After three calls went straight to voice mail, he resorted to texts. Still nothing.
Maybe she’d be at the fights tonight. It was the first time he’d ever looked forward to them.
She never showed.
The fight organizer was pissed—the Demon Queen was a major draw, and he had a real brawler lined up to fight her.
One look at that guy made Brody glad she wasn’t here, despite the ripped-up feeling in his chest that had just gotten worse with every unanswered message.
This wolf was even crazier than most of the guys they put her in the ring with, and he was no casual fighter. He was a pro—ex-military maybe—and looked lethal as shit. He shouldn’t even be here—this was amateur only.
And the way Bastian was stomping around, looking even more pissed than the organizer, Brody could smell his cowardly little paws all over this. He’d been planning to take Jasmin down. Have this guy hurt her bad, at the very least. Maybe even kill her.
He just hoped to hell they didn’t put the fucker in the cage against him. Because he’d have no chance, especially distracted like this.
He debated shooting up again before his own fight. The headaches had subsided, but he could still feel Monster Wolf lurking there under the surface. If he busted out during one of Brody’s fights—well, that would be the end in more ways than one. If the fight organizers didn’t shoot him right here, he’d have to run—and keep running.
But if Bastian pulled the kind of shit on Brody he’d been planning to pull on Jasmin, he might need Monster Wolf to save his life.
Jasmin looked at her phone for approximately the hundredth time that day. Brody was doing what Brody did—hanging on until his opponent gave in.
Opponent.
That wasn’t what she was supposed to be. They weren’t supposed to be adversaries.
He was supposed to be her boyfriend. Lover. Whatever. So why the hell couldn’t he be honest with her?
On the other hand, how could he be honest with her if she wouldn’t talk to him?
Not talking to him made her chest hurt again. Made her jag crazy. So did knowing he was hurting too.
She’d waited all day, hoping Tristan would get back to them with the information about the drugs Brody was buying, so she’d at least have some idea what she was dealing with.
Some idea, when she talked to him, of whether he was lying through his damn wolfy teeth.
Fuck.
Brody lucked out, if you wanted to put it like that. His fights were brutal, but not rigged—and he just barely managed to get through them. By the time he got out of the second one, bloody and staggering, the headache was starting up again, and he couldn’t tell if it was from Monster Wolf fighting his way out, or just the White Tornado getting thrown against the side of the cage too many times.
More misery. More money. And for what?
None of this was ever going to fucking end, unless it ended badly. Not unless the drugs he’d been promised actually got here, and turned out to be some kind of miracle.
As if that would ever happen.
He’d already thought he had a tiny little miracle, and it had evaporated like a puff of smoke. One night and one day where it seemed like there might be a little hope, something good in his life.
And now Jasmin wasn’t speaking to him. She had a right to be pissed—he’d begged her to let him into her life, and then he’d shut her down.
Maybe he shouldn’t have done that. There was something big between them, whether she wanted to admit it or not. Maybe she did have a right to know. Maybe he could trust her.
She felt… important. Way more than a date or a one-night stand, or even a girlfriend.
She felt like a mate.
That knowledge hit him like a sledgehammer to the chest. Mate.
Nothing else explained this feeling of belonging, this deep attachment in so short a time. When wolves found their mates, they knew. And they’d do anything to keep their mates happy and safe.
Which was why he didn’t want to drag her into his mess. Her crew had been through enough—she’d been through enough. And if this whole thing went sideways and she was in the middle of it…
He’d never forgive himself.
He wished she’d let him try to explain.
He sat in his car, in the barn parking lot, listening to the faint sounds of the last fights, texting her yet again.
At the fights. Tough night, but I won.
Missed you.
No response.
I’m sorry if I hurt you. I don’t know what’s the right thing to do here.
Please talk to me. Then if you still hate me, you can beat the crap out of me.
He waited. Still nothing. By this time, he really didn’t expect there to be.
He leaned his head back on the headrest. This sucked. He should just take the hint and give up, but that wasn’t what he did.
He was the White Tornado. He locked his jaws and didn’t let go. The only way he’d give up was if he was dead. That’s who he was.
One more text. Then he was going over there, and fuck it if Flynn tried to run his ass out of his territory.
I’m not giving up. You’re important to me.
Wait.
He closed his eyes. Damn, everything hurt. What he really wanted was to just go to bed. Preferably with company, but even alone would work, as long as he was horizontal on a soft surface.
The sound of his text alert startled his eyes open. A message from Jasmin.
No words. Just a video link.
He tapped the link, and a YouTube video opened. It was titled, “Dogs Annoying Cats with Friendship.”
What the fuck?
It was a video compilation of clips of house pets. Dogs of all shapes and sizes trying to befriend cats—nosing them, trying to play, following them as they walked away, wagging their tails and rolling on the floor in an ecstasy of frustrated love. The cats slapped them away, hissed, or flat-out ignored them—but the dogs kept trying.
And trying.
It was pretty damn funny. And it pretty much encapsulated their relationship.
A cat pushed a curly-haired terrier three times its size right off the bed when it tried to lick-kiss her, and Brody chuckled out loud.
