Chapter 17

My fingers tremble against plastic, trying to keep grip on my phone, as Pete's ringer sings into my ear. Six times I call him, and six times I'm sent directly to voicemail.

"Dammit, Pete! Call me back!" I toss my phone onto the passenger seat of my car and then groan as it bounces to the floorboard.

Where is Pete?

My eyes latch to the vice grip I have on my steering wheel. Even with the closed fist, I can see dark residue—like black powder—saturating the inside of my fingers. The powder tingles on my skin the way peroxide burns an open cut. I have to force myself not to wipe off the black filtrate—the only real proof that I didn't hallucinate blasting the trucker with a ball of fire from my palm.

I take a sharp right off the Cape and proceed down the snow-coated drive to Beauchamp's. Originally, I intended to head over to The Fox Glove and somehow convince Olivian to help me--without resorting to begging, bargaining, or threatening--but then her voice came creeping into my mind with the aggravating reminder that she refuses to help anyone other than Beck. So, instead of listening to my impulsive side, I've let my intuition guide me around the lake, passed that creepy motel until my tires hit the snow-plowed gravel.

Beauchamp's parking lot is packed compared to the last time I came desperately searching for Beck. Most of the vehicles are Jeeps and Subarus, with the occasional crew-cab truck with tires ten times too large for its frame.

I luck out and find a parking spot between two snow-coated Chevys, and force myself out of the car before I convince myself to go home, crawl into bed, and never again see the light of day. There's this odd knot growing in the pit of my stomach, twisting and pulling at the doubt lingering in the back of my mind.

Maybe I am dangerous? Maybe this—the uncontrollable surge of power I felt before the fire materialized in my palm—is what my parents have been hiding from me this entire time.

My heart is pounding as I climb the porch steps, and it only heightens when I enter the bar. I immediately recognize Val, the female bouncer from my last visit, by the Michelangelo tattoo sleeve fully revealed from her dark gray tank top.

Even before she shoots me an annoyed scowl, I already know I'm unwelcome. I feel the uncomfortable tension from the twenty pairs of eyes fixed on me from all directions. The bar is packed tonight, full of hairy, lumberjack-type men that I bet smell as dirty as they look.

A couple boys, probably no older than twenty-five, stop playing their game of pool and fix their silver eyes on me.

Something subconsciously tells me to be guarded, so instinctually, I shove my fists into my jacket pockets, hiding the dark powder as best I can.

"Where's Beck?"

"Why are you here?" The corner of Val's heavily-lined eye twitches. "I thought we went over the rules already?"

I swallow the lump rising in my throat and force myself to play on my confidence in theatre—even though deep down I'm a shivering chicken.

"I don't have time for your rules right now. I need to know where Beck is."

Val scoffs, her red lips gapped at my blunt attitude. I'd like to pretend I feel a little guilty for acting like a jerk to her, but after her obnoxious attitude towards me, I sort of revel in flinging it right back at her.

"He's not here," she grumbles bitterly. I almost accept this answer, but then she flicks her eyes toward the kitchen as if to make sure he's not rounding the corner.

Annoyed, I step forward and lower my voice so only she can hear. "Look, Val. This is important. Like, life or death shit. Now, you can either help me, or I'll make a scene. I doubt you want the latter considering—"

"Considering what, exactly?" She snaps.

"I really don't think I have to say it, do I?" Threatening a werewolf isn't exactly what I'd call a smart thing to do, but the coal is beginning to singe the inside of my fist again. What happens if the trapped heat ignites the fire again? I can't shoot a ball of flame at a full house of werewolves. I might as well offer myself as sacrifice to their moon goddess for a bountiful harvest.

Val snarls, the corner of her lips stretching up to bare her teeth. "I'm going to kill that kid. Bloody kill him."

"Please, just help me."

"God, I hate children." She mumbles, black bangs swishing above her yellow eyes as she cranes her neck. As she scans around the bar, I think she's going to call security on me. But then Val surprises me by standing. She whispers low beneath her breath, "Follow me, and do not speak."

As soon as she takes off toward the back of the bar, I trail right behind her. She takes me through the familiar back hallway and past the service window where the cook eyes us suspiciously through the kitchen.

I keep walking forward, expecting to be led to the back lot—where Beck first told me about Olivian and the Blood Oath—when Val stops abruptly and I slam into her backside.

"Ugh! Watch it!" She snaps, brushing off her leather pants as if I had pushed her into a pile of dirt.

"What are we doing?"

Val flicks her chin sideways, directing my sight toward the dark green door to my left. She already has her long fingers pushing it open before I can protest to entering the dark opening.

