Werewolf Sings the Blues

by Jennifer Harlow

  I take a few seconds to collect myself, panting the freezing night air in and out before I return to the patient. He’s taken over, pressing the shirt against the hemorrhaging wound. Not even cloth can soak up all the blood. “Jason? Jason, talk to me!” Frank shouts. Shit. He’s fading. Jason’s eyelids lower like a slow curtain. He’s passing out again.

  I give his face a hard slap, leaving my handprint in his own blood. “Wake up!” I shout.

  Jason jerks back to consciousness. “Don’t do—”

  “Jason Sergei Dahl, this is your Alpha speaking,” Frank says in a harsh tone. “Listen to me, Beta. You will change, do you hear me? That is an order.”

  “I don’t think I c—” Jason says weakly.

  “An order, son,” the Alpha snaps, voice steel mixed with diamonds. “You will change, and you will only change your injured arm. You will control your beast. You will do this for Vivian, do you hear me? She needs you, son.”

  “She needs me …” he whispers.

  “She needs you healthy, whole, and intact. So no matter how weak you may feel, you will change your arm and only your arm. For Vivian.”

  “For Vivian …” He nods. His eyes close again as his jaw sets tight. For a second I think he’s passed out again. Then his brow furrows as if he’s deep in thought. A second after that, his face contorts in pain, though this time he doesn’t scream.

  “Jason?” I ask.

  Holy shit, a thick, mucous gel-like substance sluices from the pores on his arm, mixing with the already present blood. Oh, that is rank. “Get out,” he says. “Get away.”

  “Listen to him, Vivi,” Frank says. “Get out of the car.”

  Don’t need to tell me twice. The sickening crack of tendons and bones breaking as tan, slime-colored fur sprouts, rocks my already tender stomach. I grab the cell and spring out of the car, walking toward the trunk and setting the phone on it. Jason’s whimpers and groans echo through the night. I wonder which hurts more, a gunshot or changing into a wolf?

  “Vivi, are you alright?” Frank asks.

  I glance down at myself. I’m splattered with blood like a disgusting Pollack painting. “I-I’m fine.” I yank off the gloves with a shudder.

  “Listen, he’s very weak. On the off chance he goes into full transformation, I want you to lock yourself in the car, alright? Drive away if necessary. You can always come back for him in the morning.”

  “O-Okay.”

  “What about you? Are you injured?”

  “No. I—I’m fine.” I wipe a stray tear. “Relatively.”

  “Good. Good.” He pauses. “I’m proud of you.”

  Don’t know what it is about those words, but they’re like a knife into my already tender gut. I can’t take any more emotional upheavals tonight. “Okay, um, I’m gonna go now. I need to go. I have to go. We have to get out of here. Bye.”

  “Vivi—”

  “Oh, uh, thank you.” I end the call.

  Okay. Okay. It’s over. The worst is over. I’m alive, Jason’s alive, judging from the noise in the car. We just have to keep moving. Keep going. Just not this second. I give myself a minute to calm down, but I can’t stop shaking. Large, spastic quakes like an epileptic’s.

  Adrenaline overdose along with the fact it’s freezing. Stupid desert. Rubbing my arms helps both problems. Except I can’t unglue my eyes from the blood all over me. A clear, icicle chill rocks my body. Clean. I have to get clean. I glance behind into the car. Jason’s gone

  silent, but as far as I can see is still human. He lays on his right side with his eyes closed. Thank God. I don’t think I could handle werewolf wrangling right now. Hell, I don’t think I can handle speech right now.

  The suitcase and water bottles are in the backseat where we left them. I grab a water bottle from the pack on the floor and unzip the suitcase, pulling out a long-sleeve black shirt and slacks. I change my pants first, then pull off the ruined tank top. My arms, upper chest, even my face are caked in sticky, disgusting blood. I pour the water on myself and scrub with the tank top. I think I take more whore’s baths than regular ones. God, I’d kill for a bath right now. This will have to …

  As I wipe my naked chest, I sense someone’s watching me. Either the hills have eyes or … I glance at Jason. His gaze is glued to my exposed breasts. He closes his eyes the moment I catch him. I should care the man’s peeking like a pervert, but I feel nothing. Not anger, not titillation. I’m just really fucking cold. I turn my back to him and finish scrubbing.

