by Rachel Lee
Tim gave her a cold stare. "You should have learned by now, Dawn. Never, ever fuck with me."
She'd come in to find him standing in the garage, a phone cord ripped from the wall in his hand, wrapped around the throat of the puppy she had named Sparkle. Brindle had been lying on the floor, whining, oozing blood from between her legs. The specks on Tim's shoe told the rest of the story. He'd kicked her in the one place that would keep her from protecting her litter. Then he'd gone after the pup that Dawn had grown most attached to. With a savage twist, he'd snapped the phone cord tight around the pup's tender neck.
Its yelp had propelled Dawn into action. Manicured nails had slashed into facial skin until he finally dropped the pup to the concrete floor with a sickening thud. She'd raked her nails across his cheek one more time for good measure, leaving parallel trails of bright, oozing red, then knelt to lift Sparkle into her hands.
The puppy's tongue eased out at Brindle's touch, though it was still too young to open its eyes. Its legs were limp, its tender neck almost surely broken. The end was only a matter of time, and Dawn felt the tearing in her heart at the final betrayal.
"I will fucking kill you," she said, her voice a low hiss.
Tim wiped blood from his face and spat on her. "You are too soft to kill anything. You are too weak to live."
Brindle let out a low, mournful wail as Sparkle went totally still. Her deep brown eyes locked with Dawn's. In any other situation, her nearly two-hundred pounds of bulk would be sufficient to wreak her own vengeance on the man who had killed her child. But she was still weak from birth, and the normal pains of the whelping process had been exacerbated by Tim's vicious kick. She herself might not make it.
But neither would Tim.
Dawn laid the puppy in the curve beneath Brindle's chin, then rose slowly. Tim's toolbox was on the floor of the garage, against the wall. Atop it lay a fourteen-inch screwdriver. He'd never been good about putting away his tools, Dawn thought. Too bad for him.
Their eyes met in a deadly stare, and for the first time, Dawn sensed real fear in her husband. It was about time. He had reason to be afraid. She took a step toward him, and he drew back his fist. It was what she'd been waiting for. What she'd counted on.
He launched the punch, and she ducked, in a smooth, graceful movement born of years of tennis and aerobics and the adrenaline rush of sheer rage. Her hand flashed out and grasped the handle of the screwdriver.
He had already regained his balance from the punch and went to kick her while she was bent over. She drove hard off her right foot, the screwdriver now an extension of her hand, and took the kick on her shoulder as she plunged the blade deep into the inside of his thigh. With a savagery she would never have imagined in herself, she kept driving as he went down, sawing the handle back and forth, knowing the blade was clawing away inside his flesh.
He screamed and fell to the floor just as the first spurt of bright red blood gushed out as if from a garden hose and sprayed the wall.
Dawn yanked out the screwdriver and looked at him with cold, clinical satisfaction.
* * *
Markie, Dec and Kato had piled into the car almost at a run. The scent of their lovemaking still wafted strongly around them, comforting, until the wind blew away the last of it.
Kato whined and leaned forward, putting his head on Markie's shoulder. She reached up and scratched his cheek, enjoying the weight of his head against her, the softness of his fur against her own cheek.
"Is he trying to tell us something?" Dec asked. He was long since past thinking of Kato as anything except an extraordinarily smart being who simply lacked the capacity to speak English.
"I don't know. He's uneasy."
"Hell, so are we all."
The car leaned, and Markie grabbed at the door for balance as Dec made the hard left turn onto La Media. Moments later, before she had fully recovered, he slewed the car again, to the right, and she thudded against the door frame.
"Dec…"
"Kato's right," he said simply.
An oncoming car veered to the curb, the driver honking, as Dec sped down the narrow side street before screeching to a stop.
"I think this is the address," he said.
The lights were on in the living room, but there was no sign of anyone through the window. Nor any answer when he knocked. Kato, however, had gone to the garage at a dead run and was now clawing frantically at the door.
"We have to call the cops," Markie said.
"We don't have time," Dec replied.
At his heavy kick, the front door crashed open.
