"Get changed."

Brock drags me into the wolf stall. I'm so dumbfounded by the command that I just turn my wolf-head and gape up at him with an expression that's readable, even for him. Are you sure?

He doesn't bother to answer, but he gives me a slight kick to my hind legs to get me moving toward the privacy screen.

I dip behind it, but I can't help myself. I look back and make no move to follow any orders.

There are clothes hanging from my hook...

I haven't assumed my human form since November 1st, the morning shit went down. All traces of my humanity were removed from the globe, including the extra clothes on my former hook.

They've been forebodingly absent, and yes, I've checked, whenever I get the chance, which I admit, hasn't been that often. But it has happened, maybe once every few days.

It's been almost two weeks of that—checking for any development—and without any warning, my human identity is being returned to me, at least temporarily. It's a sign, but I doubt it's a good one...

"Now!" Brock's roar makes the floorboards vibrate.

It pushes me through the transition, as if my mind were clear and I was still well practiced.

"What's this about?" I rasp out with my neglected vocal cords.

I button my pants and turn my head, waiting for the smack to come when an answer doesn't.

Brock won't know much, but he'll know more than I do. He'll tell me what I need to know in broken sentences when he's good and ready. If he's in a lenient mood, and I catch him off guard, perhaps he'll say more than he should without hitting me. He may be among the most painful, but he's not exactly the sharpest tool in the shed. 

Never mind. He swats my head by the neck, but with the punishment comes an apparent gift. He hands me the key fob to what was my GMC. "Need you to fill in. Faolan will meet you at truck."

Everything they give can be taken away. And then given back when it serves some other purpose, probably unrelated to what I've endured lately. That, and it's a two-wolf job. Off property. I'm glad for the break in monotony, but I can think of only one reason why they'd send me. I'm expendable and death is likely.

"Must be home by sunrise," Brock adds as I'm about to leave. "If not, better hope you are dead."

The threat goes without saying. If I run now, I might save myself, at least for a time, but I'd be haunted by a dead girl and hunted until the end of my days. Ishmael will outlive me, outpace me, outmaneuver me on the hunt or in any fight. He has resources that are infinite in comparison, and networks of allies on every continent and in every known breed of monsters. Without a well-laid out plan and a support system, it hardly seems worth considering.

They always win in the end...

And at the beginning . . . and in the middle...

I assume my truck is in its usual parking spot and this proves to be true. And like Brock said, Faolan is waiting for me, pacing, in human form, by the passenger side door.

If I'm the most expendable, he's a close second. I can't say I'm too torn up about that.

We climb in, on opposite sides, in conflicting predicaments, and never before has this been so profoundly felt.

Faolan sets a cloth bag between his feet that he doesn't feel the need to mention. It lands with an audible thunk.

In a silence that is strained to the point of breaking already, I start the ignition and pull onto the gravel road that snakes down the hillside.

I've never hated the guy more than I do right now. He'd let an innocent girl die, without doing anything, just to maintain the status quo, which has basically sucked all along, especially for him. The runt. The rookie.

We weren't always "friends," but we became as close as we could feasibly get. Times have changed, though, and this could get interesting. Well, it would, if I could speak freely and act accordingly. My truck is undoubtedly bugged, and bugged well, and perhaps it always has been.

I could wait until we get out of the truck—to kill Faolan with my teeth or bare hands—assuming we survive whatever it is we come across. It'd be impossible to work with him no matter what. I don't trust him anymore. Anything I say or do wrong, and he'll squeal like a whelp in the maw of a lion.

Turning off the property, I don't even know where we're going. I'm about to head north, toward Winchester, out of the force of habit.

Only when I'm wrong does Faolan say anything: "It's some shack outside of Rileyville."

Quite a bit south, then. We're already in the middle of nowhere and for better or worse, Rileyville won't exactly offer any witnesses or safety in numbers. It's just a point on a map to me. Assignments like this have come up in the region, and I know the backcountry better than most. I can only recall where Rileyville is, though. It's not a known outpost for any of the degenerates I've encountered. I've never even heard it come up before.

"Spill," I tell Faolan, making the turn, accelerating toward maximum speed. Not the speed limit, but what I know what I can handle, plus about twenty miles per hour.

Yes, I have a death wish, or will, soon enough. What were they thinking?

It was a lousy idea to a) send me, b) let me drive, and c) leave me alone with Faolan for any length of time. He's the only one in my acquaintance who I don't fear. Even Sam has the edge over him. I actually care what she thinks of me, and though I would do anything for the opportunity to hear it, she would probably wound me, irreparably, in a way no one else could.

