On Fire

CHAPTER EIGHT

Standing behind Jackson was a striking girl with blond hair about his age, wearing a lot of kohl around her golden brown eyes. She wore a silver jacket with a fuzzy hood and a pair of jeans. He didn’t recognize her, which meant that if she went to his school, she was beneath his notice.

“Hey,” he replied. He gestured with his head toward the tree. “Is that your arrow?”

She jerked, probably looking as startled as he had when he’d seen it. She moved away from the tree, toward him.

“No. Is someone doing archery?” She swiveled around. “Are we going to get, like, shot?”

“I don’t know. Hey, do you know how to get out of here?” he asked. “I’m in the parking lot.”

“Yeah, sure,” she said. “What are you doing?”

“Come look,” he invited.

She minced toward him. He caught himself touching the wounds on the back of his neck with his right hand as he held back the branches with his left. The bird started going completely psycho. “I think it’s trapped.”

She was wearing the same Vera Wang perfume Lydia wore. Pricey. “Oh, it’s a hawk,” she said. “A predator.”

It sounded like a strange thing to say. She took a couple of steps back, and the bird seemed to calm down the merest little bit. Jackson was about to leave it so he could get back to the parking lot and find Lydia, when the bird screeched again and he looked down at it.

“It thinks you’re its daddy,” she said, grinning at him.

“Well, I’m not.” He watched the bird bobbing its head up and down, up and down, like some kind of cartoon. Squatting down, he broke away more branches, half expecting it to take off. It kept bobbing and screeching, and the girl looked upward.

“Mama’s not coming,” she said. “It’s probably hungry.”

“Do you go to Beacon Hills?” Jackson asked her.

Her lips curved upward in a little grin. She shook her head. “But I’m here with some people. I can take you to the lot and then I should get back. I’ll be missed.”

Jackson looked down at the hawk. Stupidly, he was concerned about it.

“You said it might be hungry,” he ventured. “These things eat meat, right?”

“Yes, so unless you have a dead mouse on you, there’s not much you can do for it.” She shifted her weight. “I kind of have to make this quick.”

“What’s your name?” he asked her.

“Cassie. You?”

“Jackson.” He realized he was waiting to see if she recognized his name. But she’d already said she didn’t go to Beacon Hills.

“Hold on a sec,” he said.

Jackson yanked out more of the undergrowth on either side of the excited bird, really going for it. The bird flapped its wings and took off, aiming straight for Jackson’s head. Jackson cried out and flopped onto his back, and the bird curved upward, soaring into the trees. Cassie burst out laughing and Jackson did, too. It was just so crazy after a horrible, crazy twenty-four hours.

“Here, let me help you up,” she said, reaching out a hand. He took it. Her grip was amazingly strong. He pushed himself to his feet and suddenly he was standing facing her. She was tall, but not as tall as he was.

She had a funny look on her face, like she was about to say something but wasn’t sure if she should. He couldn’t read it and he surreptitiously checked his nose for souvenirs by pretending to cough and ran his tongue along his teeth. Everything was fine. But he didn’t need to be so careful. She hadn’t even noticed. She was looking at the ground, and Jackson looked down, too, half expecting to find another baby bird or something at her feet. But there was nothing.

“I don’t want to keep you,” he said, hinting. She was pretty, but he had a life to get back to.

She went very still, almost not moving. Something was up with her, but he didn’t know what it was. And he didn’t have time to find out. He’d already done his good deed for the day.

“You said you were in a hurry,” he reminded her.

She inhaled a deep breath and held it. Then she let it out slowly. “Yeah. Come on.”

“Oh. Do you have a phone?” he asked. “Mine isn’t working. Which is ironic, because it’s a very expensive phone.”

“I’m sure it is,” she replied. That confused him. He had no idea what she meant by that, so he just waited for her answer. “I don’t have a phone, actually,” she said. But her face went red, and he knew she was lying. Maybe it was a cheap one, and she was embarrassed to let him use it.

In a few minutes it wouldn’t matter. He’d be back in his car and on his way to extreme makeup passion with Lydia. The sooner he was out of here the better. And he was never coming back here or getting scammed by some two-bit guy who thought he’d siphon off some of that great Whittemore money. He’d watch The Notebook with Lydia for twenty-four hours straight before he did anything this insane again.

“Thanks for doing this,” he said to her. “I appreciate it.”

She went silent again. Then she turned her back and said, “No problem.”

They began to walk, she in front of him, and he behind. He smelled her perfume . . . and smoke. He jerked, anxious that they might run into Gramm again.

“We’re not heading in the direction of any campfires, are we?” He tried to sound casual.

“No,” she said. “Parking lot.” She looked over her shoulder at him. “What kind of car do you drive?”