And then the video changed. Gradually the cats responded to the dogs. Licking them, patting them with their paws, rubbing up against them, playing. Snuggling.
The video ended, and Brody found himself all misty-eyed, like an idiot.
But damn. Maybe there was some hope after all.
Brody responded to the message with two “ha ha” smiley emoticons. He wrote:
I like the ending.
There was another long pause.
Then, skylight’s open.
He smiled, warmth spreading through his chest.
There was something to be said for not giving up.
Problem was, he’d been so involved in the video, he hadn’t been paying attention to what was going on around him.
Fatal mistake.
He saw the hulking forms out of the corner of his eye, but it was too late. The phone slipped out of his hand, down between the seat and the center console.
The door was wrenched open as he was swinging his legs around. He hit Bastian in the stomach with both feet and sent him flying, the air jerking out of his lungs in a startled “oof!”
It didn’t save him.
There were too many of them, including the crazy-eyed ringer Bastian had planned to send in the cage against Jasmin. They dragged him out of the car, and the last thing he managed to do was grab the edge of the door and press the lock with his fingers before they slammed it shut.
He wasn’t getting away, but this way at least maybe he’d save his money. And his phone, to call for help when it was over.
If he was still alive.
He fought with everything in him—fought like the White Tornado, refusing to stay down, refusing to give up.
Blows rained down on him, bones breaking, and then he w
as shifting, but they were staying human, holding him down, holding his mouth shut and his paws together while Bastian stomped on his ribs, cracking one whole side. Pain sliced through his abdomen with every breath, and he felt a horrible gurgling in his lungs.
Everything seemed to slow down. The slicing pain spread to Brody’s skull, splitting it like a chisel splits stone, until his mind was broken in half.
And the monster came out.
His bones broke again in another shift, pain like he’d never felt before setting flash fires in his nerve endings, making his whole body seize. But when the bones reshaped themselves they were whole and strong, flesh knitting together, organs and blood vessels repairing themselves.
The monster tried to claw out of his skin, and all he saw was red rage and death. His howl filled the night, and he shook the creatures off him like ants. He would kill them, one by one, hunt them down, and none would escape.
Death.
He burned for it, howled for it.
No!
The last vestige of Brody’s mind called the monster back, tried to stuff him back in his prison where he belonged.
His enemies scattered.
“Holy shit.” “What the hell is that?” “Get the fuck out of here.” “Run!”
They scrambled away in all directions, running and not looking back. All except the crazy one, the one who didn’t belong. He had a knife out, and he was circling, ready to attack.
The monster lunged.
It hit before the crazy one could respond, gashing the knife arm and sending the weapon skittering away across the gravel.
Kill!
No!
Brody’s body was still quivering and bulging, moving frantically between the wolf, the monster, and the man.
As his enemy scrambled to his feet, lunging for his weapon, Brody turned and made for the woods in a stumbling, shambling four-footed run.
He ran on instinct, heading for the place that had already started to feel like home. His progress was erratic, uneven, full of fits and starts as his body refused to obey him, refused to settle into one form. It kept shifting and bubbling, making him lurch and stumble.
But he kept moving, refused to give up, because that was what he did.
He felt it the moment he crossed the territory line. A bluish tinge in the air, a tingle of magic on his skin. The forest was aware of him. Its keeper was aware of him.
In some odd way, he felt like it welcomed him in.
Flynn and Tank found him stumbling through the woods over half a mile from the house.
“Fuck,” Flynn murmured. The thing in front of him didn’t look like any kind of a wolf. It didn’t look like anything he’d seen before, except maybe Tristan when he was stuck between wolf and man.
Its misshapen muzzle formed a growl, but its eyes were glazed, exhausted, unseeing.
Flynn shook his head. “Shoot it, Tank,” he said.
Tank raised his gun and fired, and the monster was finally put to rest.
Chapter 16
Jasmin had seen Flynn and Tank go out, but she hadn’t paid much attention. Her ears were pricked for the sound of Brody’s car.
He should be here any minute.
She checked her phone again, but he still hadn’t replied. All those messages, and now, nothing.
She’d tidied up the shed and brushed her hair, and even put on real clothes. One of the few pretty things she had. She almost lit a candle, but stopped herself just in time.
She didn’t do that shit.
Dressing up was bad enough. If he didn’t come, she was going to find him and rip his abdomen apart and play with his guts.
The minutes ticked by. If he’d still been at the fight barn like he said, he should be here by now.
Fear trickled into her belly. Something must have gone wrong.
Or maybe he was off somewhere, shooting up.
Or maybe he didn’t really care at all.
When she heard Tank and Flynn coming back, she went to the door of her shed. Not looking for Brody. Just looking out, and if he happened to drive in…
Then she saw what Flynn and Tank were carrying.
Limp and misshapen, looking like nothing she’d ever seen before. But it was him. Every cell in her body knew it was Brody.
She dashed out of the shed and met them in the compound. They’d laid him on the ground, and Tank was opening the door of the stout wooden building they called the crazy shed.
It was where they locked up any member of the crew whose animal went so crazy they were likely to hurt themselves.
