Shilo howls.

At the third inflection, I launch into a run.

There's no such thing as a blind spot the closer I get to the house. I have to skim by the groomed portion of the property, but I should, as far as I know, be at the edge of the frame.

In the sliver of light that remains, Ishmael might notice movement and recognize me, but Rollin is on watch. Hopefully, he'll assume I'm Shilo or miss me completely if he's as tired and cranky as Shilo has claimed.

An immediate call to Ishmael would be the worst-case scenario. He would leave his dinner party for something like this. Rollin would have to be sure, though. Being wrong would have consequences that he'd go out of his way to avoid.

Brock is, of course, a bigger concern, one I'm expecting. I will have to deal with him directly, and there is the very real possibility of harm.

At a particularly dark, steep, narrow portion of the path leading to the barn—the venue for Sam's ritual—I transform into human form and set up the tripwire that Shilo hid for me.

Brock treads up and down this path regularly. Everyone does, at least occasionally. I couldn't prepare, in full, ahead of time, and the ground is rumbling already. I don't have much to do, but it's stressful, naked and cold, the wind unrelenting. And I'm hindered by the deepening darkness. Plus, it's critical that I avoid being seen.

Once the wire is attached, I flick it, and become a wolf again, and rather clumsily at that. The task is complete, though not in record time.

I dive beneath a pile of leaves in the adjacent ditch, no doubt exposed in some facet, just as Brock turns the corner, Sam draped over his shoulder.

He trudges down the hill. I wish it were faster, and Brock, more oblivious. From my lousy angle and somewhat shrouded view, I still get the sense that he's looking for trouble. It's right in my direction. Did I leave scuff marks or is my body showing?

I suppose it doesn't matter as long as he falls. Just keep your eyes off the wire, and there is still hope...

Three, two, one...

He steps down, about an inch shy of the wire. His second leg comes forward and bumps against it. His momentum isn't quite committed to that next step. Still, like a centuries-old tree chopped to a point of no return, he begins to tip, seemingly unaware of gravity's intended course for him. He catches on, though. His reaction is delayed, but he's experiencing one, a little early for my projection.

Brock tries to get that foot out, not to move himself forward, but to prevent himself from falling. He fails. Well, sort of. From the weight of him, the tripwire snaps out of the tree trunk. With a bellow that Ishmael, the witches, and Maleceks could probably hear from inside the house, he collapses, but only to his knees.

This isn't ideal, but it may be my only chance to kick him while he's almost down. My gut tells me to pounce, and I listen to it, without any delay. While I'm bounding forth with all my energy and strength, my teeth bared, Sam has hooked a leg over Brock's other shoulder.

She supports her weight with his ear and gives it a hard twist. Then, with sudden and shocking dexterity and aim, she stabs something sharp into eye. A nail, maybe?

Shockingly enough, Brock does bleed, and it's a gusher. For the first time in my recollection, he wails with what must be actual pain.

I can't go for his throat with her in the way, so I latch on to his left wrist.

He wrenches his hand free of me. "You are next week's dog chow," he tells me, taking a meaty swing at my head.

Only he could make that sound terrifying.

Undeterred, I dodge the blow. While growling and snarling, I thrust myself at Brock's elbow, the one that has Sam clamped in place.

A lunge closer to standing, Brock whacks me, backhanded, in the shoulder, throwing me off course. His other hand is grappling for a wad of Sam's hair. She evades it by dropping her head and torso, like an acrobat, toward his waist. After she makes another stab attempt, into his fat waist, she slips from his grip and rolls free of him with an agility that should have shielded her from major injury.

But, as she comes to a landing on her backside, she emits a hiss, momentarily immobilized.

In an instant, I'm beside her, my chest down, paws out. She doesn't acknowledge me with any obvious awareness or any attachment, but she seems to catch my drift. Get on.

She rolls on top of me with a groan and locks her arms into her version of a seatbelt—over one shoulder and under the other. Around my chest, she crosses her ankles.

Brock may be slow and half blind, but he's answering every move with one of his own. He has risen to both feet. In one ground-shaking pound, he stomps on my tail. Or tries to. His foot does make contact, but it's mostly on my long hair. Still, he pinches it to the ground, not once but twice.

Never getting a good hold on me, I lurch forward, sacrificing some hair, enough to bring tears to my wolf eyes, but I manage to slip beyond his gait.

