Her hand swooped down and locked around his wrist.
"It's okay, I'm going to call an ambulance. Just hang on..."
Her head snapped in the direction of his voice, mouthing "No."
"You're not dying like this." His voice was overwrought with emotion but he didn't care. "I thought you were gone." He fought to maintain his composure but the shock of losing her had all but shut him down. He hadn't considered life without her yet—it wasn't something he wanted to experience. He'd had twenty-two years to know what that was like, and he'd trade them all for a little more of the joy felt over these last three weeks.
Maybe that wasn't so impossible now.
Elisabeth's teeth gnashed and spittle slapped against his face as she struggled to speak. Between agonized spasms, she motioned to her bullet wound.
"I know," he said. "You're going to live though, baby. Just let me call for help and I'll be right back."
"No." Her voice was much clearer this time.
His bafflement must not have been lost on her.
She took a few chapped breaths, obviously working up the energy to speak. "You have to do it, Allen. Nobody else can help me."
"Do what?"
"The bullet." A gasp of breath. "Take it out. Dig it out."
"With what?"
"Anything." Another breathless exclamation. "Just get it out. Now."
Allen sprinted for the kitchen; her screams were like a whip cracking against his back. He ruffled his hair as if that would help organize the jumble of unfocused thoughts happening inside of him. It didn't matter how Elisabeth was alive again, only that he help her. A helpless sigh at the thought of extracting a bullet from her skull. He wasn't a fucking surgeon. Didn't know how they did it in a hospital but their methods were a little more advanced than anything he could do.
A quick rife through the kitchen drawers proved worthless. A check of the bathroom was next; Allen found a pair of tweezers and a scalpel among some first aid bandages. He stared at them for a long moment before Elisabeth's screams snapped him back to the task at hand.
She was curled into the fetal position when he returned.
"This is going to hurt," he said, pulling the whiskey bottle from the corner bar. "But it's all we have. It'll have to do." He dropped to his knees.
"Hurry." Her eyes had never been more vulnerable.
Allen popped the whiskey cap and dished a gulp's worth onto her forehead. She shook with the tenacity of twenty thousand volts. Their kind had amazing tolerance to what a human would consider great pain, which is why her reaction unnerved him.
He contemplated taking a swig or six before starting on this amateur operation.
Here goes nothing, he thought, pinching the tweezers together and dropping them into the tiny bullet hole. The prongs expanded slightly, raking across the inside of her head with a harsh scrape.
A reservoir of blood spurt through Elisabeth's lips as hands fought to leverage herself against the wall.
Allen's arm fiddled awkwardly as he pushed further into the bullet wound. At the first sign of resistance, he stopped pressing and attempted to pry the tweezers open by forcing his index finger between them. They wouldn't budge. The hole wasn't wide enough.
Dammit!
He'd wanted to avoid it, but Allen took the scalpel in an uncertain grip. Through a wrinkled grimace, he hacked at the jagged hole, chipping away an inch's worth of fractured skull. Thick gulps of blood pulsed from the perforated slash on her head. Her body fought against his slapdash procedure, aggressive and untamed limbs only strengthening his resolve.
Through the mess of bone, blood, hair, and what was probably brain, the wound finally looked wide enough to get the tweezers around the bullet. He dipped them into the hole and felt the cold prongs clasp around it.
Beneath him, Elisabeth's breathing was terse.
"Hang in there for just another second," Allen said, encouraging himself more than her. Her body tensed as he gave a few gentle tugs. The bullet popped out scored by a disgusting slurp.
Her head fell onto its unaffected side, unfazed by the bubbling geyser of lifeblood shooting from the injury. Her eyes welled with tears, her mouth quietly sucking air.
Allen dropped beside her, pushing a bandage to the wound.
"Are you going to live?" It was all he wanted to know, and only now felt comfortable with asking.
She answered with a brief smile.
