Edge of Instinct: Rabids Book 1

by Amy Cook

  “Need to leave,” he grunted to Amiel, gritting his teeth against the pain of the jostling, torn by the urge to rip into the guy at his right, or devour the girl to his left. Amiel stopped in the act of unlocking her door, and turned to him with questions in her eyes. She mouthed the word hospital again, questioning his readiness to go to one. He refused, and her eyes narrowed, mouth twisting down into a determined grimace. Damn him, but that stubborn twist to her lips warmed his insides like a blow torch. The key twisted in the lock and the door swung inward, the darkness beyond beckoning to him like the maw of hell. Amiel spoke to the man again, who reluctantly nodded and walked away. Harley watched, a man condemned, as the guard walked away thus severing his last safety line. As though realizing his moment of weakness, Amiel’s scent assaulted his nose once more, stirring the deep hunger in his gut. He squeezed his eyes shut, mouth watering, searching for the self-control that seemed pleased to elude him at present.

  She gave his waist another squeeze, drawing his gaze to her face. Her eyes widened slightly as she looked into his eyes, lips parting in surprise. She hesitated and swallowed hard, and for a moment he felt a thrill of vindication. A hope that she would turn him away, shut the flimsy door between them, give him a chance to collect his senses. Yet she didn’t turn him away, or register any further fear. Tandy had been right. She was unerringly trusting and naive, and not for the first time Harley wished she weren’t. Wished his will and strength weren’t waning beyond his limits, too. Flipping the lights on in the room, she offered him a small reassuring smile, encouraging him to come with her. And, Heaven help him, he did.

  She staggered under his weight, helping him in far enough that he could slump against the wall. His wobbly vision took in the tiny apartment, scanning it for anything to focus on, give him strength, distraction. She pressed the door closed, reengaging the bolt with a resounding click, the sound of the last nail in the coffin.

  He scowled at that thought, and pushed away from the wall. Groaning in pain, he shrugged out of the jacket, letting it land on the floor with what was sure to be a considerably heavy thunk. Normally he would pick it up and put it in a place less likely to clutter and stain her floor, but at the moment he was doing good just to stand. He lifted his arms in an effort to pull the shirt free, groaning in agony as his body protested. Instead, he slumped into the kitchen, bracing himself against the counters as he went. Reaching the knives, he grabbed the nearest and prayed his hand stay steady enough that he’d inflict no more damage while cutting the damn shirt off. Amiel was suddenly there, grasping his hand, staying it. He resisted the urge to snap at her, though his lip curled, and he could feel the growl deep in his chest. She wet her lips with a nervous swipe of her tongue, eyes round with stirrings of fear. Harley felt a mixture of triumph, knowing she was finally seeing him as a danger, and sorrow for that same reason. Somehow, he never wanted her to see him as the monster everyone else knew him to be. With a heavy sigh, he stepped back from her grasp.

  “Can’t get it off, gotta cut it. Need to get to the shower.” He tried to make his statement as coherent and nonthreatening as possible while making her understand. She swallowed again, and his eyes followed the movement before shifting back to her green eyes. Ever so slowly she moved forward, closing the distance between them. She pointed at the knife, and then to herself; asking permission to help, or to take it away, he wasn’t sure. He shook his head no, stopping short as her chilled fingers rose to rest on his hand gripping the knife, giving it a gentle tug. The thought struck him that perhaps she wasn’t that naive, and simply a great actress intent on killing the monster in her kitchen. His teeth clenched into a savage grimace that he tried to hide behind his lips, breathing accelerating. She held her ground, eyes never leaving his, promising and asking for more of his trust. Her scent battled with his instincts, tugging at them. He was at war within himself. One part of him recognized his duty to protect her, especially from himself. The other part wanted to strike out in that predatory way any wounded animal would. Shudders racking his body, he pried his fingers loose, letting her take control of the blade.

