Werewolf Forbidden

by Christina E. Rundle

  “I can’t discuss business on an empty stomach. Are you coming?” Mercer asked. He strolled out from behind the truck, buttoning his jeans. They rested low on his hips, giving the perfect view of his happy trail.

  “Aye,” Wolffey said, fighting the heat at the back of his neck and in his cheeks. The demon realm was affecting his judgment. Unlike Mercer, he still carried the succubus and incubus scent on his clothes. There was nothing he could do about it while on the farm. His attention drifted to the dark window upstairs. “Who stays in that room?”

  “My betas’ mother,” Mercer answered. He stood on the porch, patient.

  The curtains didn’t move again and the feeling of being watched was gone. He took a breath and climbed the porch stairs. Mercer pushed the door open and the overpowering smell of food rerouted his brain.

  "Are you a vampire?" Mercer teased.

  Wolffey raised an eyebrow at the reference. “My trade with the vampires did not involve becoming one.”

  Mercer rolled his eyes. “Another species I didn’t want to be aware of. Come in.”

  Wolffey moved over the threshold into the hallway. There was no escaping the scent of the Texas pack. The smell of the forest and fur was just as strong inside as it was outside. He tugged the edge of his shirt, making sure that everything was in place.

  Mercer jerked his chin indicating that he should follow. They passed the dining room and went straight into the shared large kitchen. The heart of both homes connected here.

  A woman with her black hair pulled into a loose ponytail, manned the two stoves. Her country style skirt was clean and well washed. She glanced up at him and then at Mercer before returning her attention to her boiling pots. She didn’t recognize him. None of the pack did.

  Mercer grabbed his plate and went down the line of dishes. “Help yourself.”

  Wolffey regarded the large stack of mismatched plates and silverware set out on the counter. It was a continuous buffet that the werewolves took advantage of. His attention drifted from the food to the betas leaning against the counter. Thankfully Wyatt wasn’t among them.

  Rufus landed on the counter between a bowl of rice and a festive bowl of salad. Rufus bent to inspect the remaining cherry pie set to the side. He clicked his tongue and shook his head with disapproval. “I wish I tried this when I was alive.”

  He blinked in surprise when Mercer stuck a plate in front of him. “You have to be as hungry as me, after that.”

  “Aye, you do look starved,” Rufus said.

  Wolffey took the plate from Mercer and set it on the counter, forcing the fey spirit to jump back out of habit. The alpha was right, he was starving, and it was distracting. “The key, alpha.”

  “Try this, lad, I should’ve tried it before I died,” Rufus said. The spirit circled the remaining cherry pie with a golden lattice crust.

  “I’m eating,” Mercer replied, mouth full. His plate was heaped with a mass of options. “I suggest you do the same.”

  The bubbling pots became white noise accenting the growing pressure at the back of his skull and inside his eardrums. The house was far from quiet, but very few habitants loitered in the kitchen. Mercer ate like a starving man, never breaking stride as he shoveled food in his mouth. The others waited strategically placed, surrounding him. He glanced over at Rufus, but the fey was busy walking among the dishes and poking anything partially covered by foil or a lid. It was apparent Rufus had no intentions of leaving until he was forced to return to the realm of the dead at day break.

  Wolffey took a deep breath to regroup his priorities when he realized he was as curious as Rufus about the array of Topsider sustenance. “Time is imperative.”

  Mercer set his plate on the edge of the table. “You’re right.”

  Wolffey tightened his hold on the counter to keep from reaching for the chair when the muscle in his legs gave out. Heat closed in and his breathing grew ragged. He didn’t have much time before he was permanently out of commission. It already felt too late. The world darkened at the edges of his vision and swarming nausea washed up into his chest and throat. He bent over with the force of the wet heat. What he tasted was bitterer than bile.

  “Go get Wyatt,” Mercer ordered.

  The alpha’s words reverberated in his chest. Wolffey pushed at the arm wrapped around his core, but it wouldn’t budge. Mercer’s fingers were splayed over his stomach, warm, but not uncomfortable. The alpha held him close, his second arm cradling his head against his shoulder. It was too intimate. He wiggled and the hold tightened.

