Josh shook his head again.
“I'll be fine,” I promised, pushing off his paw and pulling off the shirt I'd worn to bed. I put my arms in my bra and did that, then pulled my pink thermal shirt over the top. "That wolf is unlikely to attack the site in broad daylight, especially now that he knows you're around." And I promise I won't go anywhere else without you. I know you won't be far from me if I need you.
Josh looked at me for a few moments, then slowly shook his head.
- Good boy. I scratched behind his ears. Josh got up and rocked his body down. I admired the toned muscles in his legs, the beautiful shape of his jaw, the powerful slope of his back. Even in wolf form, he was an impressive creature.
I opened the flap and a blast of cold air hit my face. Josh took off, his beautiful tail flying behind him. I watched as he bolted towards the bushes.
“Josh? I poked my head into the frigid air. He turned his head, those big green eyes swimming in my vision. - Be careful.
Josh nodded and walked away, his tail disappearing into the dark trees.
It was weird, but even though we hadn't spoken a word, and even though he was a wolf and we couldn't have sex again, last night felt even more intimate than the last. I felt like I was seeing a side of Josh that he didn't show to many people. And I got to tell him things I couldn't tell anyone else, things that had been messing with me for a while, about Mom and graduate school and my future. When I slept, I hadn't dreamed of Ben or his father. When Josh was with me, I was at peace.
I just wish he could stay here on the farm with me, personally. As brave as I had shown myself to him, I was afraid of this new wolf and what he might do. I didn't want any more surprises. But I suspected I hadn't seen the last of the new wolf.
**
josh
erda.
As I raced across the edge of camp, behind the trailer where Frances was burning a pan of bacon, the
another trail of wolf scent crossed mine. It was cool. He was here recently.
My mouth still tasted metallic, like the other wolf's blood. I couldn't clear the taste. My eyelids drooped as I sniffed the edges of the trail. I didn't sleep last night, too preoccupied with protecting Allora from intruders. He was hidden against the wind, where the rain and breeze would carry his scent.
I wanted to hang with Allora like a bee on a beautiful fucking flower, but she was right. She would be relatively safe with everyone else on the site. The film crew stayed overnight, and he was unlikely to attack with them. Besides, staying there carried the risk of attacking someone or being seen. On the other hand, the wolf could not have gone that far. I may never get the chance to walk such a new path again. With one last lingering glance toward Allora's tent, I walked out into the trees.
I followed the wolf trail deep into the forest, but lost it about five miles along the ridge. Not because the trail was cold, but because the trail was muddy with another scent trail…a distinctly wolf trail. There was a third wolf in the area.
I should have gone out and dealt with the wolf first last night, I cursed myself. Now I had two shifters to deal with, and the way those trails met, it looked like they might be working together. The wolf that attacked me had come to this spot and then followed the new wolf's trail, which was hours old.
Another wolf.
This thing was getting too dangerous. My father had told me that there were other packs who wanted the caves and paintings to remain hidden. The alpha of Bleddyn's pack wanted to marry my grandmother, but she chose my grandfather. If they only knew that the caves had been discovered, and my grandmother's paintings brought to light, they might come here to claim the territory they thought was rightfully theirs.
And then there would be the wolves who wanted to act on behalf of shifters everywhere in order to keep the true origin of the paintings a secret. It wouldn't take long for an archaeologist or a reporter to uncover the local legends about the caves, and then stories of werewolves would appear in every tabloid across the country. There were packs that would kill everyone involved to stop that from happening.
Dad, I wish you were here. I fell under a tree, feeling defeated. I licked my skin, cleaning off some of the mud that had dried there. I don't know what to do about all this. Now it's too late to destroy the paintings. How will I hold on to our ancestral home?
And there was another problem that bothered me. Allora. She lit my body and mind in a way I didn't dare hope. After Dad died, I never dreamed I would feel happiness again, but when I was with Allora, I felt stronger, more powerful, more in control. The pain didn't course through my veins with the same intensity. And she understood. She had been through all this before, twice. She knew better than anyone the pain of losing someone close to you, how you saw them in everything and heard them in your sleep. How you went through every encounter like a zombie, your mind far away in the world of the dead. Of how excited you were to see them or call out to them, only to be hit again with the force of the memory.
Allora told me last night about how much she wanted to leave
DownMoor, study and work in another country and have the life she's wanted for so long. More than anything, I wanted her to have this life, because she deserved it. And even if she didn't realize it, I could see the weight of her mother's pain weighing down on her, dousing her flame until there was nothing left.
She had to go, and I had to convince her to go. She was too kind to leave her mother on her own. But I couldn't go with her. Not with my family's past on display for the world to see, and certainly not with other wolves on the scent. That was my family legacy, my heritage. For me, being in this forest was like coming home. But for Allora, it was a prison. How could I be with her when we both wanted different things?
Pain washed over me. I would talk to my father about Allora. He would have loved her. They could have stayed up for hours talking about books and archeology together. He would lock his own green eyes on mine, and when I was done explaining the problem, he'd give me a straightforward, practical plan for what I had to do.
But he wasn't here. And without his plan, I was lost.
You have to make your own plan, I told myself.
