by Dani Harper
He was barely through the door when Bev handed him a mug of fragrant tea and pointed to the living room. Lowen wandered in a few moments later and tossed Connor a small empty bottle before ensconcing himself in his favorite recliner.
“You oughta keep that one, wolf-boy.”
“This?” Connor looked at the bottle.
“No, that long-legged gal you brought in. She’s a smart one. I like her editorials. So this silver nitrate you palmed me is supposed to stop her from becoming what you are?”
“Yes.” Legends and folk tales claimed that anyone bitten by a Changeling would become one. They were absolutely right. The secret was in the saliva. A single bite, even a very small one, sent saliva into the bloodstream. The saliva activated an otherwise innocuous gene already present in all humans. Only silver nitrate could stop the process, and only if used in time. Treatment had to be started within twelve hours or all the silver in the world wouldn’t help. “Injection is more effective because you only need to do it once, but it’s pretty tough to explain to a human patient what the shot is for. Especially when we’re talking about a hundred or so cc’s.”
“That’s a damn big shot,” snorted Lowen. “So that’s why you decided to go with a topical application?”
“Exactly. More applications but easier to pass off. Two’s usually enough as long as it’s started within twelve hours of the bite, but there was a full moon behind the clouds the night Zoey was bitten. A Changeling’s bite tends to be more virulent then, so I’m playing it safe by giving her three applications.”
“The whole thing sounds like a damn B-movie.” Lowen shook his head. “Well, I followed your instructions to the letter, doused every puncture with it. Acted like I was flushing the wounds. The stuff looks just like distilled water.”
“Colloidal silver is touted for its antibiotic properties.” Bev came and sat on the couch next to Connor. “People often take it internally.”
“Yeah, well, people take a lot of questionable things internally,” grunted Lowen. “Too much of that silver nitrate stuff and you turn into a giant Smurf. Skin’s blue, permanently. I once had a case where—”
“So has Zoey had the three applications now?” Bev cut her husband off with such practiced ease that Connor had to hide a smile. It was likely a talent she’d developed in self-defense, since Lowen could reminisce for hours once he got started.
“I gave her one the night of the attack. Lowen gave her the second one this morning. Ideally they should be a day or two apart, so I’ve got to find a way to get her another one Monday or Tuesday.”
“Ha. That won’t be hard.” The old doctor slurped the last of his tea and banged the cup down on a side table. “I suggested she let you check her leg and change the dressings.”
Connor was surprised. “Why would you tell her that? I’m a vet.”
“And the most talented healer I’ve ever come across. The medical profession lost out when you decided to patch up cows instead of people.”
“Thanks but still, it’s one thing to pinch hit in an emergency and—”
“But there’s no emergency,” replied Lowen. “Exactly. She’s due back in a week so I can officially look at the wound to make sure there’s still no infection, but until then she’s on her own. And that’s where you come in. I told her I want the dressings changed frequently, the wounds washed and treated with antibiotic cream. So you’ll have plenty of opportunities to apply the silver nitrate and ask her out.”
Connor laughed then. “You’re devious, Lowen.”
“So my poker opponents tell me. Now reassure me of one thing.”
“What?”
“That there’s no chance of rabies from this bite. I know it’s rare in this part of the country, but it’s still standard procedure to ship a bite victim off to the city for shots when we can’t locate the animal and test it.”
“Changelings don’t carry rabies.”
“And you know for certain it wasn’t a real wolf?” asked Bev.
“Better. I know who the wolf was.” Connor’s gray eyes darkened. “And I also know he won’t be a wolf again. Ever.”
Lowen’s eyebrow went up. “Sounds personal.”
God, yes, it was personal. “He would have killed her, Lowen.” No sooner had he formed the words than his inner wolf began snarling and snapping. With enormous effort, Connor leashed it firmly, startled at the strength of it, puzzled by its purpose. The wolf clearly intended to protect Zoey Tyler. No matter what.
Zoey spent most of the day at the office, then took photos at a service club meeting where scholarships were being awarded to some bright and promising high school seniors. After supper she returned to the office to download the photos and write up an article.
