by Andrea Speed
In lieu of that, these cats would have to do.
He was growling low in his throat as he neared the barn, the smell of the cats pungent and overwhelming, and finally a cougar came out to the edge of the door, growling at him in return. He could see what Seb had meant about its build being off—it seemed a bit more squat and square than most real cougars, and its tawny coat of fur had a slightly muddy tinge to it. Its lips pulled back to reveal rows of thin, sharp teeth, its eyes as yellow as a traffic light, and its growl grew to a low roar. Roan matched it in volume, roar for roar, never looking away from its eyes. He could feel his muscles starting to tense, some shifted, but not in a major way… not yet. But they would. How far he went would depend on how hard he held on to his temper.
They just stood there, the protector cougar in the doorway and him outside the barn, and it lowered its head, tensing, and roared louder, taking up a defensive stance. Roan roared back even louder, a partial scream, the force of it scouring his throat raw, and the cougar’s ears twitched back in annoyance. If it didn’t acquiesce, he’d have to force the issue.
It was all quiet behind him. No one was speaking—he wasn’t sure any of the police behind the fence were even breathing.
Finally the cougar looked away and went back into the barn, almost a grudging invitation. Roan walked after it, keeping his shoulders loose, feeling his muscles as sleek and hard as steel beneath his skin. He was ready for anything, and part of him was hoping for a fight. He had a lot of pent-up frustration to get out.
The barn still had the faint scents of horses and hay, although the scents of cat and mildew and bat guano were so strong they were hard to discern. The only light came from the open hatch in the hayloft and a couple of holes in the roof, so there were more shadows than illumination. But still he could see that he was surrounded by about seven cats of various sizes, all cougars save for one, who might have been a pretty sad, battered leopard, small enough to have been either a child or a very petite woman. Most had been lying down, but as soon as their eyes focused on him, as soon as they caught the scent of a man who wasn’t quite a man/a cat who wasn’t quite a cat, they were all on their feet, their growls a low rumble like the distant warning of an earthquake. The bigger ones began to pace around him, circling him like sharks, their paws scuffing up small clouds of dust that threatened to make him sneeze. He was growling back, keeping it low, something he could feel, and trying to work out who was the pack leader. In this dark, noisome barn, all the cougars looked roughly similar, and there was no way to work out their coloring unless they stepped in a dusty shaft of light.
He crouched down to be at eye level with them, catching their eyes as they passed and making them look away, their low growls so constant Roan couldn’t distinguish his from theirs. He smelled fresh cat blood, saw dark marks on the packed earth, and realized one of them was hurt. That added a level of instability, because if they’d been hurt by the men outside, they’d be extra agitated.
He sensed their low-level rage, the confusion he dragged with him and his unusual scent, and he snarled to up the ante, to get a reaction. Finally, the muddy cougar and the battered leopard let out snarling roars in response, the cougar nearing him, breaking the circle. It stalked close and he met it eye to eye, snarl for snarl. Neither was willing to back down, but one of them was going to have to. Roan felt his jaw shift, felt his hands curl like he had claws, and he fought to hold it back as he sensed the other cats gathering around him, preparing to either fight or flee, depending on how this turned out. The fact that the alpha cat hadn’t yet ceded to him was troubling, because by now it should have. Something was weird with these cats, beyond the obvious. This could be bad news, although he couldn’t even find a small corner of his mind where he’d be concerned about this.
Yes, he was surrounded and outnumbered, but he didn’t think he was doing too badly. After all, he hadn’t been mauled yet.
5
Freak Scene
FACE to face with the cougar, Roan could smell its fetid breath as it washed over him, and smelled something wrong. It was a sickly sweet scent, like rot, and he knew suddenly what was going on here. It didn’t make too much sense, but it was the common denominator: the wounded one, the battered one. Safety in numbers.
