Frost Burned

ordinary. He snored a little.
    It had been nearly half a century since Adam’s first kill. He’d like to have said that he remembered them all—a man should take notice when he killed another man. But there had been too many. Some of them had been sleeping peacefully.
    He crushed the man’s throat with his jaws and tried not to pay attention to the taste of his blood. Since he’d become a werewolf, he’d eaten a few people, but that was harder to live with than just killing them. So he tried to avoid it when he could.
    The second man was older, in his fifties, but in decent shape. He had the good haircut of a bureaucrat planning on rising in the ranks of his profession. His hair was dyed, but it was a good dye job, leaving him with just a touch of gray.
    Adam didn’t remember seeing him—but he’d be the first to admit that he hadn’t been at his best since his kidnapping. This one woke up before Adam killed him, but he didn’t have a chance to cry out.
    He continued down the hall. The next two who died were also easy kills.
    He came to a room empty of people, but he opened the door anyway. He should have just kept going, but when he glimpsed a photo of Mercy, he shouldered the door further open and went in. One wall was filled with photos of his pack and their families, including Mercy and Jesse. Each labeled with a name so that people could come in and study the wall, get so they would recognize their targets.
    It was a kill list.
    Every single one of the pack was on it—and their immediate families, human and wolf alike, young and old. Sylvia Sandoval was there and so were her girls.
    They were planning on killing the children.
    Adam’s next three kills weren’t so clean after that, nor so silent. He let the fourth one scream because he was sleeping with a smile on his face.
    They were planning on killing children, and this one was smiling.
    When Adam got through with him, the man’s corpse reeked of terror and pain. Adam needed to control himself better; he couldn’t afford to lose control of the wolf because he might never regain it. He had a job that no one else could do to his satisfaction, a duty. The thought settled him; he knew about duty, both man and wolf.
    The next bedroom was empty, though it smelled of a woman. He memorized the scent because if she’d taken flight, he’d have to hunt her through the dead vineyard. Part of him, the human part, knew he would have to give that hunt to someone less . . . eager than he was. Warren. Darryl, Adam’s second, was still too much a gentleman to kill a woman without suffering for it. Warren was more practical.
    The modern doorknobs designed for handicapped access were so much easier for a wolf to open than the traditional round ones were. The whole ground floor was designed especially for handicapped access, so he made no sound as he opened the next room to discover that there would be no need for him to hunt anyone yet. He’d found the woman from next door, and she and Mr. Jones had evidently found themselves too involved in each other to notice his last victim’s cries.
    He’d promised Jones to Honey.
    It was harder than it should have been to leave them alone, but he closed the door as quietly as he could. There were three more people to kill—he could hear them. He was getting hungry.
    He broke the next man’s neck with a swat of his paw—like a grizzly. It was quick and clean. The second one was a woman, crouched behind her cot, which she’d knocked over to provide cover. He had a momentary thought that someone had been watching too much TV, because a cot is no kind of protection at all—and then the woman pulled out one of the dart guns and started firing.
    The first dart hit badly and bounced off his shoulder. Warned, he dodged the second two and jumped the cot to crush her skull between his jaws. He shook her once to break her neck and make sure of the kill, then dropped the body. He didn’t enjoy killing women.
    He stopped where he was, the corpse on the ground halfway between his front paws, and fought off the urge to eat her. Woman or not, his wolf was hungry, and dead, she was just meat. He didn’t have time for it—and the strength of the urge meant the wolf was gaining the upper hand. When he was certain he had himself under control he headed off to hunt down the next one.
    That one had barricaded himself in one of the rooms Adam had visited earlier. The door was ironbound and thick, meant to look like the old