Ishmael? Or Ivy? Or whoever else has authorized this? They have to know all this. But on this particular night, for whatever reason, they just don't care...

Around some of the curves, it's insane enough to make Faolan clutch onto the armrest.

Good. He deserves the scare of his life. I wish I could just say so and make it so he never forgets.

He's smarter than some. By now, I'm sure he's figured it out—if I go down, you're coming with me, you weak, coldhearted bastard.

"Uh..." He pulls up a technical screen on his phone. Lucky him, he still has one. "Going a little fast, aren't we?" He wobbles it at me, to warn me that we're being monitored. As if I didn't already know.

"There are lives at stake. What's the problem?" I give the gas pedal another nudge. And with a vehement hand motion, I urge him to start talking.

I can't come across as too curious, but he can give me a mission briefing. He owes me that much. He wouldn't even get in trouble for it. It's pretty much a requirement if we're expected to return at dawn in decent condition.

"Okay, so, Ishmael got a call a little while ago. Blaise went missing and now it's confirmed that she's in some kind of trouble. Rollin is on assignment with Ivy and Prue somewhere. Shilo can't be reached. Her phone is on the side of the road somewhere and went dead hours ago. She may have gotten sucked in, trying to help. And that leaves you and me to sort this out with an address and a gold bar, which he wants returned to him, if at all possible." Faolan lifts the protective bag from the floor. "So, it'll require the best of our wits. And muscle, to be sure."

The rest can be inferred. Brock doesn't leave the property. He's not meant for society, and it's not meant for him. Rosemary isn't useful to Ishmael outside of the bedroom. Faolan can't handle something of this caliber himself. Everyone else in his immediate circle is either AWOL, out of the area—to where, I have no idea—or being held captive somewhere.

And, the gold exists. How much? Who could know? Or guess? Though somehow, these underworld assholes know more about it than I do, enough to demand a piece and expect favorable and immediate results.

Ishmael doesn't typically bend to these requests, though. He'd play a harder game of ball or refuse to play at all. Blaise is just the red-haired stepchild. This almost feels like a test. A high hoop to jump through, to prove my loyalty and worth. And if I pass, I might get some speck of freedom back...  

"Do we know who or what we're dealing with?" I inquire. "And how many?"

"No idea," Faolan coughs up in response to the glare I shoot to him. "Ishmael was. . ." He chooses his next word carefully. "Succinct."

Translation: Impatient. Irritable.

It's a Friday night, Ishmael has the house to himself more or less, and can't be bothered to take care of this himself, or give Faolan, captain of his D-team, any intel that might actually give us an advantage.

"These guys were allegedly asking for you, though," Faolan also mentions, and to my ear, it's a bit snidely, like this is another mess of my making and he's still peeved by the first. All the ways it makes his life harder—more work hours, more responsibility, and more of Ishmael's supervision.

Aw, poor you...

"Why me?" I grind out through the rise of my own resentment.

I mean, sure, I've pissed off a lot of monsters in my day, but nothing noteworthy of late. Except Ivy, of course, and maybe Ted. He may not be as dumb as he looks, but still, to abduct a witch, who is no lightweight, supernaturally or otherwise, and an experienced shifter? And demand gold for ransom? It would require skill and knowledge he just doesn't have.

Is this some game that Ivy is playing? It's possible, but...

She's spiteful, more than anything else, and probably prefers me on Brock's short leash, while she lives her extraordinary life, acting as if I never existed. Plus, she's been preoccupied, probably with her virgin sacrifice. I can't think of any reason she'd mislead Ishmael or her mother about this, or lash out at her sister, just to get back at me. And if she needs money, they seem supportive. She could probably just ask for it.

All and all, she has enough on her plate already. I'm just the slime she scraped off weeks ago, and that's exactly how she'd want me to feel. She wouldn't offer a chance for success, redemption in Ishmael's eyes, or heck, even escape, in one way or another. Even death would be preferable to more Brock and no Sam.

So, yes, I think I can safely say, this isn't about Ivy. And trust me, there's no one more surprised than I am.

What is this about? And who's asking? I don't have an answer for that yet and neither does Faolan.

He starts a fresh accusation instead: "If you told anyone about the gold—"

"I didn't," I affirm before he can finish that statement. "I didn't even know there was gold." Not for sure, I think but don't add. The less I claim to know, the better. Recording devices and all. "You seem to know more about the gold than I do." I throw some shit back on him. He may be trying to stay clean, but I have a shovel too, and it'll stick in both directions. "Are you sure you're not in on this? Aren't you always looking for a way to get ahead?"