"She shot you," he said. "Killed you. I can't believe I'm looking into your eyes again. I was laying with you...thinking your beautiful face was just a memory."
"Trust me." Her inflection was meek. "I'll explain it soon. Everything."
"Just rest," he said, unable to resist forcing a kiss on her thick and bloody lips. Didn't bother wiping his face, either. The plasma was hers. He wanted it as he wanted every facet of her.
"Let me carry you to your bed," he said.
"No. We have to leave."
"You can't travel, though. Not like this."
"We have to go someplace safe, my love. I need rest, but it is impossible to get that here. You've done the hard part, digging that out of me, but I still need time to recover from what your friends have done."
Allen nodded. With Jack and his new acquaintance running around town, it wasn't a good idea to leave things to chance. They might regroup and return, clearly aware of Greifsfield's dark secret.
"Let me grab a few things and then we'll get the hell going. No one is getting near you again, Elisabeth. I thought I'd lost you forever."
"You didn't lose me and you never will. I need you to pack a few things special for me."
"Whatever you need. Anything. Just tell me."
Another smile, deeper and more pronounced.
"That is music to my ears, my sweet."
***
During one fleeting moment of awareness, Lucy realized she was cold. Her limbs vibrated and her back leapt off the cool surface housing her. There was no way of knowing how long she'd been out, only that the dreams and images were so vivid they felt like reality.
Horrible things a mind shouldn't conceive.
She wanted to stand. To stretch. To get someplace warm. She could only think. There was no energy within her to use.
Her stomach rumbled, and it brought strange, impetuous thoughts. She'd eat anything right now. Her mind settled on a plate of raw and bloody meat—something she'd never eaten or craved—thinking that she'd rip it off an animal's back, if necessary. Even the traditional comforts of fast food cheeseburgers and fries felt unsatisfactory now.
She licked her teeth, two of the top ones extended over the bottom row, ending in sharp points that pricked her tongue. Trickling crimson wept into the recesses of her throat, piquing her taste buds with a sticky sweet flavor.
"Wake up, sweetheart." A familiar voice crawled into her thoughts from somewhere above. "I'm going to take my daughter home now, okay?"
She was lulled back to sleep by growling that emanated at the back of her throat. A perverse lullaby that paved the way for endless dreams about a beautiful, red-maned wolf prowling the deepest green of Greifsfield forest, feasting on the flesh of whatever crossed her path.
***
What's wrong with me?
Amanda pondered this question as the truck crossed the town line back into Greifsfield. The Glock was holstered beneath her right arm, loaded with a full magazine of silver. Two remaining magazines were stuffed into her jean pockets. It was broad daylight, but after what had happened with Jack's friend, she wasn't taking chances. These wolves weren't shy, and that confidence was troubling.
It meant there were more of them than expected.
Behind the seat, the MP5 was also loaded with silver shots, with one reserve mag resting beside it. She weighed her options carefully, baffled by why she was letting Jack call the shots for the second time in as many days.
"How's your head?"
She watched Jack from the corner of her eye while navigating Greifsfield's desolate streets. He
was quiet, staring out the window, consumed by worry for his (other) missing friend. The guy collected them like debt.
His distress was an admirable, if naïve, quality.
Amanda wasn't sure she was any less stupid, though. She'd been goaded into one last visit to the Big East. It was risky, but if they relegated themselves to public areas while the sun was out, there shouldn't be any danger.
That's what she told herself while making sure she had enough silver to shoot her way out.
Jack thought that Lucy would have answers, or could help Amanda get them. That meant squeezing daddy dearest to find her. As a bonus, if Amanda could get someone else free from this mess before it was too late, she supposed the extra effort was worth it.
Someone had done that for her once.
She turned onto the resort road and drove to the main gate. Jack offered his room number to the guard. Having never officially checked out, it was good enough for him. The uniformed employee flipped a switch and waved them through as the gates separated.
