Page 49 of Raised By Wolves

“Hey, bird, I saw some sweet roadkill on Route 20 this morning,” Waylon calls. “You should go check it out.” Then he turns to me, and his sudden, gorgeous smile is almost impossible forme to look at. He grabs one of my hands and holds it lightly between his. “All this talk about carrion and vomit is making me hungry,” he says. “How about we go get something to eat?”

Warmth floods my body, and all of my attention rushes to where his skin touches mine.He’s holding my hand, I think stupidly.Waylon Meloy is holding my hand. No one’s ever done that before.

“Well, what do you say?” Waylon nods over to his motorcycle, the one I’m technically not allowed to ride. “That right there is a 1975 Norton Commando, electric start,” he says. “You can’t find a more classic bike. It was the only thing I got from my dad when he died. I had to rewire it, though, because a lot of old British motorcycles have shit electrical systems. Next I’m probably going to swap out the Amal carbs for a Mikuni carburetor—” Then he stops. “Sorry, this doesn’t mean anything to you at all, does it?”

I shake my head. I understand raven language better than motorcycle terminology. But I can tell Waylon really loves his bike. And I also wonder what happened to his dad.

“Look, all you really need to know is that it’s a killer bike,” Waylon says, “and when the chief says you shouldn’t ride it, you shouldnotlisten to him.” He lets go of my hand, and my skin misses his warmth.

Touch me again, I think.

“So,” he says, “are you going to get on or what?”

I shouldn’t do it. The chief would kill me.

I can’t bring myself to say yes.

But I can manage a nod.

“Great,” he says happily. “Let’s go.”

Excitement and fear take turns flooding through me as I put on my helmet. Waylon slings his right leg over the seat. Awkwardly I slide on behind him. The seat’s hot from the sun. The bike smells like gas and leather.

“You’re going to have to hold on,” Waylon tells me.

I feel around the side of the seat for grips or handles. There aren’t any. “To what?” I ask, confused.

I can hear the smile in his voice when he answers. “Tome,” he says.

CHAPTER 35

FOR HOLO AND me, survival meant following three life-or-death rules.

Be prepared.

Stay in control.

Don’t do anything stupid.

As the trees rush by and the motorcycle rattles between my legs, I realize that I’m violating all three of them all at once.

This is a terrible mistake.

And there’s nothing I can do about it now.

Leaning forward, I press my chest closer against Waylon’s muscular back. I wrap my arms tighter around his waist. The bike picks up speed. The world turns into a green-and-blue blur.

I can actually feel Waylon’s voice against my rib cage. But I can’t hear what he’s saying, because the roar of the engine drowns it out. My eyes tear up from the wind, and I don’t know where we’re going. If he hits a bump wrong, we’re dead.

Yep, I’m pretty convinced I’m going to die.

Hey, raven, there’s somereallyfresh roadkill on the Kokanee Highway!

But I also feel more alive than I’ve ever felt before.

Then Waylon slows down, the bike makes a leaning turn, and we come to a gentle stop. He cuts the engine and I half fall off the motorcycle, my legs weak with relief.

“Well?” Waylon asks. “Did you love it?”

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