He cramped into a ball, fetal. “I can’t,” he said. “Can’t.”
“Sure you can, hun. Breathe. Easy as pie.” Oh god oh god oh—
“Don’t,” he gasped, “I don’t—” A sound roared out of him, something akin to a chainsaw and an animal in pain. He grabbed the last trank from me and stabbed himself in the throat. The drug hit him like a toxin. He convulsed, saliva dripping on his lips.
“There you go, hun,” I said, panicking. “Rest now. You did great tonight.”
His eyes fluttered and rolled while his teeth grew. The disease overwhelmed the medication. I touched his forehead, which practically bled mud. An unnatural fever raged within his bulbous brow. He fought the wolf over and over, until he was covered in the mutt’s unformed clay. He grabbed my hand, trapping my palm against his skin. Driving with one hand and leaving my other on his face meant no hands with which to draw a weapon. His fingers nearly crushed mine. Grip as strong as a vice, bones like iron rods. I could break my hand tearing it free.
Fabric tore across his shoulder blades. His lips stretched wide open and glistened with viscous fluid. He huffed. Teeth swelled into fat spikes, edging his mouth. The vehicle shrank around his expanding form, shoving claustrophobia down my throat.
“Take it easy, Davey. You’re golden. You got this.”
He didn’t have it.
We wouldn’t make it.
Resigned, I pulled off the road, stopped under an overpass, put the vehicle in park, and took a deep breath. The night remained unusually dark, absent streetlamps on this side of town. A splattering of stars decorated the sky. Heat radiated from his body and fogged the glass, overwhelming the night like a heavy rain cloud.
The budding monster wheezed and growled beside me.
So this is how I die, I mused.
I dug for my inner calm, tapping a reservoir which helped me face frantic carnivores and tax audits. He’d shed or he wouldn’t. I’d kill him or I wouldn’t. All I could only deal with it when it happened. He was my Davey and there were no guarantees. If I stopped acting like a pansy, he might calm down. I inhaled slowly. No problem here. Nothing to see. As if I habitually held hands with an emerging monster.
“I’m here, Davey. Relax, son.”
His breath filled the truck like the puff and snort of a dragon stirring in its den. I pictured the disease lurking in him, a leviathan ready to explode from his flesh, a lumbering beast with no sense and a raging appetite. His shed could kill me, squish me inside the truck before he got his teeth or claws in my flesh. I clicked the lock on the door, ready to bolt. I should exit the cab and create enough distance between us to draw my weapon and aim without worrying about getting cramped and forced immobile. Could escape now, see what happened. He probably needed space anyway. I could get at a safer distance, call Peter, and see if the boyfriend could calm Davey down.
I should shoot him flat out and erase the threat.
Self-preservation, really. No more tiptoeing around my own damn house, surrounded by monsters. Who was I kidding? In this world, I would always be surrounded.
I didn't shoot. I didn't draw my weapon. Heck, I didn't get out of the truck. I closed my eyes and took a long breath filled with the animalistic scent of an incoming wolf, the lingering perfume of the day’s coffee cups, and the somewhat corrosive scent of my own sweat dripping between my breasts. My brain churned through images of his ragamuffin hair in the sunlight, his angular fingers hard at work on a canvas, the quiet and serene way he battled the memory of his dead family, and how he’d become my family.
This was my Davey. I sure as hell didn't go through all the trouble of keeping him safe just to kill him after a bad day. I exhaled, resting in an epiphany that was neither blindness nor wishful thinking. I had faith. More than loving him, I trusted him. He wouldn’t hurt anyone, not even if the mutt came. Therefore, regardless of my discomfort, he would remain safe and breathing as long as it was viable.
I touched his flesh. He was wet, dusty with grime, and vibrating with magic. Hair rose on my arms and along the back of my neck. His creeping heat twisted my spine, jump-starting a primitive fight or flight impulse. My teeth clacked together as my trust wavered. Kill him or run? I wouldn’t do either: I would accept him and only kill him if I absolutely had to.