  When I’m as fresh and clean as possible, I return to the backseat, retrieving a water and a shirt for Jason. If I felt filthy he’s gotta feel like a landfill. I open his car door. Holy hell. My mouth drops open when I realize what I’m seeing. From the left shoulder down, he’s covered in blonde fur still wet from the blood-tinged mucous. His hand is a paw, complete with claws two inches long. The rest of him is normal by comparison, except for all the blood. Damn. His eyes open. He seems so weary, so miserable I snap my jaw shut and regain my senses. Stop gawking at the freak, Viv. “How you doing?”

  “Fine,” he says softly.

  “Let’s get you cleaned up,” I say with a half smile. “Can you sit up for me?” He manages to push himself into the sitting position and pivots his legs outside to face me. I start with the handprint on his cheek. “Sorry about hitting you.”

  “No need to apologize. It was necessary.”

  “How are you feeling?” I ask, wiping his prominent collarbone.

  “Tired.”

  I advance down his ripped chest with the cloth. Even bloody it’s a damn fine chest. “Well … you’ve done enough for one night. I’ll take it from here.” I lean forward to get the back of his neck. I can feel his hot breath against my own neck and know his eyes are upon my face. “Thank you.”

  “What for?”

  I glance over to meet his eyes. “Saving my life. Again.”

  “Thank you for saving mine.”

  We just stare into each other’s eyes for a second. I do love his eyes. Honest. Penetrating. Fathomless. And like mine, lustful. Fuck it. I lean down, gently pressing my lips to his. Don’t know if it’s the shock or exhaustion but his don’t move under mine. Still nice. Sweet. Haven’t had a sweet kiss in years. Forgot I liked them. I break away with a smile. “Think nothing of it, Blondie.” He stares at me, dumbstruck. I love having that kind of effect on a man, especially this one. I grab the clean shirt from the dash, handing it to him. “Now get dressed. Pit stop’s over.”

  I move to the backseat to gather more provisions, including my faux fur jacket which I slip on, a soda, pillow and blanket for Jason. As I do, I glance back at my hero. My grin stretches across my whole face as he presses his fingers to his lips, I presume to make sure they’re real. That what I did was real. God, is he adorable. And good. Even after all the shit I pulled tonight, that man didn’t hesitate. Holy shit, he took a bullet for me tonight. For me.

  As I stare at him, something comes over me, through me, like nothing I’ve ever felt before. Gratitude? Respect maybe? Both of those, but something else. Something stronger. It warms me from the inside. A spark, like the moment an orchestra begins playing a masterpiece. It’s not lust, though that is certainly there. Whatever it is, it is scary as fuck. But I can’t wait to hear the rest.

  No time for reflection though. I have thousands of miles for that. I climb into the driver’s seat and hand my knight the pillow and blanket. “Here. You ready to rock?”

  He stares down at my offering. “I shouldn’t sl—”

  “I told you, Blondie.” I shut my door and grin. “Settle in. I got this.” It’s three thousand miles to Maryland, we’ve got a full tank of gas, half a gram of coke in my pocket, it’s dark … and we’re not wearing sunglasses. I start the engine.

  “Let’s hit it.”

  six

  Oh, crap. Oh, hell. I think I
snorted too much coke. My heart is about to burst out of my fucking chest, and I’m shaking almost as bad as I was last night. Every nerve ending jangles like a plucked guitar string. Not to mention I’m as horny as a boy in a cheerleader’s locker room. I’m blaming absolute, utter exhaustion for my lack of better judgment. At least today’s bad judgment. I don’t think I’ve ever been so tired in all my damn life. It started halfway to Salt Lake City as the adrenaline wore off. I downed an entire Mountain Dew in five minutes so I could be at least halfway conscious while I boosted us another car. It worked because the theft went down without a hitch. The hotel parking lot was unguarded and lousy with cars. I chose the first Accord with a key holder, switched the plates, and drove back to the demolished Civic a quarter mile away. I wanted to buy time before the two were linked. I transferred our possessions and my groggy companion, then got the hell out of Dodge.

