“Because I can’t Shift to heal with a cast on and you two can’t fight properly while you’re looking out for me. I need to be able to hold my own, and this way I can heal both arms at once.” The reproach on his face expressed his disapproval more clearly than words ever could have. “Don’t start. My dad already knows and he’s cool with it.” Mostly because there was no other option.
Marc frowned. “Do you have any idea how bad this is going to hurt?”
I rolled my eyes and stared up at him. “What am I, now, delicate? I can take it. Just do it.” Marc shrugged and unsealed a squirt bottle I didn’t recognize. “What’s that?”
“Sterile solution, to flush the wound. Which, in your case, is half your arm.” He flipped open the lid and leaned over for a better view as he squirted the first stream right into my open wound.
I hissed and gritted my teeth. “Talk to me. Please.”
Marc scowled without looking up. “Honestly, you’re not going to want to hear what I have to say right now, Faythe.”
Ditto. I exhaled in frustration. “You know he doesn’t know about any of this, right?” I swallowed a groan and looked away from my arm. “I swear Jace doesn’t know. He doesn’t consciously want to challenge you.” For rank, anyway. Or for me, either, though I was seriously starting to doubt his claim that he was willing to share. “He doesn’t understand what he’s going through. He hasn’t thought it out.”
Neither had I.
Marc continued squirting while I tried not to squirm. “Well, that explains why none of us saw this coming. But it won’t take him long to understand. I just wish I knew what flipped his switch. Ethan’s death was a huge blow, but still…”
I shrugged, my heart thumping miserably. “They’ve been best friends since they were five. They did everything together. Until he died, Jace was happy to do whatever Ethan wanted. Kicking bad-guy ass, chasing skirts, and partying. But now all that’s gone. Now this Pride is his whole life, and I think he wants to give it everything he has. Even if he doesn’t know that’s what he’s doing. And when you were missing he really stepped up and probably surprised himself. It’s no surprise that he doesn’t want to go back from there.”
Marc made a noncommittal sound. “Do you think your dad’s noticed the change in him?”
“Some of it, yeah. He sent him here, right? If Jace weren’t the best for the job, my dad would have sent someone else, no matter how close he and Kaci are.”
“I know.” But he didn’t look up from my arm until he’d worked his way to the end of the wound and capped the saline. “Okay, we’re done with that part. Next comes the peroxide.”
“Joy.”
“This part’s not optional. Unless you want to die of infection.”
“I know. Just get it over with.”
He unsealed a round brown bottle and unscrewed the lid, then wrapped one hand firmly around my left arm, just above the elbow, to hold it still.
I closed my eyes. He poured. Fire consumed my arm.
“Motherfucker!” I shouted. Then I ground my teeth so hard it hurt to unclench my jaw. I stared at the wallpaper, trying to count the flowers above the toilet. But I only made it to four before the flames made thought all but impossible. “Shouldn’t I be unconscious for this?”
Marc laughed and poured more liquid fire into my open wound, and distantly I heard the front door open. “Jace!” I called, when it clicked closed. “Tequila! And a sledgehammer, if you brought one.”
A paper bag crinkled and Jace laughed. Thank goodness he was amused by my pain—and evidently in a better mood. Jace stepped into the doorway, holding up a bottle of Cuervo. His gaze flicked to Marc, who didn’t look up, and anger flitted across his expression. Then he found me again and raised one brow in question.
Did you tell him?
I gave my head a short, sharp shake, then tossed my hair over one shoulder to disguise the motion. Do you think you’d be standing there whole if I had? It was truly not the time for our confession. Kaci couldn’t afford for us to be less than focused on the job at hand.
Jace frowned. “One minute.” He set the bottle down and ducked into the bedroom, then came back with a cellophane-wrapped plastic cup from the tray over the minifridge. He opened it and poured it half full, then started to hand me the cup—until we both realized I couldn’t hold it. “Sorry. Here.”
Jace held the cup up to my lips and I swallowed convulsively, until the flames in my throat matched those in my arm.
“Are we done yet?”
