Blood Trail

By Sam Austin

A human raised by werewolves struggles to find his place in the world.

Once heir to the biggest werewolf pack in England, now kicked out by his pack after failing to make the change into wolf, Roy is still getting used to this being a human thing. Fast cars are a plus, and he still gets to hang with the friendly neighbourhood witches, but his home isn’t his home anymore. His life was back there, along with his best friend Clem who he hasn’t seen in weeks.

So when he opens the trunk of the car he ‘borrowed’ to find it drenched in blood, he’s determined this is something he can do. He may not be a werewolf, but humans solve these kinds of things all the time, right? And with no one else about to look for whoever was in that trunk, he’s it. Their last hope.

Now if only he can figure out why the pack seems so set on stopping him.

Blood Trail is around 32,000 words of paranormal humour. It’s the second in the Crystal Wolves series. The third book should be available in 2015.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Sam Austin
• Release date: Jan 23, 2015
• ISBN: 9781310493324

Sam Austin

Sam Austin is the author of over 25 stories ranging from short horrors to the 136 thousand word fantasy epic 'Damsel Knight.' Her short story 'Second Chance' was awarded an honorable mention in the writers of the future contest. Her favourite genres to play in are fantasy, horror, and science fiction. Most of her works could be considered young adult. Having autism and dyspraxia, she's passionate about including underrepresented characters in her stories. Her novel 'Damsel Knight' features a gender questioning teenager in a fantasy world with very strict gender roles. Roy of the 'Crystal Wolves' series occasionally battles mental health issues alongside solving paranormal crimes. And her upcoming series stars a protagonist who happens to have a severe spinal injury. She's very fond of underdogs, so most of her stories contain characters way over their heads. The sort of guys or girls who are way too stubborn to back down even when they seem to have half of London gunning for them (Truth Seeker), or are surrounded by creatures who could kill them with a flick of the wrist (Crystal Wolves). For updates on new releases sign up to her mailing list here: http://forms.aweber.com/form/70/1281520670.htm. Or check out her website here: http://samaustinwriter.wordpress.com/about-me

Book preview

Blood Trail

by Sam Austin

All rights reserved

Copyright 2015 by Sam Austin

First Edition: January 2015

This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance of characters to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. The Author holds exclusive rights to this work. Unauthorized duplication is prohibited. No part of this book can be reproduced in any form or by electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing by the author. The only exception is by a reviewer who may quote short excerpts in a review.

For more information see: http://samaustinwriter.wordpress.com/about-me

Cover photograph by Caleb George

Other stories from this author:

Stories in the Crystal Wolves series:

Moon Madness

Blood Trail

Other Stories:

Novellas:

Sage

Short Stories:

What You Wish For

Demon Teddy Bear

Monster

Second Chance

Monster Hangover

They Came at Night

Listen to Me

Iron Knife

Time for War

The Exterminator

Smile

Education

It'll be a Riot

Hellhound

The Dragon

The Doorway

Contents:

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

More from this author

Chapter One:

There's nothing quite like sailing along a flat road in a shiny convertible, the wind in your face, the speedometer up high, and sirens blaring behind you.

OK, so maybe the sirens are a bit of a let down. They have that annoying whiny quality, like some snobby kid following you around, telling you what and what not to do. This one's been on my tail for the last five minutes. I think it has something to do with my shiny new car not technically being mine. I hear police frown on little details like that.

The police car lets out a 'whoop whoop,' and flashes its indicators toward the side of the motorway. 'Pull over.'

I think a moment, then slam my trainer down on the accelerator. What can I say? Thinking isn't my strong suit.

The car leaps forward with an eagerness echoed by the soaring feeling in my chest that bubbles over into laughter. The wind ruffles my hair and stings my cheeks. It's like flying, life itself condensed into its purest form. This must be what its like to be a wolf in a pack; moonlight searing hot in your veins, muscles rippling with power, the taste of your quarry on your lips.

Being the oldest child of the leader of one of the largest werewolf packs in England, it's something I thought about a lot as a child, dreaming of the day I'd be out there running beside my father. At eighteen and still horribly, plainly human, I know better. Dreams don't come true.

I slam on the brakes, jerking the wheel to the left as far as it will go. There's a ear piercing scream of protest, and the scent of burning rubber stings my tongue. For a heart stopping moment a feeling of weightlessness washes over me as the drivers side of the car rises up off the tarmac.

An alarm blares in my head, telling me this is a little too much like flying for comfort. Ah, self preservation. I knew I had that lying about somewhere. White knuckled, I jerk the wheel the other way. With a reluctant thud the two wheels meet the tarmac again. The car fishtails right, then left, and shoots down the offramp toward the edge of the New Forest national park barely losing any speed.