"We keep this shorter than short," she said while her eyes scanned the low-key parking lot for potential threats. "It might be daylight but that doesn't mean they won't try something."
"We'll be ok if we stick to the main building."
"Unless everyone here's been turned."
"Shit, don't even..."
"Worth considering. Plus, you're the idiot who came waltzing back; they might not want to miss the opportunity to take you out."
Amanda drove up to the front entrance and waved off valet service.
"If Lucy's father is in the office, then I gotta look into his eyes and see if he's lying."
"Let me go with you," she said and swung the truck into the closest parking spot. "I don't need him doing anything to you while I'm out here with a thumb up my ass."
Amanda patted the holstered pistol beneath her jacket as they walked into the lobby. She followed Jack past the welcome/check-in desk, dodging the globular security camera bubbles that decorated the ceiling. At the end of a long corridor, an office door sat slightly ajar.
"See." Jack motioned to the door. "He's here."
"Make it good." She tapped the fabric of her jacket once more and felt the reassuring outline of her weapon.
Jack didn't bother knocking. He kicked the door with his foot, opening it the rest of the way. Mr. Eastman, Rory, by the nameplate on his desk, looked up from a handful of papers.
"Jack." He offered a shit-eating smile that Amanda was tempted to shoot. His eyes took to her as the smile thinned into a sleazy grin, making her feel naked and vulnerable. Another reason to kill him.
"And your friend is?" He hadn't taken his eyes off her.
She wanted a shower.
"She's a travel writer. Corinne Clary. I met her in the lounge a few days ago. She's doing a story on the Big East."
Eastman threw an inquisitive look around the room, baffled by their understandably thin association.
"Miss...Clary, is it? Why don't I know that you're doing a story on my resort? What publication did you say you worked for?"
"I'm freelance," she said. "It works better for me this way. I have no boss, so I don't have to worry about kissing smarmy ass when it's not deserved."
Rory offered a rich man's chuckle, threw her a polite nod, and turned his attention to Jack.
"And what brings you here with her? Go take advantage of our amenities. Play a round of golf, or maybe get Ms. Clary into a bikini and sit poolside with her."
He looked at Amanda and winked.
Amanda flashed a forced smile of gnashed teeth, never more aware of the pistol holstered against her ribs.
"I am, Mr. Eastman. Enjoying everything this place has to offer."
"Glad to hear it, son."
"Wondering if you could tell me if Lucy's around?"
"Sure is. Just missed her, actually. Left about an hour ago to visit her brother at summer camp. It's older sibling day...remember what that was like? She's gotta do a potato sack race, balance a plate of saucers without spilling them...you know how that silly stuff goes."
It was a well-prepared excuse, one that rolled off his tongue like he'd been practicing it in the lengthwise mirror behind him. When dealing with salesmen it was never too difficult to discern the truth.
When you know how to wade through bullshit, you see that, time and time again, good liars mix healthy doses of truth in with the fabrication. It was the best way to sell it, but only to the most inexperienced ears.
Rory continued, "She's been under the weather lately...probably why you haven't seen her around. Caught a nasty fever, but I guess she's feeling better. Looked more like her normal self today."
When studying the overweight, out-of-shape demeanor of their host, trained eyes wouldn't have a problem identifying Rory Eastman as a werewolf. For one thing, the bottoms of his palms were exceptionally hairy. She'd seen that before on some of their kind, mostly men. Lycanthropy was a condition that could amplify the physical characteristics of the human counterpart. If a man had been hairy in life, he'd be a forest after turning.
Beyond that, and probably more telling in this instance, he'd been expecting them. A quick survey of the room revealed no visible cameras or monitors, so Rory had been notified of their approach through other means, be it fiber optic cameras, or a simple ping from the guy working the guardhouse. More likely, he'd sensed them. Wolves had augmented senses, particularly their hearing. Rory might've heard the entirety of their conversation as they reached the hall, although it could have easily been muted by the ambient noises in here too.