Marc shook his head and capped the first—now empty—bottle. “It’s still bubbling. If we’re lucky, this’ll keep your arm from rotting off before we get you to the doc.”
The next bottle was no better, even with two more doses of tequila and a can of Coke. But by the time he got out the suture kit, I was feeling pretty good—arm notwithstanding.
Marc threaded the wickedly curved needle, and Jace poured more alcohol. “That’s enough, zurramato!” Marc snapped, with a glance at the plastic cup. “She can’t Shift if she can’t focus.”
Jace ignored him and tilted the cup into my mouth. “She’ll be fine by the time you’re done with that,” he said while I swallowed. Marc glowered, but kept his mouth shut.
We had to move into the bedroom for the stitches, and they each took one of my upper arms, because the room was tilting by then. As was the bed. I lay on top of the thin bedspread and my towel gaped open over my left hip and thigh. I started to close it, then remembered I couldn’t use my arms yet. So I left it open.
No one seemed to mind.
Marc stretched my left arm out on another clean towel. I couldn’t feel it by then, and was starting to wonder if he’d cut the whole damn thing off. “Faythe, I need you to hold still.”
Was I moving? “And I need you not to kill him.” My head rolled on the mattress and Jace slanted into view on my other side, oddly tilted, though he sat on the mattress next to me. “And you not to kill him.”
“Damn it…” Marc whispered. Then, “Faythe, you’re drunk. Just shut up and hold still.”
“Don’t talk to her like that,” Jace snapped, scooting closer to my head.
“How much did you give her?”
“Enough so that she won’t feel much of this.”
“I’m seriousss,” I insisted, raising my head to look at Marc. “You guys should be friends. You have so much in common.”
That time Jace cursed, and Marc glanced up sharply. “He’s right, Faythe.” Jace slid off the bed onto his knees on the floor, eyeing me from inches away. He was trying to tell me something, but his eyes didn’t match his words. “Just go to sleep. When you wake up, you’ll be all sewn up and ready to Shift.”
I tried to go to sleep, but my arm wasn’t as numb as I’d thought, and the needle hurt. “Will I be able to fight when you’re done?” I asked, rolling my head to face Marc again.
“I think so. You’ll just need time to rest and finish healing, even after you Shift.”
Jace made an unhappy noise in the back of his throat. “She’s only got three hours.”
Marc frowned and looked up from the neat stitches he was sewing in a jagged line down my arm. “Why?”
“Oops.” I laughed, and Marc pinned my upper arm with one hand to keep me still. “Forgot to tell him that part.”
Twenty-Four
“What the hell is she talking about?” Marc demanded, glaring across me at Jace.
“Sew while you yell,” I insisted, and when Marc made no move to comply, I tried to poke him with my free hand. But Jace gently forced that arm back onto the mattress, and I stopped struggling when pain shot through my still-broken wrist.
“You’re going to hurt yourself, Faythe. Just hold still.” He rubbed my shoulder, and Marc bristled. “She’d be easier to reason with if you hadn’t gotten her drunk,” he snapped.
“She’s never easy to reason with.” Jace grinned at me. Then he met Marc’s glare and his brows dipped so that their scowls matched. “I hat
e seeing her in pain.”
“You think I like it?”
“I don’t know what you like.”
“Shut up!” I laughed and rolled my head to glance from one to the other. “I know what you both like.”
“Fuck!” Jace threw his arms into the air, then eyed me desperately until Marc gripped my chin and turned my face toward him.
“What does that mean?”
I laughed again, but then suddenly I was crying, and I don’t know how that happened.
“Let go of her,” Jace growled. “She doesn’t know what she’s saying.”
“Yes, I do.” I jerked my chin from Marc’s hand and stared up at him, wishing I could wipe the stupid tears trailing down the sides of my face. “You both like me, though I can’t figure out why right now.”
Marc relaxed, and Jace exhaled slowly in relief. What had he thought I was going to say? I was drunk, not stupid! “Okay, now that that’s out in the open, please be quiet and let Marc finish sewing you up.”
Another sharp point of pain pierced my arm with the next stitch, and I bit my lip.
