Page 29 of Rejected Moons (Rejected Moons 3)

Then, just when I’m starting to feel like I can’t take another minute, I see light ahead.

I can’t help it. I break into a trot. I can hear my nails clicking against the concrete now, but it doesn’t matter. I just need to get out of here.

From somewhere close by, I hear a howl.

Not a wolf howl. A human howl.

Oh, fuck—!

I can’t tell if it’s in front of me or behind me. I could be running right at it for all I know. My heart kicks into overdrive and my mind feels like it’s swimming in an ocean of panic. My breathing is way too fast.

I see the exit!

I’m sprinting now, my nose pointing toward the stairs. I’m running harder than I ever have in my life, harder than I even knew I could. I reach the stairs and gallop to the top without thought for what might be awaiting me up there.

I emerge onto the city street.

It’s empty. No wolves.

Without breaking stride, I turn down a side street and run for the lake.

I don’t know why I’m so sure it’s the place to be. It’s instinct more than actual logic driving me there. I don’t want to be wet. But the thought of water feels safe, somehow.

I’m probably being ridiculous. If it was a river, I could travel downstream, and the wolves wouldn’t be able to track my scent. But what am I planning to do, swim across that giant lake? There’s no chance of it.

Still, I run until I reach the beach, and then I run all the way down to the water. I splash through the surf until I find a stretch of rocks, and I hole up between two of them, taking shelter from the elements there.

I close my eyes and breathe deeply, doing my best to let my heart return to normal.

I can’t believe I survived that.

But I know it’ll be a long time before I manage to sleep, and I can’t help wishing, once again, that Nate was here to take a watch.

Chapter Twenty: NATE

“Nate!”Paulsaysfrombehind the bar as I enter his little establishment.

I look around the place furtively. “Hey, Paul,” I say. “Has Butch been here?”

“No,” Paul says. “I haven’t seen any of your pack in weeks. I was starting to think you were too good for my brew.”

“Your brew’s the only game in town,” I point out. You can tell by looking at the faces of the buildings that remain that this city used to be full of bars, but now you can’t get a drink anywhere unless you distill your own alcohol or go to Paul’s. I’ve tried making my own stuff a few times, but it always comes out near-toxic, and Paul’s actually good at what he does, so whenever I can get away, I prefer to visit his place.

One of the biggest perks of being on my own now—no one can tell me I can’t come here.

“What did you bring me?” he asks.

I hold up a dead rabbit, which I caught on the way here. “What’s this good for? Five drinks?”

Paul laughs. “Five? Try two.”

“Come on, Paul. I’m one of your best customers!”

“I’ll make it three if you fix the leg of that stool,” he says, pointing.

“What’s wrong with it?”

“It’s wobbly.”

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