“Do you hear me?” The angry tremor in his voice rose. Eric and Sean were both silent, but the events were not lost on them. Eyes anxiously watched the reflection in the rearview mirror.
Claire hesitated a moment, then nodded. She said nothing. Her gaze had left Simon, and she now stared at the female across from her. She had asked for help, and the unheard plea had gone unnoticed by all but Claire.
Could she help her?
Simon turned away from Claire and let out deep breath. He once more became focused on the woman beside him, ignoring all others around him.
Can I help her? Claire wondered, moving her hand up and down her arms to lower the bristling hairs, while watching the woman. To do so would mean certain death, according to Simon, but would it be worth risking her life? She didn’t even know this woman. She didn’t even know really what she was, or what she was capable of, and she didn’t know if she even could help.
Her head hurt suddenly, and the pain throbbed. She had to do something. This was getting out of hand.
Way out of hand…
Chapter Four
You smell like a fucking werekin.
The words resounded painfully in his head. Vaguely aware of what was going on, Davis lifted one hand and touched his head. There was a new wound on his forehead and the blood was fresh, but already starting to congeal. When he removed his hand and opened his eyes to look at it, he saw the brightness of the thick matted clots. Had he hit his head when he went out? He felt sick all over again.
You smell like a fucking werekin.
It made very little sense and he closed his eyes and his fist. Thunder rumbled overhead. The storm was finally breaking. Was it even real? Was it all in his head? It all seemed like a weird dream. Even waking up felt like a dream.
At least until the jarring slap to the side of the head woke him fully. The stinging pain shot through him, intensifying the headache and rattling his teeth. His eyes opened.
Davis was eye to eye with Glen and the yellow gaze had lost none of its earlier ferocity. The werewolf grinned.
“Good. You’re awake.”
“What the fuck was that for?” Davis cried. He instinctively jerked back, against the wall, increasing the distance between the two. His hand flew up, resting on the side of his face. He tasted blood in his mouth.
Glen was crouched before him, his nakedness now covered by a dark pair of jeans. His long hair hung in curling strings before his face. Pointed, fang-like teeth accented his smile.
“Get up,” he said.
Davis balked a moment, head still pounding. His eyes watered.
“I can’t. My leg’s busted.”
“Bullshit. You can stand. If you’re what I fucking think you are, then it shouldn’t be much of a problem.” Dislike soured Glen’s voice, and he stood to his feet. When Davis merely stared at him, distressed and shocked, he offered another option. He extended his arm and held out his open hand.
“I’ll help you, but no tricks,” he warned.
Davis eyed him. The fallen Beretta was now in the waistband of Glen's pants and his bloody pocketknife was gone. Davis was skeptical. He looked at the open palm of the werewolf with a contemptuous and uncertain stare. He turned his head slightly.
“How do I know I can trust you?”
“You can’t,” Glen stated. “You were obviously left here, for whatever reason, and as much as I hated the discovery, you are one of us, somehow. That doesn’t denote trust between us, but it does raise some very interesting and important questions. And I want answers.” He started to withdraw his hand.
“What if I don’t fucking know the answers? Will you kill me?” Davis stared at him, suspiciously.
“Maybe yes, maybe no. That depends on what else you can tell me.”
He really didn’t have much of a choice. His head hurt so much and his vision clouded a moment. He tried to think clearly, but it wasn’t working too well. He gave in reluctantly. Glen offered his hand once more and this time Davis took the opportunity.
His slippery wet hand closed around Glen’s forearm and the man did likewise, hoisting him to his feet. There was a moment of pain as his injured leg changed position and Davis clenched his teeth, his groan of pain hardly suppressed by them.
Once he was settled to his feet and supported himself against the banister railing of the staircase, he realized the pain had lessened. He could move his leg without a blinding and crippling pain shooting throughout him. He looked down at the torn and bloody fabric of his jeans in shock.
Glen studied his surprise a moment, before clapping a hand over his shoulder. He grinned.
“Better get used to it.”
