Her Wolf (Wolves of Montrevere #1)

Chapter 1 Convictions

Convictions

The Hallowing Hour was scheduled for publication this upcoming Thursday, and my column wasn’t ready.

Staring at the old dusty laptop, I wondered if my writing conveyed the discrepancy between the police statement regarding the recent killing on Sunset Boulevard and what I had actually witnessed on-site.

According to the police, the killer was a deranged man on the run called Richard Berkins, who, after losing his wife and children to a terror attack, lost his mind and began hunting down those he believed involved.

When I visited the crime scene a few days ago, however, I saw what the police seemed to have missed.

A shadow mark.

I pulled up the image I took on my phone and studied it for the nth time.

At first glance, it looked like a little puddle of water from a nearby leakage, or a recent rain.

But when I’d crouched near it and really looked at it, I could tell it wasn’t actually water.

It was a liquid resembling water, sure, but it lacked the transparency and shine water had.

Instead, it was a muted dark color, like a barely there shadow.

This wasn’t my first time seeing a shadow mark. I’d seen them a few times before, at different locations and crime scenes I inspected.

I looked up from my phone at the world map I’d hung on the wall of my small living room. It was full of pins in different colors, stuck into different places all over the world. Most pins were red, some were blue or green, and a few were black.

Shadow marks were uncommon—especially in populated areas. That I’d found one only a few miles away from home was a miracle—or a curse—in and of itself.

Nibbling my lip, I returned my gaze to the laptop and pushed my glasses up my nose. This piece was important. It was key, in fact, to my own personal investigation. And yet I felt as if my writing wasn’t good enough. That it didn’t relay the message I wanted it to.

These are your insecurities speaking, Drew, I told myself as I rose to my feet and climbed over the piles of papers spread all over the floor. Unfortunately, knowing I had insecurities didn’t help me fix them.

Grimacing, I put on my dark peacoat, fastened my logger boots, and wrapped a scarf around my neck as I grabbed my keys and wallet and headed out the door.

When in doubt, drink a beer.

North Hollywood wasn’t a dangerous neighborhood, but it still had its fair share of unhoused.

Outside my dump of an apartment building was home for two homeless men called Caveat (a pseudonym, I presumed) and Johnny.

Currently, Johnny was sleeping on the staircase leading up to the front door, while Caveat was smoking pot right near the entrance gate.

I skipped over Johnny and gave a little wave to Caveat, who returned it along with a toothy grin (though most teeth were missing). “Tired, ain’t ya,” he said, his dopey eyes lingering on my face.

Shrugging, I handed him a five-dollar bill. “As usual, Cavi,” I retorted with half a smile, “go buy yourself some water.”

He blew me a kiss, which resulted in a cloud of weedy smoke engulfing my face. “Yer a doll, Drew.”

The moment I was out of his sight, I let my fake smile slip and hurried down the road to the convenience store.

Sometimes, I wished I had Caveat’s endless optimism.

Even though his life was a literal dumpster fire, he still managed to shoot me a genuine smile and look on the bright side, in an almost innocent, childlike manner.

I used to be the same up until eight years ago, when the ugly truth hit me in the face.

This world had no bright side.

There was a bleeding dog slumped against the back door of my building.

Normally, I would’ve entered through the front. But in the fifteen minutes since I’d left to buy a beer, Caveat had decided to join Johnny in sleeping on the stairs, effectively blocking the entrance.

So I took the back door.

And found a bleeding dog.

Although calling the beast a dog was quite the understatement. It was no fluffy Maltese or even a slender Doberman. It was huge and would’ve probably been almost as tall as I was if it were conscious and standing on all fours—and I was five-eight.

I slowly approached the animal, my boots squeaking softly against the asphalt, and the closer I drew, the more details I registered under the barely luminous streetlight.

There was a splash of blood in the middle of the door, trickling down into a pool under the dog, as if the poor thing had been thrown against it before going limp on the ground.

