Camp H.O.W.L.

by Bru Baker

  “His Alpha will want to talk to you. I’ll have her call you while you’re en route,” Anne Marie added, which only made Tate’s shoulders heavier. He hated dealing with Alphas on a good day, and this was definitely not a good day.

  “We’ll call you when we have him and we’re headed back south,” Harris said. He grabbed the strap of Tate’s bag and tugged him along, pulling him out of Anne Marie’s office.

  “You make it sound like a kidnapping,” Tate complained. He was already feeling uneasy for what they were about to do to this poor guy, and talking about it like they were going to blindfold him and toss him in a trunk wasn’t helping.

  Not that what they were going to do to him was much better. He’d likely have to be put in the soft restraints once they were on the road, and he might even need earplugs and a blindfold depending on how sensitive his hearing and vision had become. God help them if they got pulled over on the drive back to southern Indiana.

  Harris grunted as he plucked a set of keys to one of the camp’s vans from the hanger near the reception desk. “More like adultnapping,” he said, sidestepping the kick Tate whipped out in response.

  “I just hope he’s happy to see us,” Tate mumbled as they crunched down the same gravel path he’d followed Ryan on yesterday. “If he’s so far gone we can’t reason with him about why coming with us is the best option then things are really going to suck.”

  Chapter Five

  ADRIAN had given up on breathing through his nose hours ago. The scent of hospital antiseptic burned his nostrils and throat, but taking slow, measured breaths through his mouth seemed to mitigate it a bit. It also gave him something to focus on that wasn’t the itching, crawling feeling of wrongness on his skin or the way his muscles contracted and spasmed of their own accord like they were preparing for something big.

  They were, of course. He realized that now. It had dawned on him before he’d passed out like an idiot on the street this morning, but when he’d awakened in the ambulance, he’d been disoriented and confused again. He’d managed to tell the paramedics about his fever and headache, which he attributed his heightened senses to. It was probably a good thing he’d forgotten his prepavement revelation in those first few moments of consciousness—no doubt he’d have blurted everything out if he had.

  He’d been almost himself again by the time the ambulance had screamed its way to the emergency room, but he could hardly have hopped out and excused himself. What could he have said? “I know these symptoms seem a lot like a stroke or an aneurysm, but actually it’s just werewolf puberty setting in almost ten years late! LOL! I’ll be on my way to go pop a fang in private, guys. Thanks for the ride.”

  Yeah, that would have gone over like gangbusters.

  So he’d let himself be wheeled into the hospital. He hadn’t had to fake his groans as the bright fluorescent lights tried to gouge out his eyeballs, or his twitches and spasms as his muscles clenched and released of their own accord. They’d recorded that as a seizure brought on by his high temperature, though Adrian knew the episodes were his body readying itself for the stretch of the Turn. Even his elevated temperature was part of the process. Something about the influx of hormones that caused the Turn fighting with his white blood cells.

  He’d been able to hold them off from taking blood by claiming it was against his religion, as he and his siblings had been trained to do when they were young teens in their werewolf classes.

  It had helped immensely that his mother had backed up his claim when the hospital had called her. As his emergency contact, she’d been called while he’d been en route in the ambulance, thanks to a nice paramedic who’d found his phone on him. His mother had laid the groundwork for his refusal of meds and tests, so when he’d reached the hospital, his paperwork had already noted his religious exemption in big block letters at the top.

  Adrian knew his luck could only hold for so long. If the hospital found a reason to admit him against his will—the psych hold he’d heard doctors talking about down at the nurses’ station, where they’d assumed he couldn’t hear them—then all of that prep work would go out the window. They’d be able to override his wishes and draw blood and do whatever else they wanted.

  He’d tried his damnedest to act normal after that. They needed him to be delusional or dangerous for a psych hold, so he’d been as docile as he could manage instead. It was getting harder as his headache worsened with every code called over the PA and every squeaky-wheeled gurney that rolled down the hall, but he was hanging in.

