His foot hit something. A rock or a root. When he went around it, the smell faded. That’s when he decided curiosity wasn’t always such a good thing.
He had a good idea what he’d just kicked in the snow. A dog. Or the body of one that had been struck by a car and made it into the ditch before dying. He scowled at the thought. Sometimes you can’t avoid hitting an animal on the road, and it isn’t safe to try, however much Kate would protest otherwise. But if you did hit a dog, you should at least stop. Help it if you can, and find the owner if it’s too late.
He didn’t need to see a dead dog. But when the snow melted, Kate would see it, and that would upset her. A lot. She’d been trying for the past year to convince their parents to let them get a puppy. Reese had dogs growing up, and he said, if you raised them from pups, they were fine with the werewolf smell. But werewolves and pets were two things that didn’t normally go together, and with Malcolm being back, this was one time when their normally indulgent parents held fast. Maybe in a year or so, they’d said. Not now.
Logan would move the dog deep into the woods on the other side of the road. It wasn’t something he wanted to do—at all—but it was something he should and could do for Kate.
He peered up into the sky. The sun had not miraculously stopped dropping. He still had plenty of time, but he ought to leave this task until morning, when he could bring a bag. First he’d check and see how big a one he needed, and if he should bring the toboggan, too.
He returned to the spot where he’d kicked the poor thing, and he bent to scoop out snow. Soon he saw a bag. A canvas one, like the kind potatoes came in. Which meant this wasn’t a dog hit by a car. As for what it was …
Let me be wrong. Please let me be wrong.
He undid the tie at the top and opened it to see …
Logan’s stomach clenched so hard he doubled over. Tears prickled as he squeezed his eyes shut, but the image stayed emblazoned there. Two puppies, one on top of the other, the top one’s eyes open, pink tongue sticking out between its tiny teeth.
Logan dropped the bag and scrambled to the road and started pacing, heaving deep breaths, trying to get himself under control. Get his temper under control. Everyone said Kate was the one with the temper. Not completely true. His didn’t come out nearly as often as hers, but when it did, it was like a fire in his head and his stomach, burning through everything.
How could people do this? No, really, how? If they couldn’t keep the puppies, they could damned well find someone who could or leave them at the goddamned shelter, because this, this was unforgivable. Someone should put them in a bag. Toss them by the roadside like garbage. That’s what he’d like to do if he found them, and he didn’t care if it was wrong. It was fair.
He paced until he stopped raging. And stopped cursing. Then he rubbed his hands over his face, took a deep breath, and …
Harsh bass boomed from his pocket, making him jump. The opening chords of Bikini Kill’s “Rebel Girl.” Kate’s ring tone. She set up everyone’s ring tones, an idea she got from Savannah, though his sister’s taste in music was somewhat more eclectic.
Logan answered quickly.
“I thought you were staying in the city for dinner,” he blurted.
“Dad and I got tired of being out. Mom did, too. She just wouldn’t admit it.”
He turned his back on the bag.
“You okay?” she asked.
“Sure. Just out walking.”
There was a pause, Kate trying to emotion-read him through the phone. That was not, he was aware, the technical term for what she did. There probably wasn’t a technical term, because her ability to interpret mood and emotion bordered on the preternatural. But after a moment she gave up and said, “I’ll join you.”
“It’s getting dark.”
“Which is fine as long as we are together and have our phones. I know the rules, Lo. I even kinda follow them. Oh, and I’ll bring your hot chocolate. We picked it up in town. The good stuff from the new coffee place. I’ll have to reheat it and put it into a thermos. There was whipped cream, but it melted. I could say I ate it, but that would be gross.”
“Uh-huh …”
“Does it help if I say I used a spoon?”
“Did you?”
“Where are you? I’ll be there in ten.”
Logan started to tell her. Then he spun back toward the bag. “No! I’ll … I’ll come there. I was just heading in.”
“Then you can go out again. With me.”
“My jeans are wet.”
“Because you won’t wear snow pants.” She sighed. “For such a smart kid, you can do some really dumb things, Lo.”
“Because I’m still a kid. It’s allowed. Give me ten and I’ll be there.”
“Fine. But if I drink your hot chocolate, it’s your own fault.”
“How would it be—? Never mind. Ten minutes.”
He set the timer on his phone, knowing if he wasn’t within sight of the house by the time it went off, his sister would come looking for him. Patience was not one of her virtues. He was still fussing with his phone when he bent distractedly over the bag and caught the smell and stopped short at the reminder of exactly what he was doing.
He couldn’t think about it. Just couldn’t. Sometimes doing the right thing meant doing stuff you really didn’t want to. He might have a bad dream or two after this, but finding the dead puppies would give Kate screaming nightmares, wondering if they’d been alive when—
Nope, he wasn’t thinking about that. Wasn’t.
He picked up the bag … and it seemed to move. Which he was clearly imagining, because he’d just been thinking about the puppies being alive.
So he was going to presume they were dead without checking? That would give him nightmares. He steeled himself and peered inside, recoiling as he saw the puppy with its eyes open. There was no doubt it was dead. No doubt at all.
The one underneath it had its eyes shut, but its lip was curled back as if in a final snarl of defiance. He saw that, and he wanted to cry. Not rage and curse, but cry, because, when he looked at that puppy, he felt what it must have.
He’d planned to leave them in the bag, but now that seemed as wrong as if he’d put them there himself. He reached in and took out the body of the first puppy, cold and stiff. Then the other …
The other was not cold and stiff.
Logan nearly dropped the first puppy in his rush to get the second one out. He scooped it up with both hands.
It was warm. Warm and pliant, its head lolling. He put one hand under its muzzle to support it while he pushed his fingers deep into the thick fur around its heart, searching for a beat.
The puppy lay on his hands, a deadweight.
Deadweight.
He blinked back tears. Tears of frustration and disappointment now, and maybe a little of anger, as if he’d been tricked, some cruel joke making him think that the puppy lived.
No, the joke was worse than that. The puppy was still warm, meaning that maybe, if he’d gotten to it faster …
He swallowed and wrapped his hands around the puppy.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “If I wasn’t fast enough, I’m sorry.”
The puppy whimpered.
Logan froze. His heart pounded, and he was sure that the whine was just an echo of his own voice. His fingers dug into that thick fur again, checking in case, just maybe …
There was a heartbeat.
A faint heartbeat.