"In here," she points, waiting for me to step forward.

The entrance is wafting with that damp, almost moldy, concrete odor. It's so dimly lit that there's barely enough light to see that there's a staircase below. Despite my resistance, Val shoves me toward the basement, keeping one hand on my back as we navigate the seemingly endless steps.

Laughter rumbles through the air when we flood into the foyer. There's a single ceiling light dangling from the wood rafters, and although it's better lit in here than in the stairwell, it's still too hard for me to make out anything more than outlines.

"To your right," Val grunts behind me. I feel her grip twisting my body clockwise and once I hear the creak of another door opening, she gives me another shove into the blinding light. The laughter heightens in volume as we walk through the entrance, and immediately I lay my eyes upon the backs of multiple men, all huddled around one of those square fold-up tables I've seen used for a drinking game at the only alcohol-inclusive party I've ever been to.

Most of the men are sitting in mismatched plastic lawn furniture, save the poor soul on the end uncomfortably resting on a stack of cinderblocks.

"You damn bloody cheat, Aram! I know you're countin' cards again!" The guy on the cinderblocks jumps up, pointing angrily at the man diagonal to him. "Y'all saw that, right?!"

The guy, presumably Aram, kicks his seat out from under him in his outburst. "You think I'd cheat after what happened last time? I nearly lost my goods having to take a lap in that freezing lake! Like hell I'll do it again!"

"You weasely son of a bitch! Don't be making a liar outta me!" He digs his nails into the edge of the table, shoulders trembling with rage.

"Tripp! Aram! Quit acting like animals!" Val brushes past me, her back visible as she swishes her leather-clad legs towards the boys. "We have company."

She places a tattooed hand a top Aram's shoulder before disappearing behind the shadowed section of the table.

One by one, each man cranes their neck around, and suddenly I feel like I'm seven again, frozen on stage beneath the beaming hot spotlights. They all just stare at me through strange, metallic eyes, and by their curious expressions, I'm sure they can hear my heart fluttering like frightened bird.

"Conall?" A familiar voice calls out, and my heart skips with relief. The legs of chair scrape along the concrete floor before Beck emerges from the shadowed corner. I shove my fists back inside my pockets, forcing myself not to rush to his protection. I can't seem like I have something to hide, especially since my girlish attire—compared to the black, plaid, and leather ensembles this lot is donning—screams that I don't belong here.

Aram chuckles beneath a heap of curly, dark beard. "Who's this? She a recruit or somethin'?"

"No," Beck grimaces as he shifts across the room towards me. When he's less than foot away, he leans in close, whispering so low that it's a miracle I hear him.

"What are you doing here?"

I suck a breath in through my nose and nearly choke on the moldy air filling my lungs.

"I need you." A prominent crease forms between Beck's brows, and suddenly I feel more self-conscious than I normally do around him. I quickly add, "Need to talk to you, I mean."

"Is she one of yours, man?" Tripp snorts with a wily grin. "If not, I call dibs."

"You can't call dibs every damn time a woman steps foot into the bar!" Aram snaps at him, and they both exchange a fiery scowl.

Werewolves, a prickle on the back of my neck warns. I'm in a basement full of redneck werewolves.

"Fuck off," Beck stands in front of me, as if shielding me with his body from some invisible supernatural force. "She's mine."

He reaches his arm back, his bare hand brushing around my wrist almost as if he wants to grasp it. His back is so close that I can feel the heat emanating through his cotton sweatshirt.

"You shouldn't of come here." He briefly glances sideways at me.

As strong as my desire is to always argue with him, this time, I know he's right. This was a terrible idea.

"What're you doin' kid? You know Boyd don't like outsiders down here." Tripp pushes away from the table and stands, taking a few steps toward us. The way he says it is a tease, like he's daring Beck to spark a testosterone war. "You remember what he did to the last girl you brought here."

Beck's hand clasps around my forearm, his body ridged with restraint. His body is so tense that the veins in his hand are threatening to burst through the epidermis.

"Well, Boyd's not gonna find out, is he, Tripp?"

Tripp laughs as he slowly moves forward. The closer he steps, the more I realize how dangerous this guy probably is. Even from this distance, I can see that he towers over Beck by at least half a foot, placing him somewhere around six-foot-five. By the way his shirt pulls tight at the chest, it's obvious that he has some serious strength hiding beneath all that flannel.

"I don't know, kid. She's young, but all that means is they've got more stamina." Tripp winks and I have to force myself not to vomit on Beck's feet. "I might just stake my claim."

This is when Val emerges from the shadows, a victorious smile painted on her lips. "See, girly, this is what happens when you threaten the Elite. Don't bark when you can't even bite."

