“Only a pup?” Bondurant snickered. “Otis hated wolves. He blamed them for Waylon’s death, so I can understand why he’d go after your sister, a young, weak pup. Otis was a coward, and his mind wasn’t right, but none of that excuses him for killing her. I apologize for that, even though it is not the Society’s responsibility to monitor every man who wants to kill a creature, but just the same, we must bear some of the blame.”
“That’s it?” I asked. “I get an apology?”
“What else would you like?” Bondurant smiled. “Oh, I know, you want to kill a few of us, perhaps even me. You can try if you like, but you’ll only get a couple of drops of blood out of me before Smith comes barging through that door, and then…” He shook his head. “Max, your sister is dead, but that doesn’t mean you have to die, too.”
Bondurant talked of Shar as if she was never a person, just a figment or a ghost. His voice glossed over her sixteen years of life and her violent death. She was the last of my family, and Bondurant didn’t seem to understand how that kind of loss cut into me — it was a persistent pain, like a burn that would never heal.
But maybe huntsmen didn’t feel anguish or pain or fear or remorse. Perhaps they functioned like robots, operating on simple commands ensuring human dominance, and perhaps the death of a creature meant nothing to them, except for one less body on their to-kill list.
“You’re not like me,” I said. “You’re not a wolf. You didn’t watch your mother get eaten up by cancer or find your little sister’s body naked, battered, and cut into as if she was nothing. You haven’t been on the run for a year. You haven’t felt the shadow of death hunting you down. You’re human, a huntsman. You decide which creatures die, not me. Why hate us? Is it just because of our differences or because it makes it easier to kill?”
“We’re not that different,” said Bondurant. “You killed Otis. I would have done the same. There will be no reprisal from any of us for what you did to him. I consider it justice. But, to reiterate, the Society was not involved in your sister’s death. We owe you nothing.”
My lips parted into a crooked smile. “I may be young, but I’m not stupid. Someone told Otis to come after us, and if not the Society, who?”
Bondurant puckered his lips. “Otis’s mind wasn’t right.”
I shook my head. “You know more. I can almost smell the lies on your tongue. Was it that shadow that put Otis up to it?”
Bondurant’s bottom lip twitched. “A shadow? What shadow?”
“Now look who’s no good at lying,” I said. “There was something else in the woods that day. Otis talked to it. At first, I thought he was crazy, but after, when Otis was dead, I saw him — a man covered in black. A shadow. He told me the same thing Otis did, that the huntsmen would come for me.”
Bondurant grimaced, and then cleared his throat. “Tell me about your sister.”
“Shar? Why?”
“Because I asked, and because I’ve learned over the years that labeling every creature as a threat isn’t right. I want to know what your sister was, and what she would have been.”
I waited for Bondurant to pull a knife or a gun, or for a group of men in camouflage to descend from the ceiling or come crashing in through the glass. Bondurant had to be a bad guy, but he didn’t smell bad. He smelled thoughtful, like an old, worn box of books kept in a basement.
I exhaled, letting tiny bubbles of nerves escape, so my voice wouldn’t wobble. “Shar was smart and pretty. She liked people. Shar knew how to fit in with them, but she was still proud of her heritage. My mom once told me Shar was a special breed, a born leader. My mom was right. I would have followed Shar anywhere.”
Bondurant nodded. “Some like to pull the root before it sprouts out of the dirt.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Everyone has a special hate. For some, it’s witches or trolls or vampires or some thing whose name has long been forgotten. Otis’s particular hate was for wolves. He must have seen your sister and knew what she might become — a smart, pretty, strong female wolf can strengthen more than a Pack — so he killed her.” Bondurant shook his head. “Max, you came looking for a fight, but you wouldn’t have been able to take down one huntsman, let alone a compound full of them.”
“I can manage,” I said. “I killed Otis.”
Bondurant scowled. “Otis wasn’t even third-rate. He was a backwoods hack, not a huntsman. Max, you need to learn the ways of your kind. You need a Pack. They’ll help you improve your senses, fighting skills, and decision making. Otherwise, you won’t last long.”
I laughed. “You’re giving me advice on how to be a wolf?”
“I’m trying to save your life. No creature has ever breached our walls, and if it weren’t for me, Regent Smith would have put a bullet in your head, instead of that dart.” Bondurant sighed. “Max, just because I’m a huntsman doesn’t mean I want to kill every creature I put eyes on. You can’t understand.” Bondurant exhaled, and he suddenly looked uncomfortable in his skin. “The Society was born out of a need to eliminate the tainted, but the way I see it, we’re all tainted.
“Max, your sister is dead, but that doesn’t mean you have to be, too. What you need to do is become the wolf your sister would have been.” Bondurant pulled out a folded piece of paper and handed it to me. “There’s a man in the city named Rue. He takes in pups and young wolves and teaches them.”
About Marla Johnson