  Adrian had talked to his mom about an hour ago, though they couldn’t say much since there was always a nurse in the room with him. It was too dangerous to talk in code, so he’d simply told her he thought he’d gotten the flu. It was a much worse case than the one he’d gotten when he was nineteen, he’d told her. She’d caught on right away and assured him she knew people in the area who could help with flu remedies.

  He’d felt a curious combination of relief and apprehension when she’d checked in an hour later and told him help was on the way. What kind of help? Were they werewolves she knew from the area? Tribunal officers? And what would they do with him? He’d heard enough Turning stories to know the environment a werewolf had his Turn in had a huge impact on how stressful the Turn was.

  “Dr. Lewis is here to see you,” the nurse who’d been camping out by his door informed him.

  Adrian looked up, unsure of who that was. Was he getting the psych consult the nurse kept threatening him with? Was this the beginning of the end for him? What would the Tribunal do if he let his blood get taken? There was no way it would look normal this far into the Turn.

  “Adrian, nice to see you,” the doctor said as he walked in. He picked up the clipboard at the end of Adrian’s bed and started flipping through it, eyes trained on it as he continued to speak. “Your mother tells me you have a particularly bad case of the flu. I’m sorry to hear that.”

  Adrian had tensed when the man walked in, but at those words he sank back into his nest of pillows and breathed a sigh of relief. Somehow his mother had found someone to impersonate a doctor to spring him from the hospital. He was impressed by her ingenuity, though she could have done a better job. The guy standing in the doorway looked nothing like a doctor. He was young, for starters, probably only a little older than Adrian himself. And he was wearing a tight T-shirt and jeans with a scruffy pair of Converses. Would it have been that difficult to find a white lab coat or a pair of scrubs?

  But the nurse seemed to be swallowing it hook, line, and sinker, and that was the important part. She rushed to the man’s side with another chart.

  “His vitals have stabilized since he arrived, but he’s refusing a blood draw or MRI. Temp has come down considerably, as has his blood pressure and pulse.” She gave Adrian a quick, assessing look. “His pupil response is abnormal, but we haven’t been able to rule out drugs since we can’t get a draw.”

  Adrian started to protest but stopped before the words made it past his lips. Actually, it would be better if they thought he was a druggie. It was a convenient excuse for most of his symptoms.

  “He was found in the street?” the not-doctor asked, his gaze coming up to examine Adrian.

  The man was flat-out gorgeous, and Adrian couldn’t help but bring a hand up to try to smooth his own hair in response to the scrutiny. He was sure he looked terrible.

  “Head laceration that didn’t require stitches,” the nurse said. “He lost consciousness. Bystanders called the ambulance. He was out for an estimated ten minutes. Paramedics reported he was disoriented and a little aggressive upon regaining consciousness in the ambulance, but by the time he arrived here, he was no longer showing signs of being disoriented or altered.”

  Altered, Adrian thought. If only this nurse knew exactly how altered he was at the moment—not to mention how much more altered he’d be as soon as the moon rose.

  The man holding the chart hummed thoughtfully and looked back at the pages in his hands, flipping throug
h them again.

  “His family has arranged for transport to another facility,” he said in a professionally detached voice as he tucked the chart under one arm and signed the paperwork the nurse had handed him when he’d come in.

  “You’ll have to clear that with the hospitalist on duty,” she said. “Dr. Ramirez will—”

  “I’ve already talked with Dr. Ramirez. She signed off on Adrian’s release. We have a transport vehicle in the ambulance bay,” the man said.

  The nurse balked. “Mr. Rothschild needs a psych workup. Dr. Ramirez wouldn’t sign off on a release without one.”

  The man smiled blandly and held up a badge at the end of a lanyard Adrian hadn’t noticed on his initial assessment. “As you can see, I’ll be taking him to a facility that is more than equipped to administer a full psychological workup. I assure you Mr. Rothschild will not leave until we are sure he is no danger to himself or others.” He paused and looked up to shoot a covert wink at Adrian. “And our own physician will also make sure he’s completely recovered from the effects of this nasty bout of the flu too.”

