11 - Rude Awakening

With Rowan's shadowy figure still leaning casually against a tree trunk in the woods across the street, I know I can't stay here.

I slam the car door shut behind me and glare at him through the windshield, hoping he'll get the message and back off.

No such luck. He stays there; arms crossed, posture relaxed, idly surveying. Mocking me.

Fine. Fine. I don't want to stay here anyway.

I start the engine and drive off, leaving him in the rear-view mirror. It seems Beau must have cleared the fight with the police, because there's no one around the alley. Money is still an issue and the motel isn't safe now Laura knows about it— so it looks like I'll be bunking in the car once more.

So I drive and I drive, gazing out at the quiet, dark streets as I search for a place to park up. The car sputters along, groaning and whining and begging for attention. Something's wrong with it, but I'm about as knowledgeable with cars as I am working with werewolves— which is, to say, not very knowledgeable at all. My investigation so far has been a complete disaster. Instead of finding answers, I've gotten into a fight with werewolves, aligned myself with their rivals, and given myself even more unanswered questions to rifle through.

I know nothing about their rules— except that Rowan seems like the sort to take in strays even despite the war on his doorstep. Does that make him vulnerable or smart? Vulnerable. Definitely vulnerable.

In terms of territory, if Rowan's pack lays claim on the entire valley and the Duskland pack is lurking on their borders and creeping closer, I'm left clueless when it comes to which parts of the town are under the control of which werewolf pack.

I should've gotten more from Rowan. I should have used his resources and tugged as much information out of him and his pack as I could, instead of getting defensive and leaving the second I had the chance.

To my credit, the heart of a werewolf den isn't the best place for reasonable ideas. At least now, with a clear head, I can plan things properly without the risk of more fights.

I'm alone out here, and I know I can't take two packs on at once. Working alongside Rowan goes against everything I've been taught, but if he's offering me help in exchange for taking out one of the targets, I'd be foolish to turn my back on him. Even though I've got no reason to trust him or his motives whatsoever.

The knife at my ankle has never felt so comforting.

I leave the town behind, looking for a quiet place away from territory wars. The streets aren't safe if werewolves are holed up in bookstores. Yawning trees stretch over the road, grasping for one another. Rain patters insistently on the roof, a roaring undertone to my racing thoughts. Nausea rolls in my gut, but I shove aside all ideas of food for the moment. I've got too much to deal with already.

I end up driving quite far, where the road becomes a dirt track that leads up and up, turning back on itself as it climbs up the sloping hill of the valley. Emerging in a clearing amongst the trees that overlooks the town and its mountainous borders, I decide this is far enough.

Sleeping in a car is, to all intents and purposes, not that bad. I park up, set the seat back as far as it will go, and settle down for the long haul. I don't want to be caught vulnerable in the backseat. It beats the forest floor, by all accounts. Especially with the downpour sending streams down the windshield and blurring the outside world.

The view isn't bad either, I muse, gazing out at the twinkling lights of Crescent Valley nestled between clusters of grey mountains and a sea of shadowed woodland, shining beneath a rain-choked sky. It's peaceful, as long as I can forget about the wolves for a while.

Fuck, how I want to stay.

Shivering against the cold, I lie there in the dark and distract myself with pleasant ideas of finding a good job with a decent income and settling down here. Of course, the wild dog problem will need to be sorted in a way that leads no suspicion my way — which is doable, but time-consuming — and the noose of my family casts a shadow over my neck. Looming and taunting and creeping ever closer.

I only close my eyes for what feels like a moment when a sharp tapping noise startles me awake.

Daylight sears my vision— the sun is cresting the mountains and blazing straight through the windshield and into my eyes. I wince, covering my face, and blink blearily in an attempt to recover.

When I peek out, Rowan stands at the driver's window, one arm braced on the roof and his other fist raised to knock.

I'm suddenly caught in a flurry of action, scowling and fumbling for the door and trying to clear my head of the sleep-ridden fog. I've let my guard down, and a werewolf — a threat, no less — has just wandered right into my personal space. Hastily, I throw my guard back up and shove the door open.

Rowan backs up to let me out. He's a mess of tousled hair and heaving shoulders and there's a sheen of sweat on his olive skin. He's dressed in shorts and a skin-tight top that emphasises his broad shoulders and toned torso and narrow hips and— no, no, I'm not doing this now.

"What are you doing here?" I demand.

"I was about to ask you the same thing," he says, sliding a hand through his hair. "I just saw the car and thought I'd come over. Hello again, by the way."

