by Tes Hilaire
My mouth drops open as he unearths a large camouflaged pack. He smiles, holding it up to show me before he delves into the supplies. Two full canteens, a half dozen dehydrated dinners, a handgun, ammo, a map and compass, and a shirt—for John. Guess he does have a pack. I, on the other hand, am still persona non grata. Disobeying direct orders will do that to a girl. Especially after our discovery at Nellis.
I watch as John stuffs everything back in, straightens, and hikes the pack onto his shoulders. “Let’s go.”
And I’m yet again scrambling to follow. I catch up and fall into step beside him. I decide not to give in and ask if he knows where he’s going—he does have a map after all, still, he is a guy, so I worry—and ask instead, “Was that from Convict?”
“Him and Commander Derwood. Brice and the others must have gotten in sometime this morning. Guess the wind was calm enough by then to send out a team for the helicopter.”
“Why didn’t they wait for you?”
“The Commander probably expected me to be here already.” He shrugs, throwing me a sheepish grin. “I normally don’t indulge in the nap afterward. I’m guessing they waited until night fell and then left the pack for that just-in-case, I-was-running-late scenario.”
In other words, they probably think he’s dead. Though I still can’t believe Marine would expect John to have made it back to the helicopter so soon after changing back. I’d seen the sort of shape he was in afterward and couldn’t imagine him being functional any earlier than a good long nap afterward. Of course, this is John. And there is also that whole y-chromosome factor weighing in. Yup, he’s just the sort of masochist who would force himself right back into action after undergoing the entire rearrangement of his internal and external parts.
I still have another point to harp on though, and since I’m in a bad mood and need the outlet… “I still can’t believe Convict let you run out of there. Why didn’t he stop you? Would it have hurt the others to know what you are?”
“Juanita knows.”
“And Convict? He is aware of your furry other-self, right?”
“Yeah, he knows.” John pauses, his mouth skewing into a considering pucker. “Keep in mind that when I first turn, until I get something in my belly, I’m dangerous. Brice knows this. He knew the only option was for me to leave. Just as he knows all I’d expect from him is a chance,” he lifts the pack, “to get home.”
“You have a lot of confidence in him.”
“Brice, despite his faults, is a good guy. Not many people would accept a werewolf on their team.”
I consider this and how it applies to me. “So is that why Marine put me on Convict’s team? Because Convict is cool with the…” I wave my hand helplessly “…creature thing?”
“I’m sure in part.” John glances over at me, his mouth pulled down at the corners. “It was a mistake on Commander Derwood’s part not to tell Brice from the start about what you are though. It almost got you killed that first mission.”
I scoff. “Roy couldn’t hit the broad side of a barn.” Still couldn’t, though hopefully he would at least be willing to engage in some serious training now that his base level fear seems to have passed.
“No, but Brice can and I can.”
I glance sharply at John, “You would have shot me? Even if I hadn’t attacked you?”
“If Brice had told me to.”
My chest tightens into a ball, but I manage to press out a, “Why?”
“Because no matter how intense the pressure is, Brice seems to always make the right choices.” He shrugs. “Hard to believe, given some of his, well, idiosyncrasies, but it’s true. He even has a nickname, though no one dares call him it when he’s around.”
“Oh, what is it?” I can’t believe I care to ask. My curiosity has gotten the better of me.
“The magician. You know, things get tough and all of a sudden he’s pulling a miracle out of his…um, hat.”
I arch an icy brow. “A were is a miracle?”
He glares at me, though there is a tug at the side of his mouth. “Trust me. I’ve never been acquainted with Brice’s…hat.”
“You’re disgusting.”
His smile widens. “I’m a guy. Anyway, Brice had his name before I was put on his team. So it’s not only the fact that he had me to call on.”
He holds up his hand, drawing up short. “Hold on, I want to grab my shirt. It’s cold tonight.”
“And you no longer have a fur coat.”