  “I don’t need your help,” he growled, embarrassed that he was talking against the alpha’s shoulder. The werewolf smell on Mercer’s skin brought a surprising amount of comfort that he was quick to disown.

  “You’re vomiting blood,” Mercer said.

  Wolffey swallowed the metallic bile at the back of his throat. Blood wasn’t the only thing that came from his gut. The warning signs were clear and he couldn’t faint in the farm house. There would be questions, some of which he refused to answer.

  “I’m fine,” Wolffey hissed. He’d be better if he were out of the werewolf house and back in the Hill. This was a not so subtle reminder that he was on borrowed time. He’d have to make the exchange tonight and enter Chancellor’s territory no sooner than the following day.

  “You don’t look fine,” Mercer said over his shoulder. His grip wasn’t daunting. He wasn’t trying to restrain him, which made Wolffey feel all the weaker for not finding the strength to move away.

  Wyatt entered the room, followed by Axel and a much younger child. Wyatt had changed into a clean pair of scrub pants and a plain white tee. It explained the scent that comprised Wyatt’s skin, alcohol, antiseptic and latex gloves. “I can examine him in the medical room.”

  Wolffey turned his attention to the island table and then to the window where morning light squeezed through the slits in the blinds. The fey spirit was back in the land of the dead, leaving him on the farm with no fey influence.

  How ironic. He’d left the farm sick and he returned to the farm sick.

  He planted his feet and Mercer’s grip readjusted; giving him reason to believe the alpha’s next step was to physically move him. He braced his feet. “Nary without the key.”

  “I don’t have a lot of time either. I’m going with you to Chancellor’s and I need you alive,” Mercer ordered.

  He glanced at Wyatt, wondering what the Topside physician had that could aid him for a few more days. “Unless you dabble in the dark arts, you have nothing to benefit me.”

  “You might be surprised how equipped my medical room is,” he replied, keeping his calm.

  Mercer’s jaw was set. He was the only one in the room that was willing to make this an argument. “Please, go with Wyatt.”

  The ache boiled in his stomach, threatening to heave upward again. “Fine.”

  He pushed away from Mercer and waited for Wyatt to lead. The alpha wasn’t eager to give him that leeway as he closed the space between them. “This way.”

  With a hand at the small of Wolffey’s back, the alpha directed him to the hall, beyond the staircase. There was one door this way and anxiety seized him. He’d no sooner forget the room as he’d forget his real name. Wyatt lingered in the doorway with his hand on the knob.

  “Mercer, can you leave us?” Wyatt asked.

  Mercer looked between the both of them, before his attention settled on Wyatt. “Are you sure?”

  Wyatt’s eyes drifted back to Wolffey’s. “Yes.”

  “I’ll be in the kitchen. Use the intercom if you have issues,” the alpha stated for Wolffey’s benefit. They waited in the hall until the alpha was gone.

  From where he stood, he could see that the staircase was now closed off by a wall instead of the original banister. The walls were white and the lighting was brighter, but his chest tightened with nerves. “I’m not going down there.”

  “It’s changed since you’ve been gone,” Wyatt said.

  His ch
est tightened. Wyatt knew.

  TWENTY-TWO

  Wyatt patiently waited for him to move down the first couple of steps before he closed and locked the door. Wolffey waited with his back against the wall. Though he didn’t believe Wyatt would be the type to ambush from behind, old habits die hard and in his current state, he couldn’t take chances. Trust wasn’t something he blindly gave, not even to his family.

  Picking up on the unspoken question, Wyatt explained. “It will keep unwanted visitors from surprising us. It’s not typically an issue, but your presence stirred hostility.”

  He nodded, thinking of the alpha female who made it very clear his presence was unwanted. His older brother indicated that they should proceed, but when he didn’t move, Wyatt took the lead down the staircase. He was right about the changes. The once oppressive basement was flipped into the extreme opposite. The white walls, the childishly colorful steps every couple of feet that broke the lackluster white steps and once at ground level in the basement, the sterile cleanliness continued with splotches of personality. The moldy smell of congealed blood and suffering was gone.

