Page 5 of Dark

MY DAD WAS RIGHT about more things than he was wrong. That summer West, Dally and I made the thirty-foot leap off Bluff Point down into the cold waters of Lake Buchanan because Dally convinced us being were meant you couldn’t die? Dad just leaned against the doorframe in our bunkroom, where the local vet was rebreaking West’s leg, folded his arms and shook his head.

“Think this is bad? Wait till your mom gets home.”

Nothing better than barely surviving your own stupidity only to get told the next morning over bacon, buttery scrambled eggs and hash browns smothered in hot sauce to go out in the backyard and cut your own switch. Not that I faulted my mom in any way. With seven boys spread out over seven years, it was either run a tight ship or let us all turn out wild as dogs.

And my dad was right the day we met, back in my fourth foster home of second grade, when he said I would like living with him and Sofia if I gave it a little time. The system being what it was, I hadn’t seen my brother August in almost two years by that point. Sure, I’d tried sneaking out. Running away at recess. Hitching rides with truckers heading east through the Hill Country towards Blood Moon. I was probably the only eight-year-old every police officer in three counties could identify on sight.

So when a tall, sandy-haired werewolf in a sheriff’s uniform stepped into the laundry room where I slept, the first thing I did was eye the crawl space between the dryer and the wall.

“You must be Ethan.”

I bit down on my lip until I tasted blood. As Alpha, he could compel me to answer. Instead, the sheriff nudged the dirty clothes piled in the corner with the toe of his boot. A muscle twitched in his jaw as his gaze flicked from the crumpled bits of newspaper, broken pencils and dryer lint strewn across the floor, to the two frayed towels I was allowed to use as blankets, finally settling on the paper plate of cold beans shaking in my lap.

“Why don’t we go for a drive, son.”

Quickly, before he could take them away, I stuffed the beans into my mouth. The sheriff’s frown hardened, but he produced a handkerchief and told me to clean my face.

He tried to talk some on the way into town, asked if I liked my foster parents, if I played any sports in school. I twisted my shirt into knots and stared out at the carpet of bluebonnets, firewheels and black-eyed Susans scattered alongside the highway. We both knew why he was here. It wasn’t like either of us missed the black plastic trash bag containing my clothes and backpack he had to step over on our way off the porch.

Ten minutes later the sheriff pulled into the parking lot of the local pizza joint. Not that I’d ever been inside. I wasn’t exactly the kid anyone wanted at their birthday party. But the moment I saw August, I forgot everything else.

My little brother was clinging to Sofia like a freaking koala bear, chattering away in new sneakers and a Superman shirt. And right then, I got it. I might have been a lost cause, but August was still young and cute enough for someone to adopt.

We ate pepperoni pizza and drank cold, fizzy Dr. Peppers. August refused to touch his crusts and I tried to think of a way I could stuff them under my shirt for later without getting caught. We finished eating and the sheriff gave us tokens for the games.

As soon as they were out of earshot, I checked my little brother over. No bruises, but he had a big scab on one knee.

“I’ve got my very own bike!” August crowed.

“Yeah?” I fed him another one of my tokens for the pinball machine.

“Uh huh. Dallas, one of my new brothers, is teaching me to ride it.”

Something ugly roiled in my stomach along with the pizza at the mention of new brothers. I forced it down, firing off questions while the Skee-Ball siren blared obnoxiously in the background.

“They giving you enough to eat?”

August didn’t answer. I gripped his shoulders, turning him to face me.

“They hit you? Lock you in the utility room? Touch you anyplace bad—?”

That was when the sheriff came up behind us. Turned out his hearing was better than I thought.

“You know, I’m of a mind brothers should be kept together.”

For someone the teachers deemed hopeless, I started doing a lot better in school in a hurry. There was so much to do out on the ranch. Tire swings that swayed under shady live oaks. Barns and fields to explore. Creeks for catching tadpoles and a huge lake for swimming in during the summer. And after Sofia, who August already called Mom, went to my first parent-teacher conference and saw the sketch I did in art class of the Caldwell’s backyard at sunset, drawing paper and real artist’s pencils appeared—along with the rule that there was no touching any of it until chores and homework were done.

They had five sons. River was a year younger than August. West and Dallas were in third and fourth grade, right above me. The twins, Brody and Cal, were in middle school.

It was a few months later when the sheriff, who I was now supposed to call Ben, pulled Calgary and Brody aside at River’s birthday party down at the city park and told them to keep River and August away from some man called Zane Crowe.

I listened in, knowing there would be trouble if I was caught. I already received nightly talks from Ben on an array of subjects, like why I couldn’t sleep on the floor outside August’s room instead of in the bunkroom with West and Dallas. Or that I should just ask when I wasn’t sure about things like putting dishwasher detergent in the washing machine. Spoiler alert: soapocalypse.

I checked the porch every day when we got off the bus. As soon as I saw the trash bag wasn’t there, I ran out into the fields to throw up.

And today when I overheard the whispered warning, saw Brody and Cal nod with the crisp yessir that clumped in my throat every time Ben asked me a question, my wolf clawed beneath my skin in a black, desperate rage. If I trailed August like a shadow, it would only sign my walking papers that much faster. But I couldn’t just stand around and do nothing. Not when my brother might be in danger. The others ran off. I settled myself under one of the old pecan trees with my drawing pad and a fistful of pencils where I could observe from a distance.

Zane Crowe was easy to spot. Rail-thin. Dark, stringy hair. He was dressed in ripped jeans and long sleeves despite the heat. Parking himself on an unoccupied table, he pulled out a guitar case and lit a cigarette.