MAGGIE STIEFVATER SHIVER EPUB

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It has to be. But as winter nears, Sam must fight to stay human—or risk losing himself, and Grace, forever. 1- Shiver - Maggie smeltitherabpigs.cf Maggie Stiefvater's The Wolves of Mercy Falls Series in EPUB File Format #1 SHIVER For years, Grace has watched the wolves in the woods behind her house. Read pdf Free eBook Shiver (The Wolves of Mercy Falls #1) By Maggie Stiefvater EPUB PDF #book.


Maggie Stiefvater Shiver Epub

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Shiver Maggie Stiefvater SCHOLASTIC PRESS NEW YORK For Kate, because she cried CHAPTER ONE Author: Maggie Stiefvater Make Me Shiver epub. Make Me Shiver epub Shiver (Wolves of Mercy Falls) Shiver Maggie Stiefvater SCHOLASTIC PRESS NEW YORK For Kate, because she cried CHAPTER. Shiver. The Wolves of Mercy Falls Trilogy (Series). Book 1. Maggie Stiefvater Author David Ledoux Narrator (). cover image of Linger.

I had plenty of time to make dinner and maybe, afterward, to try to catch a glimpse of my wolf. There was some sort of cut of beef in the fridge that was probably supposed to go with the mangled mushrooms. I pulled it out and slapped it on the cutting board. The whole thing just put me in a bad mood. The phone rang. I was glad to hear from her; she was the exact opposite of my mother—totally organized and great on followthrough. She made me feel less like an alien. I shoved the phone between my ear and my shoulder and chopped the beef as I talked, saving a piece the size of my fist for later.

Talk about surreal, right? Olivia saw the world through her camera; half of my school memories seemed to be in four-by-six-inch glossy black-and-white form.

Olivia will definitely want a piece of that hot asteroid action. Got a moment to talk? Just while I finish up dinner, then I have homework. Just a second then. Two words, baby, try them out: It sounded better in my head. I so want to go somewhere. Anywhere but Mercy Falls. God, anywhere but Mercy Falls! Will you and Olivia come over and help me pick something after school tomorrow?

No matter how absent he was for the rest of the year, I always had my wolf for Christmas. Rachel groaned. I sort of belonged here. Love ya. I hurried to get the pot of stew simmering on the stove so it could occupy itself without me. Grabbing my coat from the hooks on the wall, I pulled open the sliding door to the deck.

Cool air bit my cheeks and pinched at the tops of my ears, reminding me that summer was officially over. I squinted at the edge of the yard and stepped off the deck, trying to look nonchalant as I did. The piece of beef in my hand felt cold and slick.

I crunched out across the brittle, colorless grass into the middle of the yard and stopped, momentarily dazzled by the violent pink of the sunset through the fluttering black leaves of the trees. This stark landscape was a world away from the small, warm kitchen with its comforting smells of easy survival.

Where I was supposed to belong. But the trees called to me, urging me to abandon what I knew and vanish into the oncoming night. It was a desire that had been tugging me with disconcerting frequency these days. The darkness at the edge of the wood shifted, and I saw my wolf standing beside a tree, nostrils sniffing toward the meat in my hand.

My relief at seeing him was cut short as he shifted his head, letting the yellow square of light from the sliding door fall across his face. I could see now that his chin was crusted with old, dried blood. Days old. His nostrils worked; he could smell the bit of beef in my hand. Either the beef or the familiarity of my presence was enough to lure him a few steps out of the wood. Then a few steps more. I faced him, near enough that I could have reached out and touched his dazzling fur.

Or brushed the deep red stain on his muzzle. I badly wanted that blood to be his. An old cut or scratch earned in a scuffle. It looked like it belonged to someone else. He was as still as a statue, his eyes watching my face instead of the meat in my hand. Did you do it? And then, for the first time in six years, he closed his eyes. It went against every natural instinct a wolf should have possessed.

A lifetime of an unblinking gaze, and now he was frozen in almost-human grief, brilliant eyes closed, head ducked and tail lowered. It was the saddest thing I had ever seen. Slowly, barely moving, I approached him, afraid only of scaring him away, not of his scarletstained lips or the teeth they hid. I crouched, dropping the meat onto the snow beside me. He flinched as it landed. I was close enough to smell the wild odor of his coat and feel the warmth of his breath.

