Maybe Edward thought Barlow was behind the whole thing. Although if that was the case, it was something she definitely needed to know.
However, she’d learned in the few years she’d worked for the old man that he had his own way of doing things, and he was usually right.
As they walked along the deserted street, her shoulder brushed Barlow’s and memories rushed in—the kiss, his scent, the bizarre fact that they could even touch.
He skittered as far away from her as he could get and still remain on the cracked, broken remnant of the sidewalk. The expression on his face brought back the image of him wiping her taste from his mouth, her touch from his hand, and fury sparked.
Which was stupid. She’d felt exactly the same way once she’d come to her senses. Disgust for her lack of control, nausea over the flash of lust, horror at what she’d already done and what she’d been willing to do with the slightest hint of encouragement.
Just thinking about the interlude brought back Alex’s thirst for vengeance. She wanted to kill Barlow not only for what he’d done to her but for the way he’d made her feel.
If Edward had not said the werewolf that had killed her father was a member of Barlow’s pack, she would have put a silver bullet through the guy’s brain and disappeared into the sunset, the fate of humanity at the mercy of a new werewolf army be damned.
But Edward had said, and since the only thing that had kept Alex going for the past eight years was the possibility of revenge, she bit her tongue and kept going, silently assuring herself that once she got wherever Barlow was taking her, she’d blast her father’s killer to hell, along with anyone else who got in her way. Right before she left, she’d give Julian Barlow a parting gift.
Kaboom.
The promise soothed her as little else could.
Not that she didn’t understand the man’s need for payback—even sympathize with it. Alex shook her head.
He wasn’t a man. Alana hadn’t been a woman. They were murdering beasts. They didn’t feel love, or pain, or remorse.
Except Barlow did. The agony in his eyes, the gruffness in his voice told the tale. He mourned his wife with an intensity that matched Alex’s own.
Unease flickered. She was a werewolf now, and yet she still missed her father, ached with his loss and her love for him.
But there was a reason for that. She been injected with Edward’s serum and cursed by a voodoo priestess. She was as close to human as a werewolf could get. That was the only reason she still felt any emotions at all.
So what was Julian Barlow’s excuse?
“Where’s your car?” he asked.
Alex glanced around. They’d run a long way, then walked some more. She wasn’t familiar with the area, but she recognized a few of the buildings ahead as some of those she’d passed while trailing Jorge.
She pointed to the west. “About a mile.”
Barlow began to jog and she did the same, just a young couple out for a little exercise. Except it was the middle of the night, they were white, and—with Alex’s oversize, worn clothes, bloody arms and neck, and lack of shoes—she looked like a bag lady in a Dawn of the Dead remake.
“Now you understand how it is for most werewolves,” he said.
“How what is?”
“You were changed against your will.”
“So?”
He sighed as if she were incredibly dense and continued. “New wolves are like babies. They can’t be blamed for what they do. Would you punish an infant for banging a toy against a wall and breaking it?”
“I hardly think the man you left behind for me to kill was a toy.”
“No, he was a habitual child molester.”
Alex’s lips pulled into a grimace.
“Kind of leaves a bad taste in your mouth, doesn’t he?”
Thanks to Edward’s s