He brought his growl down to a minor register and lowered his forehead. After a moment the cougar sniffed at him, letting out a low grunt of annoyance, and then banged its head against the top of his head. Weird, but that was a gesture of affection amongst cats, a gesture of acceptance. Although a couple of cats kept pacing, most of them sat down and watched him, tails twitching with impatience.
Roan sat back on his haunches and waited for the lead cougar to settle down. He didn’t know how he was going to explain this to Gordo and the rest of the guys outside, but he figured he’d worry about that later.
The common denominator among these cats, what presumably brought them together, was illness. What he didn’t understand was where they’d found each other, and why they hadn’t torn each other apart.
DIEGO wondered belatedly if he should have brought his EMT jacket along to give him some implication of authority. Not that it would mean much here, but maybe they’d be more willing to answer his questions.
Or not. The jacket didn’t always work—it depended on the situation and the people involved, and he knew no one at this medical center, which wasn’t a proper hospital anyway, just a research center. He’d known they were doing some studies on the virus that caused cat mutations, but he’d had no idea they’d advanced so far as human trials. He was glad that Roan and Paris could get in, but what if it was too late for Paris?
Poor Paris. And poor Roan, come to think of it, although he’d never say that to his face. Roan was nothing if not a prickly, butch bastard. He supposed Roan had a reason to be that way—several good ones, actually—but still, it was the principle of the thing. Roan had, basically, dumped him. Okay, it was a mutual thing; clearly it wasn’t going to work, but Roan was the one who’d laid it out on the table. They had been in the living room, both having after-work beers, Roan scanning the newspaper while Diego was playing Halo (playing video games relaxed him), when suddenly Ro had just put down the paper, stared at nothing for a moment, and then said, “You know what? This isn’t working. Why are we doing this?”
That was a damn good question, and beyond the obvious answer (sex), Diego had nothing. Roan was a decent guy, smarter than you’d suspect, good-looking, good in bed, which was all Diego pretty much asked from a guy (although smart was negotiable). But Ro could be a bit of a know-it-all, annoying, and he always interrupted Diego’s games, which was a cardinal sin. After a night dealing with bleeding, agitated, and sometimes dying people, all he wanted to do was get out of his own head with a little digital carnage, which was nothing like the real thing and meant absolutely nothing; that was all. Roan had his books and his personal “mysteries” for escape; Dee had the games. And if Ro couldn’t see that, he had his head up his ass.
So yeah, their split-up was inevitable, and they both knew it. But since Ro was the first one to bring it up, Diego felt he had the right to be bitchy.
As he walked the cold, sterile halls of the center, finding his way to the Kesselman Wing, he wondered if he was also just a bit jealous. Maybe? He couldn’t have a relationship with a guy to save his life. Most of his so-called “relationships” were basically one-night stands that extended up to a month, and while that had been good with him for a long time, he was getting older, and he realized, to some personal horror, that maybe it would be nice to put up with one guy for a while, as opposed to a series of flakes. And it seemed that flakes were all he ended up with, besides Roan and Ethan. But Ethan wouldn’t give up his wife, and Diego was just not going to be some closet case’s boy on the side. (And what made it worse was Ethan was a surgeon at Saint Joe’s, so Diego saw him every now and again on the job. Diego just pretended he didn’t know him, although every now and then Ethan threw a wounded-puppy-dog look his w
ay. Jerk.)
Roan and Paris seemed to be really good together; they seemed to be happy too, and they’d been together for what, about four years now? Maybe a bit more. How could you not be jealous? Especially since Paris was an absolute sex bomb, which just made it that much more painful. Roan couldn’t have split up with him and taken up with a dumpy guy with no hair and a small penis who would use him shamelessly? Was that so much to ask?
He found the Kesselman Wing finally, after two false starts, and found a reasonably attractive sister behind a semicircular, walnut-finished desk. He told her who he was and who he was here to pick up, and she started to tell him that Mr. Lehane wasn’t out yet when a familiar voice asked, “Roan got called away again?”
