had been obsessed with what she called The Process: a methodical way of identifying werewolves so that she could kill them as soon as they changed. But she had gotten The Process from his dad. And he had been the master of it.
Their bedroom walls were covered in corkboard, and every inch was layered in maps, handwritten notes, news articles, and receipts. It seemed his dad had been hunting an entire pack of werewolves the last time he had been in the house—probably the pack that eventually killed him.
It used to make him so angry to think about what the werewolves had done to his dad. To his family.
But now he saw the names and pictures of suspected werewolves in the pack, and it made him angry in an entirely different way. Each face belonged to a human, not a monster. A brother, a mother, a girlfriend, a son. Family.
No wonder they had killed his dad. He had been killing everyone they loved.
Something green and square under the bed caught his eye.
Seth dropped to his knees and pulled it out. It was a metal case with a padlock, and a label affixed to the lid that said, “Eleanor.”
His mother had threatened him every time he approached the lockbox as a child, like it was filled with dangerous explosives. But there was no way she had been worrying about his safety. That wasn’t her style.
She must have been hiding something from him.
Seth found a hammer in his dad’s toolbox and broke the lock open.
He lifted the lid, and the smell of a hundred memories swept over him. Some herbs, her favorite lotion, mothballs. There was a switchblade in the box, a locket with some hair in it, and a diary.
He remembered his mom writing in a journal frequently when he was young. Her entries had served to catalog their most recent kills; she hadn’t considered them private or tried to lock them away. What made that diary different?
He sat with his back against the wall to read it.
The dates on the entries were old—well before he was born. Seth skimmed the early entries. She had grown up in the city, and it talked a lot about her time working at a diner. She wrote a lot about one particular customer. A handsome, unnamed man. Was that where she had met Seth’s dad?
Aden. She called him Aden.
Seth read on in sick fascination as a teenage Eleanor wrote about her developing relationship with Aden. They started dating. Then they started sleeping together. She shared way too much information about that—he skipped those parts.
And then she wrote about discovering that Aden was a werewolf.
Seth stared at his mom’s handwriting.
His mother had dated a werewolf before she married a werewolf hunter?
He realized that the house was awfully quiet. Rylie hadn’t followed him back into the bedrooms, and it had been several minutes since he heard from her.
“Rylie?” he called.
No response.
He got to his feet and took the diary with him as he searched the house. The kitchen and living room stood empty.
Seth stepped out the back door. “Rylie?” he called. “I think I’ve found something.”
The air was still and silent in the clearing behind his dad’s house. Leaves drifted from the skeletal branches overhead.
He checked around the side of the house, but the Chevelle was where they parked it, and none of their bags were missing.
Where could Rylie have gone?
A soft, feminine voice called to him from the woods. “Seth?”
“Rylie?” he responded, following the sounds into the trees.
Someone was standing in the shadows behind an oak, but it wasn’t his girlfriend. It was a tall, muscular woman shrouded in filmy black material. Her curls hung loose around her shoulders.
The skin on her leg was ragged below the knee, baring ankle bone. It didn’t seem to hurt. In fact, she smiled.
Eleanor reached out a hand with fleshless fingertips to beckon to Seth.
“Hello, son.”
T HIS ISN’T THE END OF THE STORY!
But I need your help, reader friends! Please join me on my Facebook and share your thoughts for what will
Their bedroom walls were covered in corkboard, and every inch was layered in maps, handwritten notes, news articles, and receipts. It seemed his dad had been hunting an entire pack of werewolves the last time he had been in the house—probably the pack that eventually killed him.
It used to make him so angry to think about what the werewolves had done to his dad. To his family.
But now he saw the names and pictures of suspected werewolves in the pack, and it made him angry in an entirely different way. Each face belonged to a human, not a monster. A brother, a mother, a girlfriend, a son. Family.
No wonder they had killed his dad. He had been killing everyone they loved.
Something green and square under the bed caught his eye.
Seth dropped to his knees and pulled it out. It was a metal case with a padlock, and a label affixed to the lid that said, “Eleanor.”
His mother had threatened him every time he approached the lockbox as a child, like it was filled with dangerous explosives. But there was no way she had been worrying about his safety. That wasn’t her style.
She must have been hiding something from him.
Seth found a hammer in his dad’s toolbox and broke the lock open.
He lifted the lid, and the smell of a hundred memories swept over him. Some herbs, her favorite lotion, mothballs. There was a switchblade in the box, a locket with some hair in it, and a diary.
He remembered his mom writing in a journal frequently when he was young. Her entries had served to catalog their most recent kills; she hadn’t considered them private or tried to lock them away. What made that diary different?
He sat with his back against the wall to read it.
The dates on the entries were old—well before he was born. Seth skimmed the early entries. She had grown up in the city, and it talked a lot about her time working at a diner. She wrote a lot about one particular customer. A handsome, unnamed man. Was that where she had met Seth’s dad?
Aden. She called him Aden.
Seth read on in sick fascination as a teenage Eleanor wrote about her developing relationship with Aden. They started dating. Then they started sleeping together. She shared way too much information about that—he skipped those parts.
And then she wrote about discovering that Aden was a werewolf.
Seth stared at his mom’s handwriting.
His mother had dated a werewolf before she married a werewolf hunter?
He realized that the house was awfully quiet. Rylie hadn’t followed him back into the bedrooms, and it had been several minutes since he heard from her.
“Rylie?” he called.
No response.
He got to his feet and took the diary with him as he searched the house. The kitchen and living room stood empty.
Seth stepped out the back door. “Rylie?” he called. “I think I’ve found something.”
The air was still and silent in the clearing behind his dad’s house. Leaves drifted from the skeletal branches overhead.
He checked around the side of the house, but the Chevelle was where they parked it, and none of their bags were missing.
Where could Rylie have gone?
A soft, feminine voice called to him from the woods. “Seth?”
“Rylie?” he responded, following the sounds into the trees.
Someone was standing in the shadows behind an oak, but it wasn’t his girlfriend. It was a tall, muscular woman shrouded in filmy black material. Her curls hung loose around her shoulders.
The skin on her leg was ragged below the knee, baring ankle bone. It didn’t seem to hurt. In fact, she smiled.
Eleanor reached out a hand with fleshless fingertips to beckon to Seth.
“Hello, son.”
T HIS ISN’T THE END OF THE STORY!
But I need your help, reader friends! Please join me on my Facebook and share your thoughts for what will
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