Davis shook his head as he moved the fabric aside gingerly with two fingers to view the damage. The wound was nearly closed up. His mouth gaped open.
“How…?”
“You’re a werewolf,” Glen responded as he stepped back. His grin faded. His hand rested on the Beretta. The distrust between the two men was mutual. Glen watched Davis, cautiously.
Davis shook his head.
“Were you bitten?” Glen asked for the third time. “Did you come into contact with any werewolf blood?”
“No. No, this cannot be fucking happening. This isn’t possible.” Davis nearly lost his balance and he gripped the banister tightly. He stared aghast at his leg.
Glen let out a boisterous laugh. “What’s impossible about it? We exist! I’m proof of it. You can’t deny what you’ve seen, what you’ve experienced. You’re one of us, whether you like it or not.”
“How?” Davis demanded. “How long…?”
He ended he sentence there, unsure of how to finish it. He didn’t know just what it was he wanted to ask. How long have I been like this? How long has this wound been healing? How long does it take? How could I not have known?
“It’s been about an hour and a half,” Glen answered, not understanding the question, “since it all started.” He noted the healing wounds and whispered, “You have to be half-blood at the most, or else you would be fully healed by now.”
Glen gave a shake of his head and turned away from Davis. He turned his eyes to the floor, following the long dried blood trails and studying the bodies of the fallen hunters. He said nothing else for a while.
“How?” Davis asked again, puzzling over Glen’s statements. “How is it that I am one of you?”
Glen let out a breath and turned back. His eyes had turned brown and he regarded Davis with scrutiny. He was like that for a few moments before he finally spoke.
“Either you were born one, or you were changed.” There was a frustrated tone in his voice. “I don’t know which, but I can tell you one thing; you’re not a full-blood. That’s for damn sure.”
“Full-blood?” Davis repeated, unsure he had heard right. “What’s a—”
“Listen, I can’t explain it now, but I can smell it. I can smell you. I know you’re one of us, but you’re either changed or half. You can’t be full.”
“I don’t—I can’t be either.” Davis again shook his head. It didn’t make any sense. If he was born a werewolf, wouldn’t he have noticed something? It made his head hurt even worse.
“Have you ever wondered about it? Glen asked. It was as if he had read his mind. "I mean, you're a werewolf. You have to be. There must be something that made you wonder about it all. Quick healing—”
“I don’t fucking know!” There was a strain in Davis’ voice. He squeaked. “I didn’t even know it was even possible until tonight. What the fuck am I? How the fuck did this happen?”
Glen let out a chuckle but didn’t answer. Davis shifted his weight against the banister and stared at the laughing man. After a moment, he stopped laughing and turned to search the bodies on the floor.
Davis grew impatient. How was it that he was a werewolf? How did he even know for sure if he was? It was ridiculous. It couldn’t be true.
But something deep within his gut told him it was. The little voice inside his head warned him n
ot to ignore the signs, and frantically he searched memory after memory, trying to come up with evidence.
There was the time he’d fallen out a tree and heard the bone crack in his arm. The doctor at the emergency room had told his foster parents it was little more than a sprain. Other little instances, such as the time he was playing hide and seek with a neighbor’s kid from across the street and he had found him easily because he followed the smell of the cotton candy he had consumed earlier. His head hurt too much to think beyond that. It wasn’t much to convince anyone.
Glen rummaged through the many pockets of the dead men’s pants, removing wallets and various objects. He opened one wallet, removed the cash and stuffed it into his back pocket. He looked at the identification in disgust. He tossed it aside and moved on to the next.
“Who are these jerk-offs?” he whispered.
Davis didn’t answer. He lifted one bloody hand and stared at the sickening sight. He wiped both hands on his ruined jeans, but it did little to remove the dried blood crusted around his fingernails and between his fingers.
Glen searched another body, found another wallet but nothing else. He threw it aside, not bothering to look into it. He sighed, exasperated.