Jasmin slid to her knees at Brody’s side. He was breathing. Thank God he was still breathing.
“What did you do?” She looked up at Flynn. “What happened to him?”
“Fuck if I know,” Flynn said. “I felt him when he crossed the boundary magic. He felt… wrong.”
No shit. He barely even looked like a wolf. He was bigger than usual, with patches of white amid the cream and silver-gray. His body was deformed, bulging strangely, as if he’d been frozen in the middle of a shift into… something.
“I was just texting with him. Hardly any time ago. I don’t understand…”
Flynn just gave her another hands-up ‘don’t know’ gesture. “We found him in the woods, barely conscious. We had to trank him.” He shook his head. “He looked pretty beaten up, but that wouldn’t cause… this.”
He gestured toward the malformed body.
“Would the drugs?”
“Why do you keep asking me questions?” Flynn snapped, running his fingers through his dreads in frustration. “Fairies didn’t sprinkle the answers on me while I was walking through the woods. I don’t fucking know, okay?”
Jasmin ignored his anger. He was worried, and he was afraid.
Afraid he was going to have to put Brody down. Afraid of what it would do to her. Afraid of what it would do to him, killing another shifter he’d started to care about.
Tank scuffed the straw on the floor of the shed into a nice soft pile, and then he and Flynn moved Brody inside.
“I’m staying with him,” Jasmin announced.
“The fuck you are,” Flynn said. “We don’t know what he’s going to be like if he wakes up. We need to lock him in.”
And Jasmin couldn’t be locked in. She’d only been in the crazy shed once, and Tank and Flynn had ended up opening the door and sitting outside the whole time to keep her in, because being locked in made her jag even crazier.
But she couldn’t leave him. Just the thought of it made her feel like she’d swallowed broken glass.
“Jaz—”
“I’ll stay up with her,” Tank said quietly. “The two of us should be able to handle him.”
“Fuck it all,” Flynn muttered, tugging on his hair. “Fine. I’ll stay too.”
They all ended up staying. Jasmin sat inside the shed, Brody’s poor misshapen head on her lap, stroking his patchy fur.
Tank and Flynn sat outside next to the door, backs to the wall and shoulders touching, passing a whiskey bottle back and forth. Lissa curled up on the other side of Tank, all bundled up, dozing against his side.
Xander dragged over a galvanized steel tub that had once held a beer keg, and built a fire in it. He and Sloan Changed and lounged around it in cat form, basking in the heat. Every now and then Tank got up and threw another couple of logs on the fire.
Nobody spoke.
Near morning, the tranquilizer wore off, and Brody began to stir. Jasmin murmured to him as she stroked him, telling him all the boyfriend things she was going to let him do. Take her for ice cream. Carve their initials on a tree. Take her on a balloon ride. Dance in the rain.
Slowly, his skin began to ripple and pulse. Bones broke with slow, excruciating ‘cracks,’ like sticks too green to snap. From his muzzle came a long, low moan.
Xander and Sloan raised their heads off their paws, the fur down their backs standing up. Flynn and Tank got to their feet, poised, ready to shift. Lissa had the trank gun
ready.
“Get back, Jaz,” Flynn said.
It wasn’t an order, and she wasn’t doing it. She held on to Brody, kept petting him, kept talking. “Come on, Brody. Come on back. You can do it. Come back to us. Come back to me.”
There was a great ripple and heave, and then Brody was lying in her arms, bruised and bloodied, but human again. Flynn leaned against the side of the building, huffing out a huge relieved breath. Tank’s face split in a grin, and Lissa clung to his arm, smiling.
Brody opened his eyes. “Jesus fuck, Demazon,” he rasped. “You look good.”
Jasmin’s eyes stung, and she blinked back tears. “Enjoy the sight,” she said, her voice thick. “Because I’m going to fucking kill you.”
Once they were sure that Brody wasn’t going to go berserk and start Changing again, they hauled him into the house, and Tank and Flynn took him into the giant shower in Tank’s bathroom to wash the blood and dirt off him.
Jasmin cooked. She made a frittata and coffee cake before they brought Brody in, clean and dressed in Tank’s too-large sweats.
He was still walking like he was drunk. Jasmin didn’t know if it was fatigue or an injury or the remains of the tranquilizer or some other drug, but she hated it. She hated Brody being hurt and sick and weak, and maybe a drug addict, and almost dying somewhere in the woods instead of being here in her bed, in her shed, where he should have been.
She hated this feeling like her heart was in pieces, and she hated caring.
Hated. It.
All these years of protecting her heart, and he’d undone it in less than a week.
Brody sat on the fat leather couch, his head cradled in his hands. He felt like he’d been wrung out like a wet towel and then beaten with mallets. While having the worst hangover of his life and simultaneously still being drunk.
The only thing keeping him going was knowing Jasmin was there. He’d felt her holding him, heard her talking to him, as time stretched on and on and he was sure he was going to die.
Flynn sat down opposite him, with Tank standing behind the sofa. Jasmin was curled up in a big chair, but she looked anything but relaxed. There were deep shadows under her eyes, like bruises.
Bad Blood Wolf (Bad Blood Shifters Book 2) Page 10