  After that, smooth sailing. It took a little over three hours to drive down to I-70. I got to see a beautiful sunrise and the Acura owner was a jazz fan so I have decent tunes, but boredom quickly drained my reserves regardless. As we crossed the Colorado border, what little energy I had burnt out. Not even fumes remained. I’d had three sodas, two cups of coffee, and still couldn’t keep my eyes open. I debated waking Jason but figured he needed sleep more than me. He hasn’t woken since the car exchange in Salt Lake. I’m nothing if not stubborn, so I let him sleep and did a bump. Damned if it didn’t work. Powdered energy to the rescue. I made it another three hours before my eyelids started their fight again, and a massive wave of depression washed over me. When I stopped for gas just outside of Denver, I did two full lines. Bad idea.

  Being hyper-vigilant while driving in a major city? Insane. Every time a car changed lanes, I jerked in fear it was about to hit us. Then, when I spotted a cop, my throat closed to a pinpoint, and my mouth became Death Valley. It passed us, but I couldn’t stop trembling for ten minutes. That was an hour ago. My heart hasn’t slowed. Mostly because I am convinced, convinced that cop radioed ahead, and there’s a trap setup here somewhere. I just know it. And yet in spite of my racing heart and superhuman vigilance, my eyes are growing heavy again. Fuckers.

  I’m in hell. Absolute hell. I feel like plowing this car into the concrete divider. Seriously. I had to stop myself from doing just that. I know it’s the coke—chemical reactions and whatnot—but that knowledge doesn’t help keep the depression from swallowing me whole. No matter the cause, I still feel it. The exhaustion. The hopelessness. Maybe I should just kill myself. If I died, really who’d care? Mom for about an hour, Barry maybe a minute. Jessica would mourn, but she’s resilient. She’d get over it. They’d move on. Really, my death wouldn’t impact a single life. Like ten people would attend my funeral. Oh God, that’s so fucking sad.

  No impact. I’ve left nothing lasting in my life. No husband, no kids, not even a damn album. It’d be like I never existed. Why the hell is Jason risking his life for a nothing? People rely on him. An entire pack. He’s essential to other people’s lives. People love him. He should just leave me. Go back. Let Donovan have me. Instead the man gets shot because of me. He almost died, and it was my fault. If I hadn’t called Cyr, Donovan never would have found us.

  I’ve had hours to work out how the Marshal tracked us. We used cash, didn’t tell anyone where we were, we were so damn careful. It wasn’t until Jason’s phone rang, and the display showed the name and number of the caller the pieces, locked into place. When I called Cyr the hotel’s name and number must have popped up on his display too. Thinking he was helping, he phoned Donovan with the info.

  It was stupid of me to trust Cyr. The man is a drug dealer after all. For all I know Donovan threatened to arrest him unless he sold me out. So I am the reason Jason almost died. My damn fault in every way. As if I didn’t have enough to feel guilty about already. Shooting at him, biting him, making him uncomfortable with my lame seduction scheme, suggesting I only wanted to sleep with him for his good deeds, then I also get him shot? God, if I were him I’d leave me at a gas station and phone Donovan myself. What really depresses me is I think I would. I wouldn’t get shot for him. I really wouldn’t. I’m so not worth any of this. And I’m scared shitless the second he realizes this, it’s gas station time. Wouldn’t blame him at all.

  Just the thought of this hypothetical situation brings me to damn tears. Not that there’s even a small part of me that thinks he’ll do it. Never. He’ll protect me until his dying breath. He’s too good. Too good for me, that’s for fucking sure. I finally meet a decent, hardworking, adorable man with a chivalrous streak a mile long to boot and he ends up being my adopted brother. And a werewolf, but nobody’s perfect. The brother factor bothers me more than the werewolf thing—go figure. I could overlook them both, already have really, but not the fact I’m not fit to polish his fucking gun. I take a long, deep breath and sigh. God, I’m depressed. Stupid drugs. Stupid me. I shake my head to clear it. Stop this. Stop. Distraction. Need a distraction.

