by Tamar Sloan
“Just getting changed.” I call back down, my voice surprisingly steady.
With a last rub across my chest, just to make sure, I head back to my room. The mystery will have to wait.
I change and am downstairs in fifteen minutes, a shirt now covering the inexplicable new addition.
“You’ll have to eat breakfast in the car.” Mom passes me four pieces of blackened toast. Mitch grins at me as he munches on the slices he cooked himself. I guess that’s karma for running late.
In the car Mom sighs. “Dr. Martinez wants to talk about Dad’s progress.”
“There hasn’t been any.”
“Hence the discussion.”
I clench my hands. Dad has been the same for a week now. No worse, but no better. As a Were he should have been running laps around Stash by now. None of us have said it out loud, but that’s scary.
At the hospital, the route through white corridors, up a stainless steel elevator, and through silent sliding doors is now familiar. We’re all here every day, now allowed unlimited time with Dad, but only one or two at a time. Those short couple of hours spent with Dad after school I use to tell him everything that’s happening. Desperately wishing he would wake.
Because I’m not the only one struggling to stay strong, and the cracks are starting to show.
You can see it in the strain around Mom’s eyes. The stoop in Mitch’s shoulders. By Stash waiting by the door day after day. I can’t escape my uncertainty about whether I’m making the right decisions. We need him. We need our Alpha.
Dr. Martinez greets us at the entry to the ICU, and whisks us to a meeting room.
Mom’s hands clench on the table. “How is he?”
She shakes her head slowly. “There’s no change, Beth.”
Mom’s hands come to rub at her eyes, her elbows on the table. “He should be healing more rapidly.”
Dr. Martinez arches a quizzical brow at Mom’s choice of words. “Yes, we expected to see more progress by now. We are concerned there may be some complications.”
I lean forward. “Complications?”
Dr. Martinez turns to me. Mom’s hands stay holding her head, brown eyes focused on the table. “Yes. Your father maintains a consistently high temperature which is concerning. We have had to increase the antipyretic medication to address this, but it doesn’t seem to be making a difference.”
“You’ve been medicating him for it?”
“Of course. Fever, particularly one that is resistant to medication, can indicate an infection. We’re worried the bullet may have fragmented and not all pieces were removed during the initial surgery.”
Mitch looks at me before turning to Dr. Martinez. “Does that happen?”
She shrugs. “It can. Like I said, gunshot wounds can be complex and are often unpredictable.”
I sit back. We all run at high body temperatures, it’s as part of being a Were as our rapid healing. I’ve never considered if the two could be linked. Are they? Meaning the medication is messing with his ability to heal. Or does Dad really have an infection? Which would need potentially lifesaving surgery.
I sit forward. “What if I told you his high body temp is normal?” I feel Mom stiffen, but I have to know.
“Hyperpyrexia is not a normal body temperature.”
“But what if it is for Dad?”
Dr. Martinez looks thoughtful. “Well then, we wouldn’t need to treat it, I suppose.”
I take a deep breath, once again not knowing if I’m doing the right thing, but doing it anyway. It seems to be the trend for the past couple of weeks. “We have a family trait of running hot.”
Which is pretty much the truth.
“A genetic predisposition? I’ve never heard of it.”
“I know, but everyone from my Dad’s side has it. Look.” I lean my head forward.
Dr. Martinez’s cool hand comes up, the back of her hand resting on my forehead. Her eyes widen as she registers the warm surface.
“That’s highly unusual.”
“I know. But all us Phelan men have it.” Also the truth—just don’t check Mom.
Dr. Martinez’s lips purse. “Why didn’t you mention this at the intake interview?”
That’s a valid question. I fumble for an answer, but thankfully Mitch is thinking on his feet. “It’s something we take for granted.” He gives her a rueful grin. “Just means we don’t need as many layers in winter. I guess we forgot with all the drama and shock.”