"Dawn?" Markie called out.
Kato dashed around and through the door, almost taking Dec's legs out from under him, then made a beeline through the kitchen to the garage door. Markie and Dec were a half step behind him as he froze in the door, letting out a savage growl.
Dec stopped a half second before tumbling over the wolf and took in the scene. It was something out of his worst nightmares, the kind of scene he'd witnessed all too often in the E.R. Dawn sat on the floor, staring blankly, watching the blood pulse from her husband's thigh in rapid, weakening spurts.
"He killed my puppy," Dawn said, her voice devoid of emotion. "He shouldn't have killed my puppy."
"Femoral artery," Markie whispered.
"Yep," Dec agreed.
The trained doctor knew there was little chance. The human being thought Tim had probably gotten exactly what he deserved. The physician knew he had to try anyway.
"Find some scissors," he said, his voice crisp and clear. "And dry towels. A lot of them. And a pair of pliers. Vice grips would be better."
"I'm on it," Markie said, already knowing what he needed, already in motion.
"He shouldn't have killed my puppy," Dawn repeated.
"No," Dec said. "He shouldn't have."
Tim's face had gone nearly white. Dec knew he didn't have much time. The average human body held about six quarts of blood. A severed femoral artery could expel that in minutes.
Markie returned with scissors and a handful of towels. Dec cut away Tim's khaki shorts, already knowing what he would find, already reaching with a towel to clamp down on the wound. It was high on the thigh, less than six inches from his crotch. Pressure wouldn't be enough. Not nearly enough.
"Let's get some towels under his hips," Dec said. "We have to elevate."
Markie nodded. Dec grabbed Tim's knees and rose, wincing at the man's agonized groan, knowing he had no choice but to try to get the wound over the heart, keep the head down, and hope gravity would keep enough blood flowing to his brain to keep him alive. Markie had stuffed the towels under Tim's hips, and Dec let his body settle.
"I need a knife," Dec said. "A sharp one."
"He has a box cutter in the toolbox," Dawn said, her eyes slowly clearing.
"It'll have to do," Dec answered. "Dawn, call an ambulance."
Markie tore open the toolbox and handed him the box knife. "He has vice clamps, too," she said.
"Let's hope I can find the artery," Dec answered.
With a smooth, practiced motion, he sliced through skin and subcutaneous fat and muscle, enlarging the wound enough that he could reach his hand inside.
"I need hard pressure on the pelvis," Dec said quickly. "Stand on him if you have to."
Markie pressed her foot firmly above his groin and kept adding weight until Dec nodded. His hand was inside the wound now, feeling for the wet pulse, reaching up the arterial canal between the thigh muscles.
"Shit," he said. "It's retracted."
He took a breath, gathered himself, and rammed his hand up through the wound, burying his arm almost to the elbow, until he felt a rubbery fluttering against his fingers. The artery.
He ignored Tim's screams and grabbed the artery, rolling it between his fingers, trying to grasp slick flesh in a sea of blood. Finally, convinced that he had as good a grip as he was going to get, he began to slowly pull, until his hand emerged with a bulging red ribbon.
"Clamp it," he said. "Fast."
Markie positioned the vice clamps above his fingers and squeezed them closed, sealing the end of the artery.
"I think it's tearing," she said.
"That's as far as it's going to stretch," he answered. "If it tears…"
He didn't have to finish the sentence. If it tore, whatever slim chance they had was gone.
Tim's hands began to shake, his eyes rolling up.
"He's taching," Dec said, feeling the skittery pulse in his fingertips.
Tim was slipping into tachycardia. He'd lost too much blood, and his heart was fluttering, trying to pump faster to make up for the lost volume. It was the body's last line of defense in a losing battle. There was only one card left to play. And it clashed squarely with the oath Dec had taken years ago.
First, do no harm.
Tim's other leg was undamaged. His hypothalamus was in full fight-or-flight mode, an autonomic response to extreme stress, part of which involved preserving the blood flow into the large muscles of the legs. The human species had not evolved a secondary impulse to save whatever blood remained for the brain. It had had no reason to. For tens of thousands of years, the only hope in such moments had been to flee. And for that, the leg muscles needed oxygen. That marvelous evolutionary adaptation, honed for survival on the African plain, was now killing Tim Roth.
