Blood Cure (A Keira Blackwater Novel Book 1)

by K. R. Willis

  “As you may or may not know, the US Government has set up a special department within the military known as the Paranormal Research and Defense Department, or PRDD. I have been appointed as the lead scientist. It is our job to study the strengths and weaknesses of paranormal beings as recorded from previous experiments, and find ways to defend our country against them should the need ever arise. We have had a recent breakthrough, and I believe we now possess the technology to do just that. The citizens of the United States can sleep easier at night. Thank you, that is all.” He stepped down from the podium and walked away, flanked by several MPs as reporters bombarded him with questions.

  I chewed on the last of my sandwich and flicked off the television. What an idiot. Even though he made sure to point out that the research came from previous experiments, done in the time of Area 51 before the PRA went into effect, the supernaturals and their supporters must be having a field day.

  I snuggled deeper into the blanket. After listening to see if Sally still cried, and hearing nothing, I closed my eyes, sent up a silent prayer that my instincts about Brian’s death were wrong, and then let my exhaustion consume me.

  CHAPTER 6

  Sam ran the shop on Monday while I prepared Sally for Tom’s funeral. His pack pulled rank, like Matt feared they would, so the police released his body for burial. The Flathead Pack claimed that, in the aftermath of the government’s announcement about Dr. Johnson’s new defensive technology, they refused to allow one of their pack mates to be subjected to human tests that could end up one day being used against them in some way.

  When Matt called and told us about the funeral, he also confirmed my fears about the identity of the other werewolf. Brian’s neighbor found him in the alley behind his apartment building when she took out the trash. As with Tom, they found no obvious signs of death.

  “Did you find out what killed them?” I asked Matt.

  “No.” He sighed. I heard the frustration in his voice and pictured him running his fingers through his hair on the other end of the line. “The Alpha of their pack spoke with the chief and established his right to take the bodies under the PRA, then refused to allow any tests. He specifically forbade the autopsy!” He grumbled something under his breath I didn’t quite catch, but probably wasn’t complimentary.

  “So we have no idea how they died, or who might have done it?” I asked more to myself, just my way of complaining out loud, but Matt answered anyway, breaking my train of thought.

  “Actually, I did manage to take some blood and have it tested before they pulled rank,” he whispered. “The results showed some sort of anomaly, but it could be attributed to the fact they’re werewolves. Even with the files we have from the Area 51 debacle, we still don’t know enough about their anatomies to make a sound conclusion.” He sounded frustrated. “And to make matters worse, the Alpha took the blood samples before we could do further testing.”

  “What do you mean by anomaly?” I asked.

  “I don’t know,” Matt said. “The technician just said that there was something off about the blood samples. It wasn’t something obvious that explained why they died, but it didn’t seem to match our records of what werewolf-infected blood looks like either.” He exhaled so loud, I pulled the phone away from my ear.

  “Hell, Keira, I’m grasping at straws here. I understand why the government put the PRA into effect, but dammit, it’s keeping me from doing my job. If we’d been able to do the autopsy, and had access to better records on supernatural biology, we might have been able to figure out how they died. And if they were murdered, find whoever did it.”

  Matt was right. We both understood why they created the PRA, and even supported it most of the time, but right now, it hindered more than helped.

  We talked for a few more minutes, and hung up. I considered throwing my cell phone across the room, but decided it would cost too much to replace so I threw it across the sofa instead.

  My hands itched with the urge to do something. I pushed up off the sofa and paced back and forth across the living room. If I had my waster with me I’d fight something.

  The bathroom door creaked open, drawing my attention back to Sally. We had spent the entire weekend in our pajamas, so she took a shower and cleaned up while I talked to Matt. I had no idea what to tell her. The man she loved was dead, and we had no explanation why. No justice for his death. Reluctantly, I took a deep breath and headed toward her room.

