by Alex Kidwell
This time, Jed wouldn’t be able to save him. It was the thought of Jed, rather than the knowledge of his own capture, that had Redford finally giving in to tears that made their way down his cheeks, face pressed against the stone floor as bitten-back, silent sobs wracked his shoulders. It wasn’t the best time to thinking about Jed, but his emotions didn’t care, sweeping over him like a tsunami and dragging him down. It seemed impossible that Jed could be gone, that all of that confidence and life could be snuffed out with a single, small piece of metal.
But it was real. Jed was gone. Even if Redford somehow managed to get out of this alive, even if he somehow found a way to be safe, it would all be without Jed. The only thing Redford would have left of him were his dog tags.
Men came and went, but Redford didn’t pay them any attention. One of them brought in a chair and hauled him up to sit on it; his bound hands jammed painfully against the back of the chair. The only thing Redford did was shift forward slightly, easing the pressure. He tried to remind himself that, no matter how distraught he was, he still had to get himself out of here. He had to think. Plan. Just trying to run wasn’t going to do anything, especially not with his wrists cuffed together.
He was expecting another visit, and Fil didn’t disappoint. The man walked in slowly, a small box in his left hand. Redford was also expecting more anger, but that didn’t come. Instead, seeing the tear tracks on his face, Fil’s expression creased in concern. It was just as fake as his Rolex.
“I know losing your human is hard,” he said gently, wiping Redford’s cheeks with a tissue he produced from his pocket, untying the gag and letting it drop to the floor. “Losing my family was hard. But it was for the best.”
Redford waited a moment, letting saliva build up in his mouth, curling his tongue to gather it. Fil jerked back in surprise when Redford spat in his face. “You probably killed them yourself,” he grit out.
Fil applied the tissue to his own face, wiping the spit off calmly. “I did,” he admitted. “I may be thousands of years old, but even I lose my temper sometimes.”
Thousands of years old. Redford turned the knowledge over his mind, shock no doubt making itself apparent in his expression. Fil had said earlier that he was very old, but Redford hadn’t been paying much attention to his words. What was it that David’s partner Victor had said? Filtiarn meant “lord of wolves” in Celtic.
“The lord of wolves,” he repeated out loud in a murmur. “How can you be that old?”
“It’s quite simple, pup,” Fil sighed, clearly bored at being questioned. “I do not die. And being that old makes one realize a few things. I cannot let wayward wolves run loose in this city, Redford. It endangers my pack.” He opened the small box he’d been carrying, letting Redford see what was inside—five hypodermic needles filled with a red liquid. Blood.
Moving around to stand behind the chair, Fil took one of Redford’s arms, rubbing over the inside of his elbow with a disinfectant. “What are you doing,” Redford gasped, trying to wrench his arm away, but Fil’s grip was too strong.
“I told you that I gifted my pack with the ability to change at will, to retain their human minds,” Fil replied pleasantly. “All it takes is some of my blood. I can’t give you a full dose at once, of course; that would probably kill you. But five small doses over a day does the trick.”
Redford gritted his teeth as the needle punctured his arm, pushing foreign blood into his system. Fil, at least, was a deft hand, not making it any more painful that it had to be. The needle withdrew, and Fil patted his arm, taking the box with him as he left.
It started slow, the effects of the blood. At first all Redford noticed was his vision sharpened slightly, the room seemingly lighter as his pupils dilated. His heart picked up speed with its beats, blood running hot for a few minutes, but it eventually faded.
The second dose, administered two hours later, hit him harder. Redford had never taken drugs, but he’d read about the effects, and he imagined that it might feel similar. His grasp on reality seemed to fade and heighten, all at the same time, his senses going into overdrive. He didn’t need to look into a mirror to know that his eyes had turned yellow.
It felt like the very first stages of the transformation. The instincts rose within his mind, but they weren’t overpowering, like the nights of the full moons. They didn’t take over. They just were, dwelling in the back of his mind like a hungry animal, but a hungry animal that he could ignore.
