Page 43 of Witch's Wolf

Dennis Connors: 0% Match

My pulse stops and my stomach twists into a gordian knot. The room tilts as the words burn into my brain.

“Oh, God…”

It’s not possible. It’s a mistake. A lab error. A mix-up with someone else’s results. But no matter how I try to convince myself it’s wrong, I know. The truth on this paper is cold andunyielding. The bodies in those coffins aren’t my parents.They never were.

24

SAM

“You bought the wrong bolts.”

A simple mistake. Could happen to anyone, right? No.

Not to me. Not in ten years of working on bikes. My hands have always been steady, my mind sharp, my focus unshakable. Now my head is a mess. The need for vengeance gnawing at the edges of my thoughts mixes with grief at the loss of what I opened myself up to.

I grip the neck of the exhaust, fingers tightening until my knuckles go white. Heat surges through my veins, my pulse pounding in my ears. In a flash, I raise the damn thing and hurl it against the wall. Metal crashes against concrete, a sharp clang ringing through the garage. The thick pipe dents on impact, then drops to the floor with a dullthud, flakes of white paint fluttering around it.

Still seething, I lunge for the door and yank it open, the solid wood slams into the wall so hard the hinges groan. Stepping outside, hands on hips, I tilt my head and stare at the sky. The endless blue expanse stretches away, indifferent to my rage.

“Sammy?”

Raul’s voice cuts through my fragile grasp on control. Damn it. I close my eyes for half a second, willing him to disappear. He doesn’t, of course. His boots crunch on gravel as he comes closer.

I want to get on a bike and ride. Ride for the horizon. Ride until I run out of road, at the ocean or what the fuck ever. If it wasn’t for this damn leg… Raul waits, silent, but not leaving. I rub my thigh, trying to ease the ache. The break is healed, thanks to healing fast by nature, but it’s nowhere near a hundred percent.

“Dude, are you alright?”

I laugh bitterly, lowering my gaze to the horizon.

“No, I’m not alright,” I snap. “I haven’t been alright since that goddamn night.”

“I know,” he says. His voice is steady and calm in sharp contrast to the chaos I feel. “I see it every day.”

I whip my head around to glare at him.

“Then why the hell do you even ask?”

“Because you’re my brother,” Raul says, stepping closer. “I’ve been wracking my damn brain trying to figure out how to help, but I got nothing Sam. If you’ve got any ideas, shoot.”

“I don’t,” I say, letting out a long exhale. The words are hollow, lacking anything useful. “That’s the problem. I’m trapped in that memory, and I can’t find my way out. Stop wracking your brain, man. You can’t help me with this one. No one can.”

The screen door of Raul’s cabin creaks as it opens.

“Guys…” Monica’s voice cuts through the thick air, halting whatever argument Raul is about to throw at me. She steps onto the porch, her face drawn.

“I just got off the phone with Erica,” she says, walking toward us. “She is almost here.” She looks right at me, pinning me in place with a sharp, no-nonsense stare. “Sam, she has bad news. Really bad, so I’m asking for a favor. Go easy on her. Please.”

“As usual, huh?” I mutter, looking away. “Doesn’t matter she was unfair to me. Doesn’t matter she dumped me for no damn reason. I should go easy on her.”

Monica frowns, shifting her weight, but she doesn’t back down.

“Like I said, I’m asking you as a favor,” she repeats, voice calm but firm. “You’re mad at her, and for good reason. I get it, Sam, but she’s devastated. Please, hold it off. For a little bit, don’t make this worse.”

“I’ll try to keep my mouth shut,” I concede. “Out of respect for you and Raul. But I swear to God, if she starts up with that bullshit about her infecting people, I’ll kick her ass all the way back to New York.”

“Fair enough,” Monica says with a nod.

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