Page 75 of Dark

—only to choke as if I’d inhaled straight chili powder.

Lacey shifted immediately, gagging.

“Wolfsbane.” Grabbing the collar of her shirt, she pulled it up over her face. “Powerful paralytic. Don’t touch anything.”

There were ghostly echoes of a fight. Streaks of blood, growing ever fainter in the misting rain. Torn scraps of clothing. A cell phone. A pair of men’s black-framed glasses—

A scream choked in my throat. I lunged for Ethan’s glasses. Lacey caught my arm, spinning me around.

“Did you hear that?”

“What—?” But then the sound came again, a shout, barely audible over the hum of the highway in the distance.

I bolted.

“Wait,” Lacey hissed. “Don’t be an idiot.”

“He could be hurt. We can’t just—"

She cut me off, the two of us skidding to a stop in the mud. Ellie caught up, panting. “You don’t get it. The wolfsbane—”

“What? What does it mean?”

“It’s highly restricted. Legally, only Tracers are allowed to carry it. Its black-market value—”

“Why would they want him?”

“I have no idea. But it means whoever we’re dealing with is dangerous.”

We emerged from the field out onto a dirt driveway. The peppery scent of wolfsbane lingered here, too. Cursing, Lacey jumped the last irrigation ditch. I gasped, seeing the figure slumped on the far side.

Brody grunted as we dragged him out of the water. One of his sleeves had been torn, a wicked gothic G branded onto his forearm.

“What is that?”

Lacey took the knife back, tucking it into her waistband.

“A summons.”

14

Ethan

HAD TO GIVE THESE GUYS CREDIT. They didn’t mess around. Forget silver cuffs. I woke to the screech of tires on wet cement, brake lights glowing an inch from my nose, and a carpet that smelled like wet dog. Trunk, then. I clawed for the emergency release, and found my arms shackled behind me from wrist to elbow. No chance of shifting, then, without dislocating a shoulder.

The trunk popped open. Over a killer beam of light, I thought I saw ski masks. And then they hit me with another blast of wolfsbane. I gagged, blacking out as they hauled me away.

The next time I came to, it was face down in the dark, wet and shivering on the floor of a cell. The silver restraints were gone, but throbbing ligature marks snaked up the length of my arms. Judging from the swelling, I’d been out for four hours, maybe five. That could have put us anywhere from Brownsville to Oklahoma, farther, if they’d loaded me onto a plane.

Closing my eyes, I gripped the mark on my arm, clawing out into the vast nothingness surrounding me, only to come up with an empty void where nothing existed but the pounding of my own heart.

We’d all heard the rumors, that there were ways to wipe someone off the map, erase them so completely that they couldn’t be found even through pack magic. Low doses of wolfsbane delivered by IV infusion around the clock. Secret cells with silver-lined walls. My pulse picked up. A year and a half. That was how long it had been since anyone had heard from Ben. Was it possible he was trapped somewhere far underground, locked in the dark, convinced he was beyond rescue?

Feeling around the eight by ten space, I came to a prison-style cot and a steel toilet bolted to the floor. Nothing that could be used as a weapon. I closed my eyes, buzzed from the hum of silver arcing through the air, wolf clawing, fighting, desperate to shift, muzzled by the chemical effect of the poison swirling through my blood.

It was another hour before I heard footsteps. With a groan, the heavy iron door swung open.

Two Tracers entered. The sides of their heads had been shaved to expose extensive tattoo work. Tribal designs. Gothic lettering in a language I couldn’t read. Daggers. Skulls. Flames. Once, August had asked Sofia what hers meant.