“Nothing. Fucking nothing.” He stood and gave a hefty kick to one of the lifeless, nameless hunters sprawled on the floor. Davis winced. Glen turned and saw the pained look on his face and his own softened for only a moment.
“Who were they? Who are they?” he asked. His gaze didn’t leave Davis for a long time.
Uncomfortable under the stare, Davis swallowed hard and thought of what to say. He had no clue who these guys were, other than Michael, who was a slumped, bloody mass against the wall. The rest were nameless and faceless, pawns in some sick and twisted game. This was all Simon and Sean’s doing. He had no part of that.
“I don’t have a clue,” he admitted.
Glen narrowed his eyes dangerously, glowering at him. He took a few steps forward, his bare feet treading through puddles of congealing blood.
“I think you do have some clue,” he answered, finally. He was only a few feet away.
Davis grabbed the banister even more tightly, his knuckles turning white. Glen’s eyes bore into him.
“No, I don’t.” Davis had always heard that breaking eye contact was a sure sign of someone’s deception and lying. He forced himself to stare into the werewolf’s eyes. The yellow-hued gaze unnerved him, but he held it true. He wasn’t lying.
“You’re a good liar, but not that good.”
Davis opened his mouth to protest, but Glen cut him off. Their eyes remained locked in a heated stare.
“You were with them. You came here for a reason. What was it? Why did you come here?” The last words left him in a low growl. It sent chills up Davis’ spine. Hairs prickled along his arms and the back of his neck.
“I don’t know anything!” Davis protested. “It wasn’t my doing. I had no part in this.” After he said the words, he realized how ridiculous they sounded, and realized the potential hazard he had just thrown himself in.
The werewolf’s eyes blazed a moment, but he seemed more rational than the other werewolf male, Jason, had been. Davis waited for some blow, but none came. Glen turned away and bent to pick up a gun from the floor. He checked the clip, reinserted it with a click and stuck it in the waistband of his jeans with the other weapon. When he turned back to Davis, the golden gaze was gone.
“You had a part. I don’t know who you are, really, or your reasons for being a part of this…hunt,” he spat the last word, “but I want to know who’s behind it. I want to know who killed my friends, my family. I want to know who ruined my life.”
Davis gawked at him, unable to think of anything to say. He had never thought that werewolves were more than mindless monsters. But they had families. They had lives. For a moment, he saw the red-haired boy who had witnessed his mother’s death, staring at him with pure hatred. He forced it away and stared at Glen.
“I’m sorry, man,” he said, surprised to hear himself saying the words. They seemed funny coming from him. Glen sneered and Davis fell silent.
“Sorry? You’re sorry.” It was a statement, a fact. Glen shrugged. He turned his dark eyes away. “You will be sorry.”
Davis was confused. He trembled, one hand curled around the banister, blood-caked and heavy. His leg was stretched out, the wounds somehow healing. He didn’t understand any of it. Glen continued, his face becoming blank.
“Who was in charge then?” Glen looked toward Davis. “Was it the tall guy, with the dark hair?”
Davis nodded. “Simon.” He choked on the name as if it were acid.
“Why’s he doing this?” Glen demanded. He began to pace the floor, walking toward Davis, then turning and walking away. He seemed to be contemplating.
“Why is he doing this?” he repeated. “Who is he?” He stopped pacing and stared at Davis. He blinked a few times, looking almost as confused as Davis felt.
“I don’t know who he is. Just that he’s the fucker who hired me to do his dirty work.”
There was a scoff from Glen and then, “What the fuck do you know?”
“I know I’m not a goddamn werewolf.”
This caused Glen to laugh and shake his head. Tendrils of his still damp hair clung to his cheek and he didn’t brush them away. “You can’t deny it. I can smell what you are.”
“Smell?”
“Fuck, you really don’t know anything, do you?” He sighed despondently. “I suppose there’s no sense in killing you yet, not until I get some answers. For now, I want to search for survivors and supplies and get the fuck out of here and you are going to help me.