Amanda was aware of her gun once more, placing her hands against her chest so they could slip under her coat and grip the handle if necessary.
Getting away wouldn't be easy. Not when you had to pass through a security checkpoint in order to leave. Even Dexter couldn't pull the strings required to get her out of that much legal red tape.
Assuming they arrested her at all.
Beyond that, it was impossible to say how many wolves nested here. Killing Rory would risk enraging them, and she didn't have enough ammunition to fight her way out. Jack, Mr. Dashing-Do, world's greatest friend, couldn't be depended upon to do anything other than die, and she'd probably follow his lead.
Why am I letting him corrupt my judgment?
Because this gig was easier when it wasn't about helping others. There was a human component now. Lives were at stake, and she knew about them. She wasn't keeping this job at arm's length—her preferred distance for all things.
Shit.
They thanked Rory for his time and apologized for the intrusion. Jack explained that he was incredibly worried for Lucy and that he'd helped to ease his mind a great deal.
"Indulge me for a moment," Rory said. "You come here looking for your good friend, right? A concern I do appreciate. And you bring a travel writer with you? No offense, miss, but I don't know you, nor do I understand why this is a shared conversation."
"Jack was going to introduce me to Lucy. I thought putting a young girl at the center of the story...kind of a 'life when you're a millionaire mogul's daughter' angle would give it social traction if I sold it to new media. This conversation here, though? Off the record, naturally."
"Naturally," Rory said. The faux sincerity with which he peppered the rest of his speech was surprisingly believable:
"She's lucky to have a terrific friend such as you, Jack."
He forced a grin more insincere than Amanda's.
"And you," he said. "Please, if you want to do a story about this resort, let me know. I will grant you access to every nook and cranny. That is how confident I am that the Big East will receive a stupendous write-up in whatever publication decides to purchase your piece."
"I will be back," Amanda said. "To check those nooks and crannies."
She led Jack out into the hall. He opened his mouth to speak but Amanda shushed him with a wave of her hand. They walked in silence back to the truck.
"That man is a w
erewolf," she said when they were safely through the gate.
"How do you know?"
She explained her hunch and suggested that he might be hiding more than just the fate of his daughter.
"I don't believe he killed Lucy."
"I wouldn't call off the search party, Jack."
"Where the hell is she?" He tossed his phone into the seat after leaving yet another voicemail.
Amanda knew the answer, as did Jack—deep down. She kept quiet, wondering what it would be like to have someone so concerned for your well-being.
Dexter's oft-voiced worries were nice, though rooted in self-imposed responsibility. He hadn't wanted her in this field, but her ruthlessness and detachment made her an efficient operative—even he couldn't deny it. He worried like a dad.
Jack and Lucy were—something else.
Then it was Amanda's turn for her phone to ring. Speak of the devil.
"Yes, Dex?"
"Church, where are you?"
"Greifsfield."
"Don't get cute."
"I'm not. Doing a little reconnaissance. Just on my way out."
"Good. Stay out until help arrives."
"I can do that."
"Thank Christ. Listen, I got another man headed your way."
"Really?" She guessed that Dexter's revelation had been intended to ease her mind, although it was hard to figure how. Her interpretation was more along the lines of "Hey, I know you can't cut this by yourself so I'm sending another guy to lighten the load."
That couldn't have been Dexter's intent, as he'd never undermined her. Reinforcement most likely meant the situation was so bad that Dex had decided to give a hand rather than lose a life. It was a rarity within the organization's protocol, and she hated being the one who needed help.
"I know what you're thinking, kid. But you're just not right."
It was as if Dexter had added mind reader to his burgeoning resume.
"Oh, so it's not that bad?"
"It is bad. But you've seen worse. We all have."
"You're not exactly filling me with confidence here."
"Kid, I'd be there myself if I could. But I've got my own thing going on back this way. I'd trade places with you but blowback from this is hitting us out here, too. It's going bad with six different shades of shit."
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