by Молли Харпер
Overall, it might not have been my brightest idea.
After I stepped into the shed, Clay gave me the silent treatment I so richly deserved for a few moments. But before long, his lips were twitching, and he gave me crooked little grin. “So . . . Nick, huh?”
I grimaced and gave him a sheepish little smile. “I should have talked to you about it first. It just sort of happened. If you want to kick my ass over it, I’d understand.”
He shook his head. “Nah. Don’t get me wrong. I’m disappointed. But sometimes the heart just wants what it wants, right? Who am I to get in the way of my alpha’s true love?” His voice was tight, but he covered by looking over the chain saw parts and selecting a few gears for cleaning.
I asked, “Need some help?”
He tossed me a rag and some mineral oil. “Sure.”
And that was pretty much it. We basically broke up without really hashing it out. And considering how guilty I felt without talking it to death, I can only imagine how bad a prolonged discussion would have made me feel. So, silence is a method I wholeheartedly endorse. It left things sort of unsettled, but Cousin Teresa suddenly seemed much happier.
To top the guilt sundae off, Clay’s occasional absences meant that Alicia was more frazzled than usual, and Billie seemed to be getting worse. The doc had to prescribe stronger sedatives for her, as her once occasional “episodes” were becoming an almost-daily event. The day I came home, Billie had wandered out onto Main Street in her housecoat, screaming that there was a “redheaded bitch” trying to run her house.
While the high school kids got a kick out of the sweet, level-headed auntie who used to knit them Christmas stockings cursing like a sailor in the middle of the street, this latest bout made me wonder whether we needed to find a better situation for Billie. There was no such thing as a werewolf nursing home, but there must be some way to make her more comfortable.
I was sitting on my front porch, mulling over calling Billie’s great-nephew Matthew, the alpha of her home pack in Canada. I rarely spoke to Matthew, who was sort of hyper and always seemed to have some huge project going that inhibited his ability to return phone calls. And he still didn’t know how to work his voice mail. It was sort of an ADHD werewolf’s double whammy. He still hadn’t responded to several messages I had left months before, thanking him for sending Clay and Alicia. But his pack was bigger than mine and located closer to urban areas. Maybe he had a suggestion (or twenty) on how to help his auntie.
I closed my eyes and tilted my head back against the sturdy pine rocking chair. It was late February, and the weather would be cold for another few months, but the sun was setting, and it was comfortable to sit outside for a while. I closed my eyes and lifted my face to the dying rays of sunlight, stretching and yawning.
Somehow, in the midst of all this, I was pretty damned content. Probably the happiest I had been in my short, surly life. I’d claimed a mate. I felt the same need for Nick, for the comfort of his presence, than I did before. Nick and I were still working on the whole “exploring” issue. It helped that we were basically chaperoned by my entire family and couldn’t get away with much. I think I was learning far more about what I liked than what Nick liked. Because it turns out guys like everything. Orgasms are like pizza or a Dolph Lundgren movie; even when they’re not great, you still enjoy yourself.
I was perfecting my oral skills, although I think the whole “my girlfriend has wolf teeth” thing made him a little nervous. And my man could play “Stairway to Heaven” guitar riffs with his tongue if he wanted to, so overall, we were both pretty happy.
Of course, given all that happiness, I really should have seen this next thing coming.
My ears perked up at the sound of shuffling footsteps moving toward me. My eyes snapped open, and I saw Samson stumbling toward the porch. He was naked, which meant he’d just come in from a run. His expression was pinched, as if every step hurt him. He missed a step and stumbled onto the porch, clutching his side.
“Maggie?” he whispered, gripping his side.
I yawned again. “Ha ha, Samson, I’m not falling for that again. It was a sick joke when you pretended to be chain-saw-massacred on Halloween, and it’s a sick joke now.”
He didn’t get up.