My fingers ran down his arm, over the squirming cords of muscle, fattened bone, and boiling skin. His heavy grunt of surprise alarmed me. His eyes slithered toward me, half full of evil. Blackness swirled into his blue irises, an inkblot overwhelming the sky.
“No biggie.” I tried to recall soothing words my mother might have used. I had nothing, so I pet his skin like he was one of Zelda’s cats.
His flesh rippled as the disease followed my hand, tracking my blood scent through his skin. I ignored the feral movement and exhaled smoothly. My Davey, not yours, I warned the beast. And I’ll fight for him.
“There, there,” I said.
A coarse growl split the air, shoving a chill over my skin. His voice see-sawed back and forth as if cut by a ragged, rusty-toothed saw. Mirth lit his eyes. He threw his head back, and a chorus of jagged vowels ripped from his throat.
Not a howl: laughter.
Davey chuckled again, the sounds less horrific now. He tried to talk, but his vocal cords were choked by the swelling disease. His tongue was too fat, and the bones of his face hadn’t decided where they wanted to be.
His wrecked, exhausted human voice pushed the monster out of the way. He laughed until he ran out of breath, and then we both smiled with relief.
Then we ignored the awkward silence and refused to fill it with platitudes or apologies. I wiped the condensation off the windshield, rolled down the window, and drove home.
Chapter 25
Clifford
A tire track ran through the puddle of blood, leaving the tread stamped in glistening trails. Blood leaked from stank meat, no less appetizing due to its smelly layers.
Heaven help me.
I turned away from the mess. Pop, pop, pop. My white knuckles cracked from the pressure of my fists. My stomach growled as hunger streaked through me like molten spikes. Near-crippling pain. I needed a bite. A nibble to hold me over.
That’s one way to dispose of a body.
Meanwhile, I loitered on the side of the road with a dead guy, apparently waiting for someone to drive by and see me. I glanced around the neighborhood, which was largely deserted. The carniceria had closed for the evening, and the lot across the street was empty, per usual. Crone’s Crater was practically a graveyard already. Great place to bury a body. Who would notice a few more bones? The hard part would be getting the corpse across the street without losing my mind and munching on it.
I had never seen a dead body before.
Watched someone get shot once. Saw plenty of broken bones and sports-related injuries. Interfered with a violent mugging. Never touched a body dead while it was still warm.
A part of my brain registered the magnitude of this moment. Handling, moving, and disposing of a body should be somewhere among the top five first moments. Losing one's virginity, wedding day, birth of a child, my own death. Hiding a government mercenary’s leftover corpse should rank up there somewhere. Maybe not that bad, really, since this wasn't actually my kill.
Felt odd about that. Coming across another predator's kill and taking it for myself. A primitive part of me worried that she'd come back and I'd have to fight her for my dinner. Which was stupid. Because first of all, Finders keepers, and second, I wasn't really going to eat it.
Promise.
My stomach growled like it didn't believe me.
Hell, I didn't believe me, either.
A breeze thick with meat smells brushed past me and chilled the wetness on my face. Drool ran down my chin.
I salivated over the carcass in the dirt.
I crossed my arms and clenched myself, grappling with my heartbeat and struggling to get a hold of my human reasoning. My humanity, I suppose.
The wolfish part of me knew eatin
g the body was the best way to dispose of it. Crunch-crack through the bones. Munch and tear up the tendons and thick steaks. The slack body could satisfy my mutt. Maybe it would ease my gnawing hunger. In death, Scritch could prove useful.
I turned my back on it, staring into the blackened, garish sprawl of post-apocalyptic Phoenix.
Civilization, as it were.
Dinner and madness laid behind me, spreading its ichor over the pavement.
A city slumbered in front of me, ripe for the taking. How many people could I eat before someone stopped me? Hell, maybe no one would stop me.
Headlights flashed on the overpass. Someone else journeyed out past curfew. I should stop stalling and get the dead body off my front yard.
Despite not wanting to touch it with my hands—in case doing so led me to sink teeth into it—I reached for the cadaver. My fingers shook. Like a ninny. I clenched my fist. What kind of man is brave enough to consider eating human flesh but proves too cowardly to touch it?