Paris had just emerged from a narrow corridor to the left of the receptionist’s desk, looking pale and thin in a bulky sweater that hung off him like a flour sack, with Roan’s fleece-lined bomber jacket thrown over his shoulder. He had his sleeves rolled up, and Diego could see the piece of medical tape holding a cotton ball on his arm. It was either covering up an injection site or an IV site, but either way it probably wasn’t good. Diego couldn’t help but size him up visually in paramedic mode, and from the way Paris looked so tired, pale, and cold, that work side of Diego’s brain assessed him as probably being in shock. He needed to keep Paris warm and conscious, hydrated, see if he could answer some simple questions, ascertain his level of functional awareness. “Afraid so. Gordon needed him for some reason.”
Par just nodded, and the receptionist got out from behind her desk and gave him a note that Diego assumed was from Roan—he did love his notes. Par looked at it, read it quickly, then folded it up and shoved it in the front pocket of his jeans. “Yeah, apparently so. Makes you wonder why the police didn’t keep him in the first place.”
“’Cause he was a pain in the ass, remember? I’m parked out front.” Diego had to fight the urge to touch Paris’s arm, gently but firmly support him on the walk back to the car. He had to snap out of diagnostic mode; it wasn’t fair to Paris. And in spite of looking sickly, he was still hot, which was a credit to his supernatural sex appeal. Needing something to talk about, he asked simply, “How was it?”
“The exam?” Paris shrugged. “It was an exam. They don’t change much.” As soon as they walked outside, into the biting air, Paris shivered and shrugged on the coat, burying himself deep in it. He still looked cold.
As soon as they were in his car—a sky-blue Volkswagen bug that Roan liked to occasionally tease him about—Diego couldn’t help but ask, “How’s your blood pressure?”
Paris looked at him with a small, sly smile, his lips so bloodless they were barely pink. “You can just tell it’s bad by looking at me, huh?”
“Well, I am the world’s best paramedic.”
He seemed to appreciate Diego’s attempt at a joke, but Par looked away, out the windshield. “It’s low. They wanted to hospitalize me, but I told them that wasn’t happening. So they hooked me up to an IV, got me on a fluid drip with some meds, until the numbers hit a point they were happy with. I still feel a little out of it.”
“It wasn’t just your blood pressure, was it?”
Paris shrugged, still looking away from him as Diego pulled out into traffic. It wasn’t too bad this time of day, as most people were still at work. “I really don’t want to talk about it,” he finally said, leaning his head against the passenger window. “My metabolism is going haywire, and there doesn’t seem to be a way to stabilize it. We all know how this is going to end—I just don’t want it to end in a hospital.”
He nodded in understanding. Considering how much time Diego spent in hospitals, getting patients there or transferring them from one place to another, you’d have probably thought he would have liked hospitals better than he did. He liked the people there—with some exceptions—but he still didn’t care much for the places themselves.
“I’m hungry,” Diego announced, aware that it was a terribly obvious segue, but there was nothing to be done about it now. “I haven’t had lunch. You want something?”
Par glanced at him with that small, slightly patronizing smile. Of course he knew what Diego was doing. “A coffee would be good.” He paused briefly, long enough to signal a subject change. “I was wondering if I could talk you into doing something for me.”
“Anything.” He was kind of hoping it was something salacious, but he doubted it, considering Paris’s physical state.
“I’m recruiting people to make sure Roan doesn’t retreat from the world after I’m gone. I’ve got Randi so far, and I’m trying to figure out who might be good at annoying the shit out of him. You can do that, can’t you?”
“In my sleep.”
“That’s what I thought. Exes are great at that, aren’t they? I’d consider it a personal favor if you didn’t let him slip away after I’m dead, because I know he’ll try. He’s already starting to neglect work because of me.” He sighed heavily, dry washing his face with his hands. “I hate the feeling that I’m going to hurt him so much.”