His outer coat was not soft as it looked, but beneath the coarse guard hairs was a layer of downy fluff. With a low groan, he pressed his head against me, eyes still closed. For a moment, I forgot where—who—I was. Movement caught my eye: Far off, barely visible in the fading day, the white wolf was watching at the edge of the wood, her eyes burning.

I felt a rumble against my body and I realized my wolf was growling at her. The she-wolf stepped closer, uncommonly bold, and he twisted in my arms to face her. I flinched at the sound of his teeth snapping at her.

She never growled, and somehow that was worse. A wolf should have growled. But she just stared, eyes flicking from him to me, every aspect of her body language breathing hatred.

Still rumbling, almost inaudible, my wolf pressed harder against me, forcing me back a step, then another, guiding me up to the deck. My feet found the steps and I retreated to the sliding door. He remained at the bottom of the stairs until I pushed the door open and locked myself inside the house.

Though my wolf was nearest to her and the most obvious threat for the food, it was me that her eyes found, on the other side of the glass door. She held my gaze for a long moment before she slid into the woods like a spirit. My wolf hesitated by the edge of the woods, the dim porch light catching his eyes. He was still watching my silhouette through the door. I pressed my palm flat against the frigid glass. The distance between us had never felt so vast.

It had taken six years for him to let me touch him. Hold him. I kept my mouth shut.

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In the front hall, Dad stomped in. His eyes looked tired behind his glasses, but he smiled.

Mom appeared in the yellow kitchen in two seconds flat. She was out of breath from running down the stairs—she never walked anywhere—and there was a streak of green paint on her cheekbone. Dad kissed her, avoiding the paint. She had a look on her face like she already knew what he was going to say.

She danced into the kitchen, chanting some sort of nonsense song. Well, except for dinner. They usually showed up for food. But that seemed unimportant in comparison to the promise of reliable transportation.

My own car? I mean, one that runs? A car like that meant freedom. That night, I lay in my room, eyes squeezed firmly shut, trying to sleep. The world outside my window seemed silenced, as though it had snowed. It was too early for snow, but every sound seemed muffled. Too quiet. I held my breath and focused on the night, listening for movement in the still darkness. I slowly became aware that faint clicks had broken the silence outside, pricking at my ears. It sounded for all the world like toenails on the deck outside my window.

Was a wolf on the deck? Maybe it was a raccoon. Then came more soft scrabbling, and a growl—definitely not a raccoon. The hairs rose on the back of my neck. Pulling my quilt around me like a cape, I climbed out of bed and padded across bare floorboards lit by half a moon. I lifted the blinds and looked out onto the deck.

Perpendicular to my room, I could see that the yard was empty. The stark black trunks of the trees jutted like a fence between me and the deeper forest beyond. Suddenly, a face appeared directly in front of mine, and I jumped with surprise. The white wolf was on the other side of the glass, paws on the outside sill. She was close enough that I could see moisture caught in the banded hairs of her fur.

Her jewel-blue eyes glared into mine, challenging me to look away. A low growl rumbled through the glass, and I felt as if I could read meaning into it, as clearly as if it were written on the pane. I stared back at her.

Then, without thinking, I lifted my teeth into a snarl. The growl that escaped from me surprised both me and her, and she jumped down from the window. She cast a dark look over her shoulder at me and peed on the corner of the deck before loping into the woods. Biting my lip to erase the strange shape of the snarl, I picked up my sweater from the floor and crawled back into bed. Shoving my pillow aside, I balled up the sweater to use instead. I fell asleep to the scent of my wolf. Pine needles, cold rain, earthy perfume, coarse bristles on my face.

It was almost like he was there. It clung to me, a memory of another world. I was drunk with it, with the scent of her.

My instincts warned against it. Especially when I remembered what had just happened to the boy. The smell of summer on her skin, the half-recalled cadence of her voice, the sensation of her fingers on my fur. Every bit of me sang with the memory of her closeness. Too close. I snapped to attention, however, when Mrs. Ruminski led a policeman into the classroom and to the front of our Life Skills class.

She left him alone at the front of the room, which I thought was pretty cruel, considering it was seventh period and most of us were restlessly anticipating escape.