“Sam . . . Sam?” The wind changed directions, and the smell of his blood finally made it to my nostrils. “Mom!” I yelled, scrambling next to him. My knees hit the boards with a thud. I rolled him over and found a quarter-sized hole just under his ribs. My hands were red and wet as the blood welled over the fingers pressing against his wound.
Mom came out onto the porch. She gasped, falling to her knees beside me.
“Call Dr. Moder!” I yelled. “Now! Better yet, just run down the street to the clinic. Now, Mom, please!”
I tore off my jacket and threw it over him. I pressed my shirt to his side to stanch the bleeding. There was so much of it, and the slick coppery smell was starting to turn my stomach. If the bullet hit something vital, something Dr. Moder couldn’t handle, we were going to have to get him to a real hospital. There would be questions I couldn’t answer, reports that wouldn’t be safe for us to file. And what if we couldn’t get him there in time? He’d lost so much blood. How much more could he have?
“Sam, please hold on, OK? Just keep breathing. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I thought you were kidding.”
“Woods,” Samson whispered. “Shot me. No smell.”
I shushed him. “OK, OK, just save your breath.”
I kept watching the wound, hoping that the bullet would be pushed out by his natural healing ability. The wound was growing smaller, but the little lead round seemed lodged inside. I heard Mama’s footsteps thumping up the street as she practically carried Dr. Moder to us. Sensing Mom’s growing panic, the doctor told her to fetch a blanket and towels from inside the house.
“What do we have here?” Dr. Moder asked, dropping her massive medical bag next to me as she kneeled down. She sounded a lot calmer than I felt. I guess she’d seen a lot worse from us over the years. I just don’t remember feeling this frantic when Cooper got his head stuck in a stair railing.
Up and down the street, I could hear doors opening, my family coming out of their houses to see what the ruckus was. For a second, I considered sending them into the woods to look for the shooter. But that could result in more werewolves with gunshot wounds. Or a hunter with wet pants.
“Does anyone know who was running with Samson today?” I yelled. A few of my relatives shook their heads. “Everybody go inside!” I barked. “Do a head count. Figure out who’s not here. Don’t come out until I come to you.”
Immediately, doors snapped shut, although I could still see a few of my aunts silhouetted against their windows.
After slipping on a latex glove, Dr. Moder probed the wound with her fingertip while I cringed. She pulled out a huge bottle of hydrogen peroxide and poured it into the wound. She pulled out a plastic-wrapped scalpel and forceps.
“I think the bullet probably missed his organs, but I need to open him up to make sure.”
I made an embarrassing squeaking noise. “You’re going to do this right here? On my front porch?”
Dr. Moder’s teeth were on edge as she said, “The bullet’s pretty deep. If I wait any longer, to give him anesthesia or get him to a sterile room, the wound will heal over, and I’ll have to open him up again to get it out. He stands less chance of infection and will heal faster if I get it now. Trust me, your cousin Wayne’s been shot by enough grumpy locals that I would know. Just try not to breathe too much on him.”
I gritted my teeth, blowing a breath out through my nostrils. I handed her the scalpel, which she used to widen the wound, dipping the forceps past the bloody ring of tissue and rooting around.
OK, I could handle a lot, but this was pretty gross. I tried to think of it as a game of Operation. And the only consequence of Dr. Moder screwing up would be a buzzing sound and Samson’s nose lighting up red.
Samson’
s hand twitched as Dr. Moder’s instrument gripped the bullet. I threaded my fingers through his, willing the tears gathering at the corners of my eyes not to fall. How could this have happened? Other than my dad and Cousin Wayne, no one in the pack had been shot in years. We’d learned to shy away from any signs of hunters.
At this point, I didn’t care if it was just some dumb-ass tourist who wanted a scary trophy for his den. I wanted to rip him limb from limb. But Samson needed me here now. And I was doing well not to phase on the spot and start howling like a lunatic.
Dr. Moder pulled the bullet free, and I blew out a breath. The little hole in his skin was closing, pink and healthy and shiny, as Dr. Moder poured more antiseptic over it. Samson groaned.