Dr. Martinez looks down at Dad’s chart, flipping through several of the pages. “It’s difficult to differentiate the origins of the fever then. We now have a choice to stop the antipyretic medication, or treat this as an infection and prep the surgical team.”
She looks up at the three of us.
I turn to Mom, to find she’s looking at me.
Through a throat full of uncertainty I say, “I think we stop the medication, and give it some time to see what happens.”
Mom’s hand grips mine beneath the table. “I think so too.”
“Very well.”
I don’t sag, although I want to. These decisions are weighing heavily on my shoulders. On my conscience. I wonder if this is how Dad felt being Alpha. He was always so strong, so…stoic, making everyone else around him feel like he was in control, giving them a sense of reassurance. Which is about all I can give Mom right now. So I remain upright, jamming another shot of false bravado down my spine.
Mom stands. “I’d like to go see him now.” Her arms are once again crossed in front of her, elbows in palms.
Dr. Martinez shuffles her papers together and stands. “Go ahead, Beth. I’ll need to speak to the nursing staff.”
She opens the door, only to take a step back. Geoff and Stan are standing on the other side, light blue shirts sporting shiny badges. Her clipboard flies to her chest. “Oh.”
Geoff tips his hat. “Apologies ma’am. We need to speak to the Phelan family.”
“We’d just finished.”
Mom’s shoulders dip a little. I’m pretty sure she was keen to see Dad. Sometimes you need that physical touch to give you the reassurance they are not slipping away from you.
“You go, Mom. It’s me they need to speak to.”
Mom looks at Dad’s co-workers. Geoff nods. “We’ll call you if we need you, Beth.”
The men enter, Geoff taking the seat left by Dr. Martinez and Stan looking a little tall and awkward beside him. Geoff clears his throat. “Noah, the coordinates you gave us came up with nothing. No tracks, no fibers, no blood splatters.”
I frown. “We didn’t stick to the track, Geoff. I must have got confused.”
Geoff’s little notebook comes out, and Stan copies him. “Talk me through it again.”
I sigh. “I don’t know anything more than what I’ve told you. The whole thing is a blur. Dad was bleeding out. I got him to the nearest point to get help.”
Geoff sighs; I sense his patience is as thin as the hair on his head. “The trail is getting cold, Noah. Rain has probably cleared most of the evidence as it is.”
I clench my fists. “I want to know who did this just as much as you, Geoff. Probably even more.”
Geoff’s notebook shuts. “I know. Sorry, Adam is a good cop.”
“And an even better dad.”
“We’ll take another look.” Rain would have certainly washed away the remnants of those long minutes when I carried Dad to the highway. Far quicker and farther than a seventeen-year-old boy should be able to. And about a mile east of where I sent Geoff and Stan. “But it looks like it will go down as a hunting accident.”
I shake their hands again, thanking them for their help. For the millionth time, hoping I’ve done the right thing.
Mitch stands. “Let’s get a coffee before we head in, give Mom some time.”
“Sounds good.”
We head to the ICU waiting room. Tara is waiting there, hands slowly annihilating a tissue. Mitch grabs her in a hug.
“They’ve been t
reating him for a fever.”
“Oh. But…”
Mitch heads to the coffee machine, grabbing a mug from the cupboard above. It’s a worry when this place is as familiar as your own kitchen. “We know. We’re going to try taking him off the medication.”
“To see if that’s why he’s not healing?”
“Yeah.”
I sit at one of the tables. Unless it’s an infection.
I feel as old as Dougherty right now. So many decisions. I wish Dad would hurry up and wake up.
If whispers through my mind.
I stomp on it, jamming its pointed ‘I’ and hissing ‘F’ back into a soundproof, titanium coffin, one that I’m sending to the center of the earth.
I pick up the magazine in front of me. A parenting magazine. I absentmindedly flip through the pages. When several glossy photos of happy families sail past, I put it back down.
Just as Kurt comes through the door.