Sighing, I got up and stepped onto the trail, following the path of my two werewolf visitors deeper into the forest.
**
allora
F
Frances had completely abandoned work on the Neolithic cave. I was almost relieved. The thought of going back to cataloging fox bones and stone chips after everything that had happened filled me with dread. Instead, she and Ruth spent most of the day in the caves, delicate brushes in hand, cleaning dirt and dust from the paintings, ready for the university's professional photographer, who would arrive tomorrow. The cave was narrow and couldn't accommodate more than two people at a time, or so Ruth had happily explained when she'd ordered me to stay behind at camp.
Fine by me. Rain clouds rolled over the forest, sending enough water to restart a biblical flood. Instead of walking through the cold caves, I sat in the trailer, wrapped in a wool shirt, scarf, and gloves, reading Heinlein while sipping my third hot tea of the day.
It was my job to talk to the Daily Post reporters, who would arrive later that morning. Meanwhile, I was enjoying one of the rare downtimes on the site.
At least I was trying to enjoy it. I scanned the page before realizing that not only did I have no idea what I'd just read, I was also holding the book upside down. Josh's face hovered in my vision. I looked out the window at the forest. Was he out there somewhere? Was he okay? He'd found that other wolf, and worse yet, what would become of him when he met him?
What was it like dating a guy who turned into a wolf and ran off into the woods every month? This was my destiny: to lie awake at night and wonder if Josh was safe, if he'd been attacked by another pack, or shot by a hunter, or if his leg was caught in a trap? Josh was so handsome it was easy to forget he was a wolf, one of the most feared creatures known to mankind.
Is this the life I wanted for myself — to be constantly fearing for Josh's safety, not knowing where he was at all times? I have just begun to claw my way back into the world from the grip of pain. If I lost Josh… it would destroy me.
This is ridiculous. I threw the book onto the table. You're acting like Josh is yours. He is not. Tus had a night together and it was amazing. But now he's running like a wolf and you haven't even discussed whether it's exclusive.
For all you know, he could be walking through the woods right now...
So why do I feel like we're somehow united, that nothing that happened was some kind of accident? I touched the area on my neck where he had bitten me. Clara's words echoed in my mind. Josh and I were meant to be together? The thought both terrified and excited me.
A sound outside the window startled me. A huge SUV skidded along the dirt track into the field, mud splattering the doors, smearing the pristine paintwork that clearly had never seen a dirt track in its life. A woman wearing a tight straight skirt and high heels got out of the cab. She frowned as her heel sank into the muddy earth. I leaned out the trailer door and tossed her a spare pair of boots.
She slipped them over her stocking feet and stormed up the steps of the trailer, her coat pulled over her face to ward off the driving rain.
"That's silk," she snapped as she collapsed onto the counter, grimacing at me as if I controlled the rain. His voice buzzed in my head. It looked familiar, but I couldn't place it. An embarrassed man in a flannel shirt followed behind her, carrying a large camera. The Daily Post. I should have guessed.
I made coffee for both of them while the woman — who introduced herself as Misty — wiped the water off her skirt on the floor of the trailer, set up the tape recorder, and complained about the remoteness of the site. I found that she typically covered arts and lifestyle news, attending gallery openings, runway shows, and theater showings. His life seemed fascinating and exciting.
Misty was in DownMoor reviewing a Ryan Raynard art show when she got the call to cover our story ASAP, before one of her competitors knew. As I chatted with her about the find and some basic facts about cave painting, her photographer faded into the background. I don't know what interest he had in the card table covered with notes from the site or the pyramid of empty coffee cans on the filthy kitchen bench, but maybe he was looking for some kind of artistic still life thing.
Misty stared into my face.
"I recognize you…" She frowned. - Yes, that's it. You were the girl whose boyfriend died in the woods a few months ago. He fell on some rocks and was badly injured. I wrote an article about it.
A lump formed in my throat. I remembered where I heard Misty's voice. She hounded me on the phone for three days until I gave in and gave her a two-sentence statement, which she published in a full article about my fragile emotional state. I didn't want to talk to reporters about Ben anymore, especially now.
- Yes. It is me. Anyway, the site is dated back to the Neolithic period, which is…
— Why are you here? I mean, surely the forest is full of bad memories for you.
I shrugged.
- Clear. But I can't let Ben's death stop me from living my life and doing what I want to do. He would love to know I'm here, digging up the past. But can we please not say more about him?
“Oh, sure. I'm very sorry. Misty didn't look so sad. Suddenly, she seemed deeply interested in the site and all the minutiae of life on the dig. She asked me a lot of questions about living in tents and what I ate and how much rubbish I needed to change each day. — Is carrying out an excavation in an ancient cave dangerous? Misty asked.
- It could be. Caves carry inherent hazards such as slipping
or fall hazards, but these caves are pretty solid. We have a strict safety protocol in place, and a local ranger oversees us to ensure we are adhering to guidelines. So far there have been no accidents.
I knew her newspaper was famous for tabloid-style stories, so I expected this article to be more about "The real Indiana Jones" than any kind of actual reporting on the discovery. My stomach flipped as I caught the photographer taking my picture.
