Chapter 4

Ten Years Later

Amara stood before her full-length mirror, gazing at her reflection. Her long, dark hair fell around her shoulders in thick waves, cascading down her back. Tugging on her black tee shirt, she tucked it into her jeans, and threaded silver feather earrings through her ear lobes. No matter what she added to her appearance, she couldn’t erase that haunted look from her eyes, or the shiny mass of scar tissue at her collar bone.

Compliments of the wolf she had believed didn’t exist.

The attack had affected her more than she was willing to let on. Her grandfather had been right, she’d known that now. They never should have been out after dark. And Becca was nearly crippled because of it. Poor, sweet Becca. It had taken her years to regain full use of her arm and for her to walk again. She still had to use a cane. Amara had hardly been able to look Becca’s parents in the eyes, she had felt so guilty.

And Zoe, well. Zoe had turned on her for a while, probably to relieve her own guilt. She’d come around, eventually, though not until sometime after high school. Now they only saw each other when Amara was at work and Zoe came into the bar to get a drink. Their relationship was strained at best, though they did try to behave cordially towards one another every year for Becca’s birthday. The one and only time they got along.

It was hard to remember everything that had happened that night. Zoe hadn’t seen or heard a thing before the first wolf attacked her. Then the others had joined in. By the time the two wolves went after Amara, both Becca and Zoe had been unconscious. Nobody had believed her when Amara swore up and down that a boy had saved her. They thought she had gone crazy.

Maybe she had.

She’d gotten paranoid, she knew that for sure. She never went anywhere without a knife and had long since learned how to use it. She now believed every word her grandfather had spoken until his death two years back, and had soaked up all the legends their people had ever passed through the generations about the protectors of the town, of the tribe that once called Strathford home. The wolves that could turn into men.

Her entire life, she had believed them to be just stories. She had agreed with the rest of the town that her grandfather was a bit off his rocker, and only listened to him to indulge him. But now…now she wasn’t so sure. She knew what she’d seen. It had been wolves that attacked them ten years before, yes, but it had been a human who had lifted her up and carried her back to her friends. It had been a human voice she heard telling the other one to ‘Come on.’ And it had been human eyes that had stared down at her, almost like an apology. Dark, worried, human eyes, imploring her to understand.

That boy had saved her, she knew he had. She just couldn’t prove it.

Grabbing her bag, she slung it around her shoulder before slipping the knife into the holster on her leg and pulling her pant leg down once more. Sufficiently armed, she pulled on her coat, locked her front door, and set off at a brisk walk down the street.

Murphy’s was the local bar in Strathford, one of the main attractions for the unencumbered, unemployed, and unattached. Amara had been a bartender there since she’d returned from college to help her mother take care of her grandfather. It was only a few blocks from her apartment, so she had never worried about walking. No one ever bothered her, and she was armed, which was the only way she felt safe. Still, there were times when she couldn’t shake the feeling that someone was watching her.

Like tonight.

Quickening her pace, Amara was comforted that the only sound she could hear was the click of her boots on cement until she hauled open the heavy wooden door of the bar.

“Hey Sam,” she greeted the bouncer. Sam was a big, beefy man with a bald head and a soft heart, whose company she enjoyed very much. He took the I.D. from the girl in line and smiled at Amara with his big, goofy grin.

“Hey, Mara. Cold night tonight, huh?”

“Freezing,” she agreed, taking off her coat and hanging it on the hook behind him. “Mitch in?”

Sam nodded. “Behind the bar.”

“Thanks.” Murphy’s didn’t usually get busy until at least eleven o’clock, and tonight wasn’t any different. The usual suspects sat in the booths having a late dinner, and a few of the college kids home on winter break sat at the high, scrubbed wooden tables, with a few of the regulars perched at the bar. When things picked up, every booth, stool, and table in the place would be full, Amara knew. And if she was lucky, her tip jar would do just as well.

Mitch, the owner—and Amara’s high school prom date—was standing behind the big oak bar, wiping down a set of glasses with a white cloth. He was tall, his chestnut brown hair falling into his eyes, and a crooked grin curling his lips. He nodded at Amara when he spotted her.

One of the regulars, a guy named Ole, turned around and leered at her. She could already tell he was a few drinks in, and knew from years of serving him booze that he was a sloppy drunk. “How ya doin’, Mara?” he asked, his words already beginning to slur.

Amara put on her best bartender’s smile. “Doing just fine, Ole. Doing just fine. Hey, Mitch, did my spirits order come in this afternoon? They were two days late because of the snow, and we’re running low on tequila.”

Chuckling, Mitch set his glass down and reached beneath the bar to pull out a bottle of amber liquid. “Checked in and unloaded. Shouldn’t have to worry about it for a while.”

“That’s what I like to hear,” she said, tying a small, black apron around her waist. She winked at the young guy at the end of the bar, knowing she could weasel a big tip from him if she played her cards right. With a smile, she asked for his order, then grabbed a bottle of whiskey and poured him a shot. She slid it down the bar to him, praying he would catch it. “Nice work, honey,” she purred, grinning when he blushed scarlet.

“Did you hear about the wolf sightings?” Mitch asked, keeping his voice down.

“I heard,” Amara replied darkly, feeling the familiar trickle of fear whisper down her spine. “How many is that this month?”

“At least ten.”

“Damn. And what’s the Mayor doing, anything? Or the Sherriff?”

Mitch shook his head gravely. “You know they’re trying, Amara. You, better than anyone, know what wolves can do. They don’t want that to happen again. Trouble is, for every wolf they kill, it seems like two more of them come back. Don’t you have that one that keeps following you around? Have you killed him yet?”

Amara shifted uncomfortably. It was true, she did have a wolf who liked to lurk around outside her door. A gray and silver wolf, with dark, troubled eyes. Yet, even for as much as she hated his kind, she couldn’t help but think that this one was different. There was almost something…protective about the way he watched her sometimes. Like she was his to look after, though he never got too close.

Mitch eyed her knowingly. “Yeah. That’s what I thought.”

“Oh, bite me, Mitchell,” she shot back, but there was no heat in it. Mitch just chuckled.

As the time got later, the bar started to fill up, and Amara’s shift became the way she liked it: more work, and less chatter. She was just handing a couple of beers to a couple on a weekend trip when a stranger sat down in front of her.

He was dressed oddly for the weather Strathford was currently experiencing. Only jeans and a short-sleeved navy blue shirt. No coat, no hat. Almost as if the wintery cold didn’t faze him. His sleek black hair was slicked back out of his angular face, and while she appreciated the chiseled physique on the tall, muscular frame, it was his eyes that drew her in. Dark, tortured eyes that she swore she had seen before. And yet, she couldn’t quite place why he seemed so familiar.

“What will it be, honey?” she asked, taking the tip the couple had left her and sliding it into the pocket of her jeans. It was coated in dripped alcohol from the bar, but hey! Money was money.

The man stared at her for a moment, to the point where it was almost uncomfortable, until finally, Amara cleared her throat. “Whiskey,” he said, his voice deep and almost gravelly. She couldn’t help but find the cadence extremely sexy. “On the rocks. Make it a double, please.”

Oh, yeah, she thought. Definite sex appeal. Too bad most men found her wolf paranoia to be a turn off. She poured his drink and set it on the bar in front of him. “There you go, handsome.”

He watched her for a moment, as if he was deciding something. Then his lips curved in the echo of a grin. “Why don’t you have one for yourself?” he offered. “It’s on me.”

Interesting. “Don’t mind if I do. Thanks.” She held a shot of whiskey up, tapping her glass to his. She smiled. “Cheers.” Then she threw it back.