“A Porsche,” he said proudly.

“Figures,” she murmured. They walked on, she in front. Jackson pulled out his phone to check his reception. Still no service. Damn.

Cassie kept leading the way, moving aside branches that she held for him. He grinned to himself, comparing how Lydia would never have done such a thing, but he was also beginning to wonder how long the hike back was going to take. He must have gotten himself turned way around.

“We’re going the right way, right?” he said to her back.

“Uh-huh,” she replied. “Trust me.”

At the Argents’ house, all the new weapons were put away in the garage. All that beautiful ammo. Those lovely guns. Kate still hadn’t figured out if they had anything new in their arsenal, and Chris wasn’t saying. He was finishing checking a box of crossbow bolts. Crossbow bolts, for heaven’s sake. Why bother with Robin Hood when there were rocket launchers to be had?

Kate liked to think that they were ready for anything, but she knew all too well that where werewolves were involved, you couldn’t get too cocky. Take their present situation. When she’d come back to Beacon Hills, she’d figured she’d pop into town, kill whatever was slinking around, put some more notches in her belt, and that would be that.

Then things got complicated, and she was more than willing to blame Derek Hale for all of it. Some werewolf he was—couldn’t even figure out the identity of the new Alpha. And as long as Derek was alive, he could get her in major trouble, by implicating her in the fire. Sad to say, she was surrounded by people who still lived by that outdated code. In her opinion, the only good werewolf was a dead werewolf. And as for those so-called normal Hales who had died in the unfortunate electrical fire in their house?

Better safe than sorry.

“So when is Allison coming home tonight?” she asked Chris as he set the alarm code in the entryway to the garage. She watched over his shoulder to see if he was changing the password. Yes. To “silver.” Not too original, but her brother had colored inside the lines for so long she would have expected nothing more from him.

“She’s spending the night at her friend’s,” Chris told her. “They’re working on an English project.”

She snorted. “Chris, really? This is the same Allison who cut school and stole a condom out of my bag, right? I mean, I love my niece, but what’s the saying about giving someone enough rope? They hang themselves?”

To her surprise, he didn’t take the bait and start arguing with her. He just gave her one of those enigmatic smiles that used to drive her crazy while they were growing up and walked into the kitchen, where Victoria, his wife, was putting the finishing touches on dinner.

Kate snitched a cherry tomato out of the salad and popped it into her mouth. “How about you, Vicky?” she asked her sister-in-law. “Do you think Allison’s studying with a friend?”

Victoria Argent smiled coldly back at her and checked the oven. The aroma of baked chicken tantalized Kate’s senses.

“Allison has made some poor choices lately,” Victoria conceded, “but we didn’t want her home for the weapons delivery.”

“So, you can tell her to come home now,” Kate said. “Everything’s stashed.” She pulled out her cell phone. “Should I call Allison and see how her study date is going?”

Scott kept monitoring himself on the walk to Allison’s car. The hike back to it seemed longer than their original trek, and he began to wonder if they had gone the wrong way. But mingled with his anxiety was real wonder at the beauty of the woods in the setting sun. All his senses were in play; he could smell mushrooms and damp earth, and Allison’s shampoo and perfume. The smell of the smoke was fainter now, and he scented rain in the clouds. He could smell the weather. How cool was that?

He saw the blue glow of the stars, and a milky ring around the moon appeared in the sky. What was it about the full moon that made him change? Was all this magic? Did he actually believe in magic?

When he looked at Allison, the answer was yes.

There was her car, parked exactly where they had left it. He heaved a sigh of relief, chased by a little thrill as she looked over her shoulder at him. In the world of high school, cars were like portable bedrooms. Except he didn’t want their first time to be in a car.

Or maybe I’m being too picky, he thought, as, still gazing invitingly at him, she reached into her purse. To get the keys, he assumed.

“Huh,” she said, and dug around some more. Then she held her purse open and peered inside. “I don’t see my keys.”

He woke his phone up and shined its illuminated display window into her purse, making a silent inventory of the contents—lip gloss, pens, her phone, a leather wallet, a tiny notebook, what looked like more makeup.

But no keys.

Her forehead furrowed, she looked up at him, then dug around some more. He rewound the night in his head, trying to remember where he’d last seen her keys.

“I took them, right?” she murmured. Then she put her hand around the driver’s door handle and opened it. She smiled hopefully. “Maybe I left them in the ignition.” She sat down in her seat and reached forward. Felt around.

“They’re not there, Scott,” she said nervously.

“Maybe you dropped them on the ground when you got out.” He started scanning the area around the door, figuring he was too close to her—making it too risky—to use his enhanced vision. Aside from chancing discovery of his weirdly glowing eyes, he didn’t want to initiate a shift he couldn’t pull himself back from.