My heartbeat quickened in both worry and fear. Who was the psychopath who attacked the poor dog? And who could be strong enough to throw such a humongous beast like this at the door?

I crouched near the dog’s head, staring at its snout, my heart still racing.

I knew close to nothing about dogs, though I liked them enough to watch random cute dog videos on my phone.

But while I was no expert, I could tell that this dog’s sharp, narrow snout and general facial features seemed similar to a Siberian husky. Or a wolf dog.

Whatever breed it was, however, didn’t matter, since it was currently lying in its own puddle of blood, probably near death.

What the fuck should I do?

The dog shifted, only an inch, making me tense, and I saw its eyes, a pair of brilliant arctic blue, open to exhausted, pained slits. It was only for a moment, though, because the dog closed them and let out a soft sigh, almost a whimper, as it grew still once more.

My heart pounded in my ears as I stared at the poor thing. I couldn’t leave it out here. While I was pressed for time when it came to finishing up my column, it could wait. I wasn’t so heartless as to leave an injured animal out to die.

Standing up, I took out my phone and searched for 24/7 vet care in the area. I called the first one I found.

“LA Metropolitan Emergency Vet Care,” a woman answered.

“There is a wounded dog outside my building.” I got straight to the point. “Can you—”

“We don’t take in strays.” She cut me off before I could even finish the sentence. “If you want veterinary care for the dog nonetheless, you must pay a deposit of three hundred dollars, and then sign that you will pay the additional costs for the rest of its care.”

My jaw dropped. “Excuse me?”

“It’s as I said, ma’am,” the woman responded impatiently. “Now, if you want to proceed, I can send you the files over—”

I hung up and called the next vet hospital on the list.

Unfortunately, the man on the other end of the line, while nicer, said basically the same thing.

Angry now, I shoved the phone back into the pocket of my peacoat and looked at the dog, helpless.

If I could get it into my apartment, I could at least try and bandage its open wound.

But the dog was colossal, and most likely heavier than the weights I used to lift back when I was frequenting the gym, so even if I wanted to bring it into my apartment, I couldn’t.

Unless . . .

I grabbed my phone again and dialed Chase. After a few rings, a lazy voice drawled, “The fuck you want, Colter?”

Unfazed by my neighbor’s attitude, I asked, “Are you home?” Please be home.

“No,” he replied, to my dismay. “Why? Feeling lonely?”

I tapped my foot on the ground, annoyed at his suggestive tone, as I said, “I have a dying dog outside the building’s back door, and I want your help to bring it inside my apartment. Can you come help me or not?”

As if I’d flipped a switch, Chase’s voice turned dead serious. “I’ll be there in ten.”

Hanging up, I sat down near the dog’s head as I waited for my neighbor to arrive and, hesitantly, reached out my hands to its matted fur.

The dog did not stir, but I could feel the tension in its heavy muscles when I petted its dirty coat.

Even unconscious, the dog did not put its trust blindly in a stranger.

As the minutes ticked by, I kept petting the dog, sliding my fingers through its fur until I saw its eyes open again, this time fully, and it stared right at me.

Feeling it tense further under my hands now that it was awake, I kept up the monotonous petting of its fur and looked straight into its eyes as I said in as soft and soothing a voice as I could muster, “Don’t worry, doggo.

I called for help. I’m not going to let you die.

” I paused and grimaced. “Not under my watch.”

Obviously, I knew the dog couldn’t understand me, but I hoped the tone of my voice at least would have a calming effect. Or the conviction of my words.

I’d had enough death in my life to last a fucking lifetime. I refused to let another living being die while I could help it.

The dog kept on staring at me unblinkingly, and I stared back. It almost seemed as if it understood what I’d just said, because I could feel the tension in its body ease a bit.

My own tension did not subside, however, because the dog did not seem to be doing well. “Try to stay conscious until help arrives, okay?”

The dog’s head slightly bobbed, and I could swear it was trying to nod.

I scoffed inwardly at my silliness. While it was human nature to personify animals, it didn’t mean they were actually, well, human.

And yet something about this dog felt a little different.