Maybe she thought that a member of law enforcement would be able to handle mere high school students. Beneath a gun belt that bristled with holsters and pepper sprays and other assorted weaponry, he looked young. He glanced toward Mrs. Ruminski, who hovered unhelpfully in the open door of the classroom, and fingered the shiny name tag on his shirt: Ruminski had told us that he was a graduate of our fine high school, but neither his name nor his face looked particularly familiar to me.

Your teacher—Mrs. As usual, everything about Olivia looked neat and tidy: Her dark hair was plaited in a perfect French braid and her collared shirt was freshly pressed. You could never tell what Olivia was thinking by her mouth. It was her eyes you had to look at. He was cute, but not my type. He looked very serious as he said it, frowning in a sort of serve-and-protect way.

Officer William Koenig shot a look at us and rested a hand on his gun. I guess it was habit, but it looked like he was considering shooting us for whispering. Olivia disappeared into her seat and a few of the other girls giggled. A hand whipped up. Is it true? Why would someone steal a body?

For a suicide. Maybe the Culpepers stuffed Jack, too. Officer Koenig looked aghast at Mrs. Ruminski, who stood in the open door of the classroom.

She regarded him solemnly and then turned to the class. She turned back to Officer Koenig. Ruminski said. But being dead had done wonders for his reputation. And just what those tempers looked like. Mercy Falls was all about rumors, and the rumor on Jack was that he got his short fuse from his dad. It seemed like you ought to pick the sort of person you would be, no matter what your parents were like. Ruminski added, gesturing to the sea of black in the classroom.

This is about giving closure to a close-knit community. Officer Koenig crossed his arms over his chest; it made him look petulant, like a little kid being forced to do something. Elizabeth waved her hand again. Do you get lots of calls about them? My mom said you got lots of calls about them. Ruminski, but he should have figured out by now that she wanted to know just as much as Elizabeth did. I—and the rest of the department—feel this was an isolated incident. I bit the inside of my lip. Not because the attention bothered me, but because every time someone remembered I was dragged from my tire swing, they remembered it could happen to anyone.

And I wondered how many someones it would take before they decided to go after the wolves. To go after my wolf.

In between that and his checkered history at the school, it felt hypocritical to go into public mourning along with the rest of the school. And it might have been dogs. Who was going to contradict me?

Panic leads to carelessness, and carelessness creates accidents. I felt a vague kinship with humorless Officer Koenig as he steered the conversation back to careers in law enforcement. After class was over, the other students started talking about Jack again, but Olivia and I escaped to our lockers. I felt a tug on my hair and turned to see Rachel standing behind me, looking mournfully at both of us.

Step-freak has demanded a family bonding trip to Duluth. Can we get together tomorrow or something? It still felt weird to ask. In middle school, she and Rachel and I had hung out every day, a wordless ongoing agreement. Somehow it had sort of changed after Rachel got her first boyfriend, leaving Olivia and me behind, the geek and the disinterested, and fracturing our easy friendship.

She pinched my elbow. She drove a white SUV and had one of those handbag Chihuahuas that she dressed to match her outfits.

At the moment, Isabel was staring into her locker as if it contained other worlds. I looked away quickly, but I still felt her eyes on me. Olivia opened the door for me. To Olivia, photography was a religion; she worshipped her camera and studied the techniques as if they were rules to live by.

Seeing her photos, I was almost willing to become a believer, too. She made you feel as though you were right there in the scene. What is wrong with you? Taking a bite of scone, she spoke around a mouthful, covering her mouth to keep from spraying me with crumbs. We should order pizza sometime. Other than your James Dean poster. For a long time we sat in silence, paging through her photos. I lingered on a close-up shot of me, Olivia, and Rachel together; her mother had come outside to take it right before school started.

Like always, she was the glue that held our threesome together: In the photo, Olivia seemed to belong in the summer, with her olive skin bronzed and green eyes saturated with color. Her teeth made a perfect crescent moon smile for the photo, dimples and all.

Next to the two of them, I was the embodiment of winter—dark blonde hair and serious brown eyes, a summer girl faded by cold. I used to think Olivia and I were so similar, both introverts permanently buried in books. But now I realized my seclusion was self-inflicted and Olivia was just painfully shy.