“That was never exactly top secret,” Marc said as the thread tugged at my flesh. “Everyone knows about Jace’s little crush.”
Jace went stiff on my right.
“Not everybody…” I was horrified to hear myself say. Had Jace given me tequila or fucking truth serum? He squeezed my elbow, desperate to shut me up, and I smiled at him in sympathy. “I know. It’s the tequila.” Marc glanced first at me, then at Jace in confusion. Like I wasn’t making sense! “Don’t you remember what happened last time I had too much tequila?”
Damn it! Okay, maybe I was drunk and stupid…
Marc laughed, and Jace froze, until Marc turned back to the needle. “Now, that was a hell of a night!”
Jace scowled at me, and suddenly I remembered that tequila had given them both a chance to get back into my…life. And with that realization, I silently vowed to keep my mouth shut until the alcohol had left my system.
Fortunately, without my own voice to keep me awake, I fell asleep in spite of the repeated, prickling pain in my left arm. Sometime later, I woke up on the hotel bed, still wrapped in the towel. My left arm was encased in sterile gauze, which gave off an unfamiliar chemical scent. My right arm was bare and stretched out across the mattress. I was grouchy, in pain, and distressingly sober.
And alone. Or so I thought until I heard the soft rumble of male voices from just outside the window, where two familiar silhouettes stood side by side. “Damn it, Jace, this is suicide. There’s no way we’ll make it out of the territory with Lance.”
“If we don’t try, we’re dead. And so’s Kaci. And Calvin will wind up with Faythe.”
“He will, anyway, if this goes wrong,” Marc growled.
Jace’s shadow shrugged beyond the thin curtains. “She’s willing to take that chance for Kaci. For all of us.”
“Of course she is. She has no concept of her own mortality.”
I rolled over and levered myself up on my right elbow, careful not to let my hand or wrist brush the bed. The towel slipped halfway down my chest.
“Yes, she does.” Jace sounded mad, but he was holding it in. “She’s courageous, not careless. She just values everyone else’s life more than her own. That’s an Alpha trait.”
“You think I don’t know that?” Marc paused, and I could practically hear him counting to ten in his head. “Maldito sea! When this is over, we have to have a serious talk.…”
“Hey!” I called, knowing they’d hear, and Marc would shut the hell up. Was I going to spend the rest of my life standing between them? The door opened and Jace brushed past Marc to be first through the door. I shot him an angry look. Marc wouldn’t put up with much of that, whether or not Jace understood what he was going through.
“How long was I asleep?” The alarm clock read 9:34—in the morning, presumably—but I had no idea what time I’d passed out.
“Less than an hour,” Marc said, and I breathed deeply in relief.
“Good. Jace filled you in on the plan?”
He frowned and sank onto the opposite side of my bed. “You mean that slow-motion suicide attempt? Yeah. I got the basics. We sneak onto Malone’s property, break into the guesthouse, and somehow drag Lance out without alerting anyone else. Then we run for our lives.”
I frowned. “You got a better idea?”
“Unfortunately, no.”
“Then let’s have a look at my arm. I need to start Shifting.”
“She’s gonna need food.” Marc scooted closer as I held my wrapped arm out to him. “And we should probably eat, too.” He glanced up at Jace, who obviously knew what was expected of him. But Jace couldn’t bring himself to volunteer.
I closed my eyes, counted to five, then met Jace’s angry gaze. “Jace, will you please make a food run?”
He nodded stiffly. “What do you want?”
“Burgers are fine. Three for me, and some fries. And whatever you guys want.”
“Bring her four.” Marc shook his head at me when I started to protest. “You’ll need it. And probably more. You’re going to have to Shift at least half a dozen times in the next couple of hours—possibly twice that—and you’ll have to eat and rest in between, or you’ll pass out. Again. And even if you look healed, you probably won’t be one hundred percent, which means you only fight as a last resort. Got it?”
I started to argue, then got a vivid mental image of my wrist re-cracking when I threw my first punch. Which could very well get all of us caught, and both of them killed. “I got it. Now, can we get this off? I feel like a mummy.”
“I’ll be right back,” Jace said, and that time he grabbed the car keys before heading out the door.