He chuckles, swinging the pack off to rummage through it. He pulls out a canteen, sets it at his feet, shuffles the map to the front pocket. The gun he takes out and hands to me. Finally he unearths the shirt and pulls it first on one arm and then the other. Then he picks back up the canteen, which he slings over his shoulder, rather than putting it back inside.
I look down at the gun. It’s a Taurus 709 Slim, better than my old Glock. I sigh, stroking the smooth metal. “Must be nice. Having a pack.”
“What are you talking about?” He buckles the backpack up, tossing it over his shoulder.
“Water, a gun, a new shirt. Convict must really care.” I hold the gun out on my palm, sure he’s going to take it and stuff it into his cargo pants.
He shakes his head, stepping over. “Eva.” He takes my hand in his, wrapping my fingers around the cold metal of the handgun. “The gun is for you.”
“How do you know that?” I snap at John, holding the gun out from my body as far as I can get it. Like it is a snake, or a grenade.
“I like a bigger gun.” He winks, holding up his rifle.
I give him an exasperated look.
“No, really. If I were to use a Taurus, it would be the OSS or the PT1911. This,” he points to the gun lying in my hand, “fits your hand perfectly and still has the power that you seem to love.”
Interesting, but I’m not about to believe this gun is meant for me. Despite my aid in getting the others out of there, it’s not like we’d parted on good terms. Nope. I’m quite sure disobeying a direct order is akin to insubordination in Convict’s book. “Why the gun? Why not just give me new ammo for my Glock?”
He raises a brow. “I don’t know. Why don’t you tell me?”
I suck in a breath. Because Convict knew I’d given my Glock up to my pet zombie. He probably figured I hadn’t had a chance to get it back.
I stare down at the gun, the polished metal mocks me, flaming at the sliver of shame that is rising for all the nasty things I’ve been thinking of Convict. A-hole had sent me a gun. And now I couldn’t call him that—even in my mind—anymore. Crap.
I stuff the gun into the back of my pants. “Fine. Whatever. But I’m not going to be kowtowing to him like he’s alpha dog.”
John looks taken aback. “You better not.”
I give him an inquisitive look.
He smiles, his brown eyes flashing in the moonlight. “I’m your alpha.”
I snort and push by him. “Come on then, Wolf-dog. We don’t have all night.”
I am pleased as punch when he has to jog to catch up. Who is Alpha now? And then he ruins it by speaking.
“You’re right… fangs. We need to get a move on. But might I suggest we go in that direction?” He pats the front pocket of the backpack, then points about fifteen degrees to the left.
I growl and change course.
28.
I swear the dots circling the top edges of my vision are vultures. Either that or dark spots, the kind you get when you’ve way overexerted yourself. I used to get them after running a long race during cross-country track. I remember laying on the ground after having collapsed just this side of the finish line and staring up into the sky as I panted for air. I’d see vultures then too. I think I used to pray they’d come and pick my body clean since I was obviously toast. Ha. I didn’t know anything about being toast. I was such a wimp. The old me would never have made it this far. Vampire talents or not, crossing this desert is going to be the death of me.
Not John though.
I stare with envious eyes at the back of my companion marching before me. As the night progresses, he seems to regain more and more of his energy. I swear he now has what my mom would call a “bounce” to his step. Sickening.
John’s hand pops up. I stumble to a grateful stop and watch as he digs the map out of his back pocket. That’s where he’s taken to keeping it. Doesn’t pay to put it away when he’s checking it every five minutes. Least it seems that way. Our stops to check the map have been getting closer and closer together recently. I’d be worried about his sense of direction if not for the fact that he has a compass. The same compass he’s using now.
He frowns down at it. Checks the map. Whistles. And it’s not a good, that’s beautiful kind of whistle, but a that’s-a-beaut kind of whistle. I’d be extremely anxious right now if I weren’t so exhausted. Instead I stumble over, grunting out a, “What is it?”
“See these spots?”
I bend over, looking at the two spots he points out.
“Town.” He taps the first one, then the second. “Base.