He snapped at Fil when the man came back, managing to close his teeth around Fil’s wrist and bite into him, hard. When Fil simply shook him off with an amused laugh, Redford growled at him, a little surprised by the noise that rumbled within his chest. “Calm down. Three more shots and you’re done,” Fil told him, pushing the third dose into his veins.
For a nauseating moment, the world seemed to spin sideways. Redford felt his head tip back on his shoulders, eyes fixed on the ceiling. There was an itching under his skin, something that wanted to get out, a prickling that had him shifting in the chair uncomfortably and twisting his wrists in the cuffs. They still weren’t coming loose, but for some reason Redford briefly thought he should be able to break them off.
It was the blood. God, what was it doing to him?
Another two hours later, Fil was back again. This time, the man just watched him for a moment, an odd smile playing across his lips. “You may need some training, pup, but you’ll make a good wolf,” Fil told him. Like a broken record, the needle was back, except this time Fil seemed to hesitate. He lifted his head to stare at the door, sniffing—when Redford did the same, he could smell it too. Gunpowder. Pine.
His heart leaped in his chest, but Redford didn’t dare hope for any longer than a few, misguided seconds. It couldn’t possibly be Jed. He was dead, sprawled out and broken in the hallway, and he wasn’t coming for him. It had to be something else, or Redford’s fevered imagination conjuring up the one thing he wanted most in the world.
An explosion rocked the building. It seemed to take forever to Redford’s over-attuned senses: the initial blast of the explosion, the few seconds later the sound waves traveling through the room, the air following it carrying a sharp scent. The building shook, shuddered on its foundations, groaning in protest. The needle fell from Fil’s hand, shattering on the floor.
That was his chance. Whatever the explosion had been, Redford needed to use it. He squared his shoulders, clenched his hands into fists, and yanked them outwards, biting back a noise of pain as the edge of the handcuffs cut into his wrists. The metal links weakened, buckled, a defect in the chain proving to be his salvation as it broke, leaving the cuffs around his wrists, but he was free. He twisted, grabbing Fil and punching him square in the nose.
He wasn’t sure who was more surprised, Fil or himself. Redford had certainly never punched anybody before. He watched as a trickle of blood slowly made its way down over Fil’s lip, stunned at his own actions.
Fil leaped, and Redford wasn’t fast enough to dodge. Before he knew it, they were on the floor, trading blows. Redford barely felt the hits to his still bruised jaw and ribs, seeing red as he put his own fist in Fil’s face. He jerked his knee up, luckily catching Fil underneath the chin and dazing him for a moment.
It was a long shot, a desperate hope that the misery of Jed’s presumed death was untrue: Redford blew the whistle around his neck.
It was silent for a minute, the shrill blast of noise fading into harsh, panting breaths, the low rumbling growl echoing in Fil’s chest. Nothing moved, and that stupid, foolish hope sank, swift and heavy, to sour in Redford’s gut. Fil was moving again, crouching, teeth bared, and Redford braced himself.
“Honey, I’m home!” The words rang out, strident, rounded with a cackling, broken laugh. Another blast, this one of heavy gunfire, and the body of one of Fil’s henchmen collapsed through the open doorway. The footsteps that followed were heavier than they should be, grace lost in favor of a staccato wavering, but it was Jed who walked through the doo
r, gun strapped to his chest, soaked in blood and sweat and grinning manically.
For a long few moments, Redford just stared, unbelieving. He’d almost think he was hallucinating if Jed wasn’t so clear in his vision, if that pine-and-gunpowder scent wasn’t so strong whenever he inhaled. It really was Jed standing there.
“Howdy,” Jed saluted Fil, weaving drunkenly into the room. “I’m glad I caught up with you, Filly. See, there was a little misunderstanding back at my apartment, no worries, happens all the time. Don’t trouble your pretty head about it.” The grin faded into something dark, fury lighting Jed’s eyes as he leveled the very large gun at Fil’s head. “I’m here to return the favor.”
