Fever

by Lara Whitmore

He unleashed an inhuman roar as he leapt forward, allowing the eyes of the wolf to guide him.

  Spasms wracked Mitch’s body as he attempted to change and regain his full advantage. But it was too late for that. No sooner had his knees hit the floor before Vincent tackled him, going for the throat even without the wolf’s teeth. They wrestled and rolled, clawing, kicking, biting, and punching for the upper hand. It was a fight to the death, to further avenge their fallen mates.

  At long last, Vincent found himself again pinned to the floor. A cruel blow to the bandages over his abdomen left him gasping for breath.

  Black spots danced in his vision. His eyelids fluttered as the room began to spin.

  “Oh, no you don’t,” he vaguely heard. “You’re not getting out of this that easily.”

  A hand grabbed Vincent’s hair, twisting while it dragged him to his feet. His arm was yanked behind his back. Mitch shoved him forward, cracking his chin against the wall and effectively pinning him in place.

  “Turn,” Mitch growled into his ear. “Let the prowler see you for what you really are.”

  Vincent snapped his head back, hearing a crack. His arm was released, allowing him to sag against the wall. The panels were smeared with his blood.

  Turning, he saw the change overtaking Mitch. The speed with which it occurred was astounding.

  He had less than a minute to act. It was enough to send him stumbling toward the duffel bag of weapons. He was too weak to grapple with Mitch again, let alone change into a wolf himself. Unconsciousness was threatening to drag him under, even as his heart pounded with adrenaline.

  The duffel bag radiated with a violet glow, plainly warning him against the presence of silver dust. It was unfortunate the bag’s contents were his only hope of survival, because digging for them might finish him off.

  The zipper burned his hand like fire when he pulled it back. The wolf snarled inside him, forcing his hands away from the source of the poison. But Vincent fought back, plunging his hands deep into the bag. His defiance left the wolf with no choice but to retreat from the silver, eyes and all.

  The sickening odor of burning flesh permeated the air. Twitching as if an electric current was running through him, he attempted to focus on the weapons under his fingertips.

  When he retrieved a gun sure to be loaded with silver bullets, Vincent staggered back. He used his other hand to curl his finger around the trigger. It was already weeping and beginning to swell. His vision blurred as the extent of his injuries rapidly caught up with him. But he was able to raise the gun.

  Through a foggy haze, he saw his wife’s murderer stand in wolf form. The gun wavered. Vincent used both hands to hold it still.

  The burning. The burning was unbearable.

  A warning growl broke from Mitch’s throat as he crouched. Teeth bared, he almost appeared to be grinning. As if he sensed Vincent’s latest weakness.

  The motel room door banged open. Shots rang out, echoing in his ears. There was a deafening roar, a blur of movement, and more shattering glass. Mitch’s scent faded as a draft breezed through the room.

  It was cold.

  Vincent felt his knees buckle, too unsteady to hold him up any longer. They hit the floor. He swayed there, finally sitting back on his heels to avoid falling forward.

  What was happening?

  “Whoa. Hang on, pal,” he heard a woman say. She smelt of pine and leather. Black boots with a confounding number of laces passed him. “Logan, where are you?”

  There was a muffled groan from somewhere. Springs creaked and then–

  “I should have known I’d find you hiding under the bed. You’re bleeding. Are you all right?”

  He heard Logan curse. “I hit my head again. I think– oh no, not you.”

  “Hell of a way to greet someone, love. The guy by the door belong to you?”

  Vincent lost his struggle to remain upright as footsteps approached him. He fell against the wall, dragging air into his lungs.

  Whatever adrenaline rush he’d felt, whatever emotional need for revenge had plagued him, it faded in wake of pain. All-encompassing pain, almost as excruciating as the change.

  “Oh, man.” Logan drew in a breath when he crouched beside him. “Get a towel, Anna. We need to stop the bleeding.”

  A hand lightly gripped Vincent’s shoulder in a gesture of comfort. He took it for what it was, although his shoulder throbbed from when his arm had been twisted behind his back. There were very few places that didn’t hurt.