"You can't just— just sneak up on me like that!" I argue, trying to remain rational and ignore the urge to take out the threat. I was vulnerable, just now, and Rowan could've easily tried anything. The thought leaves me ruffled and exposed and I hate it. Instinct hisses through my veins. My fingers itch for the knife at my ankle.

"I wasn't sneaking," he defends lightly with a breathless laugh. "I was jogging. Quite loudly, too. It helps me think."

I bite back a sneer and try to smooth out my jumper where it's crumpled and creased. I look and feel a mess, and I'm certainly in no mood to deal with Rowan right now. What a way to start the day.

"River," he begins, frowning as his gaze flickers over my shoulder to the beat-up old car lurking in his peripheral. A stain on his picturesque woodland. "You told me you had a place to stay, already."

I scowl at him, wondering if perhaps he's a little dim. "And I do."

"That's a car," he says simply, as though I haven't noticed.

"What's your point? Do I need a permit? Am I in your precious territory?" I demand, giving up on my clothes and glaring white-hot fury at him. He has no right to go digging into my personal life like he's trying to bury a fucking bone.

Rowan does something odd, then. Something that makes my raging advance falter. Something that douses the flames of fury as surely as a tsunami.

He raises his hands and backs up half a step. Retreating. And I haven't even brought out my knife yet.

Alpha werewolves do not retreat. It's cowardly and weak and unheard of. They charge and they bite and they wrestle back the advantage.

And yet there he goes. Half a step away and miles from his brutal legacy.

"My mistake," he says, placating. "Have you eaten yet? I was going to head into town anyway— we can talk about our plan. It's on me."

"I don't want your charity," I argue, even as my stomach twinges hopefully at the promise of food. I stamp out the urge.

"It's not charity, it's breakfast. And the next one can be on you, so we're even."

"There won't be a next one," I grumble, crossing my arms and considering the best way to retrieve the knife from my ankle and deposit it neatly into his neck.

"You can drive, then," he says, already heading for the passenger door before I can argue or test my knife theory.

What an asshole.

– ➶ –

Half an hour later, after a tense car ride and awkward one-sided conversations (Rowan is relentless), the werewolf and I settle down at a table in a little café. We're on the corner of a quaint street in the heart of Crescent Valley, and despite the early hour, there's a constant stream of people wandering past the windows. The café is a haven of exposed brick walls and plants on every surface and black and white canvas photographs and old light fittings glowing weakly, and it has a great view of the town square. I take a seat with my back to the wall, so I can see out at everything and not risk anyone sneaking up behind me. After this morning and the rude awakening courtesy of Rowan, I'm not taking any chances.

The place is alive with conversation, despite only a few other tables being occupied. No one looks our way, but I gaze out at them all, unnerved and paranoid. The morning rush has the bell above the door twinkling nearly constantly as people come in and out for takeaway coffees.

Rowan orders for us both, and a waitress soon comes bumbling over with our food in hand. Just as well— I'm starving.

I scarf down the food at a speed just shy of choking. The fork is a blur in my grip and the plate is clear way too soon.

Rowan sits watching me, poised and assessing and his expression inscrutable. He hasn't started eating, yet, and without a word he slides his plate over to me.

Before the scowl has even fully formed on my features, he explains, "Looks like you need it more than I do."

Reluctantly, I take it. I eat slower, this time, watching him warily and making no effort to mask it. Werewolves are brutish and coarse and animalistic— fighting one another for scraps. Rowan has just handed his over without a fuss. I'm half-expecting him to bare his throat to me, in an act so far from an alpha werewolf but so in line with everything else he's done so far.

How are you a leader? I muse, studying him closely. The pinch to his brows and the glint to his brown eyes and the way he rubs absently at his stubble-shadowed jaw. When you give so much and take so little in return?

"So— the Duskland pack," he begins, when at last I set down my fork. "I think, if you're still keen on helping us—"

"I'm not helping," I cut in sharply.

He does not falter, and his lips twitch. "Alright. If you're still keen on aligning yourself with us, I believe you deserve to know exactly who we're dealing with. So, if you have questions, ask away."

"Here?" I ask, frowning at the few people idly chattering at nearby tables, and the steadily growing queue at the counter.

Rowan waves a dismissive hand. "We're free to talk here. You might say it's under my jurisdiction."

I watch him uneasily for a moment. "The alpha pair— who are they?"

"Alessandro and Natalia," he supplies at once. "The beta is Gale, and the gamma is Elsie. Their children."

