Esmé leaped to her feet, but Tomas tugged at her arm and she sat down again.
“It’s terms like ‘meat-people’ that foster the attitude that’s gotten us into this mess,” someone yelled. Vivian missed who.
Gabriel raised his hands to quiet the swell of voices. “We all have dealings with
Homo sapiens in our everyday lives,” he said. “It would look strange if we didn’t mix. Any one of us could have talked. Even you,” he said to Astrid.
Astrid snarled at him. The others in the room looked at each other uneasily, suspicion in their eyes.
Having a leader was supposed to bring them together, Vivian thought, but here they were, still in fragments, kept apart by mistrust.
It’s my fault, if I’m the killer, she told herself.
And it’s my fault, anyway, because I told Aiden about me, and now he can use that as a weapon against us all.
One way or another she was bringing danger to her people.
The meeting split up, and the first patrols went on their way. Esmé, paired with one of the girls who used to clean at the inn, was on the first shift. So was Tomas; his partner was Bucky. Vivian and Willem weren’t to go out until one. Willem said he’d come back later.
Vivian stood outside and exchanged small talk as the pack dispersed.
“Don’t see you much lately, Vivian. Come for dinner some night.”
“Hey, why don’t you run with us sometime?”
“Givin’ your mother competition in the looks department nowadays, babe.”
“Are you eating all right, darling? You look pale.”
She gave meaningless, noncommittal answers, suppressing the urge to embrace each person and beg forgiveness. What if they died because of her?
Finally they were all gone-all except Astrid and Rafe, who leaned against a garden wall across the street and groped at each other shamelessly.
Vivian turned away in disgust and saw someone coming-a male. Had one of the pack forgotten something? She inhaled sharply. It was Peter Quincey. Why was Aiden’s best friend walking down her street?
Peter Quincey stopped short when he saw her on the path.
“You were looking for me, Quince?” Vivian asked, trying to sound casual. There was no sign of his usual easy grin, and she felt a pang of regret that he could no longer smile at her.
“Yeah. I mean, no,” he said. “I was gonna put this note through the door.” He held up an envelope in his right hand.
“From Aiden?” Hope fluttered through her like birds’ wings.
“Yeah. God knows why.” His caustic tone pained her.
He thrust the note at her, and she snatched it away. She tore open the envelope and read greedily. It was an invitation to meet Aiden that night at the rocks down by the river. “Be there at two
A.M.” he wrote. She would have cheered but for the words at the end: “For the sake of what we used to have, I hope you’ll come.”
Used to have, she thought bitterly.
“He can stick his note up his ass,” she said, and shoved the letter at Quince’s face.
Quince grabbed it in self-defense, tottering back a step, and she was rudely pleased to see him look ungainly. “You know, I liked you at first,” he said, “but you’re a real two-faced bitch.” He crammed the letter into the pocket of his baggy shorts and retreated down the sidewalk.
Vivian yelped a humorless laugh. He was too witless to know the truth of his words.
Across the street Astrid and Rafe now stared her way with mocking leers on their faces. She gave them the finger before she went inside.
In her room, she brooded over the letter. What if he hadn’t meant it to sound so final? Perhaps he really wanted to make up. No. She was sure Aiden only wanted to see her so he could repeat that it was all over and demand that she stay away from Kelly. She was damned if she would meet him to be demeaned by that crap. But if that was all he wanted to say, why send Quince with a note? Why meet her at two in the morning in a deserted place?
Then she remembered what Gabriel had said would happen if Aiden knew what she was-“I swear to the Moon, he’ll try to kill you.”
It’s not possible, she thought. Aiden wasn’t capable of murder. Or was he, if he believed it was what he was obliged to do?
I don’t want to find out, she thought.
But what if she didn’t meet him? Would he stalk her? Would he discover the pack’s secret? How long before he persuaded others of the truth? She knew it was possible for others to believe; she’d seen her last home burn.
I’m the weak link, she thought.
I’m a danger to my people. I need to be removed.
She could run away. But where to? The idea of being alone chilled her.
And what if I continue to kill? she thought.
Each time I kill I take the risk of being caught. And if I’m caught they might trace my family.
One thing she was sure of: She couldn’t stand the shame of a trial by her own people. She couldn’t turn herself in to the pack.
There was only one real answer, of course-to protect her family, her pack.
She would have to kill herself.
The breath seemed to leave her body for a moment. Time stood still. That was the answer. It was so sparkling clear that it hurt like ice water and left her brain cold, numb, and awake.
But how did a werewolf kill herself?
Silver bullets, she thought, and snorted. Sure, those were always lying around the house.
She stood at the window and inhaled the perfume of her last night.
It must be fast, she thought-she must find a way that left no time to chicken out-and it had to either sever her spine or do so much damage she couldn’t use her metamorph powers to heal.
Hanging was an option, but you had to do it right so the fall broke your neck; if not, you just strangled. Strangling was painful and didn’t kill. The same applied to jumping from a tall building-you couldn’t be sure you would do enough damage to die. She could lie with her head on the railroad tracks, maybe, but only freight trains ran at night, and they moved so slowly she would chicken out for sure.
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