"Go to hell," is his delayed and mundane response to that.

I laugh like I'd forgotten how and just remembered. "You say that so lightly. Like we're not in it already. Like she's not in hell, against her will. Against her nature. Like we're somehow not to blame." Screw the audio! If Ishmael's "busy," I have time and distance to capitalize on. It could be hours before he finds out, and more, if he intends to do anything about it. A lot can happen between now and then...

"I had nothing to do with that!" Faolan snaps back.

"You keep telling yourself that. Yeah, keep doing what you're doing. Close both eyes when you see fine."

"You're really accusing me of closing both eyes?"

"Maybe someday your prince will come," I go on, not taking the bait. I stay on offense. "Maybe it'll show you more mercy than it showed Sam. But I hope not. You deserve a good, hard, demon—"

"I really have no idea what you're talking about," he cuts me off.

"Fuck you!" I cry out in frustration. Maybe he is ignorant to some degree, but it doesn't excuse a damn thing. Sam's on the property being held against her will. It warrants something and yet he does nothing, despite the latitude to come and go as he pleases. "I thought you were my friend!"

"If you were my friend, maybe you'd care more about me and less about the cute little blonde, who's getting what she had coming to her, for being stupid enough to trust you."

He blocks his head before my fist truly takes form. I'm almost as quick, though, and do something he wouldn't foresee. He probably doesn't think I'd be capable of something like this—the cunning, the cruelty—but he doesn't know me anymore. I barely know myself. 

I push his seatbelt button while he's crouched toward the door. It snaps off and I slam on the breaks. He's taken by surprise, lowering his hands to see what's coming for him. Unfortunately for him, it's the dashboard and it's a direct hit to his forehead.

He shakes himself away from unconsciousness and swipes the blood from the wound. His eyes widen at the extent of it, and then he shoots me a wary glance. "You're an asshole," he mumbles, putting his seatbelt back on.

I just grunt, and gain some of my speed back. He can insult me all he wants, but Sam is off limits.

He may even realize that. I'm not the only asshole. For a minute, he has a pained look on his face that goes deeper than a head wound. "I'm sorry, all right?"

"For what?" I demand of him. I consider the long list of things he should be sorry about and whittle it down to the one or two little things he'd be willing to admit.

"Everything. I just..." Faolan stops himself, and sighs, and doesn't pick things back up. He just stares out the window, and every now and then, he blots the wound on his head with his shirtsleeve.

Feeling slightly apologetic myself, I open the center console and hand him a pile of fast-food napkins. "Maybe when you find your balls, you can be more specific..."

He takes my offering and begrudgingly uses it to blot the head wound, but he doesn't ever reply.

I wouldn't call it a truce, but it's probably the closest we'll ever get. I've ignored every warning. I've said too much. And I overreacted to an extent it drew blood. Ishmael won't be pleased, even if things go smoothly from here. Even Faolan will catch some flak. This is probably a suicide mission, regardless. This may be our only chance to sort things out. To say goodbye.

It's a sad showing, but at least, for a minute or two, it was almost as if we were trying.

Then it's over, faster than it came on. And soon we're closing in on our destination.

We turn off the main road and onto a dirt road. It's pitch-black and desolate. The surrounding forest shrouds what little light there is from the sky. As ominous as it may be, we're in the business of scary, and nothing seems out of place, even when we roll the windows down, to get a good whiff. It almost makes it scarier. What are we missing?

We roll through, headlights off, for a couple of miles, and park a few car lengths away from a slight clearing, never catching the scent of a single monster.

I honestly expected this "shack" to be harder to find, the defenses beyond the grisly, gory norm. GPS led us right to it. It's visible from the side of the road. It even has a mailbox.

The windows are boarded up, but there's no sign of struggle or evildoing. A fire shines through the wall cracks and what's left of the glass, but it seems tame and contained, like they're campers trying to stay warm, who have nothing to fear.

Stepping out of the truck, Faolan and I identify the scents we already suspected. Blaise and Shilo are both here or were recently. There's a third scent as well. It's fainter, but I wouldn't say it's "masked." There's a hint of blood, and decay, and a strange perfume—a vampire female I've never encountered before—with feet no bigger than my hand. Something Shilo could surely handle herself...

Is this some kind of trick? Where's the threat? The challenge? Does this vampire have any friends to worry about?

Faolan and I change form to improve our senses and circle the property a few times. Though we try, we can't filter out anything else of concern. We decide to get dressed, barge in on two feet, and get this done with our bare human hands.

And what we're met with genuinely is a surprise...