Marc unwound the gauze from my arm gently, and I didn’t brave a look until it was bare.
“Oh, shit!” I whispered. I looked more like Franken-stein’s monster than the Mummy. All I need now is a bolt through my neck…
Marc rubbed my back, and I leaned into his touch. “I’m sorry I couldn’t make it…neater. Hopefully there won’t be permanent muscle damage, but it’s gonna scar.”
Yes, it would. A long, jagged gash ran nearly the length of my left forearm, my swollen skin held together with suture thread and a prayer. When I held my arm parallel to the floor, the new wound resembled an erratic heartbeat on a hospital monitor. Or a small, bloodcrusted range of mountains.
I shrugged and blinked back tears. Enforcers weren’t supposed to have smooth skin, anyway, right? “Don’t worry about it. I doubt Dr. Carver could have done any better. Besides, it looks bad-ass, right?” I forced a teary smile, and Marc returned it.
“Without a doubt.”
“Figures, though. My most obvious scar is from falling through a fucking deer stand, instead of fighting some ferocious foe.”
Marc laughed. “So we make up a story. You were defending a huddle of innocent orphans from some psycho with a broken steel pipe. He caught you across the arm, right before you kicked his ass back to his padded room.” He smiled, gold specks sparkling in his eyes.
My heart melted. “I love you.” I leaned forward and kissed him.
He smiled. “I know.”
“I wanna Shift at least once before Jace gets back. Can you help?”
“Of course.” Marc held my elbow to steady me while I sank to my knees on the rough carpet. Holding my breath, I pulled my stitched left arm to my chest and tugged the towel free. It fell to the carpet, and Marc pulled it out of the way. My arm hurt, but not like it had hurt before. Closing the wound had helped, at least a little.
Careful of my broken wrist, I brushed the fingers of my right hand gently across the new stitches. My left arm felt oddly numb, with only an echo of the pain I should have felt. And the chemical smell was stronger up close.
“What’s on my arm?”
“Benzocaine,” Marc said. “It’s a topical anesthetic. Normally you shouldn’t use it on such a large area, or on an open wound. But
technically yours is closed now, and I thought Shifting might be easier this way. It dulls pain in your skin, but won’t affect your muscles or movement at all.”
“Thanks.”
“Thank Jace. He got it from the convenience store next door.”
Oh.
“Okay, I’m ready.” Except that I couldn’t support weight with my broken wrist. “Crap. Suggestions?”
“On your side.” Marc shrugged. “It’s awkward, but it’ll work. I had to do that after I broke my arm a couple of years ago. Of course, I wore the cast for three weeks first.…”
I stared at him in surprise. “You broke your arm?”
“Some asshole swung a two-by-four from around a corner while Vic and I were trying to corral him. You were at school.”
I’d been at school for five years and had rarely called home. And even when I had, I hadn’t asked about Marc, because I hadn’t wanted to encourage him. I’d thought I was done with the Pride—that I would graduate, then get a job in the human world and live a normal life.
Turns out there are several different definitions of normal, and now I couldn’t imagine living in a world in which the daily grind included little pummeling and almost no face smashing.
“You hit him back?” I asked, and Marc grinned.
“With my other fist. Broke his jaw.”
“Damn right.” I smiled, and his hand found my elbow again, helping me lower myself to the ground. I lay on my right side and stared at the bathroom door as Marc backed away, giving me space.
I hadn’t Shifted since the night Kevin Mitchell had broken my arm nearly two weeks earlier, so I felt more than a bit overdue. Fortunately, I hadn’t yet hit the point at which not Shifting would damage my health.
I closed my eyes and let my head rest on the floor, then inhaled through my nose—and immediately regretted it. I hated Shifting indoors, and especially hated Shifting in motels. Instead of the scents of pine needles, ferns, and fresh creek water—which long-term habit had taught my body to use as signals to begin the process—I got chemical cleaning products, and all the disgusting odors they hadn’t been able to kill. Cigarette smoke, stale takeout, and bodily fluids I didn’t even want to imagine.
Shift Page 24
