But before our faces can touch, his expression hardens. He grabs the first aid kit and stands, looking down on me with that stony look I’ve come to hate so much.
“They’re all I need,” he says shortly.
Then he walks away, leaving me with this fucking purring cat.
Chapter 22
I wake up several hours later, groggy and disoriented from a daytime nap in a strange place.
Sometime while I slept, the cat disappeared, and I must have looked cold because someone tossed a soft white blanket over me. I stretch beneath the cloud-like fabric, testing out all the aches and pains I fell asleep with. I’m sore—and probably will be for a few days—but I’m able to function.
Not a bad thing, considering that if I were human, I’d probably be bound for the hospital. Possibly in a body bag.
I swing my legs off the couch and rub the sleep from my eyes. By the look of the sunlight outside the bank of windows behind the couch, it’s early afternoon. There’s no immediate sign that my companions are around, and I have a brief moment of fear that they’ve left me. That they’ve set me up to lie here and sleep until the homeowner returns and catches me.
But when I focus on listening to the quiet house, I hear low voices filtering into the room from down the hall. Shoving aside the blankets, I stand and get my bearings, then head for the source of the noise.
Kian, Malix, and Frost are sitting around a modern glass and tile table in the kitchen. Kian’s got his boots up on the tabletop, while Frost is sitting backward in his chair, leaning wearily on the seatback. I wonder if he’s feeling the effects of the poison, because I’m not used to seeing him look so tired. The table’s covered in what has to be literally every edible food in the house, as well as an opened case of beers. And the calico cat is on Malix’s lap as he slouches in his seat.
I raise my eyebrow at him and slide into the only empty chair. “I see you’ve just made yourselves at home.”
Malix scoffs. “Look at this place. Dude can afford to feed and water us. Have a beer.”
He leans over and shoves the case my way. The calico readjusts on his lap and lies back down, undeterred. I haven’t had much experience around cats, but this one seems oddly comfortable with strangers in her house. Especially considering she can most likely sense our wolves inside us. A lot of animals have a better instinct for those kinds of things than humans do.
I grab a beer, pleased to find it’s at least cold, then pop the tab and study the spread in front of me. Bread, lunch meat, cheese, five different chip bags, hot dogs, mustard, a plate of crinkle fries. I help myself to a couple slices of bread, some bologna, and the mustard. “Did you guys leave any food for the actual homeowner?”
Malix smiles wolfishly. “He’ll just think he’s going crazy when half the bread loaf is gone and he’s sure he just bought it.”
I dump some mustard on the bread as I say, “I just hope he’s got a full day at work so we can be long gone before he gets back. It’d be nice if we could steer clear of humans for a while.”
“Not an option,” Kian says gruffly. He’s got his arms crossed over his chest, and he looks right at home in this stranger’s house. It makes me wonder how often the three of them case a place and then use it while the owner’s away at work.
Honestly, it’s brilliant. Even staying in seedy motels that could be paid for by the hour, I’ve dropped a good chunk of change on a place to sleep in the last few years. They’ve probably been spending their nights in much nicer places than I have, and doing it for free.
Frost reaches for a hot dog as he says, “Kian’s right. Questioning humans is our only recourse. Otherwise, we may never find the Tree of Life.”
I arch a brow at him. “You think humans are going to know where it is?”
He wraps a slice of white bread around the hotdog, then smashes the bread in a seamless circle around the meat. “No. However, I believe someone will know something.”
Malix agrees. “Won’t know until we start asking around, huh?”
I watch Frost finish his poor man’s pig in a blanket, and it brings back a flood of memories of my childhood with Ridge’s family. Pack life isn’t fancy or expensive. We lived in the middle of nowhere, growing or hunting our own food and cutting corners anywhere we could. Ridge’s mom used to roll pieces of white bread like she was rolling out pastry dough, then wrap the thin slices around hot dogs before frying it in her cast-iron skillet.
Comfort food. The kind that tugs on heartstrings with the weight of the memories.
Frost finishes smoothing his bread around the dog, then dips it in a pile of ketchup on his plate. He’s either unaware I’m watching him, or he doesn’t care.
I take a bite of my sandwich, chew, and then swallow before I ask, “What if word has reached this town about what happened back at Erik’s?”
“Doubtful,” Kian says, snatching another handful of chips from the bag. “This is the desert. These towns don’t talk to each other. It’s everybody for themselves.”
“I know what that’s like,” I mutter into my sandwich. “So what’s the plan, then?”
Frost dips his hot dog again. “We will find random pedestrians in town and inquire about the Tree of Life.”
I laugh. “Just walk up to some rando redneck and say, hey, what can you tell me about a magical tree?”