5
Savannah
I snatched the thick folder out and spread its contents on the floor. Dossiers and photographs of each member of Jaxson’s pack. What the hell?
My pulse throbbed in my temples as I seized two more folders. I didn’t recognize them, but one appeared to be full of information about a pack from Grand Rapids and the other a pack in Duluth. I fumbled with the key and opened the lower two drawers, both of which were filled with manila folders about packs spread across the east and west coasts.
Bile rose in my throat, and I sunk to my knees. Laurel was keeping tabs on what looked like all the packs in North America.
I didn’t know how long I sat there, shocked and numb, but a loud crash from upstairs jerked me back to reality.
Scrambling, I shuffled the papers back into their places and returned the folders to the drawers, careful to make sure each was in its proper spot before locking up and returning the key to Laurel’s desk.
I tiptoed to the door and peeked out. All was silent except for the muffled moan from a woman upstairs. And that did it. There wasn’t much more that I could handle for one day.
I gave the room one last look and—
Were those photo albums on the bookshelf?
Curiosity got the better of me, and I crept across the study and tugged out one of the oversized albums. Inside were old photos of Laurel and Pete and others I didn’t recognize. I grabbed the other one and flipped through the plastic pages, then stopped when I saw my dad smiling back at me.
A choked sob escaped my throat as I dragged my fingers over the fading photo of my dad holding a frisbee at the beach. He couldn’t have been more than eighteen.
There were more photos of him and Laurel and Pete on the next pages. And then of my mom.
Tears rolled down my face as I took in the happy faces of my parents. They were young and filled with so much love. One photo was of them canoeing, another of Dad with Mom slung over his shoulder.
I sat there for what felt like hours, memorizing every snapshot of their lives laid out before me. My grief mixed with the delight of seeing their faces again. When the fire had destroyed our home six years ago, we’d lost everything. Apart from the few photographs that my godmother had kept, these were the only surviving records of my parents.
I went through the photos again, settling on the one of them that included a man I didn’t recognize. He was older and handsome, and very well built. I slid the photo out of its sleeve and flipped it over. On the back was my mom’s handwriting:
Silas and me hiking with Dad at Crater Lake, 1992.
That man had to be my mother’s father, Russ. I’d never met him. I flipped the photo over and stared at the man with his arm slung around Mom. He had the same eyes as her, but his build was like—
I dropped the photo and froze. His build was like Jaxson’s, unnaturally large and ripped.
As if I could bury the truth, I shoved the picture back into its sleeve. But there was a folded-up piece of paper inside that I must have missed.
I tugged it out and opened it, immediately recognizing my dad’s chicken scratch handwriting. I smoothed out the creases as I tried to make sense of the words.
Lauri-
I’m sorry we had to go without saying goodbye. This was never how I wanted to leave things, but you know why we had to. Tell Father I love him and that I hope he’ll one day find it in his heart to forgive me. But Claire is my soulmate, and now that we’re expecting a child, I will always choose them first. He can never know, and you must tell no one. Thank you for your kindness, dear sister. Love you always.
- Silas
My hands were shaking, and the room suddenly felt constricting. Panic washed over me as I jammed the note and photograph back in the sleeve. I couldn’t breathe. I needed to get out.
The wound on my shoulder started to tingle, and I shoved the album back onto the shelf with my heart pounding.
“You dirty little half-breed snoop!”
I spun. An old man with a white goatee stood in the doorway. My lungs seized, and my mouth went dry.
I recognized his face. His picture was hanging on the office wall. Laurel’s father. My grandfather. Simon LaSalle.
Who’d been dead now, according to Casey, for around fifteen years.
The ghost’s face tightened with lines of hatred. “If my daughter found you in her office, if she knew what you really were, she’d skin you alive and spread you out at the foot of her bed like a rug.”
Horror seized me, and I barreled toward the door.
My grandfather tried to block my way, but the ethereal figure dissipated into smoke as I charged through, leaving the doorway empty. It left the cut from the Soul Knife burning like the flames of hell.
My vision shifted, and nausea rolled over me. Need to get out of here. Can’t breathe.
I staggered down the hallway in a daze and fumbled with the locks on the front door like my hands were encased in greasy mittens. I burst outside and stumbled down the front stairs before taking off across the lawn. Sobs tore from my throat, but I kept moving, knowing only that I needed to get away.
The ghost, my life, my past…
As if inhabiting another body, I heard a distant voice call my name, but it didn’t register with my grandfather’s words repeating over and over.
You dirty little half-breed snoop. She’d skin you alive.
I shuddered at the words I couldn’t bring myself to believe—that my mother had been a werewolf.
But you’ve known the truth all along, a voice inside me said. Not my wolf, my own voice.
“No!” I cried, clutching my head. My foot caught on a garden hose, and I fell to my knees in a yard two houses down.
How did I get here?