“I’m not sure if the cops will show up anytime soon, but I sure in the hell don’t want to be here when and if they do.” He paused. “I wonder why the others haven’t come back.”
“There are no others,” Davis answered. He didn’t avoid Glen’s severe gaze then. He wanted him to see that he was not lying about this. “They’re all gone. No one got out.”
Glen’s expression sudden turned fierce, his jaw trembled as he clenched it. A hand moved toward his gun. Davis saw the danger and quickly deterred with an explanation.
“The ones that tried to get out the back were captured. They were taken. Simon came here for the girl, and for anyone else they could get information from. They took some kid with them…” Davis drifted off into silence. Glen glared at him.
“What…Rose? Aidan?” There was a pause and then, “Fuck!” reverberated off the walls, sending a powerful echo throughout the house. It zapped Davis at the core and he shuddered.
“Fuck,” Glen said again. He turned away from Davis, unable to look at him.
“What about Jason?” he asked suddenly, spinning to face Davis. “Did he get out?”
Davis shook his head. “I don’t know,” he squeaked.
Glen took a deep breath, his nostrils flaring. He calmed himself down and took his hand from the gun at his waistband before speaking again.
“All right. This just pushes us harder.” He ran one hand over his forehead, smoothing strands of loose hair back. “Let’s go.”
Davis was puzzled, but then Glen moved toward him and pried his arm away from the banister. He almost stumbled, but his leg held up and he regained his balance. Glen stepped away from him.
“You should be able to walk now, maybe with a limp. Check upstairs. See if anyone’s alive and then help them.” His eyes were intense as he stared at Davis. “Help them. And don’t try to get away. You won’t get very far with me after you. Now go. We probably don’t have much time.”
He shoved him forward, so Davis once more nearly lost his balance. Instead he caught himself on the banister and held tightly to the slick wood surface. Glen’s footfalls echoed as he made his way from Davis to the hall. He never looked back and soon disappeared into the shadows.
Davis let out a breath he wasn’t aware he had been holding. His legs felt weak, especially the in
jured one, and he wanted to collapse again. Shakily, he lifted his good foot to the next step and dragged the bad one up. It hurt to do so, but only a little. Maybe it was almost fully healed.
Impossible. He was not a werewolf. Absolutely could not be a werewolf… Glen had to be making it up, to try to intimidate him or something. There was no way in hell he could be one.
“Right?” He heard himself say. His voice was loud and foolish in the deathly silence. He took another few steps, hobbling with the bad leg.
He had so many questions to ask. He was so confused about everything that was going on.
Let’s suspend reality for a moment. Let’s say I am a werewolf. How did I go all my life never knowing it? And what do you mean by half-blood and full-blood? Does that mean I’m only part werewolf? It doesn’t make sense, man. No sense at all.
And then, his mental conversation shifted. He was talking to himself now, asking himself questions that an hour and a half ago he would never have fathomed to ask.
Is it possible that one or both of my parents could be one? Is it possible that I’m just retarded when it comes to the werewolf thing? How could I have never seen it before? I can’t do anything like those werewolves can do. I can’t run or jump as high or as fast. I can’t change. I’m not a werewolf!
Screaming and cursing at himself would not help, and Davis knew it.
Fine, so what? I’m a fucking werewolf. Big deal.
He couldn’t play it off like that either. It was a big deal. He took a few more steps and was in the upstairs hallway. The corridor was dark, but he could clearly see the outline of a body not too far down. He never really realized before how well he could see in the dark. Immediately, he closed his eyes and took another deep breath.
He finally reopened his eyes and could see as brilliantly as before. He continued down the hall, barely limping. The pain was gone.
He stopped at the dead body, kicking at the heavy form with his foot. The man rolled over, staring up at the ceiling. Davis didn’t know him and didn’t hesitate much in taking the gun from his stiffened fingers. He didn’t know if he would need it, but just in case, he stuffed it in the waistband of his ruined jeans. He didn’t bother to check the magazine. He pressed on.
Blood Moon Page 4
