Wolverton by Julie Steimle (best romantic books to read TXT) 📕

match—in the animal, they fit perfectly. He had never felt more like he entirely belonged to something than at any time ever. He had never felt more like a wolf until then. And he had never enjoyed being a wolf until then.

There had always been some conflict in his soul, his human side screaming as he hunted and killed birds and rabbits. But in the hunt with the Wolverton pack, he was one with the other wolves. It resonated with him. Rudyard Kipling’s had been repeating in his mind ever since he met them: For the strength of the pack is the wolf and the strength of the wolf is the pack. With the pack, they had taken down the deer. With the pack, they celebrated under the moon. It had been intoxicating, a mind-blowing ride which left him no other words to describe.

But it was still just a ride. And now that he was off the ride and back to real life, Rick was at a loss.

He missed Daisy’s scent. He shook his head, trying to banish that memory. Thinking of Daisy made him hot and sweaty.

“Did you give her contact information in case she really is pregnant?” his father asked.

Waking from his reverie, Rick nodded. “Yes. I left quickly, but she made sure we exchanged information. I had put her contact information in my wallet…” He glared at his father for having it burned. “…which I hope Henry had the decency to copy.”

Nodding, his father said, “Good.” As they rode further in silence, his father broke it again and added, “But I don’t want you to see her again.”

“What?” Rick's head about hit the car ceiling. “But if she is pregnant, which I do believe she is, I am going to be there for the baby.”

His father ground his teeth.

“I am not going to let my child grow up not knowing his father… or her father,” Rick snapped. “I’m not going to let that go.”

“They are trying to keep you, son,” his father growled.

Moaning, Rick nodded. “I know… Gads… Dad, I know. Don’t think I don’t. They even told me. But I gotta be there for my kid. It wouldn’t be right otherwise.”

“You are a special, unique wolf,” his father explained.

Rick nodded. “I know. I know. They said I’m an alpha. A mixed-soul or—no, something like mingled-soul.”

His father grimaced. Mr. Deacon’s voice dropped into a whisper. “They told you that.”

“Is it a lie?” Rick asked. Because he didn’t know. His father was the expert on the world of wolves and packs.

Sighing, almost mournfully, his father said, “No. Not a lie. It is why the witches want a piece of you much more than they want a piece of me.”

“Ugh.” Rick shuddered. The very idea of being a prime ingredient for some kind of witch spell made him sick. He could imagine them having a jar labeled Wolf Entrails.

They journeyed onward, finally heading onto the dirt and gravel road toward Wolverton. Rick had never been on this road in the day. But when they finally reached the town, he stared out at the bleached and tumble down homes and gasped.

It looked completely, entirely empty. A real ghost town. More than the first day he had seen it.

The car parked next to the sheriffs’ trucks. They got out.

“Mr. Deacon…” The sheriff reached out to shake his father’s hands.

His father greeted him politely, meeting his grip, then gazed with them at the town. “Is this the place?”

“Supposedly,” the sheriff said. Then he turned to Rick. “Alright son, I need to hear it from you. Tell it from the start about the cult that kidnapped you.”

“The cult that kidnapped me?” Rick stared, then looked to his father.

Mr. Deacon cringed then leaned near the sheriff with a stage whisper. “We’ve been working on him all this morning. He still thinks they were good people.”

Groaning, Rick set a hand to his forehead. So, they were going to pretend the pack was some kind of cult that had kidnapped him or took him in. Across the road, he saw Mr. Whidbee. He was looking frazzled, wringing his hands while pacing near where the bonfire had been. The burnt wood was still there, the crumbling blackened shapes still smoking like a charred Celtic knot. He walked towards them.

“Follow him,” the sheriff whispered to his deputies. “Safe distance.”

“Wha—!” Mr. Whidbee saw Rick and jumped from him, running behind the stern sheriff who was walking along with him. Mr. Whidbee pointed at Rick, shouting, “What is he doing here?”

Mr. Deacon strode over, coolly and calmly, his amber eyes fixing hard like steel on his crazy-eyed factory manager, saying nothing.

“They’re just here to give their statements about the cult sacrifice you saw last night,” the sheriff called out.

Rick side-glanced him. Then shaking it off, he walked to the remains of the fire. There were no signs of the wolves there. Not even paw prints. They had swept the area. Then he went beyond it to where the hunter had been killed. He had to see if he was still there.

“See!” Mr. Whidbee pointed at Rick. “Even he knows! He’s going right to where he fell!”

Rick waded into the grass and peered at the ground inspecting it. But where Mr. George Zeballos, the hunter, had fallen was nothing more than blood-stained earth. There was no body.

Rick looked to his father, troubled.

“Where did they take him?” Mr. Whidbee shouted at Rick, spit flying from his mouth.

“I have no clue,” Rick murmured, hardly looking at the man who brought about this situation in the first place. Rick then stared out at the grass. He was sure the wolves didn’t eat him. There was no sign they had tossed him into the bonfire either. But there were plenty of empty houses they could have left him in. However, Rick didn’t think that was their style. Those wolves were smart. More likely they carried him far away from the town in a truck and left him to rot near some other town. He would be discovered soon, if he smelled. If they had lye, they might never find him.