“Your pup tried to shoot me earlier. If you really think a bigger gun is going to kill me, you’re mistaken,” Fil seethed, leaving Redford on the floor to stand, staring Jed down. “I’ve lived long enough that—”
The gun went off once. Fil staggered back, a hand over his chest, and Redford saw Jed’s eyes harden, calculating what he needed to do. He shot again, a third and fourth time, emptying an entire clip into Fil’s chest, until he crumpled onto the floor, seemingly lifeless, but Redford had his doubts.
“Jed,” Redford whispered, voice catching in his throat. He tried again. “Jed? I thought you were….”
Dead. He’d thought Jed had been gone, but here he was.
“Who, me?” Though Jed flashed him a grin, cocksure and brilliant, Redford saw the cracking around the edges. The way Jed swayed, like he couldn’t seem to find his balance, the gray sheen of sweat over sallow skin, his fingers clumsy as he reloaded the gun, none of it could be quite covered up by Jed’s false confidence. “I’m a train, baby, remember? No little bit of metal is going to throw me off the tracks.”
Redford had thought that the bullet had hit Jed in the chest, but from the way the blood had spread, it looked like it had hit him high in the shoulder. There was so much blood, too much of it, but Jed was alive.
“What you are is annoying.” Fil’s voice rose behind them, steely cool, and Jed flinched.
“Son of a bitch.” Another round into Fil, this more reflex than Jed actually believing it would help, and Jed shoved Redford firmly behind him. Shielding him with his body, wrapping one hand back around Redford’s hip to keep him close, Jed tossed the gun aside. There was an air of reckless calculation in the set of his jaw, the steely glare he leveled on Fil. “Well, alright then. Let’s dance, asshole.”
Redford didn’t know how well Jed was going to be able to fight hand to hand in his condition, but he seemed determined to try. He and Fil met in a collision, fists flying, leaving Redford watching from the sidelines in worry. Fil struck a hand against Jed’s injured shoulder, sending Jed reeling in pain, collapsing to the floor, and then Fil came after Redford again.
“Don’t even think about fighting back, pup,” Fil snarled at him. All of those instincts that had risen so sharply with the introduction of Fil’s blood wailed at Redford to submit, but he ignored them now. “You’ve only gotten three shots. Lie down like a good dog and let me give you the final two.”
“Go to hell,” Redford spat, the anger in the words surprising even him. Jed was moving slowly behind Fil, trying to pick himself up, but he wasn’t going to be able to fight just yet. Redford needed to do something that wasn’t just punching Fil—that had been proven to be absolutely useless. He needed…
To change.
As if it was responding to his thoughts, his heartbeat quickened, and a split second later Redford could feel a terrifyingly familiar pain. It swept through his muscles and bones, forcing him to his knees. Panicked, he fumbled at the buttons of his shirt, not wanting to destroy it. He clumsily managed to shrug it off before the seams in the shoulders tore completely. Redford had less luck with his jeans, only getting as far as unbuckling his belt before the pain of the change swayed his focus. He was changing outside of the full moon because he’d wanted to. Filtiarn really hadn’t been lying about the power of his blood.
Fil was staring at him, anger and horror dawning in his eyes. “You haven’t gotten the full dose, you stupid pup,” he barked, advancing on him. “Enjoying the pain? That’s what happens when the ritual isn’t complete.”
Redford wasn’t listening. The change was happening so much faster than it ever had, half a minute from human to feeling the last of the transformations in his body. Usually his mind was pulled under the instincts well before that stage, but his thoughts were intact as he got his paws under him, shaking the rest of his clothes off, growling lowly at Fil. He lunged, tackling Fil to the floor, sinking his fangs into the man’s arm, shoulder, whatever he could reach. Movement in the corner of his eye had him spinning to face the new threat, stopping himself from attacking when he saw it was Jed.
Jed struck, a blood-soaked silver knife flashing in the low light as it buried itself in Fil’s throat. Fil’s hands flew up to try and dislodge it, but Jed just forced it deeper. A full-body shudder ran through Fil’s limbs, hands twitching, before he slowly fell still, lifeless eyes still open in the surprise of the last moments.
They both watched, hoping that this time Fil would stay down. He didn’t move again, didn’t even twitch—his blood merely continued to spread outwards from his body.