  Adrian barked out a laugh that he tried his best to turn into a cough when the nurse turned her distrustful look on him.

  “I’m going to have to talk to Dr. Ramirez before we can sign his discharge papers,” she said.

  The putative Dr. Lewis gestured toward the door. “Go ahead. I’m going to start my transfer workup with Mr. Rothschild while we wait.”

  The moment the nurse was out the door, he dug into the satchel bag that was looped across his body and moved toward the bed.

  “Adrian, I’m Tate,” he said, his voice much quieter than it had been when he’d addressed the nurse. Adrian hadn’t even realized how much their voices had hurt until Tate lowered his. “Your Alpha contacted my boss a few hours ago and asked us to come extract you from the hospital.”

  He pulled out a pair of sweatpants and a T-shirt and handed them to Adrian.

  “It’ll be easier for you to walk out of here in these,” Tate said.

  Adrian scrambled out of the bed and grabbed the clothes, grateful Tate had planned ahead and brought him something to change into. The paramedics had cut through his button-down shirt earlier, and his pants had been taken God only knew where after he’d been admitted. The sweatpants and T-shirt were a welcome change from the backless hospital gown he’d been in.

  “Do we need to run?” Adrian asked after he’d pulled the T-shirt down over his chest.

  Tate threw back his head and laughed. “No. We really are waiting for Dr. Ramirez. I spoke with her before I came in, but the nurse was right to double-check the release orders. Just sit tight, and we’ll have you out of here as soon as we can.”

  Adrian cast a worried look at the clock on the wall. It was encased in a metal cage, and the sight made him uncomfortable. Was he headed for a cage? Who was this Tate guy? He’d clearly talked to Adrian’s mom, given the way he’d worked in the flu thing, but how did she know him? Could they really trust him, or was he just the best alternative his mom could find on such short notice?

  Tate fished in his bag and came up with another clipboard, smaller than the hospital version he’d laid on the end of Adrian’s bed.

  “I really do have some paperwork to go through with you. Are you feeling up to it?”

  Adrian gaped at him. “Paperwork?”

  It came out as a croak, his throat dry. Tate reached for the Styrofoam cup of ice water on the bedside table and handed it to him, orienting the straw toward Adrian as the nurse had done when she’d helped him with it. He put a hand on Adrian’s shoulder and applied gentle pressure until Adrian sat on the edge of the bed before he let him drink. Maybe this guy actually was a doctor?

  “I’m sorry,” Tate said, looking chagrined. “You must be so confused. I gather your Alpha wasn’t able to give you the details?”

  Adrian swallowed his drink and shook his head. “There was always someone else in the room with me.”

  Tate nodded. “That’s standard hospital protocol when a patient comes in under a psych watch,” he said. “Let me start over. I’m Tate Lewis, and I’m a psychologist who helps werewolves through the Turn.”

  Adrian’s mind spun. “You work at one of the camps,” he accused, his tone sharp.

  “I do,” Tate said, bobbing his head. “Camp H.O.W.L. is about an hour and half south of here in the Hoosier National Forest. Your Alpha arranged things with my director. My coworker Harris is waiting with the van. We’ll be taking you back to camp where you can Turn safely.”

  Adrian glanced up at the clock again. It was after three. “Is there time?”

  He saw Tate’s Adam’s apple move as he swallowed. “I certainly hope so. We’re equipped to handle your Turn in the van if necessary, but I’ll be honest. That wouldn’t be very pleasant for you.”

  “Or for you,” Adrian murmured softly. He’d seen half a dozen of his fellow wolflings Turn while he’d been at camp, and every single one had been a violent, painful process. The counselors had often come out of it worse for wear than the teens.

  “Don’t worry about us,” Tate said, a bit of false cheer in his voice. “Harris and I are trained to handle it. All four of the counselors at the camp are licensed psychologists. It’s a big selling point for the facility. We also have a meditation teacher, a yoga and Pilates teacher, an art therapy teacher, and a Michelin-rated chef.”

