn't stop himself. If they had taught him how to control himself.... No, he shouldn't be mad at them. There'd been no time. But he was sure that would not excuse what he'd done.

          He had killed one of them—he was no better than a cadejo right now. And just like those zombies, the pack was going to tear him apart.

          He had to run. There was no other choice.

          Jackson got up...but instead of bolting deeper into the woods, he hesitated. He didn't want to run. Out there...he wouldn't make it alone. He wouldn't find Wilson or any of the other missing people he'd come in search of—he probably wouldn't even last a day.

          And...he couldn't leave Damon. Despite the sadness and anger that man made him feel, the idea of leaving and never seeing him anymore hurt more than watching him cuddle up with Aysel. Not only that but he'd been invited to join the pack; with them, he would be as safe as he could be out here. With them, he'd learn to control himself—he'd learn to make sure this didn't happen again.

          He looked down at the dead wolf. Someone was going to find him. Unless...he made it so no one would discover this.

          No. That was awful. That would make him no better than Eric and the people who worked for him. He didn't want to be like his stepfather.

          But what other choice did he have? He should hide the body...he had to clean the blood from his fur, and he needed to do it without letting his guilt consume him.

          Jackson stared into the opening, following the flowing river with his eyes. Once he located where it flowed out from the forest, he gripped the dead wolf's leg with his jaw and started dragging it through the snow. It was snowing, so his tracks would be covered by morning, and it was so cold that the wolf's body had frozen enough that it wouldn't leave a trail of blood.