  “Vincent, can you hear me? You’re going to be okay. Just stay awake. Hey, hey. Look at me, man.”

  His head turned in the direction of Logan’s voice, eyes half-mast. The only thing he wanted to do when he heard the words stay awake was to sleep. Objects were hazy, scents beginning to dull, words spoken as if underwater… He just needed to rest awhile. To allow the wolf to heal him. It would have happened in a day or so if he hadn’t been poisoned by silver. But the way things were unraveling, he’d be lucky if a week of bed rest rendered him well enough to walk.

  Footsteps returned from the bathroom. They were lighter and more graceful than Logan’s footsteps, despite the clunker boots. Anna. Returning with a towel. When had she left?

  The towel was draped over his chest, and pressure was applied. He closed his eyes. A cold sweat broke out on his forehead. Werewolf or not, he was rapidly nearing the brink of his pain threshold.

  There was a startled gasp. Following a draft of movement, he heard the sound of a bullet sliding into a chamber.

  “Anna, what the hell are you doing?”

  “Back away from him, Logan.”

  “Have you lost your mind? Put the gun down.”

  Vincent struggled to open his eyes and find his voice. She knew. Her tone had gone cold, as if she were distancing herself from a kill. Did that mean she was a prowler too?

  He met her eyes over the barrel of the gun. They were blue, and hard.

  “Look at his hands,” she continued without blinking. “Those are silver burns. He’s a werewolf.”

  Vincent heard the slight catch in Logan’s breath. That pained him more than when his hand was picked up and studied, breath ghosting over the surface of the burns.

  When his hand was abruptly dropped, he knew there could be no more hiding.

  “Back away,” Anna repeated. “Before he changes.”

  Logan swallowed, running a hand over his face. Though his eyes shot daggers at Vincent, his words were soft. “He still saved my life.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding. Why are you helping him?” The gun lowered slightly as she looked at him in exasperation. “He’s a killer, Logan. They’re all killers.”

  “And what the hell are we?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Your grand reentrance into my life is about to include shooting someone in it.” He jerked his head in Vincent’s direction.

  Anna lowered the gun to her lap, tossing her blue-black hair over her shoulder. Her attention was solely on Logan now. “I am trying to save you.”

  “I haven’t needed you to save me for some time now.”

  “And apparently that time is up. Eddie directed me here. He said you missed your scheduled call-in.”

  “I’ve been busy.”

  “I gathered that when I rode into town. I saw the state of your crap car out front. What’s going on?”

  Vincent cleared his throat, drawing their attention. He didn’t mind listening to their banter. Found it rather intriguing, in fact. But the pounding in his head had gone from bad to worse, and his chest felt like it was on fire.

  “Are you going to shoot me?” he whispered.

  “That depends on how useful you are,” Anna answered before Logan could. “What do you know?”

  “I know I need–” He paused to cough, surprised by how raspy his voice sounded. “I need a dose of silver antidote. Probably more now.” A glance at his hands. “They keep a supply in the hospital. Mix it in the lab.”

  Logan and Anna exc
hanged a stunned glance.

  “There’s an antidote to silver?”

  He nodded, fading fast. “Purple liquid, in vials. One dose per vial. It contains enough components of silver to absorb and neutralize what makes it harmful to us. It should be in the first floor lab. Probably the basement too.”

  Before darkness claimed him, he uttered a final word.

  “Hurry.”

  Chapter Seven

  Logan watched Vincent sink into unconsciousness with mixed feelings. On one hand, he felt satisfaction. The man had lied to him by omission, placing them in extreme danger. On the other hand, he felt overwhelming guilt as the missing pieces finally fell into place.

  Last night in the forest, something had felt wrong, but he couldn’t put his finger on it. Now he knew. The werewolf he’d been tracking and the one Vincent had saved him from couldn’t possibly be the same. He’d shot at the one he’d tracked. Heard the yelp of pain as he wounded it. The werewolf who attacked him hadn’t been wounded or visibly scarred in any way until the moment it died.