  Her eyes smiled up at him, reassuring him as the fingers of her other hand slipped beneath the hem of his shirt. He wasn’t even aware that he’d been backing away from her until his butt ran up against the corner of the counter, earning yet another bruise. More shivers skittered across his skin as she gently slid her palm up his torso, separating the fabric from his skin as she went. With the rain soaking his shirt, it had kept most of the blood from gluing the fabric to his wounds, thankfully. Ripping fabric off a fresh wound always sucked. He concentrated on the feel of her skin, trying to ignore the fact that she was wielding a knife so near his body, and touching the wounds that his instincts quivered to protect. Her fingers reached the top of his shirt, gaze never once breaking contact. He wished she would. It would erase some of the predatory instincts within him if she did.

  Of course, she had no idea what he was, and wouldn’t understand the dangers. She would think she was being comforting. She wouldn’t know that keeping eye contact in his current situation was having the opposite effect. As though reading his uneasy thoughts, her eyes dropped to his shirt, hesitating. Slowly, the knife rose, his body tensing as it neared his skin. He could feel the pull of the knife against fabric as it sliced the shirt, and finally the gentle puffs of air that skirted across his bare skin every time she breathed.

  Harley’s muscles relaxed slightly when she leaned to the side and placed the knife on the counter. Not meeting his eyes, her fingers rose to his shoulders, and carefully slid the fabric from his shoulders until it landed on the floor just like his jacket had. She began fussing over his wounds, eyes dark with worry, and for just a moment he let himself savor her scent, her touch. He let himself imagine that she truly cared and meant more to him than a promise to his father, or the caring of a friend. He took it a step further, imagining what it would feel like to hold a woman in his arms, caress her skin the way Amiel was current touching his, but for far different reasons. The water still ran in thin rivulets from her soaked hair, down her neck and disappeared temptingly into her wet shirt. Her eyes rose to meet his, innocent and kind, jarring him from his reverie.

  That life would never be his. Being friends was pushing it and anything more intimate would simply be insanity. The longer he was here, the more danger he put her in. He needed to lock himself in that shower, and get all of this blood off before the Collapse came. And it would. His strength was too wasted, his body had taken too much damage, for the Collapse to not come. And when it did, he needed to be as far away from Amiel as he could manage. Only he didn’t have the strength to put more than the bathroom door between them, and he prayed it would be enough.

  Eyes searching the tiny apartment, they rested on the only other door in the room. Lurching away from the counter, he made his way toward it. Half way there, his knees buckled beneath him, and he swayed sideways, leaning heavily against the wall. At the feel of her touch on his arm his reserve snapped.

  “Don’t!” he growled, trying to ignore the way she flinched away from him. He let his head fall against the wall with a none too gentle thump, wishing the room would stop spinning. “Gonna lock myself in. Do not come inside. No matter what.” She took another step back, nodding stiffly. Leaning heavily against the wall with one shoulder, he slid along it to keep upright as he moved. Once the door was shut behind him, he flipped the lock in place, and let himself fall to his knees. The blood pooling beneath them shifted out of focus, becoming a blur of color. He cursed quietly as the button on his jeans popped free and shot across the room in his fumbled attempt to undress. Shoving the bottles of girly stuff out of the way, he flopped into the tub, turning the water of the shower on with trembling hands.

  Chapter 22

  Amiel

  Amiel stared at the bathroom door, twisting the tips of her hair behind her back in the usual display of nerves. She cringed as a few crashes and muffled curses leaked from under the doo
r.

  “Are you alright?” she called, hand hovering over the door knob, though she knew he couldn’t hear her. The water turned on, followed by the sound of the shower curtain sliding closed and then nothing but the sound of water running. A shiver of cold raced her spine, reminding her that she was still soaking wet. Scrambling for the small clothes locker in the corner, she dragged out a pair of grey sweat pants and a black wife beater. She shrugged back out of the beater when she realized she’d forgotten a bra. She dressed in a frenzy, worried Harley would emerge from the shower at any moment. Her haste was in vain, as he stayed in the shower long after she was finished.