  ***

  The funeral took place on Tuesday in Augusta, at a little rock church that reminded me of days gone by, when what happened inside the church mattered more than what the outside looked like. It was old, yet timeless with its weathered stones, chipped mortar, and sun-faded wooden cross mounted on the steeple. It held a rustic beauty, totally belying the reason we were there.

  The whole pack attended the funeral, about thirty in all. So many people crammed into the small one-room church, about half the pack stood lined up against the walls with a few hovering at the front door. Sam and I both sat with Sally, one on each side. I held her hand as the preacher began talking about their lives, and how they’d be missed.

  As regular humans, we sat in the last two rows with anyone else who wasn’t part of the pack. It felt a little segregated to me, but who was I to argue with a bunch of testosterone-laden werewolves already agitated over the circumstances. I’m not that stupid. At least they let us come.

  After the preacher finished with his sermon, the Alpha stepped up to the podium to give the eulogy. An intense hush fell over the entire church as he took center stage. If I thought Brian was powerful with the little sample he provided me with at the Blu Moon, I was grossly mistaken.

  The Alpha’s power filled the church. It felt like I had stepped outside into an electrical storm, as the tingling feeling his power created engulfed my body and caused my hair to stand on end. Any minute, lightning would streak across the church and turn me into a pile of charred flesh. I rubbed my arms, trying to get rid of the sensation.

  As he spoke of Tom and Brian, I noticed how everyone, pack and human alike, seemed riveted to him. Every pair of eyes in the church stared at the blond-haired, blue-eyed man that stood front and center, as if they had no choice. I let my eyes follow everyone else’s and took a closer look.

  He wore a black tux, with a white silk shirt peeking out from underneath. His wolf paw pendant hung from a thick gold chain around his neck and jiggled as he spoke. The Flathead Pack Alpha was ruggedly handsome, but what drew my attention, aside from his commanding authority, were his eyes. A deep sapphire blue, something about them made me feel as though they could see straight into my soul.

  As if hearing my thoughts, he turned those penetrating eyes on me, letting a little of his amber wolf eyes bleed through. A cold chill ran down my spine. I swear the man looked at me like prey. Like he’d love nothing more than for me to bolt like a frightened deer, so he could give chase and sink his teeth into my tender flesh. The old wooden pew dug into my legs as I squirmed in my seat.

  Why is he looking at me like that? Did I do something wrong? I had no idea. I’d never seen the man before. I didn’t even remember his name. Not wanting to look him in the eyes and challenge him, I looked down at my hands instead. Every muscle in my body tensed as I tried to decide whether to fight or flee. His eyes bored into me, the sensation so unsettling, I was seconds away from jumping out of my skin.

  Thank goodness, after just a few moments, he resumed his speech and addressed the rest of the church. Relieved to be out of the limelight, I scooted a little closer to Sally and melted into the pew.

  ***

  The smell of vanilla potpourri greeted me as I tossed my bag on the sofa. After we paid our respects and left the funeral, Sam dropped Sally off at her apartment, then waited while I grabbed my stuff. She said she was ready for a little alone time, so I let Sam bring me home.

  Rich walnut furniture and Native American artwork greeted me as I strode down the hallway toward the bathroom. As I passe
d my office, something made me pause. Bookshelves filled with hundreds of books silently stared back at me. A mid-size walnut desk dominated the center of the room, with the shelves lining the wall behind it. The image of Tom’s body dumped haphazardly on the floor flooded my vision, followed by the sight of Brian lying motionless in his casket. My chest tightened and my eyes burned. Once again, my hands clenched and unclenched, itching with the urge to do something.

  I stepped through the door far enough to remove the ceremonial spear mounted to the wall, which my father had given me, then continued my trek to the bathroom. I twirled the spear repeatedly. Not exactly my waster, but it would do.

  When I reached the bathroom, I reluctantly leaned the spear against the wall next to the counter and flipped on the faucet. With the tub halfway full and the bubbles threatening to overflow, I turned it off, shucked my clothes, and climbed in. I sank into the comfort of the bubbles and let the soothing vanilla aroma from the candles I lit soothe my senses.