The Dunvegan Herald Weekly office was silent except for clocks ticking and the dripping of the staff room faucet. She liked having the place to herself. How on earth had she ever gotten anything done in the middle of a big busy newsroom? It was so much easier to work when it was quiet. Easier, until she played her phone messages and found one from Connor. It was nothing much, just a simple request that she call him, but his deep melodious voice did strange things to her insides. God, he even sounded hot. Did he do that on purpose?
It ruined her concentration for writing. She’d barely get a sentence down before she began thinking of Connor. His eyes for instance, and how they were almost silver at times. With such a color they should have seemed cold, even icy, and yet they were anything but. There was warmth and ready humor in them. Until—
Zoey contemplated the glimpse she’d gotten of another side of Connor Macleod. The one who’d stood in her kitchen ready to do whatever was necessary to get her to the clinic. His eyes had been different then, darker. The warmth was gone, replaced with a decided coolness. Yet there was no chill directed toward her. Of that she was certain. It was more like the coolness of metal armor, the determined chill of a sword, as he readied for battle. As he stood to protect her, even from herself.
She shivered at the sheer sexiness of it, of him. Ran her hands through her hair and rubbed them lightly over her face, feeling the heat that had flared in her cheeks. Heat. In his truck, she had awakened to the sensation of Connor stroking her cheek. In her kitchen, he’d placed that big hand over hers. She could still feel the unusual heat that had radiated from his skin on both occasions. Not the parched heat of a fever but more like the banked coals of a campfire, something that beckoned her to relax, to stretch out and simply bask in the pleasure of it.
Sitting behind her desk as she had sat at her bistro table, her hand resting palm down on the smooth surface, she smiled. The table had been so tiny, she could have reached out and touched Connor easily. Could have indulged the urge she’d felt to brush the glossy dark hair from his face, indulged that wish to slide her palm over the stubble on his jaw. She imagined stirring her mocha slowly, lazily, and skimming the chocolate froth onto the spoon. Licking it off with quick little flicks of her tongue while he watched her with silvery eyes. . . .
Omigod. She put a hand on her chest where her heart was pounding and took several deep breaths. If she was going to make a habit of fantasizing about Connor at work, she’d have to start keeping a vibrator in her desk! Zoey looked up at the clock, then at her laptop screen. She had a whopping six and a half sentences to show for an hour’s work. Crap. Crap, crap, crap. Desperate to get her mind off a certain tall, sexy veterinarian, she seized her camera bag. Maybe the fresh evening air would cool her down. Maybe a short walk would ease the stiffness that had set into her aching leg and work off some of her unexpected, uh, tension. Oh hell. Maybe she’d be really lucky and find another wolf to beat up. . . .
There were no wolves wandering the streets but Zoey enjoyed the fresh spring air. Temperatures had risen to normal and the only evidence left of the freak ice storm was a scattering of twigs and branches on the ground, some sawdust where the fallen tree at the top of Main Street had been removed, and a few puddles. She walked slowly, favoring her
injured calf. Lowen Miller had ordered her to stay off it, but she’d been in a chair all day—surely it wouldn’t hurt anything to stretch a bit?
The sun was low in the sky when Zoey reached the little park by the fire hall. It was too early in the year for flowers. There didn’t seem to be anything worth photographing and she was ready to turn back when Lucinda Perkins’s minivan turned the corner. Mabel Rainier was riding shotgun. The pale green vehicle was festooned with homemade signs identifying it as the DNP–Dunvegan Neighborhood Patrol.
It took only a wave from Zoey for the van to pull over. Lucinda and Mabel were from the local senior’s lodge, where in recent months a small group had formed the DNP in response to a rash of vandalism. The seniors worked hard to repair or replace the many flower boxes, both in the park and along the downtown streets, and were determined to protect them. So far, the patrol idea seemed to be working.
The women willingly posed by a newly built planter, excited that they were going to be in the newspaper. Zoey couldn’t help being charmed—it wasn’t an attitude she’d encountered much as a journalist in the city. People just seemed to be more cynical there, either unimpressed by attention from the media or demanding it as their due. She diligently took down information and quotes for what would be a nice little story for Page Three.
