****
Marisol fell asleep in the comforting confines of her bed—the same bed she’d slept in since she was twelve. She replayed her conversation with Dean in her head again and again, feeling both completely amped up and totally disappointed. Walking that close to him, arm-in-arm, had been exciting, but it was only enough to sharpen her hunger. The lack of a goodnight kiss was a complete disappointment, though understandable given how close she was to getting caught. She was wondering what that kiss might have tasted like when she finally drifted into dreamland.
After a few hours, she woke with a sudden jolt. Heart pounding, her eyes quickly scanned the room, and it was then that she realized her bed was gone—in fact, her entire bedroom had disappeared, and instead of tasting the ghost of Dean’s lips from her dream, there was something hot and coppery and vile on her tongue. She spluttered and coughed, trying to spit the flavor from her mouth, but it coated her cheeks and teeth and lips. Marisol rolled to her side, putting her hand down on damp, sticky grass. Her eyes focused in on the spot where her hand met the ground; where a rusty shade of red met dewy green.
Blood, a voice inside her helpfully supplied. It’s blood. You’re covered in it. Surrounded.
Her heart leapt to her throat and panic clawed at the edges of her vision. She took a deep breath and tried to rein in her fear like an errant horse. Now wasn’t the time to freak out; she could freak out later when she was certain the blood didn’t belong to her.
Slowly, somehow, she found her feet. The ground was slippery and she nearly lost her footing, but she managed to catch herself and straighten up, taking in the full view of what she woke in the middle of.
But once she saw it, she really wished she hadn’t.
She wanted to sink back to the ground and close her eyes and never wake up again. She wanted to run screaming for help. She wanted to run the opposite direction and keep running until she was sure nobody would be able to find her.
The blood did not belong to her. She had no open wounds or injuries that she could see. Other than being scared, confused, and covered in blood and viscera, she was unharmed. But the man—or rather, what remained of the man—she woke up next to could not say the same. He was torn apart, brutally savaged by teeth and claws. His eyes were still open and they stared at her sightlessly, yet somehow full of fear and recrimination. You did this to me, those eyes said. Why did you do this to me?
“I don’t know,” Marisol whispered. “I don’t know, I don’t know. This can’t be happening. This can’t be real. Oh god, this can’t be real.”
She pinched her arm. She raked her nails down her cheeks. She fisted her hair and pulled on the roots until her scalp tingled. Nothing worked. Nothing roused her from this nightmare. The man’s throat was shredded, his stomach torn open, his arms mangled, his face smashed.
She didn’t recognize him. He wasn’t a local. Maybe a cowboy who just showed up for the rodeo. One who would never ride again.
She backed away from the poor man’s remains, trying to put as much space as possible between them. She couldn’t look away from him, though, even as her stomach twisted and writhed and threatened to empty itself. She swallowed down the first taste of bile, doing everything she could to hold it all back, begging God to help her because she didn’t want to see what might come out. It was too easy to imagine the dark ochre fluid flowing from her mouth, and what would she do if she caught sight of a finger? Or his nose?
Marisol got herself moving without too much thought of her destination. She wanted to shower, but what if she got in trouble for washing away the evidence? Evidence. Shuddering, she tried to dismiss that thought, but she couldn’t. She was covered in evidence. The body would be covered in evidence. There would be evidence of the crime of murder which she clearly committed. Perhaps she should go directly to the police and save everybody time and effort by turning herself in and making a full confession.
Confession to what? The inner voice asked. Are you going to admit you fell asleep? You don’t know what happened. You don’t even know if you did anything.
Well, something had happened, and she’d clearly been involved. Perhaps she should wait and get the police involved, she thought.
Her next thought was of running home. Her father would know what to do. Her mom would get her all cleaned up and then they’d sit around the table and she’d explain how she woke up and then her parents would tell her what should happen next. They wouldn’t let the police take her away. Her dad would help her find a sensible explanation of the apparent mauling and everything would be fine.
Unless the sensible explanation was that Marisol was a bear shifter.
How would she face that? How would her mother ever forgive her? She’d probably call the sheriff herself and send Marisol away. She’d probably think that was a better solution than letting her daughter run wild.
Suddenly, home didn’t seem like the safest, or smartest, answer.
She had only one friend who might understand: Dean. He was a Longstrider, and even if he hadn’t admitted to being a bear himself, he would definitely know more about what happened than anybody else. But she couldn’t run through town covered in blood and looking like an extra from a horror movie. She couldn’t linger there at the scene any longer, either. It was still early, but soon the whole town would be waking up, and she was only a few blocks from the heart of the small community.
Just then, the ding from her phone almost made her jump out of her skin. She fumbled it out of her pocket with numb fingers. There was a new crack in the corner of the screen, but otherwise it was fine. The message was from Rachel, asking her if she finally got a ride on her cowboy. Marisol ignored the question and searched for Dean in her contact list. The phone rang five times and she almost hung up, but the sixth ring was answered with a sleepy, “Hello?”
“Dean. Dean, it’s me. Something’s happened. I...I don’t know what. But something...I need your help!”
“Where are you?” The sleepy rasp was gone from his voice.
“Near the park on the east side.”
“Are you hurt?”
“No...no, I don’t think so. But Dean, I can’t stay here. It’s bad. It’s real, real, real bad.”
“Okay, sit tight. I’ll be there in just a minute.”
“God, thank you,” she said quickly before the call cut out. Okay, it’ll be okay, she reassured herself again and again. Somehow, someway, they would figure out a way to make this okay.
Dean was true to his word. He pulled up to her within minutes, his chest bare, like he hadn’t even taken the time to put on a shirt. His eyes widened when he saw her, and she rushed to say, “The blood isn’t mine. I think...there’s a man...he’s over there. It’s his. I don’t know. I don’t know what happened.”
“Slow down. Take a deep breath. Just get in the truck. Here, cover yourself with this blanket. We’re going to get you cleaned up and then we’re going to get to the bottom of this. Just tell me everything you know.”
“I don’t know anything. I woke up and I was here.”
“Well, we’ll just have to work backwards from there.” He studied her for a moment before asking in a softer tone, “How do you feel?”
“Feel?”
“Yes, feel. What does your body feel like right now?”
“It...it feels full.” She looked at Dean, her eyes brimming with tears. “What does this mean? What have I done?”
“Maybe nothing. There’s a man who can help us. He’s in Jackson.”
“Let’s go.”
“What about your parents?”
She shook her head; she’d deal with them later. Before she could deal with them, though, she needed to know what was happening to her. She had so many questions that an answer—any answer—would be a huge relief. “Take me wherever we need to go.”
“Yes, ma’am.”