  The last few days had been horrible. Not only had my best friend lost the man she loved, but I’d also lost any chance of getting to know Brian better. My eyes suddenly watered and the back of my throat itched. I didn’t know how I felt about Sally becoming a werewolf, but I wanted her to be happy. She deserved to be happy. With Tom gone, that wouldn’t happen anytime soon. My stupidity with Brian had cost me, and now I’d never have a chance to make amends. The weight of it all crushed my shoulders, and I sank a little deeper into the bubbles in an effort to escape.

  I’m not sure how much time had passed when the feeling of being watched hit me, but my eyes were closed and the water had cooled. The hairs on the back of my neck stood at attention like nervous little soldiers about to go to war, drawing my eyes open and making me scan the room.

  At first I didn’t see anything. The countertop, two sinks, and linen cabinet sat as they always had: littered with knickknacks, soap, bath towels. Then it moved, and this time, I saw it.

  The shadowy figure gave the impression of being sprawled across my counter, the edges of its invisible form outlined against my mirror. I would have thought I’d gone crazy if I hadn’t seen its glowing yellow eyes. It hissed at me like a cat, then disappeared.

  What the hell?

  I climbed out of the tub, dripping wet and covered with bubbles, and grabbed the spear. Its weight in my hand gave me the confidence I needed to search the apartment, looking for something that may have been a figment of my imagination. About halfway through my search, an unsettling thought occurred to me. What the hell would I do if I found it? It was see-through, for goodness sakes.

  I pondered that thought while I searched the last two rooms, and sighed with relief when I came up empty. It appeared to be gone. After one last run through the apartment, just to be sure, I returned to the bathroom and cleaned up. Most of the bubbles had dried while I searched my apartment, leaving a film on my skin, so I wet a washcloth and wiped the areas that felt icky.

  It’s kind of ironic. All these years I’ve taken fighting lessons with Sam, not because I thought I would ever have to use what he taught me, but because I enjoyed the challenge and the exercise it provided. Yet, here I was, running around my apartment buck-naked, looking like some ridiculous version of the warrior princess, ready to put my skills to use.

  CHAPTER 7

  The next morning found me up before dawn driving to the shop. I wanted to get there early enough to do some training by myself. After spending four days with Sally veg’ing out and eating ice cream, it felt like I’d gained ten pounds. A little refresher before Sam got ahold of me would be a good idea.

  No such luck. He waited for me as the metal staircase that led to his upper level groaned under my sluggish steps.

  “I had a feeling you’d try to sneak in this morning and train without me,” he said as I paused at the top of the steps like a teenager who’d been caught trying to sneak out of the house. He’d already warmed up and stood in the middle of the floor twirling his training sword.

  “So?” I quickly regained myself, walked halfway across the floor, and began my normal warm-up routine. My muscles burned as I stretched. This would likely be one of the roughest days I’d had since Sam and I started training.

  “So…you have to be ready to fight and defend yourself no matter what.”

  As soon as I pulled my waster down from its place of honor on the wall at the back of the dojo, Sam attacked. He thrust the tip of his weapon straight at my abdomen. I squeaked, surprised he would be so ruthless, so fast.

  With muscle memory gained from years of practice, my hands followed the arc of Sam’s weapon, blocking the blow in time. The impact of the two hardwood swords rattled my teeth. Adrenaline surged through my system, giving me a much-needed burst of energy.

  Sam’s next swing consisted of him reversing the sword and trying to score a hit with the hilt to my shoulder, but somehow I managed to dodge it, spin around behind him and score a hit of my own across his back. I celebrated my small victory, but then he rewarded me with a backhanded punch to the gut with his fist. Sam always softened his blows when we fought, but it still felt like someone hit me with a cinderblock. The impact made me grunt and sent me reeling. Sam granted me two deep breaths before raising his sword for the next attack.