"I don't want you to wear that," I told him.
“Oh, he won't. Misty smiled. - I promise. Shall we see the site now?
- Right. I reveled in the thought of handing them over to Ruth. - This way.
At the caves, I left them in Ruth's hands and went back to camp. Inside the trailer, I poured myself another cup of tea and tossed two slices of bread into the toaster, willing my nerves to relax. The flashcard Frances gave me yesterday was on the counter.
I barely looked at the pictures yesterday because I was worried about Mom. Now, they started playing in my mind. I had a mission to accomplish. I couldn't even look at the paintings since discovering them, Frances was so keen to keep me away from her prized discovery. But thanks to Josh, I knew a lot more about the paintings than they did.
As I picked up the stick, I felt eyes boring into my back. I turned, expecting to see Misty in the doorway, her silk blouse clutched provocatively to her chest. But there was nobody there.
Strange. The feeling of being watched didn't leave me. Was it Josh? I pushed open the trailer door and scanned the tree line for a beautiful gray wolf, but I couldn't see Josh anywhere. But it wasn't to be seen, especially when the place was full of press people. Was he around, watching me, protecting me? The thought was reassuring.
I sat up again, feeling much better. From the table, the flash drive looked at me. It was the key to taking down Frances and Ruth. And I promised myself that I wouldn't be left out anymore. But still, I didn't get it. Was I being vindictive because I was jealous of Ruth's attention? Was this really the archaeologist I wanted to be, ready to publicly take down my colleagues at any cost?
I thought of Josh's connection to paintings. For him, they were more than pictures on the wall. They told the story of their family. It occurred to me that if Josh's grandmother had painted his family's murder, she might have hidden other messages in the paintings. Josh's family related stuff. Wouldn't it be awesome if I could give you some details about your story?
That was a much nobler goal. I smiled. It wouldn't hurt to check it out, for Josh's sake, of course.
I pulled Frances's laptop toward me and booted it up. Cautiously, I placed the USB drive in the slot and browsed to the album. As the glowing images filled the frame on the screen, my admiration for Josh's grandmother soared. They were remarkable for their accuracy and imitation of ancient art. Even with four years of archaeological training and the knowledge that they were fake, I was almost fooled. Only when the carbon dating samples came back from the lab would Frances have any clue that the site was only a few decades old. And I had to find a lead before that, otherwise my work would be worthless.
My toast is ready. Ignoring it, I opened the archeological graphics software and used the tools to import all the photographs. I then used the software tool — paste and sew — to align the images with each other to create a panoramic view of the cave's two walls. So, I tilted the image around in a convex shape to simulate the cave walls. This gave me a three-dimensional model of the site.
I smiled as I used the mouse to browse the works, zooming in on some sections. Frances would be impressed. She didn't even know how to attach images to emails, let alone create something like that.
Looking at them in context filled me with wonder. The painted section stretched for at least five meters. The designs covered every inch of the walls and unfurled across the ceiling, and a large section of the wall at the end of the frieze had been smoothed over—a future canvas, waiting to be filled in, perhaps?
I used an overlay lens to draw white dotted lines across the images, dividing the paintings into panels — representing separate scenes. The scenes were easy to discern, as the same pack of wolves—two adults and three pups—appeared in most of them. The opening scenes were elaborate paintings of life in the forest—the cubs being suckled by their mother. The father wolf chasing a hare, birds in the trees singing, a cub sunbathing. Then came the scene where the wolves transformed into humans, standing on their hind legs, their human features in various stages of appearance. A moon rising in the distance. In another, they were among the village houses, at a market, perhaps arguing over the bill.
I had to give Josh's grandmother credit, she had done a remarkable job. The paintings were drawn in a style so close to early drawings that it would be impossible to differentiate them from an authentic Neolithic frieze. And from what I could see of the pigments used, they looked authentic too. The wall would certainly make a convincing hoax to anyone who came across it, which may have been exactly what she intended.
The last two scenes caught my attention. They were drawn in a hurry—the lines crooked—and were clearly unfinished. They used only one color, the black ocher that came from soot. The wolves were drawn in outline, with no color or detail added, as opposed to the other scenes, where they were drawn in shades of gray, brown, and red.
Wait… what is that?
I leaned closer, examining the image in detail. In it, a crowd of humans waved flaming sticks and long spears. Their mouths were open as if they were screaming. The one in front wore a long garment that had been colored with a black squiggle. A cross was hung around his neck. Robert Peyton, leading his mob of angry villagers into the woods to destroy the wolves.
They didn't have priests in Neolithic England, but I needed something more. It could be argued that her outfit was some kind of tribal costume. I kept squinting at the paintings.
Behind the crowd—small and squeezed between two of the figures, it was difficult to make out who he was—was another man dressed with a cross around his throat. In his arm he cradled a child, and in the other hand he yanked the child's arm away, while the baby's mouth gaped open in shocked silence.
Holy crap.
Josh's grandmother hadn't just drawn a message to try to warn her husband and children, she had tried to tell the truth. The baby wasn't killed by a wolf. He was killed by someone from the village, someone wearing a cross. The baby was murdered by a Peyton.