Of course. The second and third in command, as I would call them. Werewolves tend to keep leadership in the family, and their archaic titles must hold some sort of weight to them.

"Where are they?"

"They've laid claim over the west side of Crescent Valley, and they're creeping over their borders all the time. Testing our boundaries."

I hum tonelessly as I mess with a fraying thread on my sleeve. "And what's your plan? What are you doing to stop them?"

"My plan is simple. Take out their alpha and luna and the rest will fall. The only problem is getting past their pack to do it—"

"Cutting the head off the snake won't work," I dismiss at once, leaning back in my chair and crossing my arms. An unpleasant memory flickers through my head— the ferocity with which those wolves attacked us when I killed their mother, on the night of the raid with Esme. If there's one thing a Ferreus hunter does well, it is learn from our mistakes. "Not when they've got a line ready and waiting to take over and exact revenge. Take out the descendants, get them vulnerable, back them into a corner, and finish it."

"Should I feel threatened?" he asks, even as his lips quirk up a little and he relaxes in his seat. "You seem to know an awful lot about this sort of thing."

"What did you expect? I'm a hunter— this is my job."

"So the mess with Seb and his gang was just target practice for you, then?"

"If you're not going to take me seriously, I'll do it myself—" I say, rising from my seat with every intention of driving somewhere remote and tackling both sides of this feud on my own. To hell with the truce—

Rowan lurches forwards and grabs hold of my arm. "Wait—! I'm sorry, I am listening—"

I, to put it plainly, explode.

I rip my arm free and shove back the chair so hard it screeches against the linoleum and catches the attention of everyone else in the café. A stunned silence descends.

"Do not touch me," I seethe, rising to my full height and glaring down at him.

I breathe hard through the fury sending every nerve itching to fight, to win, to deal with the threat. I'm in his territory and the room is full of witnesses. If I kill him here, if I grab his shirt collar and press my silver knife to his neck, I'll start a war on the back-foot.

Earn their trust, use their resources, take them out when they least expect it.

All my life, I've been taught to fight. And yet, all my life, I've learnt not to start a fight I cannot win.

I don't think I can win this one. Not yet.

"Alright," Rowan says, holding up his hands. His form is tensed up, his eyes bright with guilt, and his posture does not waver. "I'm sorry."

Slowly, and with clear hesitance, I pull my chair back and settle on it. Poised and ready to fight. I brace one arm on the table, in clear view, but the other is on my lap, ready to snatch for the knife at my ankle should Rowan try anything else.

Conversation rises all around us; murmurs at first, which quickly escalate to idle chatter. Peace is restored to the quaint little café— not including the black hole encompassing our table. Gaping and yawning and drawing us both into the dark.

"You don't trust easily, do you?" Rowan asks softly, melting against his chair either in relief or to put a little more distance between us. "I suppose it's in your nature."

I narrow my eyes, calculating and watchful.

He sighs. "Look, I know this is new to you. Say the word and I'll back off. You can face Duskland on your own and so can I. We could even race one another to Alessandro, if you wanted. But I've got a feeling you want to go about this the smart way, and I've got the resources to help you. If you want to work with me, we need to trust one another. Can you do that?"

I study his expression closely, searching for cracks. There's nothing but an imploring, hopeful glint behind his chocolate gaze. He wants an olive branch in return.

Despite myself, the heat of his attention seeps through the harsh, icy armour I threw up on the night everything went to shit.

A heavy, leaden sigh rushes past my lips. I cross my arms and study the table and I mumble, "If my family find me, I think they're going to kill me."

"Okay," Rowan says. His voice is tentative but open; he knows he's got to tread carefully. "Let's try and avoid that, if we can. Will you tell me why?"

I sniff and look away, surveying the people chattering at nearby tables.

"And that's why you're here on your own? You're running from them?"

Again, I don't answer. I'm offering a branch in return— not the whole damn tree.

"I've never seen markings on hunters before. Not like yours," he tells me randomly. I find my gaze pulled towards him, but he's piling up our plates and won't meet my eyes. "Then again, I've never seen a hunter fight so many werewolves and come out the other side with barely a scratch, let alone a bite or a few limbs missing. This family of yours... They're dangerous, aren't they? Like you."

"Very dangerous," I admit.

"Then perhaps we can help one another, after all," he says, glancing up at me. The deep understanding behind his eyes — a gaping abyss — catches me off-guard. "You don't have to be scared of us, River. We're not monsters."

My features twist with cold disbelief.

He smiles serenely, despite my hostility. "Fine. Let me show you."