tell him. Normally this would fall to Grace, but Isabel had just called with the exact model of the helicopter that would be carrying the sharpshooters and we were all a little on edge. Grace and Sam had engaged in a wordless argument that somehow managed to involve only their eyes and then she had won, because she started making scones, and Sam had sulked on the couch with his guitar. If she and Sam ever had kids, they’d be gluten-intolerant out of self-defense.
Scones required milk.
So Sam was here for milk because the grocery store closed at nine. I, on the other hand, was at the QuikMart because if I spent another second in Beck’s house, I was going to break something. I was figuring out more about the wolf science every day, but the hunt was almost here. In a few days, my experiments would be about as useful as medical research on the dodo bird.
Which brought us to QuikMart at eleven P.M. Inside the store, I pointed to a rack of condoms and Sam gave me a look completely devoid of humor. He’d worn too few or too many to see the amusement in it.
I broke off to navigate the aisles of the store, full of nervous energy. This crappy little service station felt like the real world. The real world, months after I’d murdered NARKOTIKA by disappearing with Victor. The real world where I smiled at security cameras and somewhere, they might smile back at me. Country music wailed low through speakers hung next to the sign for the bathrooms (FOR PAYING CUSTOMERS ONLY). The plate glass windows were painted with the green-black night that only lived outside of service stations. No one was awake but us, and I’d never been more awake. I browsed candy bars that sounded better than they tasted, checked tabloids for mention of me out of habit, looked at the racks of overpriced cold medications that no longer had the ability to impair either my ability to sleep or drive, and realized there was nothing here in this store that I wanted.
In my pocket, I felt the weight of the little black Mustang Isabel had given me. I couldn’t stop thinking about it. I slid the car out and drove it over racks to where Sam stood in front of the milk case, his hands in the pockets of his jacket. Though he faced the milk, his face wore an undirected frown, his thoughts consumed by a problem somewhere else.
“Two percent is a nice compromise between skim and whole, if you’re having problems deciding,” I said. I kind of wanted Sam to ask me about the Mustang, to ask what the hell I was doing with it. I was thinking about Isabel, about shifting into a wolf for the first time, about the black sky pressing against the windows outside.
Sam said, “We’re running out of time, Cole.”
The electronic bell of the QuikMart door opening kept him from saying more, or me from answering him. I didn’t turn to look, but some sort of instinct made the skin crawl at the back of my neck. Sam had not turned his head, either, but I saw that his expression had changed. Sharpened. That was what I was subconsciously reacting to.
In my head, memories flashed. Wolves in the woods, ears pricked and swiveling, suddenly at attention. Air sharp in our nostrils, scent of deer on the breeze, time to hunt. The wordless agreement that it was time to act.
By the counter, I heard the murmur of voices as the newcomer and the clerk exchanged greetings. Sam put his hand on the handle of the cooler but didn’t open it. He said, “Maybe we don’t actually need milk.”
• SAM •
It was John Marx, Olivia’s older brother.
Speaking with John had never been easy for me — we barely knew each other, and every encounter we’d ever had had been on tense terms. And now his sister was dead and Grace was missing. I wished we hadn’t come. There was nothing to do but to carry on as usual. John wasn’t quite in line; he was staring at the gum. I slouched up to the counter beside him. I could smell alcohol, which was depressing, because John had seemed so young before.
“Hi,” I said, barely audible, just so I got credit for saying it.
John did the man-nod, a curt jerk of the head. “How are you doing.” It was not a question.
“Three twenty-one,” the clerk told me. He