Chapter 4: His Wolf Knows

Doors opened up and down the row.

A man in boxer shorts came out holding a tire iron.

A woman with a baby on her shoulder stood in the doorway of the room next to mine and screamed.

The wolf didn't look at any of them.

It took one step toward my door.

Then it bent.

Its back hunched and rolled, and the sound it made was a load of wet wood settling.

The black fur went flat and pale.

The legs got long.

A moment later, Nash was on his hands and knees on the asphalt, steaming in the cold, without a stitch on.

The woman with the baby stopped screaming and just stared.

The man with the tire iron lowered it an inch.

The motel manager came running out of the office in a bathrobe with a phone in his hand.

He took one look and threw the blanket he'd been wrapped in across the lot.

It landed by Nash's knee.

Nash wrapped it around his waist and stood up.

I opened my door.

I didn't take the chain off.

"Go home," I said through the gap.

"Jolene." His voice was rough, like he'd been shouting for hours. "Open the door."

"No."

"Please. I can't think. I haven't been able to think since you walked down that street."

He came closer.

His bare feet left wet prints on the asphalt.

"Did he run here?" the manager said to nobody. "From where?"

"A hundred and forty miles," Nash said without looking at him. "From the valley."

He stopped at my door and put his hand flat on the frame above the chain.

His eyes were still gold around the edges.

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