Growling, I reached down and hauled the limp, heavy, floppy corpse up and threw it over my shoulders. Its blood trickled down my arms and, God, my famished flesh burned. Heat roared to the surface, as if the beast inside me followed the drip of movement.
Hellish torment clenched my veins, gripping each vessel in razor wire.
Panting, hunched, I staggered.
As if I carried a piano on my back.
Needed to hurry.
With the waifish fiend oozing onto my shirt, I sprinted across the road, over the ditch, and into the wasteland of Crone's Crater. Dust puffed up at each footfall, clouding the night around me, hopefully obscuring my actions from any passing eyes. I threw the body down.
Old, cracked fragments of jagged bones scattered in the dirt beneath my sneakers. Unmarked, disturbed graves and trash heaps surrounded me like a city of prehistoric mound builders.
I began digging, using my hands before I thought about it. Scraping, grabbing at the earth. Frantic, like it was my sin I needed to bury. All the while, the scent of sick but supple flesh drew my nostrils. Trickled through my brainstem. Sharp bits of bone cut my fingers as I pawed through earth so hard it sanded at my fingertips. Pain added another layer to my hunger, doubling it, heaping WANT on me, showering me with NEED.
Dirt flew.
My hands had grown to claws before I realized it.
Fat, oddly-boned and poorly proportioned, my almost-mutt mitts made excellent shovels.
I kicked Scritch into the shallow, sloppy grave and covered him head first. Like a child playing in the earth, I dragged sweeping armfuls of loose dirt toward the shameful remnant of a life wasted. Meat, wasted.
I stood and backed away. Silt flew around me in a dervish, muddying my eyeballs, scraping down my throat as I panted. The mound sat, like a forlorn lump, a monument to my stupidity. Getting involved in feds and other mutts?
What an imbicile.
Should have shooed Scritch away for good. Durant, too. I turned around and started back to the small, cramped office in the back of my semi-successful imitation of a human life.
A series of trucks rolled down the street, cruising on the overpass and heading to the freeway. A scent of trapped cattle, sick canines, and filthy remains swelled through the night, pouring from the trucks. My ears twitched. Whispers reached me. Gasps, howls, wails, the culmination of miserable prey.
A chill roamed down my spine. My stomach churned with dread and fear.
Human cattle. Three trucks’ worth. They circumvented the city and drove into the night, escorted by two vans. The scent of wolves rolled past the prey aroma. Rabid, feral, overwhelming. Jesus. Christ.
I stood dumb. Deer-in-headlights.
The caravan disappeared and its stink wafted away. My heart beat at my ribs. Pre-fight adrenaline charged my entire frame. The wolf lurked in the current of my blood, tempting me.
Rage followed.
I walked to the edge of my territory, pulled out my dick, and pissed. I walked, pissing furiously on the dry earth, circling my dojo even after I ran out of juice.
Chapter 26
Kaidlyn
I’d finally done some grocery shopping and was unloading bags when the doorbell rang. I peeked out the window. Zelda stood in a purple paisley dress, holding a platter. More like a bribe. She whisked past me, the folds of her skirt sweeping against my jeans.
“Morning, Zelda,” I said.
“Good morning to you, Kaidlyn. A perfect morning for Madelines and tea. I brought the former hoping you'd have the latter.”
I found my tea kettle, set it to boiling, and provided ceramic mugs. Zelda uncovered the Madelines and jam. The aroma of sugar and vanilla wafted toward me. I picked up a confection and bent it. Its buttery flesh split with a waft of steam. “Zelda, you're amazing.”
She smiled. “Try the jam.”
“Morning, Zelda,” Davey said.
“Wow, dear, you look positively healthy today. You've got color in your cheeks and everything. Doesn't he look robust, Kaid?”
“He does.” His red shirt with the Super Mario mushroom complemented his creamy skin tone. Davey gave an aw shucks face, grabbed a Madeline, and escaped back out the door and away from our scrutiny.
“You're making good decisions with him,” she said.
“Thank you.” The wise and powerful Zelda sat across from me and offered me another tidbit of information.
“I’ve been thinking, dear, and we need to discuss your father.”
“Dang, look at the time.”