This year, it felt like the more time we spent together, the harder it was to stay friends. And you look angry. I liked it. You look like a princess and I look like an ogre. She does look insane. Or at least highly caffeinated, as per usual. Really, Rachel looked like a sun, bright and exuding energy, holding us two moons in parallel orbit by the sheer force of her will. It was my wolf, deep in the woods, halfway hidden behind a tree.

In fact, keep the whole stack. We can put the good ones in a book next time. I pointed at the picture. I stared at the photo of him—breathtaking, but flat and inadequate in comparison to the real thing. Something knotted in my chest, bitter and sad. Something had changed—and I thought it was me. They were impressive: I oohed and aahed and then slid the photo of my wolf back on top of them to look at it again.

Olivia made a sort of irritated sound in the back of her throat. I hurriedly shuffled back to the one of the leaf floating on the puddle. I frowned at it for a moment, trying to imagine the sort of thing Mom would say about a piece of art.

Did she want me to pretend to like the other photos better than the one of my wolf? Anyone home? He grinned at me from the front hall, shutting the door behind him. He was handsome in a very conventional way: We like doing nothing together. All talk, no action. Are your parents home? I should get a head of household bonus on my taxes.

I shut up. You coming, Grace? I shook my head. Rain check? Come on, Olive. Bye, good-looking. Just go. Bye, Grace. Knowing that dinner would be canned beans unless I made it, I rummaged in the fridge and put a pot of leftover soup on the stove to simmer until my parents got home.

It was stupid, the way I needed his phantom at the edge of the yard to feel complete. Stupid but completely incurable. I went to the back door and opened it, wanting to smell the woods.

I padded out onto the deck in my sock feet and leaned against the railing. For a second I thought it was a howl, and then the cry resolved itself into words: But that was impossible. I was just imagining it, remembering it from the cafeteria, where it had always seemed to carry over the others around him as he catcalled girls in the hallway. Still, I followed the sound of the voice, moving impulsively across the yard and through the trees.

The ground was damp and prickly through my sock feet; I was clumsier without my shoes. The crashing of my own steps through fallen leaves and tangled brush drowned out any other sounds.

I hesitated, listening. The voice was gone, replaced by just a whimper, distinctly animalsounding, and then by silence. The relative safety of the backyard was far behind me now. I stood for a long moment, listening for any indication of where the first scream had come from. But there was nothing but silence.

And in that silence, the smell of the woods seeped under my skin and reminded me of him. Crushed pine needles and wet earth and wood smoke. I retreated to the house, just long enough to get my shoes, and headed back out into the cool autumn day.

There was a bite behind the breeze that promised winter, but the sun shone bright, and under the shelter of the trees, the air was warm with the memory of hot days not so long ago.

All around me, leaves were dying gorgeously in red and orange; crows cawed to each other overhead in a vibrant, ugly soundtrack.

I stepped carefully, avoiding the little streams that snaked through the underbrush. This should have been unfamiliar territory, but I felt confident, assured. Silently guided, as though by a weird sixth sense, I followed the same worn paths that the wolves used over and over again. It was just me, acknowledging that there was more to my senses than I normally let on. I gave in to them and they became efficient, sharpened.

As it reached me, the breeze seemed to carry the information of a stack of maps, telling me which animals had traveled where and how long ago. My ears picked up faint sounds that before had gone unnoticed: I felt like I was home. The woods rang with an unfamiliar cry, out of place in this world.

The whimper came again, louder than before. Rounding a pine tree, I came upon the source: It was the white wolf and the black pack leader; the sight of the she-wolf made my stomach twist with nerves.

The two of them had pounced on a third wolf, a scraggly young male with an almost-blue tint to his gray coat and an ugly, healing wound on his shoulder. The other two wolves were pinning him to the leafy ground in a show of dominance; they all froze when they saw me. The pinned male twisted his head to stare at me, eyes entreating. My heart thudded in my chest.

I knew those eyes. I remembered them from school; I remembered them from the local news. The pinned wolf whistled pitifully through his nostrils. I just kept staring at those eyes. Did wolves have hazel eyes? Maybe they did. Why did they look so wrong? As I stared at them, that one word just kept singing through my head: With a snarl in my direction, the she-wolf let him up.