Tara’s cup stops on its way to her mouth. Although she’s spoken to her father, things have been strained. She hasn’t been home, having moved into Mitch’s room. We’ve kept the whole thing a secret at school. They were supposed to bond after graduation. Instead they had a bonding where Tara’s mother, sisters, even Mr. Puddles weren’t present. Then they would have moved into the house Mom and Dad had planned to build them on Phelan land. But Kurt’s demands had pressed fast forward on all that.
I stand, and consciously have to unclench my hands.
Kurt takes a few more steps in. “How is he?”
Tara is silent; Mitch’s arm around her. I cross my arms. “We’re taking him off some medication they were giving him for high body temperature. We’re confident this will be the turning point.”
Kurt looks thoughtful. “That’s great news.”
I wait. Last time Kurt came, it wasn’t just to check on Dad.
“Noah, we need to discuss your decision.”
I know this was inevitable. But I still don’t relish what’s coming. I wonder if I should offer to take this somewhere else, but this affects Mitch and Tara just as much as me.
Kurt stands there, arms by his side. There’s no outward sign of anger, but for some reason I sense a storm is brewing beneath that calm exterior. He tilts his head down ever so slightly. “You made the wrong choice.”
My voice is soft, but steady. “Quite a few people disagree with you.”
“You’re too young, too inexperienced to know what you’ve done.” He takes a step forward, getting into my space. “You’ve compromised the alliance.”
I shake my head. “A bonding between its members can only strengthen it.”
Hazel eyes flare, telling me a fire had been banked in there all along. “It should have been the firstborns!” He pulls back a little, his tone quieting. “The Channons and Phelans, united, have the potential to become the most powerful pack ever known.”
“That’s why you demanded your own daughter bond with her love’s twin?”
Kurt waves his arm, like it’s inconsequential. I have to move back a little as his branch-sized limb sails past. “You humiliated me. You humiliated the Channons.”
“I’m the Phelan Alpha. I made the best choice for my pack.”
Kurt’s nostrils flare, and he throws his shoulders back as his chest expands.
Is he trying to intimidate me?
“You did this because you’ve become attached to a human.”
The words fan my guilt like a hot breeze. I don’t respond, because I don’t know if denying it would be a lie.
I don’t get a chance because Kurt’s chest is expanding again. “I’m going to give you an opportunity to redeem your mistake. You will step down and announce me Alpha while your father is incapacitated.”
The ramifications of what he’s asking flash through my mind. “I don’t think so.”
“I will restore my pride.” The words are growled through clenched teeth.
Or what? I narrow my eyes. “What are you threatening me with, Kurt?”
“Or I will challenge you to a Claiming.”
Mitch gasps. Tara steps forward. “No Daddy!”
Kurt’s hot eyes remain zeroed on me.
A Claiming? They’re the stuff of fables. He can’t be serious.
His tense shoulders, clenched hands, and ferocious frown all spell serious. Dead serious.
My crossed arms tighten, over a stomach that is feeling sick. “So be it.”
Those tense lips in the depth of his beard part a little. The low brow hikes up a quarter of an inch. “That’s not a smart move, Noah. It’s a rash, immature move.”
Is it? But I don’t have another choice. “You made the call, Kurt.”
“Very well.” His tone says ‘you just signed your death warrant’. “We will not wait for the full moon. It will happen…” He pauses, eyes narrowing. “…in three days’ time.”
“That’s a break from tradition, Kurt.” Which is very un-Kurt. “What’s the rush?”
Kurt’s lip curls. I don’t think he’s used to being questioned. He certainly doesn’t like it. But I would never have stepped up to Alpha if it wasn’t for him, so he can deal with it.
“We will settle this quickly. In the manner that custom demands.”
Kurt appears to be waiting. He stands there, breathing loudly.
I nod once. There’s nothing else to say.
Kurt’s gaze moves to Tara. “You’ve been away long enough. Come, we’re leaving.”
Tara looks shocked then bewildered before settling on resolute. Kurt watches his own pride, his own determination blossom in his daughter. Just not in the way he would have wanted. “Dad, I’m a Phelan now.”