“Let’s get him to the clinic,” Dr. Moder said. “Maybe call a few of the bigger cousins, ’cause it will take all of them to cart his heavy butt. And we’re going to need anyone with his blood type to come down to the clinic and donate. He’s lost a lot of blood. Come on, Maggie, let go of him and get moving.”
I shot an incredulous look at her. She put a light hand on my shoulder and shook me gently. “It’s OK, Mags. He’s going to be fine. You can let go of his hand.”
I looked down at our joined, stained hands, and gripped tighter.
Dr. Moder frowned. “Or . . . maybe not.”
THE NEXT FEW hours were among the longest of my life. I did a head count and was ridiculously grateful to find everyone accounted for, except for Clay, who had stayed late at the garage where he worked. I questioned my relatives. I called Nick, who didn’t understand my sudden need to check up on him while he was working from his place in Grundy. And even more confused when I told him to stay there until I came for him.
As I walked into the clinic, I felt as if I was moving through molasses. I felt helpless. I didn’t know what to do. And I hated it. No wonder Cooper ran from the responsibilities of running the pack. This feeling sucked.
“Sam?” I called softly. I poked my head into the sole treatment room at the clinic. Shirtless and swathed in gauze, Samson was propped against a pile of pillows, with a full gallon of Mom’s chicken noodle soup and a full pan of Mo’s triple chocolate brownies in front of him.
“I think you scared everybody pretty good,” I said.
“I’ll say,” he said, chewing happily. “There’s two more batches of brownies in the office. Mo was panic-baking. She and Cooper are going to stay the night. Cooper was, er, a little nervous.”
Some small voice in the back of my head balked at the idea of having Cooper and his family here. He’d brought them right into our mess. If there was still someone out there with their sights trained on the pack, Mo and the baby were in the crosshairs now. But of course, if I tried to send them away, Mo would just swing at me with some heavy piece of kitchen equipment. I made a mental note to search the clinic for tranquilizer darts.
“I’m really glad you’re OK,” I told him, pinning his eyes with my own. I wanted him to understand that I was having a rare moment of absolute seriousness. And of course, he responded by grinning at me through the chocolate like a toddler.
“That said.” I paused and then smacked the back of his head.
“Ow!” he yelped.
“What the hell were you thinking running alone? After I specifically told every member of the pack to use the buddy system,” I demanded. “No one had any idea you were out or where you were. What if you hadn’t made it back home? You could have bled out, in the woods, alone. Leaving behind the biggest fucking corpse the bears had ever seen. It took pints from me, Cooper, and Mom to get you up and going again. Pops tried to donate, and it took four of the uncles to keep him from sticking the needle in his own arm.”
“Maggie—” Samson started, before I smacked him again. “Ow!”
I crossed my arms over my chest to prevent further smacking. “Sorry, go ahead.”
“I got restless,” he admitted. “Clay is my running partner. And he said he couldn’t make it out today because he was working late. Sometimes you just have to phase and go, you know? I was just running along the edge of the valley. I heard a weird popping noise, then another, and wham, I felt like I’d been hit by a truck.”
“Do you think it was a hunter?”
“No, a hunter probably would have collected my carcass as I lay bleeding on the ground.”
“Good point. An accident, maybe?” I suggested, knowing I was grasping at straws at this point.
“You mean, oops, I took my high-powered rifle, looked through the scope, and happened to fire at the bear-sized wolf in my crosshairs?” he suggested. “’And then I fired again, because I missed the first time?’ “
“I didn’t say it was a good theory,” I snarled at him. “Forgive me for trying to grasp at any possibility besides members of my pack being picked off by an unseen but well-armed menace.”
“Look, Midget, I will admit, there is a pattern of shit that’s happened in the last few months. Your truck brakes. Your office. Strange wolves sniffing around the borders. Hunters getting all trigger-happy . . . though who could blame them for wanting such a fine trophy as yours truly. But there’s no reason to circle the wagons and get all paranoid.”
