C5 Charlie

The house smelled like pine cones. I had no idea why or how I knew that from the depths of the basement, but there it was. The scent of woodsy spices and polish grew stronger the farther up and out I went.

I’d barely made it up the staircase before curiosity got the better of my panic. Rather than focus on how I came to be here and why Mom would fail to mention this place—and this family—to me before, I paid close attention to how I felt being in it now.

Regan and my father—that still felt weird—disappeared out the front door just as I stepped clear of the basement stairs. I listened to the latch click and had just enough time to blink into the cheery sunlight filtering through muted curtains nearby before my guard—Brent?—grunted at me.

“This way,” he said, and I fell into step.

The cell phone became sweaty in my tight grip so I slid it into my pocket and left my hands free as we crossed the foyer. I did a quick sweep at an intersecting hallway but there was nothing but stained wood in every direction. Brent veered right toward the stairs and I followed, one ear cocked and listening for sounds of anyone else at home, but everything was quiet.

I ran a fingertip along the paneling as I climbed, studying the designs and markings carved into the bannister. They felt old—ancient and important in a way that only my intuition could understand. I shivered and dropped my hand.

My room turned out to be surprisingly plush, in a cabin-in-the-woods kind of way. The wall panels were dark wood decorated in framed art with lots of greens and yellows that reminded me of woods without a single picture of a tree. I had my own leather couch—the fancy kind without the arms—and a bed that could have fit half my high school class in it at the same time.

And it was squeaky clean. Just like the foyer and stairs, I remembered. I’d hate to be the one stuck with dusting in this place. Whoever it was, they were good. Even here, the underlying scent of spice and pine ruled in a pleasantly subtle sort of way.

But even though all of that was nice, it wasn’t me. It wasn’t my room, or my house. None of this should have been my life. Or maybe, in a twisted kind of way it should’ve been mine, instead of that Regan girl. But it wasn’t. It felt foreign. I missed the smell of my room. The sound of my mother piddling around the kitchen. The grandfather clock in the hall, ticking away an afternoon. This place was nothing like our cottage. It was nothing like home.

In the doorway behind me, Brent threw my duffel bag onto the bed and left without another word.

“Wait,” I called, but he was already gone.

I was tempted to try the doorknob to see if it was locked or not, but it wouldn’t have really mattered, either way. I had agreed not to leave. And even if I did, they’d made it very clear what would happen if I tried. There would be people waiting for me. Watching. I was as good as shackled to the room, lock or no.

I gave the room another quick onceover, my gaze landing on my bag. Now that I was alone and clearly here for the duration, my soiled dress suddenly felt heavy on my shoulders. There’d been nowhere to change along the way. Funny how that happened when you were unconscious and kidnapped. And now, after having slept in it, the straps had dug into my back and left uncomfortable red marks. No lights were on, but the tempered sunlight from the single window was more than enough to illuminate the mud damage to the skirt. I held it up and groaned. It was even worse than I’d suspected.

“No more white tags,” I muttered to myself, thinking of how my mom had tried to talk me into the sale rack that day at the store. And how my babysitting money hadn’t let me hear her.

I explored my way around the bedroom and was happy to find the small door on the far side of the dresser led to a tiny bathroom with a stand-up shower. I washed faster than I ever had—terrified Brent would return and get nosy. But no one came and my dripping hair chilled me enough that I almost cried with relief when I found my favorite worn pajama pants in my duffel. Maybe Brent wasn’t all bad after all.

Once I was dressed comfortably, I sank to my bed, looking at the cellphone my dad had given me. According to him, Mom was just a phone call away. But even as I tapped absently at the screen with my thumbs, I couldn’t bring myself to dial her number. She must have known about this for years. My dad, the pack, their plans for me—the more I remembered her expression just before they’d knocked me out, the more certain I became. My mom had known they’d come for me. And when they did, she’d let them.

She probably wouldn’t have chosen this for me, but had she stood up against them and said no? I doubted it. My mom was a lot of things, but brave and bold wasn’t on the list. So I threw the phone on my pillow and flopped back, staring at the way the light played on the ceiling and pretending I didn’t care that my long-lost dad was somewhere in the vicinity. Or that I hadn’t lain awake at night my whole life wondering who or where he was—and why he wasn’t there with me. Now I knew. He was busy ruling a werewolf pack in … I had no idea where I was, actually. But wherever it was, Mom wasn’t.

I had to choose. Get to know my dad. Duke it out with my new sister for an alpha spot of some sort. Or try to sneak home to a mom who’d been lying all along about the one piece of myself I’d always wanted to know.