Dec had only one option: to wrap a tourniquet around the good leg. That might well kill the leg. But it was the only way to save the body. He ripped off his belt and wrapped it around the good leg at the crotch, pulling it as tight as possible, then reached for the nearest hard straight tool he could find.
It was a fourteen-inch screwdriver, already smeared with blood.
Dec heard Dawn gasp as he grabbed it and knew, with utter certainty, what had happened. He ignored the gasp and slipped the screwdriver beneath the belt, then twisted it hard. Tim screamed in pain. Dec gave the screwdriver one more hard turn, then wedged the tip into the fabric of Tim's shorts.
Tim passed out just as Dec heard the wail of an approaching siren.
25
Wendy lay limp at Gary's feet, exhausted and heart-sick from the ordeal of watching the old woman die. For a brief instant, she had considered trying to intervene. Only the certainty that she could do nothing to stop it had held her back. Now she lay on the floor, tears welling in her eyes, as he looked down at her.
"I'm sorry," he said softly.
"It was awful," she whispered.
He sat beside her and stroked her hair. "I'm so sorry, darling."
His soft touch brought out the sobs she had tried to keep within, tried to hold back so as not to frighten away the man he had learned to be, the lover she needed. But at this moment, she realized, she would also need the kindness, the tenderness, the quiet, soft soul, that had first drawn her attention those many years ago.
A part of her would never again be satisfied with only that tenderness. She needed the firmness, the harshness, the opportunity to give up everything that was herself and surrender totally into his loving will. But on this night, at this moment, she needed that quiet, soothing touch.
"I was so stupid," he said sadly, his hand still grazing over her hair. "I went where man is not meant to go. And I made you go there with me."
"No," she whispered. It was a word she would rarely utter to him again, if she could help it. A word she did not feel comfortable speaking to him. This time, however, it was the right word. "No, darling. Please don't. We went there together. Made our mistakes together. We'll pay for them together. But please, darling, please don't shut me out of it. I love you by choice. I serve you by choice."
He nodded and sank down to hug her. She melted into his arms, their shared tears watering the dream they had found and lost and found again.
* * *
"What happened?" Markie asked as she examined Brindle's womb.
Around them, Dec and the EMTs worked on Tim in a quiet, controlled flurry, starting plasma IVs, taking vital signs, replacing the tourniquet with an inflatable pressure bandage.
"He kicked her," Dawn said quietly. Her eyes were haunted by memories she would never be free of. "Then he strangled the pup."
"I am so sorry," Markie said.
The dog's massive torso rose and fell in slow, tentative breaths. She was hemorrhaging. She would need surgery to repair the tears. But she was strong and healthy.
"I need to take her to the clinic," Markie said.
Dawn's face collapsed, and Markie reached out to touch her. "She's a tough mom, Dawn. She can make it. We need to take care of her now, though."
Finally Dawn nodded. "Please, God, please not her, too."
Markie turned to Dec. "I'll need your help."
"I…"
"Dec, I can't lift her. Tim has the EMTs and there are other doctors at the hospital." She paused, searching in his eyes. "I need you."
Kato padded over silently and tugged at his cuff. Dec looked into the wolf's golden eyes, then nodded. He turned to the EMTs. "He's all yours."
"We've got him," the senior technician said. "You did a hell of a job, Doc. But he's ours now."
"I'll take her hips," Markie said. "Dec, you take her torso. Dawn, I want you with her head and shoulders. It's going to hurt, and she needs to see your face."
Dawn nodded, and they positioned themselves to lift the dog. Brindle gave a distressed whimper, as if she knew what was coming and how it would feel. Kato put his face to hers, nose to nose, then licked her eyes. With that, the huge dog's body relaxed.
"On three," Markie said, slipping her hands beneath the dog's massive hips, setting her feet shoulder width apart, hips close. "One. Two. Three."