“Red. Darlin’? You’re a wolf,” Jed commented, still kneeling awkwardly next to Fil’s body. He tentatively reached out a hand, eyebrows rising in surprise when Redford pushed his nose into his palm. “You’re not going to go all crazy and attack?”
Redford shook his head for a no, hoping that he could change back. Like last time, the thought seemed to do it—unfortunately, it was also just as painful as last time, and by the time he was human again Redford was pretty sure he looked almost as bad as Jed.
“You’re not dead,” he repeated dumbly, watching as Jed tried to yank the knife out of Fil’s neck, his movements uncharacteristically clumsy from pain and blood loss. Redford shook himself, moving over to Jed urgently. “Can you stand? I think you need to go to a hospital.”
Jed just smiled at him, one of his hands wrapping around Redford’s. “I can’t feel my legs,” he said calmly, and promptly passed right out.
Chapter Fourteen
Jed
REALLY, he wasn’t a stupid man. Jed knew that to most people, he wasn’t exactly walking the edge of sanity, but by and large his actions made sense. They were logical. Thought out. If one knew his line of thinking, if they could understand what was going on in his brain, such as it was, he really wasn’t all that suicidal or impulsive.
This, though, had been pretty damn stupid. Jed knew the laws of blood loss, of a bullet ripping through a good portion of muscle and flesh. Unless moving was the only way to keep that hole from getting a bunch of friends, you stayed still. You bound up the wound, you treated the injury, because running around like a maniac with an actual, honest to God see-through part of your shoulder was not the way to keep living. But when he’d woken up on the floor, gritty and dazed and in so much pain he’d puked a few times, just to keep the fun times rolling, the smart thing to do had been the furthest from his mind.
Redford had been taken. Again. And this time Jed kind of thought there wasn’t going to be a welcome home party for him. Fil was pissed, and God only knew what that would mean. If he didn’t get to Red immediately, he couldn’t be sure there would be anything left to find.
No, that was too logical. His thought process hadn’t even been that complex. Everything in him had boiled down to one thought.
Must find Red.
The time between the first gunshot and that final death rattle, blood under his fingers and a knife buried to the hilt, passed in flashes and blurs. Jed kept losing consciousness, waking up on his table, in an alley, outside the building where Fil kept his pack. Pain slurred into agony, constant and numbing, and Jed found it increasingly hard to stay upright, much less be any real threat.
He’d had the presence of mind to get his emergency sack out of the apartment. A few exp
losives, a fucking huge gun, a knife for close quarters work, and a needle filled with adrenaline—an entire fucking bag of stupid. No longer concerned with innocents, with anyone else in the entire world, all Jed knew was that the wall was in his way, was between him and Red.
Which meant the wall had to go.
At one point he’d been sagged against a doorway, head spinning, choking up blood while he tried to force his feet to move. Dazed, he was only vaguely aware of footsteps, of people running, of bodies lying strewn around him like discarded popcorn. Then he heard it. Goddamn music to his ears.
The whistle.
“That’s my boy.” Smiling faintly to himself, eyes closed, Jed had gathered every last tendril of strength. Fire was burning somewhere in the background. Someone tried to rush him, to grab the gun, but Jed had fired twice, stumbling over the body and managing to drag himself down the hallway.
He wasn’t stupid. Not most of the time, anyway. But right then, in some crazed desperation to find Redford again, Jed honestly didn’t care if everyone else burned. Fil was an annoyance, was merely another obstacle. When he passed out for the last time, it was holding onto Redford, time sliding into darkness and then nothing at all.
Until that damned beeping woke him up.
Cracking one eye open, Jed rasped in an agonized breath, feeling like his mouth was stuffed with cotton. Holding himself completely still, he tried to put two and two together. Okay, scratchy sheets, incessant beeping, the stink of antiseptic—must be a hospital. Just fucking ducky. Wincing, he rolled onto his side, hand clumsily flailing out to try and find his IV. There was always an IV. He’d rip it out, find some pants, and get his ass home.