Lunch came and went. Bauer didn't bring it, for which I was grateful. I didn't see her again until nearly six. When she opened my cell door, I double-checked the time, figuring either dinner was early or my watch had stopped. But she didn't bring food. And when she stepped through the door, I knew no early meal was forthcoming. Something was wrong.
Bauer walked in with none of her usual assertive grace. She half-tripped over an imaginary wrinkle in the carpet. Her face was flushed, cheeks bright spots of crimson, eyes glittering unnaturally bright, as if she had a fever. Two guards followed her in. She waved them toward me, and they bound me to the chair where I'd been reading a magazine. The whole time they were tying me up, Bauer refused to meet my eyes. Not good. Really not good.
"Go," she said when they were done.
"Should we wait outside--" one began.
"I said go. Leave. Back to your posts."
Once they were gone, she began to pace. Small, quick steps. Back and forth, back and forth. Fingers tapping her side, the mannerism changed now, not tapping with thoughtful slowness but fast. Manic. A mania to her pacing. To her eyes. To every thing.
"Do you know what this is?"
She whipped something from her pocket and held it up. A syringe. Quarter-filled with a clear liquid. Oh, shit. What was she going to do to me?
"Look," I said. "If I did anything to upset--"
She waved the syringe. "I asked if you knew what this was."
The syringe slipped from her hands. She scrambled to retrieve it, as if the plastic would shatter upon striking the carpet. As she fumbled, I caught a whiff of a familiar smell. Fear. She was afraid. What looked like mania was a struggle for control, as she desperately tried to disown an emotion she wasn't accustomed to feeling.
"Do you know what this is, Elena?" Her voice rose an octave. Squeaked.
Was she afraid of me? Why now? What had I done?
"What is it?" I said.
"It's a saline solution mixed with your saliva."
"My what?"
"Saliva, spit, gob." Voice racing up the scale. Nervous giggle, like a little girl caught saying a bad word. "Do you know what this can do?"
"I don't--"
"What will it do if I inject it into myself?"
"Inject--?"
"Think, Elena! Come on. You're not stupid. Your saliva. You bite someone. Your teeth pierces his skin, like this needle piercing mine. Your saliva goes into his bloodstream. My bloodstream. What happens?"
"You'd turn--You could turn--"
"Into a werewolf." She stopped pacing and went still. Completely still. A small smile tugged up her lips. "That's exactly what I'm going to do."
It took a moment for this to register. When it did, I blinked and opened my mouth, but nothing came out. I swallowed, fought for calm. Don't panic. Don't make it worse. Treat it as a joke. Diffuse the situation.
"Oh, come on," I said. "Is that the answer to your problems? You don't get respect at work so you'll become a werewolf? Get a good job with the Pack, knock some heads together, find yourself a handsome lover? 'Cause if that's what you're thinking, trust me, it doesn't work that way."
"I'm not an idiot, Elena."
She spat the words at me, spittle flinging from her lips. Ooops, wrong tactic.
"What I want is change," she continued. "To reinvent myself."
"Becoming a werewolf isn't the answer," I said softly. "I know you're not happy--"
"You know nothing about me."
"Then tell--"
"I came to this project for one reason. For the chance to experience something new, something more dangerous, more exhilarating, more life-altering than scaling Mount Everest. Experiences all my money and influence can't buy. Spells, immortality, extrasensory perception, I didn't know what I wanted. Maybe a little of every thing. But now I know exactly what I want, what I was looking for. Power. No more kowtowing to men, pretending I'm dumber than they are, weaker, less important. I want to be every thing I have the potential to be. I want this."
My brain still skidded, unable to find traction long enough to understand what Bauer was saying. The suddenness of it all overwhelmed me, almost convinced me I must be dreaming or hallucinating. Yet how sudden was it? Unbelievably so, from my perspective, but what about from hers? How long had she been watching the parade of inmates, waiting for the one who could give her the power she craved? Now, having found what she thought she wanted, perhaps she was afraid to hesitate, afraid she'd change her mind. I had to change it for her. But how?
