Foxblood: Rise of the Hellion (WattyAward 2012 Finalist)

Part Twenty-Five

He towered over me. “Come, Sophie, let’s get you home and cleaned up. What on earth were you doing all the way out here, alone?”

With Roc’s assistance, I clambered to my feet, swooning only slightly. He took my arm, and I followed like an obedient dog.

“My car’s parked out on the lane. Are you hurt?” he asked, fatherly concern softening his voice.

I had to shout through the rain. “No. No, not really. It wouldn’t matter anyway. W-what just happened?”

“You were attacked by a wolf, Sophie. You don’t need me to explain that, do you? You’re all wet with rain. Maybe it mistook you for a fox.” Roc rooted in his pocket for his car keys. “Wolves can be protective of their territory, and you were trespassing. You’re lucky I was in the area. What are you doing out here in the rain? You know better.”

I stared at the hulk of tattooed man. “About that flying thing…”

We reached the car and Roc held the door open as I climbed in.

“Yeah…sorry. Should’ve told you sooner, I suppose. I’m sure I can trust you not to blab.” Roc’s face of steel told me his last statement was an order not a question. “I do try to keep my transformations to a minimum,” he said, peering in the rear-view mirror to pull a strand of fur from his teeth. “People are already suspicious.”

“Well…I’m a little impressed. Not bad.”

He chortled. “Thanks. Don’t overdo the praise, will you.”

The warmth and dryness of the car’s interior was a welcome relief. I looked down at my mud-soaked clothes smearing brown streaks on the upholstery. “Sorry.”

“Don’t worry about it. Thing’s filthy anyway…here.” He leaned over to hand me the last tissue from a small packet in the glove compartment, pulled out a cigarette for himself, and lit it. The tissue was only enough to dry my face and wipe my hands, but I felt a little better for it.

“Roc, that wolf…” I began.

“Was huge and not of this world, I know. How else would it have seen your inner self?” he interrupted. “That was what you were going to say, wasn’t it?”

“It was Tamar,” I said quickly before the chance disappeared again. “I’ve been trying to tell people for weeks, but no one would listen.”

“Tamar? Tamar Lovell?” He laughed. “The last time I saw her she was a bit too crispy fried to be walking around. And besides, that wolf didn’t look like a Lovell wolf.”

“I know. Tamar was different, a mutant, a hybrid…something. But it was Tamar. I know it. She’s the killer, not Connor. You have to believe me.”

Roc took a last drag of his cigarette, flicked the stub out of the window, and started the car. “Well then, you’d better start talking,” he said.