No keys.

Increasing the search area, he moved back a couple of feet and squatted down, pushing away ferns and underbrush, anticipating a metallic glint. Behind him, Allison was examining the floor of the car and feeling between the seats. He could hear her muttering under her breath, walking herself through her actions. Everything was kind of a blur for him—he’d been so distracted just being alone with her—so maybe it was like that for her, too.

“They’re not here,” she said. “Oh, God, Scott. What did I do with them?”

A breeze blew her hair as she climbed back out of the car and faced him. And the wind brought the stronger odor of smoke with it. As if the fire had grown . . . or there was a second fire.

His heartbeat picked up.

Don’t wolf, he ordered himself.

“Let’s backtrack,” she said. “I must have dropped them when we first started out. I had my phone out.” She started walking back the way they had just come. “I looked for my gloves.” She stopped and opened her purse. “No. I didn’t have them in my purse. They were in my jacket pocket.” She brightened and put her hand into her pocket. “They’re probably . . . not there.” Her face fell. “Scott . . .”

“I’ll call Stiles,” he said. “He can come get us.”

“That’s not the problem,” she said. “Well, not the immediate problem. I can’t leave my car here.”

Scott realized they were focused on two different issues. She wanted to find her keys, and he wanted to get her out of the preserve. He opened his mouth to explain, but he reminded himself that he was dealing with Allison Argent. She would probably laugh at him if he told her he was feeling protective.

He couldn’t let that matter.

“Stiles can get you and take you to Lydia’s,” he repeated, “and I’ll stay here and look for your keys. When I find them, I’ll drive your car to Lydia’s.” He looked down at his phone. The charge had gone down to 15 percent. He reminded himself that once he had found the keys, he could charge his phone in her car.

Aware that she hadn’t responded, he gazed up expectantly at her. She shook her head and gave him a mock-stern look. “I’m not leaving you out here while I’m all cozy.” She made a face. “And while I’m not with you.”

Scott wanted to pinch himself. She really did like him.

“Then you wait in the car,” he said.

“No. Two sets of eyes are definitely better than one.” She cocked her head and raised a brow. “It’s the wolf, isn’t it?”

“What?” he asked, his voice rising shrilly. He cleared his throat. “What?” he said in a lower, more manly register.

“You’re afraid that the wolf will attack us.” She broke eye contact as she studied the ground, circling the car. “I don’t know a whole lot about wolves, but I do remember something I saw on a show somewhere. They’re very shy. They don’t attack unless provoked.”

He lowered his head and let his wolf vision take over so they could find the keys more quickly and leave. If he worked hard at keeping his head turned away, she wouldn’t be able to see his eyes.

“So how do you explain the fact that that wolf just walked right up to us? That was definitely not shy,” he argued.

“Maybe it’s not a wolf. Maybe it was something else,” she said, and he jerked, startled.

“Like what?”

She thought a moment. “Well, I think there are dogs that look very wolflike. Have you ever seen anything like that at the vet clinic?”

“Nothing like what we saw,” he insisted. “I swear that was a wolf.”

“Well, maybe it was just passing through. I’ll bet we could have petted it if we’d wanted to. Not that I would have,” she said. “I’m not stupid.”

“I know,” he said. He didn’t want her to think he was insulting her intelligence. It was so hard to carry such a deep secret. Why did her father have to be a hunter? Why did there have to be hunters at all?

“Any luck?” he asked, trying to change the subject, but it was a lame attempt. If she’d found her keys, she would have said something.

“They’re definitely not here.” She raised her head. “Scott, I can’t leave here without my keys.”

“I’ll call Stiles and ask him to come help us,” he said.

“I was hoping to have some time alone,” she murmured. “But, well, I do need my keys.” She sniffed the air. “There’s more smoke. Someone must be having a bonfire.”

“Yeah, maybe.”

“Well, that means there are other people nearby. So the animals will keep away. The wolf,” she added, in case he didn’t catch her drift. “And maybe we can get some other people to help.”

But then he had a thought. “Allison,” he said carefully, “maybe someone took the keys.”

She laughed and shook her head. “Who would do that?”

“But what if someone did?” he asked. “Maybe just for a prank, or something?”

“That would be . . . really mean,” she said hotly. “I don’t know anyone who would do that.”

You’re new here, he thought.

He tried to sniff the air without her noticing, to see if he could tell if anyone had been near her car. Then her phone rang, and as she pulled it out of her purse, he inhaled more deeply. He wasn’t spectacular at picking out scents—although he had smelled the blood on Laura Hale’s dead body, both in the morgue and in her grave—and he wasn’t having any luck now with trying to smell humans who might have opened the car while they’d been out of sight.