  What the heckadoodle happened to him? A motorcycle accident? A fight with more thugs? That sounded more likely, judging from the deep slice wounds she’d seen scattered across his torso. She shivered, remembering the way he’d looked at her. The look in his eyes when she’d tried to help him had been almost animalistic, dangerous even. She’d never felt she had to fear him in the past, but tonight she had been very near the edge of it. She’d tried to keep the fear from her face, keep her movements smooth and give him no reason to act on the dark thoughts that had been so clear behind those frigid eyes.

  She hadn’t been around a lot of people who suffered from shock, but she knew he must be experiencing it from the large amount of wounds she’d seen. She’d heard people often acted a bit wild when in deep shock and wounded. It could be he was suffering from the sort of shock that Jaron had occasionally mentioned in his letters and journal. He’d said that living every day in fear of death did things to soldiers sometimes. With that in mind, she had tried to move slowly, show him he had no reason to distrust her. No matter the reasons behind his behavior, he’d obviously been in a lot of pain, so she could hardly expect him to be cheerful and polite. His pupils had been huge, and she could swear she’d heard somewhere that that was also a sign of shock.

  All of which left her wondering if it had been altogether wise to leave him alone in the bathroom. Or even let him into her apartment, for that matter. Not that she’d had much choice. In truth, she should have forced him to go to a hospital. He was badly hurt, and she couldn’t hope to give him the kind of treatment here that he needed. She hoped he wasn’t bleeding out in her shower. But what else could she have done? Something desperate had entered his eyes when she’d mentioned the word hospital, and she just couldn’t bring herself to go against his wishes.

  She moved to touch the door knob again, but jerked back when she heard another crash inside the bathroom. Heart beat speeding up a notch she bit her lip and contemplated. He’d said not to come in. ‘No matter what.’ Either he had good reason for that directive, or he was just really bashful about his being naked in someone else’s shower. Her cheeks flared with heat, and she coughed uncomfortably, looking around for something to occupy her mind. Harley’s jacket and ripped shirt caught her attention. Grabbing an arm load of cleaners and yanking on a pair of gloves, she got to work. Picking up his clothes, she threw the shredded shirt in the trash, and placed the jacket on the counter. She gasped when her jacket fell out of the depths of his. Her jacket! It had gone missing from the diner that night, and she thought for sure one of her fellow employees had stolen it. Why did Harley have it? Pushing the questions from her mind she set about cleaning the blood from the floors, counters, and wall. It looked like a horror movie in here. Besides, cleaning always kept her mind off things, and it could certainly keep her mind off of the bloodied enigmatic man in her shower.

  Her heart skipped a pained beat as the mental image of him flashed before her eyes. When she’d ridden home that night, she hadn’t expected to see Harley slumped against the wall around her apartment complex. The guards had warned her to quickly make her way inside the gates, pointing out the dark figure further down the sidewalk. They were watching him for signs of infection, and didn’t want a civilian in the way. She had stared at the dark form, confused. It was too far away to make out features, but something about the situation felt too familiar. It was then she had realized her tags were burning the mellow tingle reserved for one person. Her eyes moved back to the dark figure, and the bike lying nearby. Harley. Ignoring the alarmed shouts of the guards, she had run toward the figure, her suspicions growing with the tingle of the tags. She’d found him, sitting in a puddle of red rain water, pale and unresponsive to her calls.

  Since her time here, she had built a tenuous relationship with the guards at the gates, but these guards hadn’t been the ones on duty the last time Harley had been up to her apartment. It took a little more convincing this time around, and maybe that had been because she’d covered his tattoo with her scarf. No one reacted well to the sight of it, but something told her that in his current physical distress, showing them the tattoo would have been a dangerous move. Harley struck her as the kind of guy with a lot of enemies waiting for the right moment to strike. She’d convinced the guards that Harley was her boyfriend and he’d been in an accident on his bike. They had been suspicious of his refusal to go to the hospital, but she’d reassured them that he’d always had a fear of doctors. In the commotion, they seemed to have forgotten to check his blood. She prayed they kept that current form of amnesia for now. She didn’t know what Harley would do if they came back for him.