She snapped at his side, pushing him away from me. Her eyes were on me the entire time, daring me to stop her, and something in me told me that maybe I should have tried. But by the time my thoughts stopped spinning and I remembered the pocketknife in my jeans, the three wolves were already dark smudges in the distant trees. I could have been misremembering his eyes. What was I thinking, anyway?

I let out a deep breath. Actually, that was what I was thinking. Or his voice.

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There was a knot in my stomach. That night I lay in bed and stared at the window, my blinds pulled up so I could see the night sky.

One thousand brilliant stars punched holes in my consciousness, pricking me with longing. I could stare at the stars for hours, their infinite number and depth pulling me into a part of myself that I ignored during the day. Outside, deep in the woods, I heard a long, keening wail, and then another, as the wolves began to howl.

More voices pitched in, some low and mournful, others high and short, an eerie and beautiful chorus. My heart ached inside me, torn between wanting them to stop and wishing they would go on forever. I imagined myself there among them in the golden wood, watching them tilt their heads back and howl underneath a sky of endless stars.

Or can I leave it here? She was wearing reading glasses, complete with a chain on the ear pieces so that she could hang them around her neck. On Olivia, the look kind of worked, in a sort of charming librarian way. Behind us, the hall hummed with noise as students packed up and headed home. And now the day was over. I took a deep breath. Even inside my head, the words sounded crazy.

But since the evening before, the secret had surrounded me, tight around my chest and throat. I let the words spill out, my voice low. The new wolf—I think something happened when the wolves attacked Jack. Her knotted eyebrows were making me regret starting the conversation. I sighed.

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It was his voice. Wait—what do you mean? About me wanting to believe it? The whole pack?

It was impossible. That those long absences were because my wolf vanished into human form? The idea was immediately unbearable, only because I wanted it to be true so badly that it hurt.

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What in the world would we call something like that? Oh, yeah! An obsession! Just not like all-consuming, involving, whatever, interested. I wanted to walk away and leave her standing there in the hallway.

Instead, I kept my voice super flat and even. Thanks for the help. Instead of heading home, I trailed back into my empty homeroom, flopped into a chair, and put my head in my hands.

She owed it to me to at least hear me out. My thoughts were cut short by the sound of cork heels squelching into the room.

The scent of expensive perfume hit me a second before I lifted my eyes to Isabel Culpeper standing over my desk. The sympathy conjured up by her presence vanished at her words. You must not have heard the newsflash: Those animals killed my brother. If Olivia thought I was crazy for believing in werewolves, Isabel would probably be on the phone to the local mental institution before I could even finish a sentence. Well, obviously they are. Tom Culpeper and his stuffed animals.

I imagined my wolf, stuffed and glassy-eyed. I knew the wolves had done it. She just looked at me for a long moment. Long enough for me to wonder what it was she was thinking.

They killed him. But you know what? For a single moment, I sat at the desk, my cheeks burning, pulling her words apart and putting them back together again. And then I jumped from my chair, my notes fluttering to the floor like listless birds.

I left them where they fell and ran for my car. I shoved my key in the ignition, feeling the car rattle reluctantly to life as I did. My eyes were on the yellow line of school buses waiting at the curb and the knots of loud students still milling on the sidewalk, but my brain was picturing the chalkwhite lines of the birches behind my house.

Was a hunting party going after the wolves? Hunting them now? I had to get home. My car stalled, my foot uncertain on the dodgy clutch.

I bit my lip, pulled myself together, and managed to restart. There were two ways to get home from the school. One was shorter but involved stoplights and stop signs—impossible today, when I was too distracted to baby my car. The other route was slightly longer, but with only two stop signs. Plus, it ran along the edge of Boundary Wood, where the wolves lived.

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As I drove, pushing my car as hard as I dared, my stomach twisted, sick with nerves. The engine gave an unhealthy shudder. I checked the dials; the engine was starting to overheat. Stupid car.

If only my father had taken me to the dealership like he kept promising he would. As the sky began to burn brilliantly red on the horizon, turning the thin clouds to streaks of blood above the trees, my heart thumped in my ears, and my skin felt tingly, electric. Everything inside me screamed that something was wrong. Up ahead, I spotted a line of pickup trucks parked by the side of the road. Their four-ways blinked in the failing light, sporadically illuminating the woods next to the road.