I scramble for traction. We're still within Brock's tackle range, and my back, if it comes to be, won't hold up, not with Sam on top of me, too.

The leaves aren't helping. The gravel from the path isn't, either. Over time, it has spilled into the surrounding woods. Even with the help of gravity on the decline, it's sucking me into its instability and chaos when every millisecond counts.

Brock, gaining on me, sets a foot into the same mess, and, to my surprise, he loses his footing and slides down on his backside. It's like a wave that sets me free. He pushes me over the threshold, onto firm, natural dirt. He's on his ass and the yards begin accumulating in my favor.

Darting behind the first boulder, I let it shield a ninety-degree change in direction.

I don't need the sun or moonlight or help from the stars. I just need Sam, my wolf senses and instincts, and time.

Unfortunately, I'm short on the latter. I can still hear every word Brock says. "Get back here, little doggy." And the shuffle of his feet on the forest floor. "You're in for a real treat."

Then Brock's furor is lost. It's not as if he's that far behind me. The sirens simply take over.

Rollin isn't sleeping or clueless or too disgruntled to care, or all that wary of a dinner interruption. He must have been the one to sound the alarm. The real chase is now underway, and we're not nearly as far away from the house as I was hoping. We're not even out of camera range yet.

I can't check on Sam. We can't even communicate like this. I can only listen, and she doesn't seem to have anything to say.

We carry on at a pace that isn't impressive. It's all we can do. All that matters until we reach our first hideout, which is still miles away.

It seems to take forever just to reach the property line, something that isn't a perfect circle. In fact, we're on the wider side of it.

Surpassing the final camera is a noteworthy achievement, but it's no cause for celebration. I'm already losing steam, and that's something a vampire doesn't have to worry about as much. If they know where I was last seen, how hard would I be to track down?

I intended to zig and zag from here, but I take the straightaway, which is less taxing and should shave off some distance.

Sam isn't heavy. She seems leaner than ever and born for this, staying on my back and leaning low, without so much as a shift in an awkward direction. But I'm no horse, and I've never done anything like this before. She's the first human who is worth the strain to me. I've certainly run away before, my life dependent on it, but it was never quite in this context. I was always alone.

Probably no more than a mile from the property line, I teeter to a stop and collapse to my stomach. I need water, which I don't have here, and a moment to catch my breath.

Sam takes the hint and climbs off. After a glance that is as sharp as it is sad, she strolls away from me, barefooted and her arms crossed.

With her back turned, I watch her shiver, violent for a moment and then it settles into a constant shudder. Her black robe is reasonably long and thick. I'm surprised they were so generous. It's a special occasion, I suppose. Still, her legs are bare, and I doubt she has much on underneath.

They'd want easy access and a riveting show...

As she circles back, still less than pleased, she readjusts herself, tight in her robe, and reties her belt. It gives me a whiff of her blood.

I didn't intend to change form until we reached relative safety, with warmer clothes for us both, but we can't put this off as things stand.

"You're bleeding," I comment from a tight squat, shielding everything from view that she clearly has no desire to see ever again. "Where?" I need to know but wish I didn't have to ask.

Sam turns her back and paces away without answering. Any modesty is unnecessary, and still, I don't have it in me to move closer for a better assessment of what the fuck is going on with her.

When she finally turns around, sniffling and trembling, her gaze turned inward, toward something clearly disturbing, she slides up the sleeve of her robe. "This is probably the most discernible place. The scab tore open in the fray."

In the last light of dusk, I see blood dripping from a sizable scrape on her elbow.

Where did that come from?

Sam fails to make eye contact until I'm upon her. My sudden presence startles her. So does my proximity. When I'm grappling for the robe tie at her waist, she attempts to nudge me off, but I don't relent until I have that tie in my hands. In a great hurry, I wrap it tightly around her elbow.

She seems about to bark in protest, but the understanding settles in before she can find the words. "They can smell it. At a distance."

I simply nod to confirm that, and focus, instead, on tying a new knot.

My fingers are cold and stiff and are crumbling under the pressure of Sam's resigned gaze and slightly open robe. At least she's wearing something under there, but not up on top.

Her free hand attempts to close the gap that no longer has a tie to keep it contained.

I do my best not to look, but I can't avoid the added smell . . . of Ishmael. All over her. I bite back a few choice words, but I lose control of my bodily reaction. A gag bursts forth from deep in my gut. The first one I take as a warning. Another one is about to follow, and I turn to the side and cover my mouth and nose with the back of my hand, afraid I might lose the contents of my stomach if I catch another whiff.