“If you call me a hysterical female, I am not above pulling the plug,” I deadpanned, reminding myself that it was a good thing Samson didn’t know about the bag incident.
He yawned. “We’ll just do what we always do. We’ll keep an eye out. We’ll keep the youngsters close to home. No one goes out alone, using my little incident as a painful example. But until some rogue werewolf trots down Main Street and declares war, I say we relax.”
“That’s your solution to everything.”
He shrugged. “And so far, it’s worked out great for me. Up until getting shot.”
There was a light knock at the door. Alicia stuck her head in and gave me a sheepish little smile. I glanced from her to Samson, who was staring at her with a completely smitten, stupid expression, and back again.
My lips twitched, but I maintained my neutral face.
“I hope I’m not interrupting,” she said.
“Uh, no,” I said, hopping up from the bed. “Did you hear from Clay?”
“Yeah, he’ll be home as soon as he can,” she said, her gaze never leaving Samson. “Your mom came over to watch the boys and Billie. She knew I wanted to stop by and bring this, uh, Jell-O.” She put a very full Tupperware container on the little roll-away table.
I eased toward the door. “Yeah, she knows how much Samson loves Jell-O.”
Truth be told, Samson hated Jell-O. He said food should only twitch if it’s recently deceased. And maybe covered in barbecue sauce. But he really liked Alicia, that much was clear.
I wandered out of the clinic, pondering this new development. Alicia was a good match for Samson. I mean, she was used to wrangling dangerous preschoolers. Although Alicia’s previous mating meant that Samson would never have children of his own, he was good with Paul and Ronnie, who seemed to view him as sort of a man-sized jungle gym. And he would get all of the benefits of having sons without the cranky pregnant wife, two A.M. feedings, and diapers.
I jogged to my office, sat at my desk, and fired up my computer. When he installed the cameras around the valley, Nick had hooked a wireless transmitter into my modem to record anything the cameras picked up to my hard drive. I’d expected the activity to escalate after the incident on the cliff. But so far, we’d mostly gotten footage of elk prancing around the tree line as if they owned the place. But when I opened up the video cache folder on my desktop for that night’s feed, I found . . . nothing.
There was a clip of a young bear cub wandering on the southern ridge the day before, which I’d found on my daily check of the folder. That was it.
“Damn it.” I sighed.
I don’t know what I’d expected. A clip of some Elmer Fudd lookalike waving at the camera and showing ID?
I sat back in my office chair, chewing up my lip. My mom was probably wondering
where I was. And Nick had already texted me five times, demanding a less cryptic phone call. I couldn’t seem to bring myself to face either of them.
I sprang up from the chair. What if the cameras weren’t working? Some of the units on the south side of the valley hadn’t deposited a video in the cache folder. It couldn’t hurt to go check, right? It was something to do, and I was itching for something to do that didn’t involve talking or emotions.
I dashed out of my office and jogged up the slope behind the clinic, shrugging out of my jacket and boots. My feet slipped through the patches of tough dead grass, the edges of each blade pricking my ankles. I closed my eyes and breathed deep, searching for a trace of Samson’s blood on the breeze. My face naturally inclined north, to one of Samson’s favorite napping spots in the valley. A patch of dirt he’d dug out on the north lip of the crescent. Nothing. I faced south and caught the faintest scent of rust. I followed it on human feet, silent and swift, my braid bouncing against my back as the scent grew stronger. There was a trail there, worn through the trees by generations of paws.
I skidded to a stop when I recognized the shiny black patch of blood on the ground. Samson’s paw-prints hadn’t gone any farther, as if he’d come running along and stopped suddenly before he was hit. Had he heard a noise? I couldn’t smell any sign of a human or a wolf nearby. I looked up at the bare, imposing limbs overhead. There was nowhere to hide. And there was no camera in sight. Was that blind luck on the shooter’s part? Or did he know where the cameras were?