11 - Close Call

Rowan

River is quiet as he studies the emerald trees shooting past in a blur; lost in thought or admiration or something caught in between. It is a beautiful view, I have to admit. Dense, lush forests loom on either side of the road and distant cliffs blot out the sky. A fog of exhaustion hangs over us both, even despite the cool, fresh air hissing through the window I've opened a little. The road weaves an asphalt ribbon before us, meandering its way towards Lakeside. We've left Lach, Kay and Matteo in Milo's care, this afternoon, after a full morning of traversing every inch of their land. Milo wants to gather the patrols in batches and organise training sessions for the others to observe, if only to welcome criticism and give his pack a better chance of fighting against these hunters.

River and I have escaped to check the town for any evidence of lurking hunters, and for a little bit of peace, quiet, and privacy. It's difficult, after all, to have a moment to ourselves in a house full of super-hearing werewolves and paper walls.

My fated sits poised in the passenger seat, his clothes deceptively casual— a dark jumper concealing a belt of weapons and a form of toned muscle.

"Any ideas on where these hunters could be staying?" I ask him, rolling down the window all the way and bracing my arm on the door. A swirl of scents invades the car; moss, dew, musk, ozone threatening rain. I take a deep breath and let it out as a sigh. In the back of my mind, my wolf stirs. It has been days now since I shifted properly and ran— not just to prove myself to a wary alpha. He longs to check out this new place, file away all the unfamiliar scents, and feel the wind in his fur.

"They'll be well-hidden, if they're any good," River tells me, settling into the topic like a moth to flame. "I guess they will stick to hidden places— old warehouses, motels, abandoned homes. Places where people don't ask questions."

"The outskirts, then," I muse. It would be rather difficult for hunters to hide in the busy town centre with too many witnesses to their macabre training sessions and the bloodstains on their clothes and the weapons on their belts.

"Exactly. That's where we used to go when we dealt with packs that were further away. It's easier to slip in and out, that way."

We, meaning him and the other Ferreus hunters, back when hunting werewolves was his life, his job, and his legacy.

He clears his throat and shifts uncomfortably, his gaze darting out the window, a hand instinctively messing with the throwing blades strapped to his belt. Whenever those hunters are brought up, he checks for threats and assures his weapons are in easy reach, as though the mere mention of the Ferreus hunters will summon them. I understand his wariness and his desire for security all too well, having witnessed first-hand the empty mercury gazes and the razor-edged fury of those hunters he once aligned with.

"So if we find them today—" I forge on in an attempt to shift his focus— "we can come back with backup and take them out here. Is that your plan?"

"We'll have the advantage of surprise, that way, instead of waiting for them to attack an already fragile pack," he decides, his wariness thawing. "They won't expect us to take the fight to them."

A little smile touches my lips as I cast my thoughts back to a month earlier, back when River was still wary of my alliance yet determined to take out the Duskland pack. Back then, he gave me his plans hesitantly, and now he confides in me. I'm glad of it.

Once we reach Lakeside, I park the car in a secluded street, and River and I head into town on the lookout for hunters.

There's a small police station nestled next to a library, but we both know it's pointless to check it out. Darius assured us last night that he does not have an alliance with anyone outside of his pack. In fact, it seems to be a miracle he has accepted my and River's help. Back in Crescent Valley, the police and townsfolk alike are aware of my kind and my claim over the land. Part of the agreement to living there is a vow to keep quiet, but the vast majority of the residents keep our secret due to the foundations of trust my parents laid down, which I have built upon. Darius' pack are secluded, without any allies, and he assured us before we left that the Lakeside residents — of the town, that is — are clueless and must above all else remain so. He says they're a liability. Then again, a tree can't grow if it doesn't secure its roots.

We wander down quiet streets in the suburbs of Lakeside, hands brushing, gazes scanning for anything that seems out of place. It's a quaint town with cobbled roads, ivy growing up streetlamps, cottages with well-tended gardens, high streets full of independent, charming stores, all bordered by the emerald woods. Nature walks proclaim scenic views of the lake from which the town was named. My wolf thumps his tail in the back of my head. He likes it here; though the smells are all wrong, it reminds him of home.