"What is it?" Sam inquires, offense taken, like she has some idea of what's wrong already.

"Nothing," I cough out, turning my back on her, and forcing a few deep breaths of cold air. It might rid me of some of his stench, but it won't erase the gut-twisting image of his essence anywhere near hers.

She circles beside me, tentatively, like she's walking on eggshells. If her crossed arms and livid expression are any indication, it's not because she's afraid of me. "Don't tell me 'nothing.' Your eyes are practically on fire and it's clear, I repulse you."

The awful, many-layered smell wafts by me again.

It has probably faded with time and a change of clothes. Even so, I can pick out his cologne, and the desire—overwhelmingly hers—and the acrid scent of his venom—like scorched metal—which, even in trace amounts, is known to exacerbate the desire in humans.

There's also a hint of vomit and the cold sweat of her fear. And she's limping around like something hurts . . . a lot. So, what happened isn't quite so cut and dry. This shouldn't make me feel better, but...

Why is this even a question in the first place? Yes, Ishmael's selfish and deviant enough to muddy the water while the worst of the witches were out of town. It's goddamn inconsistent and hypocritical, which is like him, too. It's do as I say, not as I do bullshit. But, if he ever took things too far, he wouldn't bring the Maleceks into that mess. He isn't that stupid.

Sam settles into an angry stance about two feet in front of me. I'm naked and she isn't. Although our height difference is profound, it feels like she is looking down on me, and what's worse, I know I deserve it.

I lift both hands and hopefully she accepts my full surrender. "I'll explain everything. Just not now. We have to go."

At that moment, I catch a whiff of fresh death on the breeze and whirl toward what I believe is the source.

A vampire.

I don't see anything and can't tell how close it is, or if it's just a figment of my paranoia.

Taking a gulp, I face forward again, where Sam is still waiting for a decent answer.

We should be running and should have never stopped. My calculations—if you could even call them that—are relying on speed and a solid head start. If she can't run on her own, I need her to return to my back. Our pace wasn't great to begin with. Brock might even be gaining on us. And what we had before will be nearly impossible to maintain. But for now, while their search area is relatively small, it's our only option.

"And why should I trust you?" she grills me further. "Didn't you practically giftwrap me for these monsters?"

Getting her back on top of me will be easier said than done.

My gaze sweeps to the left again. While I'm torn between truth and consequence, and the inevitability of our discovery, I can't come up with something to say, to turn this impasse into progress.

Before I get a chance to try, a grating female voice accosts me from behind. "She has a point, Jael." Bryony saunters onto the scene and takes a casual stance against a tree trunk, crossing her arms and ankles. "How are you going to worm your way out of that one?"

The only thing worse for wear are her high-heeled boots, caked in mud, the second thing she takes a moment to inspect. They didn't earn the initial smirk, let's say. That was my manhood, which has, undoubtedly, shriveled further in her presence.

Sam, though shocked stiff at first, breaks into a run while Bryony has her glare fixed on me.

Bryony hesitates for a moment, deciding whether to go after Sam or deal with me first. Perhaps she has no plan or any guidance from above. I can't say this is reassuring. A vampire's actions during moments of high stress can get bloody in the blink of an eye. And no one who has any appreciation for their habits would come down on them too hard. It's in their hardwiring to kill first and clean up any messes after the fact, personal or otherwise. Even those with good intentions and centuries of experience can slip up from time to time, and Bryony is pretty much pure evil and just a baby on the immortal spectrum.

She seems to choose Sam and high speed. Her back is to me for only a millisecond.

I push myself through the transition and pursue them both in wolf form.

By the time I catch up to them, Bryony is worlds ahead of me in terms of advantage. She's facing me, ready, her arm clenched around Sam's neck. She strokes Sam's hair with her free hand and coos, "It's gonna be all right," in her ear. "It's good to see you again, roomie. I'm a friend, remember? More than that wolf will ever be."

Liar.

Prowling closer, and growling, I wait for some angle to appear, one I can exploit.

Bryony cocks her head and sneers at me, like she can read me, every thought I have, every move I make. "Do you know why he's not telling you anything, Sam?"

As a wolf, I'm more equipped to attack, but she can talk, and I can't. I can't even begin to describe how uncomfortable that makes me.