“I’m so glad we have an editor who takes an interest in community events,” said Lucinda.
Zoey smiled. “Isn’t that what an editor does?”
“Well,” said Mabel. “You’d think so, but nothing’s quite the same as it used to be. Everyone’s been looking for the sensational ever since those werewolf stories started up all over again a couple years ago.”
Again? Zoey lowered her steno pad. “I heard a little about what happened then. Have there been stories before?” Connor hadn’t mentioned any earlier episodes.
Lucinda patted her arm as if to soothe her confusion. “Well, it’s one of those things, dear. Every area has its local legends, stories you tell around campfires on a dark night.”
“Except here, instead of ghosts, it’s werewolves,” supplied Mabel. “Usually it dies down in a little while and people forget all about it. Then those men—”
“Those drunks you mean,” sniffed Lucinda.
“Those drunks,” amended Mabel with a chuckle. “They said they saw the wolf right in the middle of town, and this time the story just didn’t go away.”
Lucinda nodded. “It was the TV that did it. Some news station really put Dunvegan on the map this time and I imagine we’ll stay on it. Now we get all sorts of visitors coming here, asking questions about wolves. Why, there’s been an investigator here for a week now, interviewing everyone he can find.”
“Really? He hasn’t come by the newspaper office yet,” said Zoey. Strange—it was the first thing she would have done as a reporter in a new town.
“Oh that’s likely because Ted Biegel would string him up on sight. Ted’s part of the Chamber of Commerce,” said Mabel. “The whole werewolf thing really steams them up. They don’t want to be like that little town on the border that put in the UFO landing pad.”
Zoey’s eyes widened. “They did what?”
“Some say it was foolish, but I think it was sharp as tacks,” said Lucinda, sitting on a park bench and tugging Zoey down beside her. “Some folks claimed to be seeing UFOs in the area. The Chamber there noticed that it brought a lot of business to their little town, so they built a big round concrete pad. Put up colored lights and signs to invite UFOs. They get all kinds of tourists now who want to get their picture taken standing on it. Local stores sell a lot of souvenirs. And you can bet when somebody claims to see a flying saucer, it makes their local newspaper.”
“Not like here. Ted wouldn’t publish a story like that at gunpoint,” declared Mabel, folding her arms. “That one poor editor who wrote about the werewolves while Ted was on vacation? Fired on the spot. A shame, really.”
“So Dunvegan has its very own urban legend?” pressed Zoey.
“It’s an old legend,” corrected Mabel. “Dates all the way back to before Dunvegan existed.” She lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “The museum on Third Avenue used to have an old diary on display, and cross my heart, it’s got an entry about a man becoming a wolf.”
The other woman gasped. “Don’t let Kathleen Summers hear you telling people that! She’ll have a conniption if anyone comes asking about it. That diary’s been under lock and key in the archives ever since that page got photographed and put in the paper.”
“She doesn’t want people to know?” asked Zoey, trying not to smile at the wealth of information Lucinda had just blurted.
Lucinda shook her head. “Kathleen just doesn’t want to lose her job. She likes running the museum. You seem to be good at your job too, and if you want to keep it, you ought to know that the town’s of two minds. Half would like to cover up the wolf stories, and the other half knows better. I don’t mind sharing the stories, but I don’t want to see Kathleen in trouble.”
“So what do the stories say exactly? I promise I won’t bother your friend.”
Zoey saw them exchange glances. Some unspoken agreement seemed to be reached and Mabel was the first to speak. “We’ve got some coffee in the van. It’s too cool out here for such a long story.”