As shadows lengthen across the ground and as the sun sinks beneath the wooded cliffs choking the horizon, casting the sky in a burnt copper dotted with dark clouds, I convince River to take a little break from our hunter search. We find ourselves in a café nearing its closing time and manage to secure a few take-out sandwiches for dinner.

"They're good at hiding, I'll give them that," River decides as he follows me back out onto the street. There's a park opposite, where the forest has been allowed to sneak forwards, and it's here I lead River. After following a winding gravel path, I find a bench with a vantage point and settle down.

"As far as hunters go, they're not bad, then?" I taunt lightly as he takes a seat at my side and dives into his sandwich.

"I'll have to see them in action first," he says around a mouthful. "They might be good at hiding but shit at fighting."

"And exceptionally lucky, by the sound of it, to make as much progress as they have," I add, taking a generous bite. After walking all day — first in Darius' territory and now in Lakeside — I'm starving.

"That's what I don't get," he wonders aloud, a frown pinching his dark brows. "They have to be good to kill the beta and the alpha pair's daughter. Really fucking good. But if they were good, the whole pack would have fallen by now. Darius said there's been four attacks. Why would they keep retreating and returning? It's foolish. If they're trying to stir up panic, they're only giving the pack chance to build up a defence instead. Something's not adding up."

I hum, chewing thoughtfully.

Before I can think of an explanation, a sound catches my attention. It's faint, nearly concealed in the wave of car horns and distant laughter and the thump of live music a few streets over, but unmistakable. Clashes. The distinct sound of metal-on-metal.

I perk up, scanning the park like an alerted guard dog, trying to pinpoint the direction of the noise.

"What is it?" River asks in an undertone, anticipation a spark in his silver eyes.

"I can hear fighting," I tell him, already rising and following the vague sound. It may be a false trail, but it's the closest we've come to finding these elusive hunters all evening and I'm not about to let it slip away.

The distant sound leads us down alleys and across quiet streets, past heaving bars teeming with drunk crowds that spill out into the night, until at last we round a corner and find a dark warehouse nestled on the end of the street. It's dilapidated — clearly not in use for manufacturing or anything like it — and the windows are all covered, but I'm certain the sounds are coming from inside. They're more distinct, now. Clashes, gasps, orders, shuffling feet.

River strides past me, eager to hear what I'm picking up, and I'm not far behind him. We end up skulking down a dark alley separating the warehouse from another— which appears to be in a better state than the first. The alley is empty save for a few dumpsters at the far end and beer bottles scattered on the ground. Halfway down the building is a fire escape door, which is mercifully closed.

"They're training," River murmurs, wandering a little further down the alley. The sounds are unmistakable and, standing so close, I can make out sharp voices ordering people to shift their weight and watch their footing and strike low. I catch the hiss of a blade skittering along concrete, a curse, and a command to watch their grip. Hunters, I'm certain. There's a haze of silver on the air, stinging my nose and making my wolf snort in the back of my head.

It would be foolish to rush in there while they're armed and practising, so we falter in the alley to listen instead, trying to glean as much information as we can about them through sounds alone.

"Sounds like there's loads of them," I muse in an undertone. Voices talk over one another, forming a near-incomprehensible wave of noise and thuds and grunts and curses. It's a cacophony and I don't want to stay here any longer than necessary.

Just as I'm about to suggest a hasty retreat, I hear the familiar thwick of bolts cutting through the air, followed by dull thuds as they meet their marks. A hissing noise rises, and I hear a voice grumble, "I said aim for the target, not the fucking corner. That's the fifth sandbag you lot have ruined tonight. Toss it out."

"Riv—" I begin, catching at his arm and starting to back up. The mouth of the alley and the street beyond suddenly seem miles away.

The click of the fire escape opening is a gunshot in the quiet between us. They're coming and we're too far down the alley to duck out of sight. Fuck.

I act without thinking, crowding River against the wall with one hand nestled in his hair and the other grasping at his waist. He makes a stifled noise as I press my lips to his, but he soon relaxes into the gesture and kisses me back, matching my sudden passion with some sparks of his own.

Tugging on his waist to press him flush against me — and making him groan in the process — I deepen the kiss. All the while, I listen out closely for approaching footsteps and hope the show we're putting on is convincing enough.

We're not watching you. We're too busy to be suspicious. Go back in the warehouse. Leave us alone.