Gazing at the ghost town, Rick could tell the pack had evacuated before. The place had all the earmarks of a people who moved as part of a routine. He recognized the signs only because at Gulinger Private Academy they had uprooted and changed locations frequently. He wondered what the wolves had left behind and what they took with them.

Wandering away from the bonfire, Rick went to the building where his hands traced over the shot marks that had hit the wall behind him the night before. Then he touched the edge of the window where another bullet had gone through. The glass was cracked. Both bullets had been very close to him. It was proof that he still had been that hunter’s main target. Rick felt the scrape on his upper arm where he had been grazed. He hadn’t even realized it until then. Those wolves had indeed saved his life.

The deputies quietly followed him, inspecting the things he noticed. They whipped out evidence bags and cameras. Marking they scene and gathering evidence, they also took pictures of his arm.

A sheriff asked his father questions in whispers.

Rick drifted in toward the town center while the commotion continued behind him. He peeked into the open doors of the male changing room. 

“What happened in here?” a deputy asked.

Shaking his head, Rick stepped out. “Nothing really.”

They looked in there anyway inspecting place. A couple of them fetched bullets from the floor.

He walked down the center of town. Wheel ruts and tracks of dusty feet were the only proof that anyone had been there recently. Parts of the road looked swept by brush. Random branches were laying in the thoroughfare now, as if they had always been there. Rick walked the road, ignoring the echoes and shouts of Mr. Whidbee far behind him, ranting about naked rites at the bonfire, howling wolves, and Rick himself becoming a wolf.

“Clearly they put some kind of hallucinogen on the fire,” one of the sheriff’s snapped at him. “Look what they did to the kid.”

So many of them looked at Rick, watching him. Rick was in a daze, trying to smell for Daisy. He yearned for her. He could hardly catch a breath of her, craving her.

“He was one of them!” Mr. Whidbee shouted.

“I think I’ve seen enough, Mr. Deacon,” the sheriff said, turning to Rick's father. He gestured for the deputies to take Mr. Whidbee to the station as he was no longer needed at the site.

Mr. Deacon nodded, watching his son with pain.

The sheriff and deputies followed Rick for his safety.

Rick forlornly walked through the ghost town, until he came to the Blithe house and knocked on the door, hoping to see Mrs. Blithe there. But no one answered. He pushed open the door, which wasn’t even locked. Immediately, his nose took in a musty odor from interior of the house. It smelled like no one had ever lived there. It was weird. Stepping in further, Rick stared. The kitchen table was still there, but a layer of fine dust covered everything.

Including a New Testament sitting next to the couch on the end table.

The deputies followed him inside. His father right behind with the sheriff.

Ignoring them, Rick went over and picked up the book. Looking around, Rick wondered how they made the place look like no one had ever lived there… because he knew just a day ago it was the Blithe’s home and the place had been perfectly clean. It was like another episode of the Twilight Zone.

His father walked over and took the book from his hand, gently sniffing it.

“Dad!” Rick yanked it from his fingers. “This wasn’t her house.”

Shrugging, his father walked away.

“Whose house?” the sheriff asked.

Shaking his head, Rick sighed. Not another personal article was left. But of course Mr. Blithe had made his wife leave that book. It was her one last precious thing, and Rick was sure he was punishing her for welcoming him into their home.

“There was a girl,” Mr. Deacon whispered to the sheriff. “He mentioned a girl who… I believe led him into whatever they were doing.”

Rick cringed, closing his eyes. He marched out, hugging the book to him.

“Can I see that?” the sheriff asked.

Nodding, Rick held it up. “A nice Christian lady lived here. She actually had warned me to run. And I didn’t listen…” He then tromped past, shaking his head while clutching the book.

They followed him out.

He went to two more houses.

He went to Farkas’s home first. Going in, he checked the fridge, which was disconnected and empty. It was still cold though. Then he jogged upstairs. Farkas’s bedroom looked nearly the same. Not empty, but messy with the same rundown posters and junk which apparently must have come with the room. Only his bed was stripped, his Xbox was gone. But a stack of Electricity comic books remained in the center of the floor.

“Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me.” His father moaned when he saw Rick laugh and go to them.

“Come on, Dad,” Rick called back as he picked them up. “Tom ruined a whole set of mine. Collector’s items.”

The deputies collected them from Rick’s hands.

“I’m sure Farkas left them for me,” Rick protested. He then looked to his father. “He was a really nice guy.”

“I know,” his father said, but gazed sadly on his son. “Just let the deputies do their job.”

Rick cringed, feeling like he was betraying the wolves.

Then he went to Daisy’s house.

Nothing was left.

Her scent was the strongest in her bedroom. He breathed it in. But there was no bed. No stuffed animals. No sign that a girl even slept there.

No Daisy.

And he wanted Daisy so badly.

His father whispered in his ear as he stood there. “Her scent is like an addiction for you, son. One which you will have to fight from now on.”

Rick turned to him, shook his head, and stalked out of the room. Honestly, he really wished he could