I hear the police car swerve to avoid my unexpected manoeuvre, then speed past the turn off, siren still singing its determined song.

I grin, rapping my knuckles in a quick tune on the steering wheel, before grabbing it again in firm grip. Not much time. The police car will follow me, and if any of their buddies are nearby I could find myself with a whole heck of a lot of unwanted attention.

I picture my father's scowling face. 'Roy, you know we can't afford to bring attention to the pack,' he'll say with a mixture of concern and disappointment that always make me feel about one foot tall. 'Our work is important. I brought you up to know better.'

Anger, red hot, stabs through my chest.. My foot eases up on the accelerator. It's almost worth turning myself in, just to ruin his day.

That pesky self preservation kicks in again. I shake my head, hair falling over my vision before the wind catches it again and sweeps it backward. It's just long enough to be annoying, buffeting my cheekbones and stabbing my eyes before the wind gets it back in check. The siren whines in the distance, heading in the right direction this time. Cars pass, honking their horns and flashing their lights.

I honk right back. What is their problem? Anyone would think I was going twice the speed limit or something equally stupid. My eyes flicker down to the little arrow that shows me my mileage. Oh. Right.

I ease up on the accelerator just enough to take a left hand turn. A minute later I take a right. The road gets narrower, bordered both sides by mangled bushes commonly known as hedges. The further the car travels down the road, the neater they get.

The police car wails behind me, but I force myself to ease off the accelerator. It's borderline painful. My fingers start drumming the tune for the Ellie the Elephant song just to have something to focus on. Everything's too slow, too still, too ordinary. It's like someone's pressed the decrease playback speed for the whole damn world to the point where words would be dragged out into nonsense, like those giant trees in Lord of the Rings. Those annoyed the heck out of me.

A quick succession of left and right turns later and I'm average Joe, doing no more than five miles above the speed limit. And with all the pretty little houses with their pretty little yards that pop up around me, that speed limit is about that of a snail pushing its way through jello.

The deeper into domestic territory I get, the fainter the sound of the siren. I stick to the smallest roads, looping around like I know where I'm going. I guess I do kind of. I've never been on these roads before, but I've been in the area enough times, and even if I hadn't I'm sure the trusty compass in my head would steer me in about the right direction.

An incalculable number of turns later, the houses give way to hedge lined roads again, and beyond that, woods. Seems everything always leads back to the forest for me. It's where I grew up. It's the only slow place in the world that doesn't have me crawling out of my skin.

Humming a tune I don't know the words to, I step down on the accelerator. No one to worry about calling me in for speeding out here. Here I can do what I want. Here I can be who I want.

Laughter bubbles out of my throat as the wind picks up, pushing back at me and trying to stop me going so fast. The delicious speed, the smell of the waking forest, and the knowledge I've gotten away with it again makes me feel like I'm soaring up there in the clouds instead of down here in the trees. All the spiralling thoughts that have been hammering against my skull since I got kicked out of the pack quieten. A moment of pure bliss.

And that's when things go wrong.

The deer prances out onto the beaten road like it owns the place. Then it stops, right in the middle of my path like a damn idiot, because that's apparently what you do when a big-ass bright red car comes hurtling toward you. You stop and take in the view.

Heart trying to leap out my throat, I jerk the wheel to the left. The car jumps to obey. Shiny expensive looking cars apparently have great steering. We miss Bambi by about an inch, and the car shudders as it kicks up dirt from the border between road and woods. I jerk the wheel back to the road, and the car shudders even more as its wheels bump against the tarmac and back toward the dirt.

The tree seems to come out of nowhere. That's my story and I'm sticking to it. The tyres catch on the tarmac a moment too late, and the impact shudders through all my bones and rams my brain against my skull one too many times to be healthy.

I sit there in my swanky borrowed car after physics stops playing its game of how far can Roy's neck bend, feeling like I've spent the last few seconds inside maracas played by a very enthusiastic toddler. Thin tendrils of white gas coil their way up from the hood, which I'm guessing isn't a good thing. My nose wrinkles as an acrid smell indicates that something that was supposed to be on the inside is now on the outside.

Well, this isn't how I planned my day to start out. Not that much in my life happens by planning, it just kind of happens. Like that rich kid making fun of my woollen jumper, and his keys just happening to fall out of his pocket and into mine when I bumped into him as we passed on the street, he still trying to make his drunken night last, and me up for my morning prowl.

I hop out of the car, not bothering with the door. My sole knowledge of cars comes from video games, clips of movies I've happened to catch while doing something else, and audio thriller