  I grab the Best of Gershwin CD and pop it in. The bluesy trumpet from “Summertime,” begins and I feel a bit better, more so when Ella Fitzgerald begins crooning. I love Porgy and Bess. One of Gershwin’s best. So sad and sexy and strangely sweet. No matter how much Bess fucks up, Porgy always comes after her. Used to think that only happened in fiction. The CD continues with more classics. “They Can’t Take That Away From Me,” “S’Wonderful,” oh! “Someone to Watch Over Me.” I love, love, love this one. I was merely lip syncing the others, but I can’t help myself. I actually sing along with Ella, getting lost in the melody, the words, how fun it is to croon.

  I’m transported back to the first time I ever sang this tune, when I was fourteen at my boarding school. Damn, I loved it there. No one ever believed in me before, not like Miss Tyson. I was one of only three soloists and the only freshman. I worked my ass off getting that song literally pitch perfect. Hours doing scales, practicing breathing techniques, even reading a book on Gershwin to really understand what the song meant. It was my life’s mission to make hat woman proud of me. It was there, up on that stage with that spotlight on me alone, everyone in the audience applauding, that I’d never felt so happy. My first fix, and sixteen years later I’m still chasing that particular dragon even though my feet are nothing more than bloody stumps now.

  When I reach the second chorus, I realize I’m being watched again. I glance toward the source. Jason stares at me with that same intense gaze he had at the wedding when I performed “You Don’t Know Me.” Dazed. Reverent. Titillated. Yearning. Shit, my cheeks warm in a blush. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to wak—”

  “Please continue singing. Please.”

  The deep need in his voice is jarring, but I’m flattered more than anything. A command performance. First one ever. Can’t disappoint my adoring audience. I oblige with zeal, belting the rest with everything I possess and swelling with pride in time to Jason’s soulful, emerging smile. It brings a matching one to mine. God, I’ve missed this. This is what it’s all about. Feels like the first time. Better than coke. When the song ends, I turn back to the road and force my cheeks to return to their normal color, failing miserably. There’s that damn internal orchestra again, continuing their symphony inside me. I’m tingly all over with every note.

  “You’re astonishing,” Jason says.

  “Shut up.” I turn down the volume, at least on the radio. That orchestra continues to play the blues away. “I’m good. I only have a range of two octaves and can only hit high notes half the time.”

  “I think you’re spectacular.” He pushes himself into the sitting position. “For what it’s worth.”

  It’s worth more than I’d care to admit to either of us, Blondie. “How are you feeling?”

  “Stiff. Hungry. Thirsty. How long was I out for?”

  “Oh, about fifteen hours.”

  He stares out the window at the grassy plains of east Colorado then glances around the
car in confusion. “Where are we? Is this a different car?”

  “The answer to A is an hour outside of Denver. I changed our route to throw off Donovan. We’re on I-70. And the answer to B is, yes, this is a new car. Upgraded from our bullet ridden, bloody Civic to a cleaner Acura in Salt Lake. You don’t remember that?”

  “I … no. Fifteen hours?” he asks in shock.

  “Blondie, you’d been up for three days and lost half your blood. If you needed to sleep for double that, I’d let you. I told you, I got this.”

  The sides of his mouth twitch into a momentary smile. “Thank you.” He twists open a water bottle with his human hand and chugs the contents. “I need a toilet and food.”

  “Think that can be arranged.” I glance at his furry arm. “Although you might wanna …”

  He stares at the limb. “Oh.”

  “Looks like it worked, though. The bullet hole’s gone without a trace. The gash in your head and cheek healed too. You’re as good as spanking new.”

  “Yeah,” he says, touching his cheek with his paw.

  Strange how quick I got used to that paw. Forgot it was even there. “Can I … touch it?”

  “What?”

  “Your fur. Can I touch it? I want to see what it feels like. I almost did a few times before, but didn’t want to molest you in your sleep,” I say with a smile. “I mean, how often do you get a chance to pet a werewolf. So can I?”

  “Um, okay. I guess.”

  I reach across and touch the fur. Holy hell, that’s soft. I run my fingers through his thick pelt with a grin. It’s so thick my digits almost vanish inside it. “Cool.”

  “It doesn’t bother you?”

  “Hell no. I think it’s fucking awesome. You’re so soft.” He’s staring at me again, studying me for I think evidence of a lie. Of course he doesn’t find any. This werewolf thing is pretty nifty. “What?” I ask, pulling away my hand.