Wow. He knew Paris loved Roan enough that it made Diego just want to explode with envy—why didn’t anyone love him that much? He was prettier than Roan, damn it!—but this was almost too much. “Why the hell are you worried about him? You’re the one who’s….” Dying. He couldn’t quite finish the sentence, but he didn’t really need to. No one was more acutely aware of their own mortality than Paris.
He flashed Diego another smile, this one heartbreakingly sad. “I should have been dead years ago, Diego. All this time has been a gift. I have no right to complain.”
Diego snorted derisively. “You sure as hell do. You’re not even thirty.”
“Yeah, but I think I’ve had all the life I can stand as a tiger strain. I was never even curious what it might feel like to have all the bones in my body broken, yet I know it pretty well now. I don’t really think anyone should know that if they can at all avoid it.”
What could he say to that? He could only grimace at the thought. “You know, if you guys need meds….”
He shook his head. “Thanks, but no, we’re good. In fact, I’m not sure Roan needs them so much anymore. He’s adapting.”
That was such a curious thing to say that Diego briefly took his eyes off the road to glance at Paris’s profile. He looked oddly serene, a man at peace with himself and with the end. Diego was pretty sure he wouldn’t have that much dignity if he was facing death; he’d be screaming and flailing and quite probably throwing Molotov cocktails through his enemies’ windows. “What d’ya mean?”
Paris must have known Diego was looking at him, but he didn’t turn his way; he kept staring out the windshield like he was the driver. “Just that. He’s finally learned how to manipulate his inner animal, and his body has changed with it. He’s a virus child—he’s always been different. I just don’t think anyone ever knew how different.”
“Uh… what are you saying exactly?” He thought he knew, but he was having a hard time accepting it. Was he saying that Roan was part virus, less than human? (Or more than human?)
“You’ve seen him lately, haven’t you? Haven’t you noticed how he’s changed?”
He thought about it. “He looks… good. But that’s about it.” And Roan did look good; it looked like he’d started going to the gym. He looked fitter than he ever had before, although he’d never been the dumpy sort. He thought perhaps Paris’s slow deterioration had made Roan worry about his own health.
Paris nodded, as if he expected that answer. “He hasn’t really been working out; he hasn’t changed his diet. He’s just learned how to control the shift of his muscles. He can trigger the change, Diego. Anytime he wants.”
For a second there, Diego thought he was joking. He must have been joking, right? That couldn’t happen. The infected were slaves to their viral cycles, and the change was a slow, agonizing process that killed quite a few of them. That’s why he’d never understood the cultists and the Goths who thought infection was so
mething to aspire to, like this was some stupid fucking werewolf movie and being one of the “transformed” would give them special abilities or something, when all it really did was promise you agony and an early death.
But maybe that was only true for some of them. After all, Roan did have his dubious bloodhound sense of smell, and hadn’t he healed abnormally fast from his bullet wound? He’d never had the surgery to repair his torn muscles, had he? Viruses adapted; they could change with their environment in some cases. Was Paris saying Roan was doing the same thing? “You’re serious?”
Paris nodded solemnly. “I am. And if I don’t get around to it in time, I want you to recruit Matt into this conspiracy of bugging the shit out of Ro once I’m gone.”
Now Diego was starting to feel drugged. This seemed almost too big and too strange to comprehend. Roan could become a lion any time he wanted? Why hadn’t he told him that while they were seeing each other? The secretive bastard! “Matt? Who’s Matt?”
“Skouris. Remember, the puppy?”
“Him? Why would you want him in on this?”
“Because he obviously loves Ro, and won’t stop bugging him no matter what. Also, he’s more annoying than you could ever be. I have to make sure Roan doesn’t do a Michael Henstridge.”
“Okay, now I’m lost. What?”
Paris smoothed his hair back with his hand, still not messing up his expensive cut, and gave him a look that made it feel like Diego’s heart had cramped in his chest. It was full of such pleading it was almost painful. “I don’t want him to retreat into the cat and never come out. Make sure that doesn’t happen. Do whatever you have to do—just promise me you won’t let him do that.”