Brindle let out a howl as they rose, but she didn't fight. Her body was limp in their arms, and the howl sank to a low, quiet whimper. Markie felt a quick tug at her neck, but she didn't have time to worry about such things.
"I'm sorry, darling," Dawn said, kissing the dog's huge forehead. "I'm so sorry, but we have to."
As if in reply, the dog slowly returned the kiss.
"Let's take my Jeep," Dawn said. "She'll be more comfortable in the back. It's unlocked."
"Can you give us a hand for a second?" Dec called to the EMTs. "Pop the back hatch on the Jeep."
One of them nodded and opened the hatch, then returned to Tim's side. He was almost white, his lips a frightening shade of blue. Dec knew that his efforts had probably been for naught. Still, he'd done what he could. A year ago, he would have agonized over what he couldn't do. Now he could see the simple truth. He'd done what he could. God and the inherent resilience of the human body would have to handle the rest. Or not. It was beyond his control.
They gently placed the dog into the back of the Jeep. Markie climbed in beside her. "Are you okay to drive?" she asked Dawn.
Dawn paused for a moment, then nodded. "For her, I am."
"I'll meet you at the clinic," Dec said. He turned to the wolf. "C'mon, Kato. You ride with me."
Kato looked at Markie, brows knitted.
She nodded. "It's okay, boy. There's no more room here."
He turned and followed Dec as Dawn drove away.
* * *
If there was one thing it had always had a keen sense of, it was betrayal. Years of hard experience had honed that instinct to a razor edge. The woman had thought about betraying it. That was simply unacceptable.
It stretched its spirit, full and strong now. It no longer needed to draw on the will of these puny beings. It had endured far worse than they could ever imagine for far longer than they could even conceive. It had seen death, up close, touched that black specter and shaken its grip. Hell itself could not contain it. So why did these humans think they had any chance?
It would have its gold. Its soul. It would have its life again. It would take a body. Not to kill, this time, but to claim. To inhabit. To live again. To feel the surging in its loins as a man's member plunged inside. To taste rare meat, barely seared. To feel satin against ski
n and look through eyes bright with pleasure as he begged for the last moments of life.
The woman who thought she could control it was one possibility. But her pathetic body was no fit host for such a soul. No…there was another. Another who would be ideal. One the wolf trusted. It would be such a joy to wrench the wolf's neck until it heard the crack of bone shattering.
Oh, it would have its gold. And a body. And its life. And it would teach them all.
This would be a night to remember forever.
It would be a fine night to be alive.
* * *
"I don't understand what came over me," Dawn said quietly, as Markie pulled instruments from trays. "I…I tried to kill my husband. But it was like…"
"Like it wasn't you," Dec said.
"Yes," she nodded.
Markie returned to the exam table, where Brindle lay beneath the harsh white lights. She looked Dawn squarely in the eye. "You did what any mother wolf would have done. You protected your pack."
"I'm not an animal," Dawn said, lowering her face.
"Yes, you are. At our most basic level, we all are." Markie reached out and lifted the woman's chin. "We are a pack species, Dawn. That's why wolves accepted us and we them. We protect each other. That's how we've survived. Tim was going to kill you. You did what you had to do, to protect yourself and your pack."
"It will be a long time before I can accept that," Dawn said simply.
"Be grateful you'll have the time," Markie replied. "Now let's make sure you can share it with Brindle."
She turned her attention to the dog, lying almost motionless under the sedative. Under ordinary circumstances, a kick to the groin might have caused bruising. But Brindle had just whelped a litter of puppies, and her birth canal was already lacerated. The kick turned those small tears into gaping, ragged holes. It was a mess.
"I'll have to spay her," Markie said regretfully. The dog would be fine, but Dawn's breeding business was about to take it on the chin. "It's the only way."
Dawn didn't hesitate. "Whatever it takes, Markie. Save her. Please."
* * *
An hour later, the procedure completed, Markie sank into one of the chairs in her waiting room, where Dec had been keeping Dawn company. Dawn looked up at her.