  Thirty minutes into our training session, sweat trickled down my back, running under the elastic waistband of my training shorts headed for parts unknown. The urge to scratch and wipe away the beads as they tickled on their way down drove me insane, but Sam continued his approach without mercy. Any distraction on my part would only provide the openings he needed in my defense.

  He’d already scored countless hits, taking advantage of my weekend spent comforting Sally. A bruise the size of an orange blossomed on my right thigh. Purple, green, and black spots began to show in various places on my arms. If this continued, people would start confusing me with a crash test dummy.

  If I wanted a break, I had to earn it. One of Sam’s new rules was that he wouldn’t stop until I made him. He said that, in a real battle, timeouts didn’t exist. The enemy would not stand by while you caught your breath or dealt with an injury.

  Tired and bruised, my sweaty body protested every step I took around the mat as I circled Sam. Even though my lungs filled to capacity with every deep breath I drew, I couldn’t seem to get enough air.

  In steep contrast, Sam breathed steady, and his body quickly responded to his commands. His eyes tracked me as I circled. Only a tiny sheen of sweat shimmered on his skin.

  When I changed direction and circled to the left, Sam followed. His muscles bunched and flexed as he twisted his body, mimicking my move. Two more steps to the left, I raised my waster and pretended to ready a swing, but then kicked out with my right foot—hard—catching Sam off guard in the stomach. He grunted from the force of the impact, and doubled over to catch his breath. It was the opening I needed.

  With my arms still raised, I spun so that I stood next to him. Sam tried to straighten, but I rammed my elbow into his back with enough force to send him sprawling to the floor. I didn’t want to hurt him; I just wanted to get the upper hand so I could claim victory before having to yell “uncle” for the first time.

  As soon as Sam hit the floor, I sat on him, dropped my weapon, and wrenched his arms behind his back. He yelped from the unnatural angle. “Do you yield?” I asked. I had never been so close to letting him win. Under the circumstances, Sam would never let me live it down.

  Sam tried to push himself up off the floor, so I wrenched his arms a little more. He grunted and stopped moving. “I give. You win. Now get off me.” Finally, he panted from his effort. I smiled.

  By the time he made it back on his feet, I was halfway across the dojo. My limbs felt like spaghetti, all rubbery and loose. Pretty little bruises had popped up all over, and I still had to open the shop for a full day’s work. It would not be a fun day.

  “How are you?” Sam asked from behind me. We hung our weapons back on the wall, and str
apped them in place. It kept them off the floor and made them less accessible for his other customers.

  “Great,” I grumbled. “No thanks to you. Crap, Sam, I look like I had a fight with a box of crayons.” I motioned to all the colorful trophies he’d given me.

  He chuckled. “At least we know you can take several days off, pig out on ice cream, and still take care of yourself.”

  I punched him on the arm. “How’d you know about the ice cream anyway?”

  Sam smiled and winked at me. “I have my ways.”

  Shaking my head, I turned and headed for the fireman’s pole. My body rebelled at the thought of sliding down the old metal pipe, but I couldn’t imagine using the staircase either. It would be painful no matter what method I used.

  “Wait a sec,” Sam called out.

  I paused at the pole and glanced back at him. He disappeared into the small office he’d set up for his business, then reappeared a few seconds later. He carried something long, wrapped in fabric.

  “Here,” he said as he placed the bundle in my hands. “It’s time I gave you this. You’ve earned it.”

  “What is it?” I untied the sisal rope wound around it, pulled it off, and let it puddle on the floor at my feet. The wool fabric prickled my fingers. Whatever it concealed felt hard and unyielding. I looked up at Sam.

  “Just open it, but be careful.”

  Slowly, I unwrapped the fabric and stood there holding a long sword and matching dagger. Both had solid walnut handles, but whereas the sword’s handle was smooth, meant for gripping and fighting, the dagger’s handle twisted like a corkscrew, great for throwing from a distance.

  “They’re gorgeous. Where did you get them?” I palmed the dagger in my left hand while I twirled the sword in my right, getting a feel for them.