Werewolf Twins

I’m crouched in a thicket, listening to the drawn-out howl of a wolf, blood calling to blood.

He’s coming for me already? How is that even possible? I only dove into this hiding spot a few minutes ago. Maybe I misheard a dog from a neighboring farm.

I peer through the thick brush. The moon slides from behind a cloud and for a heartbeat, I see forest, acres of empty forest. Then darkness again. I stare into the night as I listen. The smell of spring-damp earth floats past on a sharp breeze. At a soft thump, I freeze, ears straining. Undergrowth crashes as a rabbit darts for cover. Then the forest falls silent again.

Okay, it really was just a neighbor’s—

Another howl slices through the silence, raising every hair on my body.

Even as it dies away, I feel it strumming through the air.

Unmistakably wolf.

Unmistakably him.

So stop listening and do something.

I swallow hard and concentrate, fingers digging into dirt. It’s too late. He’ll be here any second and—

Focus. Just focus.

I hunker down and slow my breathing. I might have time. I was careful choosing my spot, climbing through trees and dropping into my thicket so I didn’t leave a trail for him to follow.

Paws thump over hard earth.

I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to focus and ignore the fact that those thumps grow louder with each slam of my heart.

He only knows the general direction of where to find me. He’s coming

from upwind. He won’t smell me. I still have a chance. He’ll run past, and then I’ll have time.

I just need time.

I flatten onto my stomach, swathed in darkness and shadow. The footfalls slow to the soft pad of sure steps. I stop breathing. He’s walking straight toward my hiding spot, as if I’m doing jumping jacks in the moonlight.

I hold my breath and hold my body too, as still as can be. He’s still upwind and can’t smell me. He doesn’t actually know where—

A pale muzzle pushes into the thicket. Jaws open, sharp teeth behind inch-long fangs. Then eyes appear, a blue as bright as my own. My brother tilts his head, the question as clear as spoken words.

What’s taking you so long, Kate?

I snarl. Logan withdraws with a snort and plunks down to wait. I growl, telling him to move farther away. He lifts his furry ass and transplants it exactly six inches.

Ever since we were kids, we’ve competed to see who can shift faster. The short answer is: Logan. Oh hell, the only answer is: Logan. I swear, he gets faster every year. Tonight, I’d barely undressed before he was in wolf form.

I’d hoped to still Change quickly and then slip out and pretend I’d been just hanging around, waiting. That would work a lot better if he hadn’t somehow known exactly where to find me, strolling over like there was a neon arrow flashing over my thicket.

Damn him.

I grumble for a few moments. Then I resume position, close my eyes and imagine sluicing through the long grass. Feeling the wind cut through my fur. Hearing every tiny creature shriek and scamper out of my path. Listening to the drum roll of my brother’s paws as he races behind me, both of us drunk on exhilaration and adrenaline . . .

My skin ripples. Muscles shift, stretching and bunching as my skin prickles, fur sprouting.

I close my eyes, position my hands and feet and lower my head. When the first jolt of agony hits, it’s as if this has never happened before, and I’m caught off guard, stifling a scream.

This too shall pass.

It’s like getting a tooth drilled. Well, I presume it’s like that because when I get a filling or a booster shot and the doctor says, “This is going to hurt,” I almost laugh. A needle piercing my skin? Try having your entire body ripped apart and put back together twice a month.

What I mean is that the pain, however severe, is temporary. You grit your teeth, tell yourself this too shall pass.

It does. Waves of agony nearly knock me out, and then I’m standing on four legs, panting and shaking, my yellow fur gleaming in the moonlight.

Yes, I’m a yellow wolf. A werewolf’s fur is the same color as our hair, which for me means that if I’m seen, I’ll be mistaken for a dog. Don’t ask me how I know that. All-caps rule number one: DO NOT BE SEEN. But, yeah, it happens, for some more than others, and it’s probably a good thing I’m blessed with golden retriever fur.

When a distant owl shrieks, my ears swivel to follow the sound. Most werewolves have excellent hearing in human form, and even better hearing as wolves. Logan and I hear just as well in both forms. We’re . . . a little different.

There are only a few dozen werewolves in North America and almost all inherited the genes from their dads—it passes through the male line. It can also be transmitted through bites, but the survival rate for that is so low that there are only a few bitten werewolves . . . including both our parents.

So what happens when two bitten werewolves have kids? No one knew. When it comes to werewolves, statistics are nearly nonexistent. The human world doesn’t know about supernaturals, so they’re not exactly conducting studies. We could do it ourselves, but for us, survival is a whole lot more important than note-taking.

Growing up, I only wished for one thing, with every birthday candle, every four-leaf clover, every wishing-well coin. Make me a werewolf. I got my wish at the age of nine, a decade earlier than normal hereditary werewolves. As far as anyone knows, I’m one of two female werewolves in the world—mom being the other. I’m the first female hereditary werewolf ever. That’s cool, but really, all I care about is that I got my wish: I am a werewolf.

When I step out of my thicket, Logan greets me with a welcoming snuffle. Seeing him, I don’t know how anyone can mistake us for dogs. We look like wolves. We retain our human mass, which makes him a huge wolf, ghost white in the darkness, sleek furred and muscular.

As he snuffles me, I twist away and then surprise-pounce, which would work much better with any werewolf who wasn’t my twin. Logan anticipates the pounce and feints out of the way, then twists and leaps at me. I duck and race around him so fast I swear I hear his vertebrae crackle as he spins to keep an eye on me.

Then I launch myself at him. I’m airborne, and he’s diving, hitting the ground in a roll, expecting me to fumble when my target vanishes. But I wasn’t jumping at him—I was jumping over him. With one massive bound, I clear his back, hit the ground and keep running.

It takes Logan a moment to recover from the fake-out. I bear down, my ears flat, muzzle slicing through the wind as the thump-thump of my brother’s paws gallop behind me. Scents whip past. Damp earth and spring bluebells and the tantalizing musk of a distant deer. I don’t slow. We can hunt later.

Right now, I want to run, to feel the ground beneath my paws, the wind in my fur, my brother at my back.

The last is as important as the rest. Maybe more important now than ever. When I was little, Logan felt as integral to my life as a limb. Now, at sixteen, we’ve drifted, and I no longer feel whole. Yet whatever our problems, we shed them with our human forms. Out here, the rest of the world falls away and feels as it always has, and I am happy.

Ahead, the forest thickens. That’ll slow me down, but it also adds the challenge of an obstacle course. I leap over a dead tree and weave through thick brush while trying to gauge whether Logan is far enough back for me to hide and pounce.

I slit my eyes and swivel my ears to listen. Logan had to slow down in the forest, and I grin at that. I might have a slight advantage in speed, but I have an even greater one in agility, his recent growth spurt leaving him with a body he can’t quite operate yet. Behind me, there’s a thump and a yelp, as if he cut a corner too sharp and plowed into a tree.

I grin and nimbly swerve behind an outcropping of rock. Ahead, I see the perfect cover—the deadfall of a massive evergreen. I’ll hunker behind it, and when Logan vaults over, I’ll tackle him.

Getting up speed for my own leap, I’m running full out when a whistle sounds, cutting through the quiet evening and sending me skidding to a stop.

The whistle comes again. It’s the Alpha—who also happens to be our mom. If she’s calling us in, something’s happened. Something important enough to interrupt our run.

I throw back my head and howl. There’s a question in that, and Mom returns two quick whistle bursts. No, Stonehaven isn’t on fire or under attack by rogue wolves—she just needs to talk to us.

A sigh ripples behind me, and I twist to toss Logan a sympathetic snort.

We exchange a mournful look and separate to Change back.