  The thing that had frightened her most was the way he looked. Blood covered him where the black soot marks didn’t. His eyes were bleary, unfocused with pain and exhaustion. And the blacks of his eyes had been huge. She knew he wouldn’t make it far if he left, and she was terrified of what would happen if she couldn’t convince him to stay. She found herself wondering once more about what had happened to him. Whatever it was, it was enough to leave him a bloody mess with damaged ears. Would fighting thugs have produced this kind of abuse? He looked more like he’d been in an exploding blender. Again, she doubted her decision to bring him up here. Even if she could help him out with his wounds, what could she possibly do for his ears? She’d feel guilty for the rest of her life if something happened to him, knowing she might have been able to prevent it by taking him to the hospital.

  Her eyes shifted from the clock on the stove to the bathroom door. He’d been in the shower for a good twenty minutes. The water typically ran cold in this place after ten minutes, which meant he had to be freezing in there. Gnawing on her lip again, she yanked the cleaning gloves off and crept toward the door. She knocked softly, waiting for an answer. None came.

  “Harley?” she called out, loudly. Of course no reply came back, but a sick feeling settled in her stomach. Her hand hesitated on the knob, weighing her choices. If she walked in there and he was perfectly fine, he was going to think she was trying to throw herself at him, or that she had no boundaries. Or both. But if she didn’t go in, and he was in need of help? She tried calling out once more.

  “Harley, I’m going to come in if you don’t answer me!” she threatened, jiggling the door roughly. “He probably still can’t hear you, idiot,” she grumbled at herself, making her decision. Grabbing a bobby pin, she picked the lock. The door slipped open without a noise, and she almost wished it would have creaked; anything to give him another chance to reply and send her scurrying out of the room. There was a chill in the air, and she knew without a doubt that the shower had long since run frigid.

  “Harley?” she squeaked out, standing before the shower curtain. She could see no shadow of him within, through the curtain. Blood pooled on the floor near her feet and streaked up the side of her tub, disappearing behind the curtain. With a heavy swallow, she slid a finger through the tiny gap between the curtain and wall, then hesitated. She had no idea what had happened to him, but he certainly looked like he’d been on the losing side of a fight with Wolverine. What if he wasn’t replying because he’d been infected? Had she locked herself in the apartment with an infected man? Hand reaching up to grasp the tags, she frantically searched for any sign, evidence to affirm the startling thought. They were warm to the touch, sending the warm tingly sensation through her as the
y always did when he was around. But so far, no startling jolts of electricity, or fading vision. Did it affect her the same way if they were in the first stages of infection? She thought back to the Yellow Hotel. Had she felt the zap when the newly turned Rabid tried to grab her in the closet? She couldn’t remember feeling anything. But then, she had been in a hotel full of possibly infected so the tags had been nonstop hot, and she hadn’t been in the best frame of mind.

  Reaching behind her, she quietly grasped Tandy’s gun that she kept in the waist holster she used at work. A gun strapped openly on her thigh was frowned upon there. She had left it belted in place when she changed, as always. Wearing the thing was second nature now, and tonight she was grateful for it. With another nervous swallow, she poked her finger back into the shower curtain, and ever so slightly peeked through the opening. Her eyes found empty air. Scanning down, she saw a bowed, blonde head. She gasped, seeing Harley slumped on the shower floor, unconscious and laying in a watery pool of blood. She yanked the shower curtain to the side, wincing as she pulled too hard and the spring bar came down along with the curtain. It clattered to the floor, curtain spreading across the blood and soaking it in.

  She watched him warily, but he didn’t so much as even twitch. Feeling braver, she reached over, quickly turning off the frigid water. Grabbing her favorite fluffy blue towel from the counter, she tossed it over his mid-section with a squeak, trying very hard to ignore the fact that he was very naked, very gorgeous, and very possibly dead or zombified. Again, he didn’t move. Kneeling on the floor, she held the gun in her lap with one hand, and lightly poked his shoulder with the other. No reaction. Gathering her courage, she placed her hand on his five o’clock shadow roughened chin. Lifting his head, she noticed his lips were turning a faint blue.