Chapter 9: Logan

In my quest to find Mason, I ask a few people whether they’ve seen him. Of course, I first need to introduce myself. As I slog through the “Hey, you’re new? What race are you? Ooh, a secret, huh?” I find myself wishing I could be more like Kate, who’d plow past the small talk in a situation like this.

Two campers don’t know who Mason is. Another two curl their lips and say that thankfully they haven’t seen him, and then they launch into a speech about what a jerk he is. Clearly this is not a shortcut to finding my erstwhile roommate.

The obvious answer is to track Mason by scent, and I return to our room to pick up his trail.

His scent tells me he walked to the stairs, turned and headed out the door, then veered left. I spot a storage shed in that direction, jog over and bend to check. His trail continues inside.

The door has a padlock, but it’s been left ajar. I push it open. This is a more traditional camp building. It even has windows, and I step into a quiet, still space that smells of fresh wood and canvas.

There’s not much in the shed, and all of it is new, bought for this conference. Tents mostly, along with maybe a dozen sleeping bags. Presumably there’s a small-group camping component to the conference. I’ll have to tell Kate. She’ll like that.

The tents and sleeping bags have been numbered so recently I can still smell the Sharpie fumes. One of each is missing. At the empty spot, I detect Mason’s scent.

I could drop the matter here. If solo tent-camping is against rules, that’s no concern of mine. I certainly won’t tattle on him. Yet this isn’t a state park campground. We’re deep in the Appalachian foothills, and if you don’t have a werewolf’s tracking ability, it’d be easy to get lost. I smelled black bear earlier, and that won’t be the only predator out there.

Mason isn’t a little kid. If he makes stupid choices, that’s on him. But if he’s made a stupid choice because of me, I need to be exactly the kind of guy I suspect he despises—the overgrown Boy Scout compelled to warn him of the forest’s dangers.

I follow his trail from the shed. As I do, I glance at the conference center. It’s as silent as when we arrived. They should be out here, enjoying a late spring evening where they can make as much noise as they want with no one to disturb. Instead, they’re locked up in a windowless box.

This can’t be what Paige intended. Until she arrives, though, being alone out here is to my advantage. There’s no one to stop me from slipping into the forest.

Tracking Mason is easier outdoors where I don’t have to worry about someone spotting me with my nose in the dirt. I don’t snuffle along like a bloodhound. Mason has followed a rough path into the forest, and I only need to drop every ten paces or so and make sure he hasn’t left it. When he does, a half mile from camp, I can follow the trail of broken twigs and trampled undergrowth.

After that, I smell him on the breeze. He went maybe fifty feet off-trail before he found a suitable clearing and erected his tent. Or, I should say, he attempted to erect it. The structure lists to one side, and it’ll collapse once he’s in it. Clearly, Mason is not a guy with extensive camping experience.

Sitting on a log is the wannabe survivalist himself. He’s eating a granola bar, water bottle in hand, his gaze down. When I approach, he doesn’t even look up as he says, “Turn around and go back, mutt.”

“I’m not a mutt. I’m a Pack werewolf.”

He snorts. “Yeah, that’s right. You’re a werewolf prince. Can’t mistake you for one of the plebs.”

“Prince would imply a hereditary leadership, which we don’t have. Admittedly, we do have an archaic system, though, given that we refer to non-Pack werewolves as mutts, which is meant to be as insulting as you implied. Mom would like to get rid of that word, but there’s resistance even among those it refers to. Especially among those, actually. They see it as a badge of honor.”

“Did you come out here to discuss werewolf politics?”

“We could,” I say as I lower myself to the ground. “It’s a favorite topic of mine.”

He finally looks at me then, as if to see whether I’m kidding. He catches my eye, snorts again and shakes his head.

“Go away, Teen Wolf,” he says. “Is that more politically correct?” “I’m not sure politically correct is the right term but—”

“Fuck off, Logan Danvers. Better?”

I wrap my arms around my knees. “It is. And the answer is ‘no thank you.’ I understand the request, and I decline to comply.”

His face hardens. Then he looks at the forest behind me. “How’d you find me?”

I arch a brow. “I’m a werewolf. I track scents.” He nods, slowly, as if assimilating this.

“I’m sure you realized that,” I say. “What you actually meant was how did I track you when you shouldn’t have a scent.”

“Of course I have one. Everyone does.” “Not vampires.”

