I’d seen enough horror flicks to know that howl had come from a wolf, and there were no wild ones left in New York State. That meant werewolf. Liam and Ramon, the two who’d tried to grab Derek the other day, had said all of the state was the territory of the Pack, who’d hunt and kill any trespassing werewolves. Obviously they weren’t that thorough—Derek had lived here all his life. But had they finally found him? If it wasn’t the Pack, then who had whistled? Andrew said the Edison Group didn’t hire werewolves. Was he wrong? If they wanted someone to track their missing subjects, a werewolf would be the best supernatural bloodhound around. Right now, it didn’t matter. Derek knew who’d whistled; and even if he couldn’t tell me, his actions said we were in trouble, and all we could do was hope to outrun it. “There’s a creek over there,” I said, pointing. “If it’s a werewolf that we’re trying to lose, water will hide our trail, right?” He answered by veering that way.