My stomach turned over again, and as I eased off the gas, my car gasped and stalled, leaving me coasting in an eerie quiet. I turned the key, but between my jittery hands and the redlining heat sensor, the engine just shuddered under the hood without turning over. Growling under my breath, I braked and let the car drift to a stop behind the pickup trucks.

What I was worried about was those trucks. Because they meant that Isabel had been telling the truth. As I climbed out onto the shoulder of the road, I recognized the guy standing next to the pickup ahead. It was Officer Koenig, out of uniform, drumming his fingers on the hood. When I got closer, my stomach still churning, he looked up and his fingers stilled.

He was wearing a bright orange cap and held a shotgun in the crook of his arm. I turned abruptly at the sound of a car door slamming behind me.

Another truck had pulled up, and two orangecapped hunters were making their way down the side of the road. I looked past them, to where they were heading, and my breath caught in my throat. Dozens of hunters were knotted on the shoulder, all carrying rifles, visibly restless, voices muffled. Squinting into the dim trees beyond a shallow ditch, I could see more orange caps dotting the woods, infesting them. The hunt had already begun. I turned back to Koenig and pointed at the gun he held.

Cheers rose from the group down the road. But I knew what it was. It was a gunshot. In Boundary Wood. My voice was steady, which surprised me. The wolves. My wolf. In my head, I saw a perfect image of a wolf rolling, rolling, a gaping hole in its side, eyes dead.

The words just came out. You have to call them and tell them to stop. I have a friend in there! She was going to take photos this afternoon. In the woods. Please, you have to call them! Are you sure? Call them! Pulling his cell phone from his pocket, he punched a quick number and held the phone to his ear. His eyebrows made a straight, hard line, and after a second, he pulled the phone away and stared at the screen. I stood by the pickup truck, my arms crossed over my chest as cold seeped into me, watching the gray dusk take over the road as the sun disappeared behind the trees.

Surely they had to stop when it got dark. Staring at his phone again, Koenig shook his head. Hold on. Let me lock my gun up. It will only take a second. I jumped the ditch and scrambled up into the trees, leaving Koenig behind. I heard him calling after me, but I was already well into the woods. I had to stop them—warn my wolf—do something. We were silent, dark drops of water, rushing over brambles and around the trees as the men drove us before them.

The woods I knew, the woods that protected me, were punched through by their sharp odors and their shouts. I scrambled here and there amongst the other wolves, guiding and following, keeping us together. The fallen trees and underbrush felt unfamiliar beneath my feet; I kept from stumbling by flying—long, endless leaps, barely touching the ground. It was terrifying to not know where I was.

We traded simple images amongst ourselves in our wordless, futile language: A crack deafened me, shook me out of balance. Beside me, I heard a whimper. I knew which wolf it was without turning my head. There was no time to stop; nothing to do even if I had.

A new smell hit my nostrils: The lake. They were driving us to the lake. I formed a clear image in my head at the same time that Paul, the pack leader, did. The slow, rippling edge of the water, thin pines growing sparsely in the poor soil, the lake stretching forever in both directions.

A pack of wolves, huddled on the shore. No escape. We were the hunted. We slid before them, ghosts in the woods, and we fell, whether or not we fought. The others kept running, toward the lake. But I stopped. These were close woods made of a thousand dark tree trunks turned black by dusk. I was completely disoriented; I had to keep stopping to listen for shouts and faraway footsteps through the dry leaves. My breath was burning my throat by the time I saw the first orange cap, glowing distantly out of the twilight.

And then I saw the others—orange dots scattered through the woods, all moving slowly, relentlessly, in the same direction. Making a lot of noise. Driving the wolves ahead of them. I was close enough to see the outline of the nearest hunter, shotgun in his hands. I closed the distance between us, my legs protesting, stumbling a little because I was tired.

He stopped walking and turned, surprised, waiting until I approached. I had to get very close to see his face; it was so close to night in these trees. Seconds ticked by as I struggled to find my voice. I have a friend in the woods here. She was going to take photographs. I saw a black box at his waist—a walkie-talkie. How would they see her? He reached for his walkie-talkie and unstrapped it and lifted it up and brought it toward his mouth.