There’s a split-second delay. Then he takes a big bite of his bar, teeth bared as he rips it off, chews, swallows and pitches the rest at me. “Check the wrapper,” he says. “One hundred percent plasma-free.” I take out the last piece and pop it into my mouth.

“Hey!” Mason says.

“I missed dinner. You wouldn’t happen to have more, would you?” I sniff the air, rise and find a stash beside the tent. I grab one and rip it open. “Thanks.”

“That’s my food, asshole.”

“I think we already established that you’re worried about me getting hungry. I don’t want to scare you with my grumbling stomach. So, you’re a vampire. Interesting.”

“Did you just see me eat that bar?”

“Vampires can eat food. They just prefer not to because they have trouble digesting it, being dead.”

“Do I look dead? Do I smell dead?”

“You are very pale, and you have the brooding-vamp persona down pat. If you’re trying to hide your racial identity, you might want to act more cheerful. However, you do have a scent, and that stash of granola bars suggests you eat voluntarily, not just to fit in with humans.”

“Weird, huh? It’s almost like I’m”—he meets my gaze—“not a vampire.” “True. Except you are. Which makes this very odd.”

He glowers at me. “I’ve heard of people being smarter than they sound, but you’re the first person I’ve met who sounds smarter than he is. Let me guess. Private school?”

“See, here’s the logical conundrum I’m trying to work out. You have a scent. You eat food. Your heart beats. You clearly are not dead. Yet I can tell you’re a predator, and the only two supernatural predators are vampires and werewolves. I suppose I might not be aware of some minor predatory race, but that’s highly unlikely.”

Mason rolls his eyes. “Because you’ve read the Encyclopedia Britannica of Supernatural Races cover to cover.”

“There is no such thing. However, I’ve read most of the interracial council’s library. While I’d never rule out the possibility of a third predatory race, they’d be exceptionally rare, and the counselors know all about yours. They also commented on the danger of putting us in a room together. As predators, vampires and werewolves are naturally wary of one another, but it isn’t the historical animosity of sorcerers and witches. I suspect the counselors have seen too many movies if they presume we’re natural enemies.”

“Or . . . I’m not a goddamned vampire.”

“Vampires aren’t damned by God. They’re just another hereditary evolution.”

He glowers at me.

I continue, “Vampires are the only race that other supernaturals hate and fear as much as werewolves. The counselor’s comments suggest you and I fall into the same category. Ergo, since I can tell you’re not a werewolf, by process of elimination, you must be a vampire.”

“A breathing, eating, not-dead vampire.” Mason shakes his head and pushes to his feet. “Enough of this bullshit.” He unzips his tent and reaches in, grabbing his sleeping bag as if to start packing. One of the tent pegs wobbles.

“Watch—!” I begin.

The tent collapses on him.

I could help. That’d be the nice thing to do. But that would mean I’d miss out on the scene of Mason cursing and batting his arms with the tent draped over him. At least I’m polite enough to avoid laughing. Or avoid laughing loud enough for him to hear over his curses.

He staggers about, scrambling to get free, the tent draped squarely over his head. When he heads straight for the log, I leap up to catch him before he trips.

“Get your paws off me,” he roars.

I let go. He falls face-first to the ground. More cursing. I helpfully tug the tent off his head. Blood streams from his nose. He swipes it and lifts his hand to me.

“Not a vampire,” he says.

“Vampires can bleed if they’ve just fed,” I say. “That might also explain the scent. I believe they have one if they’ve recently—”

“For fuck’s sake, I am not a vampire!” “Then what are you?”

He puts his face inches from mine. “None of your business.”

Mason kicks the tent aside. Then he stomps to a backpack, hefts it and stalks into the forest.

“Don’t forget your tent!” I call.

“It’s all yours. I’m going back to camp.”

I munch on another granola bar as his footsteps recede . . . in the wrong direction. I continue eating. Mason continues crashing through the brush.

I polish off the rest of the bar. Then I rise, brush crumbs from my shorts and start fixing his tent in case he returns. Otherwise, I’ll go after him to make sure he gets back to camp. I’m just not in a hurry. If he gets lost and starts to panic, that brick wall might drop enough for me to find out—

“What the—?” Mason’s voice rises, shrill, from deep in the woods. Then he bellows in pain, the sound cut short.

The forest falls silent.

I drop a tent peg and run.