Kurt’s face twists with something I haven’t seen before. “Very well.” The words come out in the same tone as just a moment ago. He spins on his heel and strides from the room, taking all the tension with him.
I sag. Responsibility, duty, and my heritage are all weighing down on my shoulders. Any pretense I know what I’m doing crashes to the floor. How did that just happen?
Mitch curses. Then curses again. Tara has collapsed into the seat next to her. The seriousness of what just happened hits us.
A Claiming.
I just agreed to a Claiming.
I walk to the nearest table, my hands coming out to grasp it. My head sinks between my shoulders. All the decisions I’ve made, the ones that seemed so right, have led to this.
I hear Mitch come over, feel his hand rest on my shoulder. I wonder how much my twin can sense.
“He chose this, not you.”
Okay, he’s got a pretty good handle on the situation.
And then Mom comes in. She takes in Tara sitting in the corner, me straightening up from the table, Mitch beside me. Her arms cross again. “What’s going on?”
No one answers. We all look at anywhere but her.
“What’s? Going? On?” Clenched teeth bite off each word. I know she’s not angry. She’s bracing herself.
Tara stands. “Dad just came by…”
“He just challenged Noah…” Mitch falters.
“To a Claiming.” I finish the inescapable sentence.
Mom’s mouth opens then shuts. She frowns, anger tightening her mouth. Turning, her narrowed eyes glare at the door that Kurt stormed through not long ago. Her mouth opens again.
Then she sits in the chair beside her with a thump, devastation slumping her shoulders and clamping her mouth shut.
Suddenly all the confusion, the unanswered questions, the hospital walls get too much. I head to the door, needing air and needing out. I brush Mom’s shoulder on the way; she gives my hand an understanding pat.
I’m heading home.
The drive is a blur of thoughts and emotions. Little else has room to register in my overflowing brain. I pull into the driveway, knuckles white on the steering wheel, teeth gripping all the things I wish I’d said to Kurt.
And she’s there, hair wisping in the breeze, tilted green eyes anxious, full o
f questions.
I get out of the car and stride toward her.
And she’s around me. Her scent surrounding me.
Being with Eden is the best place in the world.
31
Eden
Grandfather Douglas is my silent companion as I wait. Low, grey clouds loom heavy on the horizon, casting distant shadows and turning the world ashen. A gust of wind catches my hair, throwing a few strands across my face. I tuck the coiling pieces back over my shoulder, only to have them flip right back. I can smell the moist promise in the air. A storm is coming.
I know something big has happened.
I automatically think of Adam. But these feelings aren’t grief. They are darker, more complex. I can feel the tense anger simmering. But there’s something else, clenching my stomach. It’s like he’s rattled, shocked…scared.
Add that to my own anxiety, knotting everything from my shoulders to my toes, and I’m a tightly wound coil. I take a deep breath, trying to make room for it all. I want to pace, stretch taut muscles. But my entire being is centered on the road. My eyes and ears wait for the physical proof. Noah is coming.
I hear the low rumble, and a blue metal nose rounds the bend. He roars up, gravel crunching when he brakes.
Then he’s out of the truck, not bothering to shut the door. Long, strong legs are powering toward me, sky blue eyes carrying their own grey clouds. I stand, just as rooted to the ground as the tree beside me.
And strong arms are around me, crushing me to him. His palm cups my head, fingers tangling in my flyaway hair, tucking my face against his chest. Warmth and tenderness fill me, and I don’t know if the feeling starts with me or with him. I feel his lips brush my hair as he takes a deep, deep breath. As we stand there, the feelings ebb and flow, then slowly subside.
“What’s happened, Noah?”
Another deep, expanding breath enters and leaves. “Kurt wasn’t happy with the call I made.”
“The right choice by his daughter?”
Noah rubs his cheek against the top of my head. “He says it should have been the firstborns, and that I humiliated him. He wanted me to appoint him the Phelan Alpha.”
“No.” I breathe.