John folds the map, stowing both it and the compass away. He stands back up, scanning our 360. No way we’re going to make it to that first town by daybreak at this pace.”
I groan. “Just shoot me now.”
“Hey, weren’t you on the track team?” He points far to the north at the slight bump of earth that just might be a string of mountains… really far away. “Come on, Harper. First one there gets the choice between the MRE spaghetti or Asian style beef.”
29.
I don’t remember much more of that night. Other than running. Faster and faster, pushing myself beyond exhaustion. Stumbling upon the rocks that seemed to leap out in front of my feet. I remember the horrific moment when the sun came up. I remember John swearing and trying to wrap me up in his wetted down shirt.
And then I don’t remember anything else.
30.
“Eva… Drink.”
I blinked, looking up from the arduous task of painting my nails to see the familiar outline of my dad haloed by a glowing ring of morning light spilling in through the kitchen window. He smiled down at me, nudging the cup closer until it clinked into one of the dozen nail polish bottles littering the table.
The cup was one of my mother’s cut crystal tumblers that were reserved for guests—or my father’s nighttime “toddy.” I frowned, staring at the strange reddish liquid within. It almost looked like V-8, except not so thick.
“What is it?” Not my morning orange juice, that’s for sure.
“Something I made. Kind of like an immunity booster.”
I rolled my eyes, shoving the cup away. Ever since the outbreak in South America, dad had been a little nutty. I blamed it on his work. It hadn’t been so bad when he was a microbiologist in the labs at Flagstaff Medical Facility, but a month ago he’d been pulled from his current project and asked to head the research team down at the Naval Research Laboratory at Anderson Mesa. It had seemed like a real feather in his cap. What it was, was a pain.He was obsessed. If last week when he’d pulled me from the debate team’s spring trip to Phoenix because he didn’t want me traveling “in a time like this” hadn’t proven it, then the hours and hours he spent after work down in his basement workroom did.
Paranoid. Bordering on OCD. There must be a pill for that combo.
“Dad. You don’t have to worry. The virus is contained below the border. They said so on the news last night, remember? No international flights, barricades along the coast. We’re good. Even the President said so.”
I turned my attention back to my nails. The Desert Sun polish had a neat glittering gold undertone, but I was beginning to think it was too garish for the midnight-blue dress Carrie and I had picked out for me. Just the thought of the beautiful silk dress with its diaphanous folds (Carrie’s description, not mine), had my heart racing. The prom. Tonight. Carrie would be coming over in a few hours to help me with my hair and makeup and then… then I’d be waltzing (okay, trying not to trip over my two left feet) into the Radisson ballroom on Raoul’s arm.
I held my hand away from my face, puckering my lips. No, the Desert Sun wasn’t right. I scanned the bottles before me. Maybe the Silver Twilight?
“Crowd control. The media is being asked to keep panic to a minimum.”
Oh wow. Mom and I needed to talk, because if Dad was imagining government conspiracies now, we had a real problem.
“Dad, I take my vitamins. I run. I eat healthy, drink my orange juice every morning.” I grabbed a ball of cotton and the nail polish remover and started to work on stripping my nails. “Besides, wasn’t it you who said all that stay healthy, avoid passing germs stuff was junk? That this virus is too virulent to be contained by such inadequate measures?”
He sucked in air through his teeth, swearing under his breath.
“Can’t have it both ways, Dad,” I said, and reached for the Silver Twilight.
He snatched the bottle out of my grasp.
“Hey!”
He shoved the cup toward me. “Drink this and maybe I’ll let you go to the prom tonight.”
I narrowed my eyes. “Let me go to the prom? Not going to work, Dad. You’ve already given both me and Raoul your permission. Besides, you don’t want to break mom’s heart. She can’t wait to snap a memory card full of pictures before we go tonight.”
“You will drink!” His fist slammed down onto the table, making me jump and yelp. This was not my father. Dad didn’t get angry. I could count on my hand the number of times he’d yelled at me. Just curl my hand into a fist and…yup, zero.