It felt like he was doing everything in slow motion. The hunter clicked the button down on the walkie-talkie to speak. And suddenly a volley of shots snapped and snarled, not far away. Not little pops, like they were from the roadside, but crackling fireworks, unmistakably gunshots. My ears rang. In a weird way, I felt totally objective, like I was standing outside my own body. So I could feel that my knees were weak and trembling without knowing why, and I heard my heartbeat racing inside me, and I saw red trickling down behind my eyes, like a dream of crimson.

Like a viciously clear nightmare of death. There was such a convincing metallic taste in my mouth that I touched my lips, expecting blood. But there was nothing. No pain. Just the absence of feeling. There are people with guns here. On the edge of the woods. The house was invisible behind a black tangle of trees. Koenig seized upon this bit of information.

Ralph, use that thing to tell them to stop shooting things. The cold air was beginning to bite and prickle on my cheeks, the evening getting cold quickly as the sun disappeared. I felt as frozen on the inside as I was on the outside. I could still see the curtain of red falling over my eyes and hear the crackling gunfire. I was so sure that my wolf had been there. At the edge of the woods, I stopped, looking at the dark glass of the back door on the deck.

For a long moment, I stood in the silent twilight, listening to the faraway voices in the woods and the wind rattling the dry leaves in the trees above me. The rustling of animals in the woods, turning over crisp leaves with their paws. The distant roar of trucks on the highway.

The sound of fast, ragged breathing. I froze. I held my breath. I followed the sound, climbing cautiously onto the deck, painfully aware of the sound of each stair sighing beneath my weight. I smelled him before I saw him, my heart instantly revving up into high gear. Then the motion detector light above the back door clicked on and flooded the porch with yellow light. And there he was, half sitting, half lying against the glass back door. My breath caught painfully in my throat as I moved still closer, hesitant.

His beautiful ruff was gone and he was naked, but I knew it was my wolf even before he opened his eyes. Red was smeared from his ear to his desperately human shoulders—deadly war paint. Not like this. The breeze carried the smell to my nostrils again, grounding me.

I was wasting time. I pulled out my keys and reached over the top of him to open the back door. Too late, I saw one of his hands reach out, snatching air, and he crashed inside the open door, leaving a smear of red on the glass.

Stepping over him, I hurried into the kitchen, hitting light switches as I did. I ran back to the door. He lay half in and half out, shaking violently. Without thinking, I grabbed him under his armpits and dragged him far enough inside that I could shut the door. In the light of the breakfast area, blood smearing a path across the floor, he seemed tremendously real. I crouched swiftly.

My voice was barely a whisper. His knuckles were white where his hand was pressed against his neck, brilliant red leaking around his fingers. It was him.

Human words, not a howl, but the timbre was the same. There was too much blood to see the wound, so I just pressed one of the dishcloths over the mess of red that stretched from his chin to his collarbone.

It was well beyond my first-aid abilities. The wildness was tempered with a comprehension that had been absent before. My words were gentle, as though he might still leap up and run. Shiver And Spice Harlequin Blaze. Make Me Shiver epub. Make Me Shiver mobi. Jiske Hum Mama Hain. Guns, germs, and steel the fates of hum. Shiver Wolves of Mercy Falls. The Origins of Om Manipadme Hum: A Study of the Karandavyuha Sutra. The Temple and the. The Left and the Jews: The Jews and the Left.

The 'Mental' and the 'Physical': The Essay and the Postscript. The Good, the Bad and the Naughty. The Tower, the Zoo and the Tortoise. The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe.My love billionaire: I was glad to hear from her; she was the exact opposite of my mother—totally organized and great on followthrough.

She narrowed her eyes at me in mock irritation and crossed her arms over her chest. The girl looked right at me, eyes holding mine with such terrible honesty. I had plenty of time to make dinner and maybe, afterward, to try to catch a glimpse of my wolf.

For Grace, Sam, and Cole, life is harrowing and euphoric, enticing and alarming. The cold air was beginning to bite and prickle on my cheeks, the evening getting cold quickly as the sun disappeared. One was shorter but involved stoplights and stop signs—impossible today, when I was too distracted to baby my car.