Raised by Wolves (Raised by Wolves #1)(43)
Author: Jennifer Lynn Barnes

“She’s out back,” Mitch said, his voice a low, rumbling hum. “No idea what she’s doing. Pretty sure I don’t wanna know, but I suspect she wouldn’t mind some company.” Mitch paused, for a fraction of a second. “Don’t let her shoot you,” he grunted.

With Lake, chances were that was pretty good advice. Maybe she would loan me a gun. At the moment, I kind of felt like doing some shooting myself.

“Should I cut through?” I asked, gesturing to the door of the Wayfarer.

“If your mother don’t mind you taking off before you four are settled—”

“It’s fine,” Ali said. At this point, she was probably glad to be rid of me.

“Go on, then,” Mitch said, jerking his head toward the door. “Git.”

I got.

The restaurant was nearly empty. There were a couple of people sitting in a corner booth, and there was a towheaded woman in her mid-thirties or so behind the bar, wiping down the counter. When I walked in, she leaned forward on both elbows, with a look on her face that told me that she was probably the kind of bartender that people poured their hearts out to.

I wasn’t buying.

The bartender caught me staring at her, and I turned my head away, averting my eyes and slumping my shoulders. The reaction was completely reflexive, but foreign, and I found myself wondering when I’d become a good little pack girl who averted her gaze and didn’t cause trouble, and—for that matter—when I’d started submitting to humans, even as I silently wished they’d take their prying eyes and quiet sympathy elsewhere.

I had to get out of there.

The back door of the Wayfarer was only about twenty feet away from the front, but I found that despite all efforts to the contrary, I couldn’t walk toward it quickly. I’d heard so much about this place over the years. I knew which boards in the floor I could remove to find packets of gum and stashes of childhood treasures, I knew that the whiskey behind the counter was sometimes watered down because a certain someone occasionally snuck a glass and replaced it with water, and I knew that the pool table leaned slightly to the right—a fact that helped if you were the type to hustle the clientele.

By the time I made it to the back door, I felt like I’d been inside forever. The need to get out and away and to be by myself was overpowering, but the moment I stepped outside, the fresh air hit me in the face, cooling my bruises, and the muscles in my stomach loosened enough to remind me why I’d come this way in the first place. About fifty yards away, there was a wooden fence, and on top of the fence sat a girl with long legs, long hair, and a double-barreled shotgun. The legs were tanned, the hair was wheat-blonde, and the shotgun was aimed directly at my left kneecap.

Sora’s blank face. Ribs popping. Flying backward.

I physically shook the memory from my head. Lake wasn’t Sora. Sora wasn’t the Rabid. Nobody was going to shoot me here.

“Too scared to face me up close?” I called, forcing the knot of anxiety from my chest. “Don’t tell me you’ve gone soft, Lake.”

Lake snorted and bared her teeth in a wicked grin, and then she was off the fence, shotgun on the ground, running toward me. I started running toward her, too, but barely got three steps before she crashed into me and tackled me to the ground.

“Hey, bruised ribs here,” I said.

“Oh, you yellow-bellied crybaby,” Lake replied. “Did poor wittle Bwyn fall and go boom again?”

“For the last time, I didn’t fall out of that tree—you pushed me.”

“Snitch,” she said amiably.

“Mutt,” I replied, and then I threw myself at and into her, hugging her hard.

Besides Katie, Lake was the only female born in Callum’s territory in the past hundred years. Maybe longer, depending on how old Sora was. Lake and her dad didn’t come to our neck of the woods very often, and for whatever reason, Callum never forced their hand, so growing up, Lake and I had developed a relationship that I suspect is similar to what happens to humans who go to summer camp. When we were together, we were inseparable. From sunup to sundown, if you found one of us, you found the other. Devon was my best friend, but when Lake was in town, our duo became an easy trio: the human, the purebred, and the female Were, freaks all.

Lake, ever unaware of her own strength, squeezed too hard as she returned my hug, but despite the hug-with-a-vengeance, my ribs didn’t so much as twinge, and I took that as an omen that maybe coming here hadn’t been a mistake on Ali’s part. Maybe I just needed time to regroup.

Come up with a plan.

After another long moment, I pushed Lake back, and even though I could never have broken her grip of my own accord, she let loose of me immediately. The two of us sat up, and I surveyed her, comparing her appearance and mine out of habit. I was wearing jeans, a sweater, and boots. Lake was barefoot and the only reason she was wearing even a tank top and boy shorts was that she’d outgrown streaking when she was about seven.

Except for that one time the summer when we were twelve, but that was completely beside the point.

“Aren’t you cold?” I asked her.

Lake grinned. “Nope.”

On the heels of the coldest spring we’d had in years, Lake was sun-kissed and tanned, color in her cheeks, highlights in her hair. I couldn’t imagine her ever letting someone else beat her, no matter the cause.

As if she sensed where my thoughts were going, Lake set about distracting me. “How much you wanna bet I can put a bullet through that guy’s Coke?” She gestured back toward the Wayfarer, and I noticed that a new group of people had taken a seat in one of the booths. From this distance, I could barely make them out through the dusty window, but I didn’t doubt for a second that Lake’s view of them was much clearer.

“No deal,” I told Lake. I’d learned not to bet with her—about anything—by the time we were eight.

Except for that one time the summer when we were twelve, but again—completely beside the point.

“Besides,” I said, “Matilda’s over by the fence.” I’d never actually met Lake’s favorite shotgun, but I’d heard enough stories to make an educated guess.

“She’s fickle, is Matilda,” Lake admitted. “But boy, can the old girl get the job done.”

“What’d this guy do anyway?”

As a general rule, Lake didn’t shoot people without a reason—or some assurance that they would heal almost as soon as she shot them.