  “How much will that be costing me?” he asked wryly.

  Tate grinned. “A lot, though you’ll deal with that with the financial manager sometime next week. Your Alpha has all the paperwork and has agreed to cover the fees.”

  Like hell she would. Adrian wasn’t going to let his mother bear the cost of what was stacking up to be the most expensive vacation he’d ever taken.

  “And if I can’t pay?”

  “There are need-based scholarships and some grants families have made available,” Tate said with a dismissive shrug. “Anne Marie—she’s the director—she won’t have us toss you out if you can’t pay. But like I said, that’s all been taken care of. Right now you just need to focus on staying calm and keeping your cool while we spring you from this place.”

  His words brought Adrian’s attention to the way his heart was racing. He was clenching his fingers with such force his fingernails had broken the skin, so he purposefully straightened his fingers and resisted the urge to let them curl back again. Instead, he inspected the eight half-moon cuts on his palms blooming with dots of blood.

  “Take a deep breath in and hold it for a few seconds,” Tate said, his tone soothing and low. “Close your eyes and pick one thing to focus on. It could be the sound of my heart or maybe the ticking of the clock. Focus on that until everything else fades away, and then let all your stress and tension go with a big exhale.”

  Adrian thought it sounded like new-age hooey, but he did as he was told. He bent over, hunching in on himself. The bed squeaked, making Adrian wince. But after the ringing in his ears stopped, he found he could hear Tate’s heartbeat. It was reassuringly steady. Adrian focused on that, straining his hearing until he could even hear the whoosh of blood in the valves. He took a deep breath and blew it out slowly, and amazingly, he could actually feel himself relaxing. His shoulders dropped, his heart rate slowed, and the pins and needles that had been torturing him receded.

  He opened his eyes slowly, blinking in surprise when he didn’t have to flinch back because of the fluorescent lights. Tate had turned them off, leaving the room lit only by the natural light coming through the blinds-covered window. The heavy ache that had plagued Adrian’s eyes faded, and he took another slow breath and sat up straight, relief running through him with such force he felt weak in the knees.

  Tate crouched on the floor in front of him and met his gaze. “Better?”

  “I didn’t realize how keyed up I was,” Adrian admitted. He felt like a teenager again—out of control and out of tune with his own body. It was ridiculous.

  “It’s normal. It
’s all part of the Turn,” Tate said.

  Adrian scoffed, “Nothing about my Turn is going to be normal. If I even do Turn.”

  He expected Tate to offer him some bland reassurances, but he was pleasantly surprised to see Tate nod in agreement.

  “That’s true. We don’t know what’s going to happen in your case, which makes something that was already psychologically taxing even worse. I can’t imagine what it feels like to be inside your head right now. Every reaction you’re having is completely valid, okay? If you’re angry, if you’re scared, if you’re confused. There is no right or wrong way to react to Turning like this. And no matter what happens tonight after moonrise, you’ll be in a safe place surrounded by people who are there to help you.”

  Adrian closed his eyes again and grunted. He hated psychobabble. He’d had to listen to a lot of it during the year after his non-Turn. His mother had sent him to a parade of doctors and psychologists, and each one had been just as baffled as the one before. He’d had a lot of “This isn’t your fault” and “It’s okay to be angry” thrown at him, and all of it had left him more furious than when he’d started. But Tate’s words were different. If this guy really was a psychologist, he wasn’t like any Adrian had worked with before. Everyone who had treated him in that disastrous year had told him how he should be feeling and accused him of suppressing his emotions. No one before Tate had ever said it was okay to not know how he was feeling.

  “I’m not going to make any empty promises, Adrian,” Tate said. “You’re a grown man. You know how our world works. I’ll do whatever I can to make things easier for you and help you through this, but it’s going to fucking suck.”

  Adrian opened his eyes and looked at Tate in shock. Tate was different from the other psychologists he’d seen. “You don’t pull punches, huh?”