  Vincent had been.

  At the time, Logan believed the wounds to be the result of a previous fight. They were prowlers. Injuries happened. But now he came to the horrible realization that he was the one who’d inflicted such wounds. Him. Under the belief that Vincent was the werewolf behind the elevated deaths and disappearances in the region.

  Doubts began to creep into his mind. Did Vincent’s innocence mean that not all werewolves were as bloodthirsty as the Society led him to believe? Could they retain self-control? Perhaps even fight against the merciless and primitive of their own kind?

  Logan shook his head to clear it. There wasn’t time to think about that now.

  He worked his arms under Vincent’s shoulders, gingerly hauling him up. His arms burned with the strain, and his nostrils flared. The moment Vincent was upright, Logan bent and allowed him to fall across his shoulders.

  “I should be used to lugging your ass around by now,” he panted. “Anna, the door?”

  Her brow wrinkled in confusion, though she moved to push it against the wall. “Where are you taking him?”

  “This room is trashed. We’re moving to another. I doubt the motel owner will mind. You and I need to swing by the hospital.”

  “We can’t just leave him here,” she protested, following him outside. “The werewolf I shot at managed to escape. What if it returns to kill him?”

  “I thought you wanted him dead.”

  “But you don’t.”

  He waited while she picked the lock of the next room. The moment she opened the door, he shuffled inside.

  “Wait a minute,” she snapped, stepping in front of him protectively, her gun drawn. While she made quick work of searching the room and bathroom, Logan dumped Vincent onto the nearest bed.

  He groaned when he straightened, stretching the muscles in his back.

  “We’ll line the room with silver shavings,” he decided. “He’ll be perfectly safe.”

  Anna holstered her gun. “Unless the motel burns to the ground.”

  “We still have my second radio. We’ll hide both of yours in here, too. I think the werewolf you chased off would rather make us desperate enough to call the Society, so it can track the signal back to base.”

  “It can do that?”

  “Without a doubt.”

  She stepped outside to grab the bags from the other room, calling behind her, “And why aren’t we going for backup? If the werewolf is strong enough to shred your pal, we shouldn’t take it on alone.”

  “It knows our scents. We’re surrounded by werewolf territory. My car is crap, as you so eloquently put it. We can’t all ride that speed demon you call a motorcycle.”

  He pulled the covers from the second bed and placed them over Vincent. Then he retrieved two towels from the bathroom. They needed to keep the bleeding under control. Stitches would help, but they wouldn’t save him unless the silver antidote was flowing through his bloodstream, and soon. He’d really done himself in with the fresh silver burns on his hands.

  With an exasperated sigh, he sat at Vincent’s side. “You sure know how to mess yourself up, don’t you? We’ll need to talk about this self-sacrificing complex of yours when you wake up.”

  He moved the covers to tie one towel around Vincent’s thigh. It was a wreck, but it could wait. The most severe wounds were those on his chest. Any one of them might have punctured his lung cavity.

  Anna was breathing heavily when she returned, dumping the bags onto the stripped bed. “My radios are in the blue duffle. So is my first aid kit.” Pause. “We could go for backup together, you know. Just you and me.”

  She wore an expression of pained remorse. The realization that she was suggesting they leave Vincent to die made Logan narrow his eyes. “I won’t abandon him.”

  The declaration earned him a view of her back. She began to pace, pulling a pack of cigarettes from her jacket, followed by a lighter. It was the silver flip-top kind, with a skull carved into the side.

  After lighting a cigarette, she finally spoke. “You are the most frustrating man I’ve ever met. What do you really know about him? Has he ever killed anyone before? Will he kill you the next time he changes?”

  “I trust him more than I trust you.”

  The flash of hurt in her eyes wasn’t as satisfying as it should have been.

  “That’s not fair,” she exhaled.

  “Isn’t it?” he challenged.

  Somewhere deep within him, he knew he was being harsh. But he couldn’t stop. The way she’d abandoned him in the dead of night was unforgivable. It spoke of who she really was. Not the façade of strength and compassion that made him fall in love with her, but her dark, selfish nature for revenge that would always come before anyone in her life.