Beck's eyebrow twitches at this news, but he remains firm in his stance. I have a powerful, gut-feeling that if he were to back down now, I may not get to leave this place alive.

"Hold up," Aram is the next to get up. "She knows about us? What the hell, Beauchamp?"

"I warned Boyd he needed to keep a closer reign on you! I knew it!" Tripp spits out a guttural sound, his body matching the intensity of Beck's. "How many other Inferiors have you blabbed to?"

"You idiot!" Beck's body ripples, and the sound of bones snapping reverberates off our concrete cage. "She had a right to know after you almost killed her!"

The lump in my throat drops to my gut like a ten-ton weight.

Killed? I rack my brain for any sort of memory with Tripp, but I already know I won't find anything. There wasn't even a semblance of familiarity when I first laid eyes on him. Is this another freaking memory that damn Ironide erased?

"What the hell you on about?"

I glance up at Tripp as he asks the same question running through my mind. Oddly, I find relief that his expression is equally as quizzical as mine.

Beck replies, "That night on the Cape. You ignored Boyd's rules and went hunting before the full moon. You were so hell-bent on finding a witch that you refused to let anything get in your way, including a damn logging truck."

Tripp's eyes glaze over with a twisted humor, and suddenly I realize what's going on. The night of my accident, the night I met Beck and my life shattered, was all because this guy was a blood-thirsty psychopath.

He was the wolf; the one that crushed the front of the Semi, and then launched it at the lake when I had gone to search for Beck. He almost killed me, and why? Out of boredom?

Anger rolls through me, licking my nerves like a tide of heat. I can feel the cells in my fingertips rubbing together, the friction building and building like the way pressure stirs inside an active volcano.

I close my eyes, trying to force down the rage clawing inside of me, but all I can think about is the selfish wolf grinning his twisted, proud smile at me.

Because of him, this is happening.

Because of him, my family is being shred apart at the seams.

Because of him, something wicked was surging through me...a deep sort of blackness growing in the pit of my heart and spidering through my veins. I may not know exactly what it is, this churning fire inside me, but the first moment it was ignited, I knew it was too heavy a power for me to possess.

It was dangerous and dark, and I knew that I liked it.

I swallow hard through the dryness now enveloping my throat.

"Beck," I croak, my fists shivering from clenching them so tightly at my sides. "Get me out of here, now."

I'm not sure if he didn't hear me or is ignoring me, but he doesn't take his eyes off Tripp. The heat is still rising in my gut like boiling water in kettle, and I know I only have a few minutes before I blow my top.

Calm down.

I think back to the conversation Beck and I had the night we cast the memory spell. The Elite were responsible for The Purge, for all those murdered witches.

You're dead if you lose control.

"Beck," I command. "Get. Me. Out."

"You look like you're gonna be sick, girly." Tripp smirks. "Can't handle the wolf?"

Every syllable he speaks is like taking a lighter to my nerves. One more lit fuse and I'll snap.

Beck doesn't move, and I can't wait any longer. I rip my wrist from his iron grip and burst through the door. I go with my gut as I run through the darkness,. I hear footsteps behind me, but I hurdle myself up the rest of the steps and nearly smack my face on the ground when I misjudge the location of the top step.

I scramble upright as fast as I can and head straight for the back lot.

Outside is so cold; I can practically feel the freezing air sizzling against my blistering skin. I force myself to keep running, taking off down a path where I can catch glimpses of the lake through the trees.

"Conall!" I hear Beck yelling at my back, but I can't stop.

I don't stop. Not until my feet hit frozen sand and my body ripples with the need to release this cosmic friction brimming inside me.

I aim my fist at the thick ice ahead and with a deep breath, I peel open my trembling fingers. Searing hot energy explodes from my palm, and just like before, a sense of relief washes over me when the warmth dissipates.

I try to inhale as I stare at the fresh hole gaping in the ice, chunks of which are scattered across the surface of the lake.

Focus, focus, focus, I think. I inhale, exhale, inhale, exhale, but the air is so cold and my body is so wired that I somehow can't breathe.

Inhale...

Exhale...

Inhale...

"Conall?"

I whip around. Beck's standing a few yards away. The expression on his face is bewildered and he must realize I catch it, because his eyes suddenly change—harden, really—as if trying to steel himself over.

This kills me more than I ever thought it would. His look, his very stance, confirms he just witnessed everything.

And he's terrified of me.

"Beck," my voice cracks mid-whisper, and before I can get ahold of myself, my body crumples to the hard sand. For the first time since the accident that changed my life, I curl into a ball and sob uncontrollably.