Zoey’s brain felt like a hamster in a wheel as she walked slowly back to the office where she’d parked her truck. Lucinda and Mabel had been eager to tell her everything they knew about the local werewolf legends—which was considerable—stopping only when Mabel remembered it was movie night at the lodge. They’d left Zoey with plenty to think about, and a new understanding of Dunvegan. It made even more sense now why none of the village officials wanted to hear about her wolf encounter. No doubt about it, she’d have to write the story up as a dog attack if she wanted to stay here. Her goal was still to warn people, and she had cautioned the ladies before they’d left to be watchful for big aggressive dogs. They’d clucked over her bandaged leg, given her plenty of advice—then looked at her strangely. Surely they didn’t suspect that she wasn’t telling them the truth? She felt a twinge of guilt but Mabel had been right; if Zoey wanted to keep her job, she had to step carefully.
Maybe Connor was stepping carefully too, only telling her about the most recent episode of the ongoing werewolf tale. He certainly hadn’t mentioned that his own family was linked to the legend! According to her new friends, rumors had surrounded the Macleods since the family first homesteaded in the area over a century ago. Was that the real reason he didn’t want her to write about the wolf? Maybe he had a vested interest in preventing the werewolf legends from surfacing again.
And maybe she had more in common with Connor Macleod than she had thought. After all, she knew only too well what it was like to have your family considered different . Or strange. And to be tarred with the same brush.
Chapter Six
Zoey’s thoughts were interrupted as she found it increasingly difficult to walk. The bite wound had begun throbbing and burning horribly. Had she overdone it, used her leg too much, too soon? Dear God, please don’t let it be infected.
Suddenly a grizzled old drunk in a torn plaid shirt rounded the corner, almost colliding with her. “Just the gal I’m looking for!” he bellowed into her face, stinging her eyes with the reek of alcohol on his breath. His face was a mass of nasty cuts and scabs, interspersed with several days’ growth of scraggly white beard. Zoey dodged him as he made a grab for her.
“I got somethin’ for your little newspaper,” he yelled and made another unsuccessful swipe. He was neither quick enough nor coordinated enough to catch her. Instead he fell sprawling to the sidewalk. Zoey hurried away as fast as her injured leg would let her, gritting her teeth against the pain, leaning one hand on the storefronts as she made her way down the street. The man got up and staggered after her, shouting, swearing, and raving about a story he had to tell her, something he wanted to show her.
“For Pete’s sake,” she
muttered. She wasn’t scared, just annoyed. The old coot obviously recognized her—one of the drawbacks to working for the media—and even if she managed to put some distance between them and get off his radar now, it was likely he’d show up in her office sometime in the future. There’s one or two in every community. . . .
“Where the hell’s the Neighborhood Patrol when I need them?” Although she’d almost be embarrassed to call for help. The man was far too drunk to catch her, and even if he did, she imagined she would have little trouble defending herself. He already looked like he’d been on the losing end of a fight. Meanwhile, the slow-motion chase would no doubt make great YouTube material—the gimpy victim fleeing the staggering boozehound. Or perhaps a zombie footrace, a little humor for a low-budget horror movie.
Finally making it to her Bronco, she risked a look back. The drunk was still following her, but was better than half a block away now. She pulled the door open and grabbed her phone off the seat just as he launched into a fresh tirade, his gravelly voice echoing down the deserted street.
“That damn vet thinks he can tell me what to do,” he confided loudly to his reflection in the dark store windows. “Macleod thinks he’s so goddamn perfect, but he’s just like me. Just like me.” He suddenly fell to his knees, his hands over his face, groaning and sobbing loudly. “It wasn’t s’posed to work like that. It wasn’t s’posed to be like that. It should have been you, ya fucking bastard! Damn you, Connor Macleod!”
Zoey had the cell phone to her ear, but froze at the mention of the vet’s name.
The drunk staggered to his feet, his rage returned. He shook both fists at the empty street. “You hear me, Macleod? But you’re not so smart. You wait, Macleod. I called him, told him. Hear me? I told him fucking everything and he knows what you are!” His tirade was suddenly redirected as a patrol car swung lazily around the corner as if on cue and stopped in front of him. “It’s about time you showed up!” he hollered.
“Looks like you got an early start tonight, Bernie.” A young officer got out and opened the back door for him, stood patiently as the old man staggered over, still complaining loudly. “How’s that face feeling today? Maybe we could get Doc Miller to come by the station and check it out for you.”