  “I never claimed to be perfect, Logan. That was your belief. You elevated me to perfection, and when I couldn’t fulfill your fantasy of flawlessness, when I acted human–” The word caught in her throat. Avoiding his stare, she brought the cigarette to her lips with trembling fingers.

  Damn her for looking so wounded.

  Logan grabbed the first aid kit and busied himself with cleaning Vincent’s wounds. It was too late for apologies. All those nights wondering what happened to her, praying she was alive… It had all been for nothing.

  She’d left him of her own free will, without so much as a note. All because she’d caught wind of the werewolf who’d killed her parents. Their deaths were the reason she became a prowler in the first place. While tragic, it wasn’t uncommon.

  The cold, bitter truth was that avenging the death of her parents wouldn’t bring them back.

  They were dead.

  Logan wasn’t.

  But something inside him had died when Anna abandoned him: his trust in her. No matter how apologetic she appeared now, no matter how much her pain tore at his heart, he couldn’t allow her to manipulate him. Not again.

  “Look,” he began, voice gruffer than he intended. “Let’s just get through this. I’ll stitch these wounds and then we’ll go to the hospital and retrieve the antidote.”

  “He doesn’t have much time. I can go alone.” Her voice had also hardened. “I don’t need your help.”

  “Don’t be stupid. You need backup. Even if you didn’t, there’s no way I’d trust you not to destroy whatever antidote you find. You might save a sample for the Society, but–”

  “And how do you plan to stop me from leaving?”

  Before he could stand, Anna marched for the door.

  “Wait!” he yelled, rising to his feet. “You can’t go out there alone. This town is full of werewolves. Anna!”

  The slamming door was her only reply.

  Logan moved to follow, but his steps faltered when blood began to pool under Vincent’s rib cage.

  “Damn it,” he muttered. After grabbing the first aid kit from Anna’s duffel bag, he draped a fresh towel over Vincent’s chest. He applied pressure with one hand and fumbl
ed for the disinfectant with the other.

  First aid wasn’t even his specialty. It was hers. But since he could neither trust her enough to leave her alone with Vincent, nor retrieve the antidote, it looked as though the decision had been made for him.

  Again.

  Chapter Eight

  Vincent was burning. Fire surrounded him, but he couldn’t open his eyes. He called on the wolf to help him. If he could just open his eyes…

  He heard a low whine from somewhere within the depths of his mind. It was so soft that for a moment, he wondered if he’d imagined it.

  His heart began to race. Where was the wolf?

  His head tossed on the pillow beneath his head. This was wrong, all wrong. He was alone.

  A hand rested on his forehead, and he jerked in surprise. A soothing litany of syllables drifted down to him. But he couldn’t rest until he found the wolf. His lips parted to voice some sort of protest. The only sound that emerged was that of his chattering teeth.

  He was so tired. Sleep pulled at him, even as something invaded his ear. A sound did escape him then, and he turned his head away, but the invader was relentless, following his movements until it was joined by the soothing voice. The voice quickly grew impatient with him. Vincent lay still for a short time, hoping they would disappear. There was a beeping alarm and a distant curse before the darkness overwhelmed him…

  A vision of a study came to him, as if a dream. Leaning towers of books stood piled high in stacks. Thick and thin, new and worn, they declared titles like, Adventures of Backyard Exploring and On the Playground. These were the worn titles, their gold lettering faded atop hardcovers. The pages bound between such covers were brittle and musty, appearing as though they might crumble into dust if they were turned.

  Vincent avoided reading the newer titles as he weaved between the stacks. There was a flickering glow up ahead, and though he was burning, he didn’t wish to wander the lonely aisles of his life alone. He missed the wolf, the protector forever by his side.

  The back of a chair came into view, stationed before a roaring fire. How curious it should be that there was no fireplace. Only a vast expanse of grass beneath the stars. Vincent breathed the night air, thankful for the cold against his skin.