Sam holds still, her eyes closed, like she's admitting defeat, ready to die.

"Don't let the package fool you, Sam. He has a teeny-tiny brain between those legs of his, and he relies on it to make all of his decisions. A month ago, he'd do anything for Ivy, like babysit a virgin, for example. Yes, that's all you were to them. A test subject for a spell. It didn't matter who you were, where you came from, what you looked like. You just had to be clean. Jael, of course, knew this all along, before you rang the doorbell, in fact. He was oh so eager to please . . . the boss's daughter . . . at first. Sex wasn't the only perk, let's just say..."

Lie. Lie. Lie.

"But, once he got a whiff of you, and I can't say I can entirely blame him..." Bryony pulls Sam's chin to the side and takes an audible sniff of her pale, exposed neck. "And with that little brain of his, something that has the attention span and loyalty of a flea, he wanted to double the fun, the consequences be damned. I'm sorry to say this, Sam. You're cute and sweet and all, but werewolves aren't very particular. They'd fuck over just about anyone or anything for an extra bone. Well, if they were actually smart enough to pull it off without getting caught. Sometimes they get lucky, but he's no match for any of us. Dumb again that he thinks he can still have you. Two is great, but one girl is better than zero, am I right, Jael?"

That's it. She shouldn't trifle with me in this state, and there she is, trifling, with a fearlessness that's both irritating and alarming.

I've never challenged her before. I don't know if her ego is puffed up with arrogance or if it's backed by real skill. She was made by Ishmael, but was she ever trained by him?

I guess we're about to find out...

"Do you really want to put your faith into someone like that?" Bryony doesn't lower her guard, but I bound toward her anyway, and manage to sink my teeth into her ankle without hurting Sam.

Bryony's shriek is ear-piercing—it'll probably carry for miles—and her kick back is brutal, right to my jaw. I lose the grip of my bite and Bryony dashes to a new location with Sam bobbling along like a ragdoll.

Once Bryony locks Sam into a new position, Sam tries squirming and lifting her legs, putting all her weight on Bryony's arm. She also tries biting that arm. I know from experience that vampire skin has a consistency between hard rubber and a rock. Only a creature with sharp teeth and a supernaturally strong jaw could even hope to pierce through. Sam's going to break her teeth if she keeps at it. Even so, good for her. It may not help, but it can't hurt. Bryony will eventually get tired and lose what little patience she has.

"Come, now, Sam," she says in a tone of discontent. "Let's cooperate. Ishmael wanted me to tell you that he's ready to negotiate."

Like hell he is...

If it was up to him, maybe he'd let her live, but he'd ask for a great deal in return. Like sex slave or first-born child shit. But the thing is, it isn't up to him, and there's only one reason Bryony would lie about that. She's preying on a vulnerability and thinks it will work.

Sam is panting around Bryony's hand, now covering her mouth, but she's holding still, as if she's taking this all into consideration. She's been trapped in a pit of lies for so long, who knows what she'll grasp onto, if anything.

I make another attempt to separate them and end this debacle. But Bryony anticipates this move, shifting to the side while I'm leaping at her, midair. I miss completely and go tumbling into a gully.

I shake off the leaves and the good sense I lost, hitting my head too hard. Bounding back up to level ground, Bryony sees me before I relocate her. Her posture and grip on Sam prevent another advance before it begins.

"It's true. Ishmael has a soft spot for you," Bryony puts forward, attempting to lure her in with a lie that seems stronger and shinier than any truth ever was. "You were supposedly that good last night, enough to make a mated man cheat. By the way, that's what has Jael all out of sorts. It's a territorial thing. Werewolves and vampires aren't meant to share women, not while their mark is still fresh. Yes, if I can smell your shame, the wolf can too, times a thousand. And I hate to break it to you, Sam. He won't ever let that go, even if the actual deed was never done. It's up to the devil to decide now, I suppose. Anyway, be a dear and let Ivy finish what she started. Then we'll send you on your way. You'll be free of us, and that includes the asshole who led you so far astray. It could be as early as tomorrow morning."

I don't know exactly what Blaise said to Sam, but I hope she relayed how not survivable this process is.

"What do you say?" Bryony releases Sam's mouth and seems pleased when she doesn't immediately scream in her ear. "Are you ready to go back to civilization? We'll get you a home-cooked meal and a hot tea. How does that sound?"