River grasps at my shirt and rolls his hips against mine, tugging a desperate noise from my throat as he settles into my pace. It's hot and close and desperate; hands grasping, hips grinding, lips caressing with fierce devotion. We're pressed so close, I feel him mess with the belt at his waist as he takes hold of a knife hilt— ready in case we're confronted. My wolf prowls on high alert, close if I need him.

A straggling group of tipsy women stumble their way past the alley, laughing giddily to one another, no doubt having spilled out of that bar further up the street. They must catch sight of us — in all fairness, we're not exactly hiding — because they erupt with encouraging whistles and cheer us on before letting the night swallow them.

I think of the empty bottles on the ground around us and hope it's enough to convince whoever has left the warehouse that we're merely drunk and making the most of a quiet alley.

Further in the shadows, I hear a lone voice mutter, "For fuck's sake."

There's a muffled thud as the hunter disposes of the remnants of that sandbag in the dumpster, and a moment later, I catch the click of the door closing once more.

River and I pull apart, breathless as we check the alley. Mercifully, it's empty.

"Sorry, I— I should've given a bit of a warning," I manage. "I didn't know what else to do."

"Don't apologise," he scolds, a touch of strain to his voice as he takes ragged breaths. He hasn't let go of my shirt, and we're still pressed together. His eyes are a little bleary with satiation as he checks the alley for witnesses and threats. It's not long at all before his gaze meets mine once more, as though a magnet pulls his attention.

He shifts a little and the breath catches in my throat as pleasure, hot as a spark of lightning, burns through me. In symphony, a strangled whine escapes him.

"We should go," I force out, holding back a desperate urge to close the distance between us and kiss him and roll my hips against his. I don't want any more hunters to get curious.

"Yeah," he agrees, clearing his throat and blinking as though just emerging from a dense fog. He lets go of my shirt. "We should."

Our retreat from Lakeside is swift. We find Matteo's car where we left it and River takes the driver's seat. Though we're both quiet, the drive back is charged. Lust lurks between us with its brows raised, a sultry smirk on its lips. Go on, it says. Try and ignore me.

I clear my throat and adjust myself in my seat, just about catching the way River's eyes flick over to regard me. He's subtle with his attention, but I feel it like a hot brand against my skin.

Though the drive into town seemed to take an age, the drive back to the pack's borders is over in a flash and, in no time at all, River is parking the car off the side of the dirt trail, concealing it from prying eyes behind underbrush and ferns and shadows. Something dark streaks through the woods on our left — a wolf out on patrol, I'm guessing — and becomes one with the shadows.

River shuts off the engine, pops off his belt, opens the door, and slips out into the night all in one smooth, graceful movement. "I want to head back there tonight. Catch them off-guard," he says as I join him, locking the car and striding down the trail towards the pack house. It's dark, but it doesn't surprise me that he has remembered the way. His sense of direction could rival my wolf's sense of smell.

"Yeah, of course," I assent, grateful he doesn't seem eager to tackle these hunters on his own.

As a cool breeze stirs around us, tugging relentlessly at our clothes and making the woodland quiver around us, a maelstrom of scents swirl along with it. Musk, moss, dew— and, lurking beneath it, I catch a whiff of something that has me faltering. Blood.

My wolf growls in the back of my head, his hackles raising.

"Riv, wait a second," I call, scanning the dark, swaying trees all around. There's no crickets buzzing, no owls hooting— nothing but the hiss and whisper of rustling leaves above us. "Can you smell that?"

My fated — who had wandered ahead — comes back to my side, his eyes narrowing a little as he runs his perceptive gaze across the forest. "Smell what?"

"Blood," I say, leaving the path to follow its metallic, heady trail.

"Where's the patrol?" River asks, his words like a bucket of icy water dumped down my back. He's right. When we first arrived, we were swarmed with wolves— now we seem to be entirely on our own. Paranoia skitters along my nerves on many tiny legs.

River sticks close to me, swiping two throwing blades from his belt, as I follow the trail. I falter at a bush covered in droplets of blood. As I swipe it aside, my gaze lands on a slump figure huddled at the base of a tree, and all the breath rushes out of me.

It's a wolf splayed on the ground, utterly torn to pieces, and most definitely dead.