Bauer held up the syringe. As she stared at it, she blinked, almost blanched. Fear so thick it clogged my nostrils, unwittingly started my adrenaline pumping. When she looked back at me, the anger was gone. What I saw in those eyes stopped me cold. Pleading. Fear and pleading.
"I want you to understand, Elena. Help me. Don't make me use this thing."
"You don't have to use it," I said quietly. "No one's going to make you."
"Do it for me then. Please."
"Do--?"
"Bite my arm."
"I can't--"
"I have a knife. I'll cut the skin. You can just--"
Panic settled in my chest. "No, I can't."
"Help me do it right, Elena. I don't know how well the saline solution will work. I could only guess at the amount, the proportion. I need you--"
"No."
"I'm asking you--"
I strained against my bonds, locking eyes with her. "Listen to me, Sondra. Give me a minute and let me explain what'll happen to you if you use that. It isn't the way you think it is. You don't want to do this."
Her eyes glittered then. All mania gone. Ice-cold. "I don't?"
She lifted the syringe.
"No!" I shouted, bucking in my chair.
She buried the needle into her arm, shoved the plunger down. And it was done. One second. One split second. As much time as it had taken Clay to bite me.
"Goddamn you!" I yelled. "You stupid bitch--Call the infirmary. Now!"
Her face was preternaturally calm, lips curving in something like bliss. Blissful relief at having done it. "Why, Elena? Why should I call the infirmary? So they can reverse it? Suck the gift from my veins like snake venom? Oh, no. We'll have none of that."
"Call the infirmary! Guards! Where the hell are the guards?"
"You heard me send them away."
"You don't know what you've done," I snarled. "You think this is some great gift. One prick of the needle and you're a werewolf? You did your research, didn't you? You know what happens now, right?"
Bauer turned her dreamy smile on me. "I can feel it coursing through my blood. The Change. It's warm. Tingling. The beginnings of metamorphosis."
"Oh, that's not all you're going to feel."
She closed her eyes, shuddered, reopened them, and smiled. "Seems I've gained something tonight and you've lost something. You're no longer the only female werewolf, Elena."
Her eyes widened then. Bulged. Veins in her neck and forehead popped up. She gasped, choked. Hands going to her throat. Body jerking upright. Spine snapping rigid. Eyes rolling. Rising to her toes, pitching forward and back, like a convict on the end of a hangman's noose. Then she collapsed, pooling to the floor. I screamed for help.
CHAPTER 22
WINSLOE
"What did you do to Ms. Bauer?" Matasumi asked.
Guards had collected Bauer soon after I started shouting. Twenty minutes later, they'd returned with Matasumi. He now stood there accusing me without a trace of accusation in his voice.
"I told the guards." I sat on the edge of my bed, trying to relax, as if this sort of thing happened every day. "She injected herself with my saliva."
"And why would she do that?" Matasumi asked.
"The bite of a werewolf is one way of becoming a werewolf."
"I realize that. But why--" He stopped. "Oh, I see."
Did he? Did he really see? I doubted it. None of them could understand what was coming. I could, and I was trying very, very hard
not to think about it.
Matasumi cleared his throat. "You claim Ms. Bauer injected herself--"
"The syringe is on the floor."
His eyes flickered to the needle, but he made no move to pick it up. "You claim she used this syringe--"
"I don't claim anything. I'm telling you what happened. She injected herself in the arm. Look for the needle mark. Test the contents of the syringe."
The door opened. Carmichael hurried inside, lab coat billowing behind her.
"We don't have time for this," she said. "I need to know what to do for her."
Matasumi waved Carmichael aside. "First, we must establish the exact nature of Ms. Bauer's ailment. It's all very well for Ms. Michaels to claim--"
"She's telling the truth," Carmichael said. "I saw the needle mark."
