A Wolf After My Own Heart by MaryJanice Davidson (good books for high schoolers .TXT) 📕

She’d done her research. Over three million jumps every year, just in the US.

Millions of people hurtling toward Earth at terminal velocity. Every single year.

It was…too much. Too chaotic, too much free fall, too inherently unstable. That had struck her first thing during her research: “The deployment process is inherently chaotic.”

Nutshell.

So once was enough. Because she only had to jump once and she knew: you could go high and you could go far; you could jump three million times a year, but the earth always got you back, one way or the other.

Chapter 28

“No, Lila, I meant, what was the bet?”

“Oh. In that case, sorry about the flashback.”

“You’ve got an empty Subway bag in your purse.”

“That was an abrupt segue.” She picked up her purse, opened it, found the bag with her used napkins. She’d been in such a rush at the airport, she’d just stuffed it in her purse to be dealt with later. “Here you go. So no more jump stories?”

“If you’re brave enough—hurrrk!—to do it, I’m brave enough to listen.”

“Good to know.”

“Excuse me.”

“That’s a shame about your breakfast,” she said as he yarked into the bag. “Well, Macropi will fix you more bacon, I’m sure. I’ve also got some wet wipes in my purse, if you’re interested.”

“Thanks,” he said hollowly, which made the bag puff, which she swore to herself wouldn’t make her laugh (out loud). “You and the Boy Scouts.”

“Always prepared,” she agreed, then waited until he tied the bag off, and held his hand the rest of the way.

Chapter 29

“Well, there it is,” Lila observed. “This is definitely a field. Where a plane definitely crashed.”

Berne had landed on a gravel road that, from the air, looked miles long and deserted, and also walking distance to the crash. It was almost ridiculously convenient, but she wasn’t about to complain. She’d braced herself for gore, but the powers-that-be in charge of such things (IPA? A different agency? Local cops? Local Shifter cops?) had apparently scooped up all there remained of Sue and Sam Smalls and bore them away. Dr. Gulo had been right about that much, at least.

I’ll bet they were awake all the way down. And terrified and scared for Sally. Christ, what an end.

This time of year, the field was an acre of mud, and the wind brought the smell of dirt and scorched metal right to them. If she had no trouble smelling it, the men must have found it almost unbearable. The debris was spread out and the crime scene tape (if it was a crime) was doing a shit job of keeping the small stuff in place. But unless Shifters had perfected the science of creating protective domes over crime scenes, there was nothing to be done about it.

Despite the damage, it was instantly apparent that this was the graveyard for a small plane. Metal had been wrenched into impossible shapes, along with all sorts of other debris: blackened plastic, wiring, mangled seats, and a thousand shattered pieces of equipment she didn’t recognize. The nose of the plane looked like a giant had seized it and squeezed, and one of the wings had cracked into thirds; the other was almost completely untouched.

She was worried they hadn’t found all of Sue Smalls or missed pieces of Sam Smalls, but she couldn’t see or smell anything like a corpse, which was an immense relief.

“All right, this is sad and awful. But you didn’t need me along to tell you that. So why—”

“You’re the lookout, lass.”

“People have said that to me so many times, the words have lost all meaning.”

“Seriously, Lila…” Oz paused while reaching for his top shirt button. “Do you mind?”

“Nope.” What else could she say? Magnus and Oz were already disrobing. She wasn’t sure if she was in a horror movie, a rom-com, or a porn. Or a sick combo that would sound lame but most people would watch anyway for the curiosity factor if nothing else.

She politely turned her back, which took so much willpower because at quick glance, both men appeared to have the bodies of Olympic athletes. Not a fake sport, like race walking. Something hard, like boxing. She got a quick glimpse of profoundly terrific abs and then stared at a tree.

A lot of people wore tailored suits to fix figure flaws.

Oz Adway was not one of them.

Stupid, ab-less trees.

She could hear…something. Rustling as they dropped their clothes. (Damned good thing Oz had money, because he was hell on his suits. Guy needed a pair of denim overalls in the worst way.) Then sounds like the noise your body makes when you stand and streeeeeetch. The sharp retort of cracking knuckles. A lot of knuckles. Thirty or more. And then more shifting around, sharper cracks, some low, pained grunting, and then a cold nose was nuzzling her palm

“Ack!”

which wasn’t startling at all. She spun and there was Oz looking up at her.

As she was in a field of mud in the middle of the day, she got a much better look than she had the night before in Macropi’s yard. His head came up to her waist, his ears were longer than her middle finger and tipped with red fur, and he was lean all over with sleek muscles that rippled beneath sand-colored fur. His ears twitched forward as she squatted and held out her hand, palm up. “Gimme.”

The wolf blinked at her.

“Your right forepaw, please.” There was a short pause, and then Oz complied.

“No, your other right forepaw.” He obliged and she gently palpated the fur. She’d done a little research; she knew wolves used their claws for digging and traction, not fighting, but she was mindful of the claws anyway; they were dull black, tipped under, and nearly an inch long.

And his paw was perfect, as far as she could tell without a degree in veterinary medicine. “I guess you’re all healed up from the other day.” She released his paw, smiled, stood. “I’m glad.”

She heard