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I Bring the Fire Part I: Wolves

First and foremost, I want to thank my editor, Kay McSpadden. Kay read and reread this story more times
than I can count. I also would like to thank Gretchen Almoughraby. Her suggestions helped me clarify
situations and make the action more believable. Also indispensable was Laura Stogdill. She consulted on
legal aspects of this story. My brother, Thomas, was great as a myth reference, my dad James Merril Evans
lent a hand in editing for content, and my mother and Christina Talbott-Clark helped with editing for
grammar (I should note, if you see mistakes they are mine and mine alone). All of my readers weren’t afraid
to tell me when I screwed up; for that I am eternally grateful. For all their hard work, my editors may pop up
in the story from time to time. I wish I could reward them more.
I also want to thank all of my fan fiction readers. Your encouragement helped give me the confidence to
write this story. I love you guys!
Finally, thanks must go to my husband Eric. If he hadn’t nagged at me to quit my job and work for him I
still might be caught in a nine-to-five grind and the commute time would have eaten up my writing time. And
if he hadn’t nagged me to stop writing fan fiction and start writing something I can own, this story never
would have happened.
(But don’t worry fanfic readers, I don’t think I’ll ever be able to leave you entirely! You’re too much fun.)
The gas station bathroom off route 44 is completely lined with white tiles. Overhead a fluorescent light
buzzes and flickers. The bathroom smells like urine and Pinesol. A toilet with a cracked seat sits on one side
of the little room. On the other is an ancient sink, hanging off the wall.
The toilet is unoccupied. The sink is not. In it is a writhing wet creature about the size of a dachshund but
heavier set and tailless, with short, dark gray fur interspersed with tufts of light gray. Holding the creature
under a cloud of foul smelling, antiseptic soap bubbles from the bathroom dispenser is Amy Lewis.
A splash of suds comes right at Amy’s eyes. Blinking, she looks up at the mirror above the sink. Her long
dishwater blonde hair is wet and plastered to her head where it isn’t pulled back in a messy ponytail. Her
wide blue eyes have dark circles from lack of sleep — she got up early to start the trip from Oklahoma to
Chicago. She’s not wearing any makeup. She should not care; no one will see her out here. But she wishes
she was wearing some under-eye concealer. Her nose has a large soap sud on it. Her wide lips are slightly
chapped. She looks like she’s been in her car for a week, not a few hours, and she looks far older than her