It would have been hard to miss. Even as the guards had carried Bauer from the cell, I'd seen the injection point, swollen to the size of a Ping-Pong ball. A memory of my own bite leaped to mind, but I shoved it back. Cold, clinical observation. That was the only way I could deal with this. Take notes from Matasumi.
Carmichael turned to me. "I need to know how to deal with this. Sondra's unconscious. Her pressure's dropping. Her temperature's skyrocketing. Her pupils won't react to stimuli. Her pulse is racing and becoming erratic."
"There's nothing I can do."
"You've been through this, Elena. You lived through it."
I said nothing. Carmichael advanced on me. I eased back on the bed, but she only came closer, pushing her face into mine until I could smell her frustration. I turned my head. She grabbed my chin and wrenched my face back to hers. "She's dying, Elena. Dying horribly."
"It'll only get worse."
Her fingers tightened, digging into my jaw muscles. "You are going to help her. If it were you up there, I wouldn't stand by and watch you die. Tell me how to help her."
"You want to help her? Put a bullet through her head. Skip the silver variety. Regular lead will do."
Carmichael flung my chin aside and stepped back to stare at me. "My God, you are cold."
I said nothing.
"This isn't helping," Matasumi said. "Treat the symptoms as you see them, Doctor Carmichael. That's the best we can do. If Ms. Bauer inflicted this misfortune on herself, then all we can do is treat the symptoms and leave the rest to fate."
"That's not the best we can do," Carmichael said, her eyes boring into mine.
I didn't want to defend myself. I really didn't. But the weight of that glare was too much.
"What exactly do you think I can do?" I asked. "I don't run around biting humans and nursing them back to health. Do you know how many newly bitten werewolves I've met? None. Zero. It doesn't happen. I've never even been around a hereditary werewolf who's come of age. I don't know what to do."
"You've been through it."
"You think I took notes? Do you know what I remember? I remember Hell. Complete with fire and brimstone, demons and imps, red-hot pinchers and bottomless pits of lava. I remember what I saw up here." I smacked my palm against my forehead. "I remember what I imagined, what I dreamed. Nightmares, delirium, that's all there was. I don't know shit about temperatures and blood pressure and pupil response. Someone else dealt with that. And when it was all over, I didn't want to know what he did. All I wanted was to forget."
"These visions of Hell," Matasumi said. "Perhaps you could describe them for me later. The connection between the supernatural and Satanic ritual--"
"For God's sake, leave it alone," Carmichael said. "For once. Leave it alone."
She strode from the room. Matasumi bent for the syringe, then stopped, motioned for a guard to pick it up, and followed Carmichael.
Would I have helped Bauer if I could? I don't know. Why should I? She kidnapped me and threw me in a cage. Did I owe her anything? Hell, no. If the woman was stupid enough to turn herself into a werewolf, that wasn't my problem. Did I do or say anything to make her embrace such unbelievable folly? Did I regale her with stories of the wonderful, fun-filled life of a werewolf? Anything but. Did I seek revenge by encouraging her to plunge that needle into her arm? Absolutely not. Yes, she was my enemy, but she'd brought this on herself. So why did I feel responsible? I wasn't. Yet part of me wished I could help, at least alleviate her suffering. Why? Because I understood that suffering. This was another woman who'd become a werewolf, and as different as our circumstances were, I didn't want her to suffer. The outcome would almost certainly be death. I hoped it came quickly.
At midnight, Winsloe walked into my cell. Through the shadows of an impending nightmare, I heard the door open, subconsciously realized the sound came from the real world, and forced myself awake, grateful for the diversion. I rolled out of bed to see Tyrone Winsloe standing in my cell doorway, framed by the hallway light, presenting himself, waiting for my acknowledgment. A disconcerting surge of awe ran through me. It was like having Bill Gates show up on my doorstep--no matter how much I wanted to be not impressed, I couldn't help myself.
"So this is the female werewolf." He stepped inside, flanked by two guards. "A pleasure to make your acquaintance," he said with a mock bow. "I'm Ty Winsloe."