“Don’t ignore the universe when it speaks, because it will only speak louder. Painfully loud. Besides, you promised we’d talk more often, remember? Now, when family comes calling, they appear for a reason.”
“Oh? Well, I’ll certainly take that into consideration. What’s in this jam? Is that lavender?”
“We aren’t done, missy. He’s concerned about you.”
“He’s concerned?” I gasped. “You’re in cahoots with my dad!”
“Is it true that you shot his young soldier in the leg? Ashe was such a gentleman. He loved my apple fritters, and that man can dance, by the way. Proper ballroom dancing.” She sighed. “That’s so rare these days.”
“Ashe?” I squeaked. “You met Ashe? And you fed him? Zelda! What have we talked about? Strangers can be dangerous.”
“Stranger-danger be damned, I’m a grown woman, and I’ll talk to any hot, sexy, adorable nibblet of manflesh whenever I wish. Now, given the course of violence the past few months, I can’t ignore this. Remember, I saw you huddling in my bathtub with blood and rot on your skin after that thug pushed past my protection spell and attacked you. Owen has a reason to be concerned.”
“Owen? You’re on a first-name basis? It’s a conspiracy! I’m doomed.”
“Ashe is fine, by the way.”
“And wiser, I hope.”
“Kaidlyn—”
“I appreciate the concern, however, I’ve been working this gig for years. I’ll be fine. The worst is probably over.”
She sighed. “Promise you’ll take precautions.”
“Promise.”
“Please stop shooting handsome young strangers.”
“That I can’t promise.”
She wagged her eyebrows. “Maybe I’ll resign myself to bandaging their wounds, feeding them cookies, and gazing adoringly into their lovely eyes.”
I chuckled.
“I'll take off, dear. I want to download today's gossip columns and comb through the mess for any occult news.”
She waved and let herself out. Davey returned with more groceries, plopped them on the counter, and popped another confection into his mouth.
“Mmm,” he said. “Oma is giving me a horrible sweet tooth.”
“She'll do that.” I started to unload the grocery bags. He scampered over and rescued some items before I shoved them in the fridge.
“I’m making omelets,” he said. “Want one with sausage?”
“Maybe after a few more cookies.�
��
“Sugar isn't a major food group.” He smiled.
“It is in this house, buster. Why are you grinning like that?”
“Because a certain agent could have shot me last night. I mean, it would have been less trouble, right? You shoot me and Clifford, file some paperwork, and it's the end of that story. Would be the easiest way to do it. But you didn’t. I think that’s a pretty damn awesome reason to be in a good mood.”
Did he remember I killed someone last night? I stuck a confection in my mouth and struggled with a response. My attempt was short-lived.
A vehicle pull up to the house. I darted out of my seat to peek through the window. Andreas’ Tahoe sat in my drive. A mixture of good-bad feelings stirred in my gut, then he and Rosco emerged and started toward the porch.
“Damn,” I said. “One thing after another.”
The question remained, which crime was I about to get in trouble for? Killing a mutt in a dark parking lot without reporting it? Collaborating with a mutt named Clifford who may or may not be good at disposing of a body? Or harboring another mutt, Davey, who nearly shed on the side of the road? Any of a dozen other treasonous crimes?
Davey ruffled his hair, fluffing it in anticipation of meeting the pretty, stylish Rosco. He was not going to meet Davey, not if I could help it. If the pseudo-Catholic agent got vocal about current church opinion, I’d have to shoot him. I turned to Davey. “Go to your room.”
“Huh?”
“You heard me. Scoot.”
“That's the most motherly thing you have ever said.”
He went smiling to his room. I opened the door a sliver before the agents could knock but didn’t leave enough space for them to get by without shoving.
“Morning Kaidlyn,” Sarakas said. “Are you going to let us in?”
“You? Sure. Him? I'm thinking no.”
“C'mon, Durant, this is important.”
“Important like I should ask if you have a warrant or important like Rosco knocked up some broad and got the clap in one fell swoop?”
“I swear to God—” Rosco started.
“What? What do you swear?” I said.
“Let us in, Durant.” Sarakas sounded tired.
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