  There wasn’t an ounce of shadow in the room with the four fluorescent light panels. He took the last step to the ground floor and stood along the side wall. By the heavy smell of fresh paint and little else, he was the first patient. His eyes zeroed in on the dog art, before he gave Wyatt his full attention. Despite being born the runt of the sextuplet liter and with numerous medical issues, he was the same height as Wyatt.

  “You didn’t tell the others who I am. Why?”

  Wyatt’s jaw tightened. “Despite what you may believe, when Gio told us you were dead, it was touch and go. Rider and Axel challenged Gio to no avail. Every night, I looked for your body, but I couldn’t find it. The trail went cold. Mom went insane. No one healed from it until Mercer challenged Gio.”

  He was on the farm the night Mercer challenged the Texas alpha. He witnessed the surge of adrenaline from the spectators screaming for their chosen victor. The smell of blood was sharp, the sound of Gio’s startled yelp echoed for years in his head, but it was done. Gio, their abusive alpha was dead.

  “You believe they’ll be resentful that I’m alive and didn’t come back sooner? You’re deciding to keep this a private matter.” He was secretly relieved Wyatt wasn’t interested in making his return a production. He didn’t have the energy to deal with pissed off werewolves.

  “You’re right, Kivah, is metaphorically dead right now, but only as long as you leave him dead. You belong with a pack, not with the fey,” Wyatt said. In the lull of conversation, he went to the sink and washed his hands.

  Wolffey smirked, thought bitterness seeped into his tone. “The Mission won’t let a verboden exist with a pack and I refuse to abide by their rules. I won’t hide on the farm.”

  “The Mission thinks you’re dead.”

  “It’s a matter of time before they investigate the rogue Mercer took on. I don’t dabble with politics outside the Hill. I must refuse your suggestion.”

  “I was right about your stutter. It was psychosomatic.” He tossed the wet paper towel away and pulled on latex gloves. “I’m going to give you electrolytes for the dehydration, but it’s not a solution for the blood in your vomit.”

  “I don’t need a cure, just a patch,” he answered. He had the solution to his problem. Getting his hands on it was another issue.

  Wyatt paused with his hand lingering over a box, before he drew it down. He placed a bag of clear fluid on a tray with an intricate number of items. “Take your shirt off and get on the table.”

  He stared at Wyatt’s backside, debating the order. Though Wyatt was technically a healer, there was a great deal of scars he didn’t want to show his brother.

  Feeling his hesitation, Wyatt sat the tray on a rolling table. “You need fluid.”

  Wolffey unattached his arm sheaths and the mental clicked soundly on the counter. He turned his back as he released his belt around his waist with the sword and two daggers. The pressure in his midsection lightened, but the ebbing ache remained. He sat it down and unbuttoned his sleeves. The cool air brushed between the fabric and he realized he was sweating. His skin wasn’t sensitive to much these days.

  He unbuttoned his shirt and paused. For the last fifteen years, only the healer in the Hill had seen him in various states of undress, and only when he was unable to take care of the wound himself. Wyatt was a healer, but he was werewolf. How would his brother react to the years of battle that scared his skin?

  He took a breath and pulled the fabric over his head. The coldness swept in, licking at his clammy skin and drawing goose bumps. There was a deep intake of breath from across the room and he braced himself, expecting Wyatt to rage like an overly protective beta. He didn’t need a mirror to know the extensive damage the caning had done to his back. He could reach back and feel the puckered scar tissue making rivers and valleys along the dips of his muscle.

  The silence stretched uncomfortably. “Get with it. I wasn’t lying about my short time.”

  When he turned around, Wyatt’s eyes drifted over his shoulders and torso, before resting on the soaked bandages. Their eyes met.

  “You have a lot of scars,” Wyatt said.

  Wolffey lifted his chin with defiance. “I’m not fragile. I’m not verboden.”

  Wyatt looked up from scribbling notes on his clipboard. “The first time I met this person you’ve become, sitting there at the gambling table and then watching you fight in the alley, fragile never came to mind.”

  Inside, his body was liquefying, but pride kept him standing. “I’m not long for this world, Wyatt. Anything you do for me here, might extend my time, but not by much. I’m warning you; you don’t want to touch what’s running in my blood.”