His face twisted up, pain choking his voice into a harsh whisper. “Please, Eva girl.”
Nor did he plead.
The table shifts under my hands—guess he really hit it hard—I stare at the bottle of sparkling Desert Sun as the room fades behind a sparkle of lights. Desert. Sand. Sun. The sturdy man before me framed with a blinding halo of white light.
Am I dying then?
I blink, my nails digging not into the lace tablecloth but the sturdy cotton shirt of the man holding me. He’s but a shadow compared to the blazing light behind him. I swallow past a tongue that has already gone dry.
“Dad?” When you die, you get to see the people you love, right? The people who passed before you? It would make sense that my dad would hold me through this transition into the afterlife. Or it would, if I were human. Did vampires go to heaven?
No they go to hell.
“I’m so sorry, Dad.”
“Please, Eva… Drink.”
Only the voice coaxing me to drink is not my dad’s but someone equally familiar. Someone who’s holding me tight against his trembling chest.
Something presses against my cracked lips. Warm, sweaty, and oh so sweet in its intoxicating scent. A man’s wrist. A pulse. Blood. John’s blood.
I want it.
No!
I turn my face away, but am jostled as John shifts me around. Then his wrist is pressed against my lips once more, only this time it’s more than just the sweet scent of his sweat glazed skin, it’s his blood. He’s cut himself. No fair.
“Eva, Take my vein.”
I strain against his hold, my weak arms feebly trying to push his arm away. Doesn’t he understand? Doesn’t he see what he’s doing to me? Monster. He’s trying to turn me into a monster all over again.
“Can’t.” I manage to pant out. “You’re a were. Won’t work.”
“You drink zombie blood!”
“Know. Weird that.” His hand drops down to my chest. Feeling me up or feeling for a pulse?
Stupid, Eva. You have no chest, remember?
I couldn’t even fill out my prom dress. I remember how Carrie stood there in my bedroom shaking her head. I can practically see her measuring eyes, the purse of her lips as she considers what to do. And then my mom breezes in, her wide mouth spread in a smile that went from ear to ear, a pretty pink box with a black bow on it held out in her arms. Padded push-up bra. Thank
you, Victoria Secrets.
“I’m in human form now. Maybe it will work. ” John’s voice pulls me back to the present. Too bad, that part of the memory, the before, the last moments with my friends and family? I could live that over and over and never tire.
“Not going to drink your blood,” I say.
“Why not?”
I can tell he’s getting angry now, like that last breakfast with my dad. Dad never got angry. I hate it when the people I love got angry with me. So I force my mouth to form around the words to explain. “Werewolf should never be a lamb. Won’t drink. Won’t control you.”
“Honey, it will take a lot more than one little female vamp doling out commands to control me. Now drink.” And the wrist is back.
I shake my head, but I can’t muster the energy to turn my head from the slick river of blood that dribbles from his slit skin. Time shifts—faster, slower, I’m not sure. It’s no longer measured by seconds but by each pulse of his heart.
“Damn it, Eva! Drink. You have to drink.” It’s dad’s voice again. No, not just dad’s voice. Both of them. Pain, desperation. Neither of which either should ever show. Not my calm father, not my stoic John. How can I fight them both? I can’t.
I let myself go, testing, with my tongue, the blood dribbling onto my lips. Oh, yes… More! I latch on, pull in a long draw. My mouth fills with the liquid that is my drug. Sweet ambrosia, John’s blood, but there is something else there. Something…
I yank my head back, shoving his wrist away. I bit him. I drank from him. I’m choking on the tangy sweet liquid that pools in the back of my throat. Want to spit it out. Need to spit it out.
“Swallow!”
Don’t want to. Don’t want to.
“Swallow it!” It’s both of them again. No, it’s all three. John, dad, and him… I can’t resist him. His words, like an undeniable command in my head. Swallow. So I do. My body begins to shake. Fire running through my veins. The blood. Oh sweet blood. Not just human, something else there, but right now it is dormant. And that makes it human enough.