The Tracker's Secret: Sunderverse (Mate Tracker Book 2) by Ingrid Seymour (the gingerbread man read aloud .txt) 📗

down too, just as silently as the first one. Assuming the guards were werewolves and had good sniffers, Jake’s ScentKill seemed to work like a charm. It worked very similarly to moonfable, except my stuff only killed my werewolf scent and left my human one undisturbed.

Glancing toward the general area where I was hiding, Jake waved, and even from this distance, I could tell he was smiling smugly.

“Cocky jerk,” I mumbled under my breath.

Maybe it was a desire to show Jake up, or maybe it was that hunger for the hunt, but without thinking, I pulled out my Glock, left my hiding place, and ran toward the side of the building as the camera swiveled in the other direction. From the corner of my eye, I caught Jake warning me back by frantically waving his hands. I could imagine the foul expletives running through his mind.

The camera swiveled back with a whirring sound. As it pointed toward the woods, I ran in the direction of the side door, pulled the handle, then stepped inside, thanking the witchlights it was unlocked.

I paused, pressing my back against the wall and inhaling deeply, willing my breaths and frantic heart to settle down. I focused on my body, searching for signs that I might shift unexpectedly, but the itching and tingling on my skin that I’d come to associate with the change weren’t there. Instead, what I found was a profound stillness, as if my wolf were patiently waiting for her turn. The sensation of her presence put me at ease. I wasn’t alone, and there was much more to me than the gun and protective vest.

Staying close to the wall, I hurried down the narrow corridor ahead. Suddenly, the door behind me opened. I whirled, aiming my gun. But it was Jake, holding a hand up as if that would stop the bullet if I went trigger-happy. I had wolfsbane ammunition, too. He was lucky Tom had taught me to check before shooting.

Jake rushed to my side and whispered in my ear. “We’d better hurry before those other two knuckleheads realize their friends are out of commission.”

I pointed my gun toward a glass door ahead. He dashed in its direction, took a quick peek inside, then gave me a thumbs up. We kept going down the hall until we reached a set of large, swinging doors.

Slowly, he pushed one open and peered through the crack. He gave me a nod then slipped inside. I went right after him, the gun’s grip slick in my sweaty palm. We stood silently for a few beats, our eyes examining the scene before us.

Rows and rows of crates like the ones I’d seen in my vision stretched from front to back. The waist-high boxes were stacked in threes and were all stamped with the bleeding heart logo. The space was mostly dark, barely illuminated by a few bare light bulbs hanging from the tall ceiling. Toward the back, the light barely scratched the corners. An eerie silence filled the space. There was no sign of more guards. Odd if those crates were really full of rhabo. Or maybe they were overconfident.

After checking left and right, Jake rushed between two rows of crates, heading straight for the shadows in the back. I rushed after him, relishing the sizzling energy that sang through my veins.

Under the cover of darkness, he knelt behind one of the crates. I joined him, and we waited for a few beats, listening carefully for any indication that we’d been spotted.

When it was clear that we were safe, he nodded, pulled out a huge serrated knife from his belt, and stuck it between two of the crate’s planks. With one solid push, he pried the boards apart. They cracked, splintering, the snap echoing through the space.

Abandoning all caution, Jake tore a section of the board. A layer of white foam blocked the way. His claws sprang into place and, like hot knives slicing through butter, tore a hole in the foam. Small bags filled with glittery powder came spilling out at our feet.

We exchanged a loaded glance.

I grabbed a handful of bags and stuffed them in my pocket. “Proof,” I said, then reached for my phone, ready to dial the police.

“I’m afraid I can’t allow you to do that,” a voice said from above.

Jake and I jumped to our feet, glancing upward. On the next row of crates, a massive figure stood swaddled in shadows. Coolly, he took a step forward and the light from one of the hanging fixtures illuminated his face.

Blake!

I recognized him immediately, even though the last time I’d seen him in person, he’d been hanging over a miniature architectural model, playing the part of the dead victim. I still wondered how he’d pulled that off.

He was shirtless and barefoot as if he’d seen us coming and had time to leisurely take off his clothes to spare them from damage. His chest was as broad as a refrigerator and his muscles rippled with restless energy. His sparse blond hair was gone, and his freshly-shaved head shone with sweat.

Adrenaline flooding my system, I lifted my gun and aimed it straight at his wide chest. Blake raised an eyebrow and peered at the gun as if it were a bad joke.

“Aren’t you that girl that used to date Stephen Erickson?” he asked, genuinely puzzled.

I didn’t answer him. Instead, I darted a glance toward my phone in my other hand, trying to wake it up to dial 911.

Blake roared, jumped from the crate down to the floor, and landed smoothly in a crouch. Startled, I dropped the phone and squeezed the trigger. The shot echoed through the warehouse, hitting the crate behind Blake. He didn’t even flinch, and instead, lunged forward. He shifted in midair, his pants falling in tatters, his fangs and claws aimed directly at me. An enormous black wolf appeared in his place.

Scrambling, I aimed for Blake’s head and was about to squeeze the trigger again when Jake’s dark gray wolf leaped