He introduced himself, not with modesty, as if I might not recognize him, but with a smarmy self-importance, an introduction as phony as the bow. When I didn't respond fast enough, a tremor of annoyance unsettled his features.
"Promethean Fire," he said, prompting me with the name of his world-famous company.
"Yes, I know."
His face rearranged itself back into a gratified smirk. Motioning the guards to stay put, he stepped farther into the cell. His gaze inched over me, walking around, giving my backside a slow once-over, scrutinizing me without embarrassment, as if I were a potential slave in a Roman marketplace. When he circled back to my front, his gaze paused at my chest, lips curving downward in a disappointed frown.
"Not bad," he said. "Nothing a couple of implants couldn't fix."
I narrowed my eyes. He didn't seem to notice.
"Ever thought of that?" he asked, gaze settling on my chest.
"I don't plan to have kids, but if I ever do, I'm sure they'll find this set quite adequate."
He threw back his head and laughed as if this were the funniest thing he'd ever heard. Then he leaned around me and swept his gaze over my rear again.
"Great ass, though."
I sat down. He only smiled and continued studying my lower half. Then he tossed a bundle of clothes on the table.
"You can leave the jeans on," he said. "I brought a skirt, but I like the jeans. That ass was made for jeans. I don't like big, flabby asses."
He liked women with little butts and big tits? Someone had played with one too many Barbie dolls as a kid. I glanced at the pile of clothes but made no move to take it.
"The shirt has to go," he said. "There's a halter top there. Skip the bra."
I stared at him, unable to believe what I was hearing. This was a joke, right? Billionaires were supposed to be eccentric, so this must be Winsloe's warped idea of a practical joke. Yet as I stared, his lips compressed, not in a smile but in pique.
"Take the clothes, Elena," he said, all joviality draining from his voice.
Behind him, the two guards stepped forward, fingering their guns as if to remind me of their presence. Okay, maybe it wasn't a joke. What was with the people in this place? Within several hours I'd seen an intelligent woman turn herself into a werewolf and met a billionaire with the maturity and mind-set of an adolescent boy. Compared to this bunch, I was downright normal.
Still, I reminded myself, Tyrone Winsloe was in charge here, and he was a man accustomed to getting what he wanted when he wanted it. But if he thought I was changing into a halter top so he could leer at my substandard breasts--well, a girl's gotta set limits, right? I'd been treated this way by mutts, though I knew how to handle them. If they talked like that, I told them off. If they touched me, I broke their fingers. They wouldn't want it any other way. As Log
an always said, mutts liked their women with balls. Ty Winsloe wasn't a mutt, but he was a guy with his hormones in overdrive. Close enough.
"My arms are still burned," I said, turning away from the clothing. "They look like shit."
"I don't mind."
"I do."
One long moment of silence.
"I asked you to put on the top, Elena," he said. He looked down at me, lips twisted in a humorless, teeth-baring grin that any wolf would have recognized.
I glanced from him to the guards, snatched the halter top from the pile, killed the urge to return Winsloe's warning snarl, and settled for stalking into the bathroom.
Going into the bathroom to change was a waste of time, considering the see-through wall, but I could still turn my back to him as I switched shirts. The halter top would have fit a prepubescent girl--a short prepubescent girl. It rode up to my rib cage and cut furrows in my shoulders. Looking down, I saw that it left absolutely nothing to the imagination. First, it was skintight. Second, it was white. Twin dark circles pressed against the fabric. If I caught even the slightest breeze, that wasn't all that would be pressing against it. A wave of humiliated fury flooded me. After every thing that had happened in the last twelve hours, this was the pinnacle. The proverbial straw. I would not take this. I would--I stopped. I would do what? I remembered the look in Winsloe's eyes when I'd challenged his command to change. I remembered Armen Haig's comments on Winsloe's mental state. What would Winsloe do if I refused? Was I willing to take that risk over something as ultimately trivial as not wanting to wear a revealing shirt? I rubbed my hands over my face, resisted the urge to cross protective arms over my chest, and marched back into the cell.
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