  Wyatt glanced at the closed glass cabinet and then over to the white refrigerator with a piece of paper taped to the freeze that read; No Food Products Allowed. “I have anti-venom for the local venomous snakes and a few dangerous bug species. Is that the wound?”

  A venomous demon could hardly be compared to something Topside. Anti-venom was the wrong way to go. Wolffey looked at the soppy bandage that lost its sticky edges. The cut itself was sunken, exposing muscle and pinker tissue. The bruised flesh expanded up his torso.

  It was the growing exhaustion that won out. He sat on the examination table and adjusted to the loud paper that covered the table. It’d been a while since he’d seen a medical doctor. “I was stung by a demon.”

  “The wound is in the advanced stages of necrosis. From how vastly it spread, we have to look at other possible symptoms; low platelet count, blood clots, acute renal failure-”

  “We all die, Wyatt,” he said. He knew the symptoms leading to death. He laid back on the table, setting his arm straight. The Unseelie healer used potions and oils that dripped directly into the mouth. He wasn’t fond of the Topsider’s use of needles. “I need to be out of here by nightfall. How long will this take?”

  “Depends on how I set the drip.” Wyatt’s tone was flat.

  His brother brought the rolling table closer and Wolffey kept his eyes on the ceiling, before it drifted towards the row of dog art. The needle was a small prick, but it was the invasiveness of such an acute object that made his breath catch.

  “Your healing tools are very different from the healer I’m use to.”

  Wolffey gave a polite huff, something he vaguely remembered from his youth. Topsiders liked noise. They liked affirmation that they were heard and understood. The fey were more alien in their social conduct. Wyatt pulled out his stethoscope and held it to Wolffey’s chest. He watched his brother’s forehead crinkle. A question was coming.

  “Your heartbeat is irregular,” Wyatt said.

  Wolffey caught his brother’s wrist and lifted the stethoscope from his chest. “Magic.”

  “Magic gave you an irregular heartbeat?”

  “I met a dead man,” Wolffey said. It happened so long ago, and not a transaction he wa
nted the fey to learn about. There was an advantage to a slower than normal heart rate, especially after dealing with a Beithir.

  “A slow heart rate isn’t typical for a werewolf,” Wyatt said. “What happened with the dead man?”

  Wolffey sighed. Explaining the world of magic to a Topsider was as difficult as trading with a wood sprite. “He wanted a heartbeat to escape the ghoul dictatorship. I needed a low pulse to get past creatures with sensitive hearing. It worked for the both of us.”

  “Ghoul?” Wyatt asked, putting the stethoscope to the side. There was a subtle authority to his person. “This might be the last time I see you. I’d like to hear about it.”

  oOo

  “Scream when this starts to hurt,” Dyckran mocked. His crimson mouth was inches from Aire’s nose.

  Aire breathed in the metallic aroma of his blood on the vampire’s mouth. Dyckran’s grayish tongue flickered out licking at the wetness around his mouth before that sandpaper tongue rolled over the inside of Aire’s raw arm. He wouldn’t give them the satisfaction of a response, though it was growing increasingly painful.

  The more blood they drank, the heavier his body became, pushing him flat against the solid table. His brain pulsed in his skull. His dry throat made every breath painful. The iron cuff on his wrists burned into his flesh when he pulled too hard.

  Mayda approached the table opposite Dyckran. Her citrus perfume was light and feminine, but it hardly hid her base smell, burning charcoal and dust. She brushed her cold fingers through his hair; her nails lightly brushed his skull like a lover. She held up a strand of his hair and brushed the edges of it under her chin.

  Her smile revealed sharp, pearly fangs. “Your skin is paler than moonlight.”

  A retort rested on the tip of his tongue and a heavy tongue it was. With one eye covered and painfully scratched, he fought against the growing desire to shut both eyes and sleep. A warrior of his caliber and training wasn’t going to be shut down this quickly. He needed to focus and think.

  Sergei appeared, wearing the more traditional Romani clothing from his original era. Incense soaked into the fabric giving him a strong stench. “I’m surprised you’re still alive.”