My little sister - Mom and Dad's midlife oops - was five years old. My seventeen-year-old brother was home, too. Everyone was grinning when the first wolf crashed through the picture window.
Jimmy shoved my dad aside, threw himself in front of me. The wolf, a huge white male, hit him in the chest and tore out his throat in a single, practiced motion.
The rest of us might have been OK if we'd run immediately - blockaded a door, found a gun, maybe some silver bullets.
Who am I kidding? We were goners from the moment the window shattered, if not before.
But it's hard to move when something like that happens in your dining room. Normal people don't react well to sudden death, and we were so normal it was pitiful.
We stood there watching as the great white wolf ate Jimmy. We stood there in shock as the room filled with others. Later I understood that the pack had behaved with true pack mentality. Cull the herd, survival of the fittest, only the good die young. My sister went next.
The nightmare continued as I watched my family die one by one. I was too shocked to wonder why I was left for last. Too horrified and sick to notice that the wolves didn't look exactly like wolves.
Then the white wolf, fur pink with blood, turned to me. The others parted, let him come. I stared into his eyes, and I knew who he was.
Chapter 7
The screaming woke me up. I was on my feet, rifle in one hand, the other on the door, when I realized the sound had stopped.
I listened, straining my ears, trying to determine a direction, but all I heard was the wail of a sax from the bar downstairs.
My shirt was wet with sweat. My heart thudded in my throat. My skin was covered with gooseflesh. It still took me several moments to understand that I was the one who had been screaming.
"Shit."
I set the gun next to the door. My hand shook and I clenched it until my fingers ached. I went to the sink, shoved my head under the water, drank directly from the faucet, then ran the cool liquid over the pulsing veins in my wrists. Slowly my heartbeat returned to normal.
If Edward could see me now, I'd be in deep trouble.
Because of my history, I was required to visit a specially trained J-S psychiatrist four times a year. This merely meant I'd learned exactly what to say to be declared fit for duty.
/ understand that killing the werewolves won't bring back my family.
No, I'm not searching for the white wolf on my own time.
"The dreams are gone," I whispered.
The empty room, which still rang with the echoes of my screams, mocked me.
I hadn't had a dream in a very long time. Sleeping in the daylight had taken care of the nightmares. But they were still there waiting for me to slip up. Just like the werewolves.
My head lifted. Droplets of water flew in every direction. I was dizzy. Breathless. Weak. I knew how to make that all go away.
Blood. Theirs. Now.
Only hours before, I'd decided not to hunt, but that had been before the dream. I no longer had a choice.
Scooping up my rifle, I headed out the door.
My watch said it was close to 4:00 a.m. I didn't have too much time before dawn. What I had would be enough. It would have to be.
As I reached the bottom of the steps I frowned. All the cars were still in the lot. The saxophone continued to wail. The lights remained on inside. Hadn't they ever heard of bar time around here?
The windows had been closed against the October night. I couldn't blame them. This far north, the first frost could arrive at any moment.
The glass was foggy. From age or a buildup of smoke, either way, I couldn't see anything inside but shadows. None of which moved. But then no one had been moving earlier, either, unless you counted the lifting of glasses to their mouths.
I dismissed the mystery of the bar patrons. I had better things to worry about. I could ask Jessie about the rules of bar time. If I actually cared. Or complain to Damien, though I'd rather avoid him as much as possible. I didn't need any more complications in my life - and Damien Fitzgerald had complication written all over him.
I practically ran into the woods, crashed loudly through the brush. I