Car lights came into view from the entrance of the narrow alley, making me whip my head in that direction. I recognized the Cadillac that came to a stop not that far away from me and saw the tall, muscular silhouette exiting the car and heading in my direction.

The streetlight hit Chase’s face when he neared. “This is the dog?” he asked, looking down at the beast in disbelief.

“I know,” I murmured, rising back up to my feet. “It’s huge. Now let’s get it inside.”

Chase frowned but nodded.

While I wasn’t looking, the dog had fallen unconscious again. Chase rolled it onto its stomach and, taking a deep breath, lifted it.

Or tried to.

“Fuck!” he yelled as he let the dog go, stepping back, his chest heaving. “How much does this fucker weigh?”

My eyes widened. “Don’t you lift, like, hundreds of pounds on a regular basis?”

My neighbor glared at me. “I do,” he spat, “but this one is even heavier than that. Damn.” He scrunched his nose. “It hurts my pride.”

Since Chase’s only sources of pride were his bodybuilder muscles, it made sense. “Maybe we can call Jackson?” I suggested, uneasy now, especially since the slight fall from Chase’s arms made the dog’s bleeding worsen.

“I’ll call him,” Chase replied, hissing a curse before he called another friendly neighbor from the top floor.

A few minutes later, Chase and Jackson, a fit man in his early sixties, carried the dog inside the building and up the flight of stairs to my apartment.

Throughout the whole ordeal, they contorted their faces and strained their muscles as if the weight was far more than they could bear—which was extremely surreal to witness, considering both sported quite the muscular frame. Especially Chase.

But soon those thoughts fled my mind as I shoved the door to my apartment open, watching the two men entering quickly with the dog and the trail of blood the poor animal left in its wake.

I immediately switched on the lights before kicking the door closed and instructing, “Spread that blanket on the sofa and put the dog there.”

My apartment might’ve been on the smaller side, but somehow, with the two large men and the huge dog, it suddenly felt claustrophobically tiny, especially with the blood and shoe prints covering the papers on the floor.

The dog barely fit on the blanketed sofa, and in the bright lights of the living room, I could finally make out the color of its fur—a dark, burnished bronze, which stood out strikingly against the faded green cushions of the sofa.

For the first time since I found it, I thought the dog was absolutely, tragically beautiful. Possibly the most beautiful dog I had ever seen, even. The realization would’ve struck me dumb if it weren’t for the fact the dog was continuing to bleed without an end in sight.

While Chase and Jackson plopped themselves on empty spots on the floor and the old couch respectively, fighting to catch their breath, I hurried to the kitchen, got the first aid kit, and returned to the living room, opening it over the coffee table.

I found bandages, and, before I could think twice about it, I began dressing the dog’s wound.

I had to use the entire bandage roll before the blood stopped soaking through.

“Fuck,” I breathed out as I sat down on the floor, sweating from the exertion.

“Well,” I heard Jackson murmur, “I always said your curiosity will one day bring upon your doom.”

I huffed, wiping the sweat off my forehead. “This is not my doom, though.”

“No, it’s mine,” Jackson sighed, and when I turned my head to the middle-aged man, he gave me a bemused smile as he grabbed his waist, seemingly in pain from the effort. “You got something to read while I rest?”

I was about to reply when Chase snorted and interjected, “I wouldn’t recommend it, Jack. The Hallowing Hour is hardly a literary read. Unless you want to dive into another one of dear Drew’s conspiracy theories.”

If I’d had the energy, I would’ve glared at him, but I was used to Chase’s jibes, and not just his either. Everyone thought I was a complete kook, writing about the supernatural.

What none of them understood was that I knew all of it to be true.

Like I knew that puddle of water on Sunset Boulevard was in fact a shadow mark.

Like I knew the Seaside Massacre in Malibu a couple of months ago was perpetrated by ghouls, and that the disappearances of young boys up in Portland were the result of succubus attacks.

The supernatural was real.

I just wished I wasn’t the only one aware of that fact.