Kelly Meding - Wrong Side of Dead

“To prove a point?”

“Which is what? We’ve got bigger teeth than you?”

“Well, that point’s definitely taken.”

I snorted. More and more cars were joining us as the city’s nightlife went to sleep and the rest of the world woke up. Heading out for their morning coffee and donut, oblivious to the trouble heading their way. A whole lot of shit was about to hit the metaphorical fan, and this time I didn’t know if we could stop it.

Halfway back to the Watchtower, Wyatt’s cell rang. He shifted his hip, and I reached over and retrieved the phone from his back pocket, noting the way his mouth pinched in the corners. He was in pain and trying hard to not show it.

The I.D. read “Marcus.” “Stone,” I said.

“Did you find Phineas?” he asked without preamble.

“Yeah, right where I thought he’d be.”

“Is he with you?”

“No, he’s probably flying over the city, tracking down a trio of werewolves.”

“He’s what?”

I gave Marcus the condensed version, and ended with, “Have Dr. Vansis standing by in the infirmary. Wyatt’s injured.”

“What happened?”

“One of the wolves tried to take a bite out of him. He’s conscious and aware, but he’s bleeding a lot.”

Wyatt made a face that might have been humorous if I wasn’t so worried about him.

“I’ll send someone to wake him,” Marcus replied.

“We’ll be there in less than ten minutes. Let me know if you hear anything from Phin.”

“I will.”

I tucked the phone into my own pocket and nearly missed my turn onto Lincoln Street. We passed a woman with six dogs of various sizes on leashes practically yanking her down the street while she listened to someone on her earbud. Oblivious.

“Evy?”

The shakiness in Wyatt’s voice caught my attention immediately. He was beyond pale, the smudges of blood on his cheeks like berry stains on a white napkin. Perspiration trickled down his temples and cheeks. He stared straight ahead, but he wasn’t watching the street.

I touched his shoulder, my wheel hand shaking lightly.

“I’m going to be sick.”

Common sense would have had me stop so he could hurl onto the sidewalk. But terror slammed my foot down on the gas and, ignoring the chances of being pulled over by an observant city cop, I sped over the bridge. Wyatt grabbed the dash with both hands, breathing hard through his mouth, eyes shut.

“Be sick if you have to, but I am not stopping,” I said, as much to clarify my own racing thoughts as to reassure him. “You need to get to the doctor right now.”

“Feels so weird.”

“What does?”

“Me. Hot. Uh—” He jerked sideways and leaned over the Jeep door, head out. The sounds of retching were lost to the wind roaring around us. I gripped the wheel with both hands as I navigated through the East Side, south along the Black River to the mall.

A thought hit me with horrifying clarity: Wyatt was infected with something. Or poisoned, probably by the werewolf’s bite. I’d had a minor reaction to my own werewolf bites a month ago, but they had healed quickly. Because I healed quickly. Wyatt didn’t.

I’d never heard of a human being having such a violent reaction to a Therian bite, but the Lupa had been extinct for centuries. And they’d come back to us courtesy of Walter Thackery, King of Genetic Meddling.

God only knew what those wolves were carrying.

“We’re almost there,” I said. “Stay with me, Wyatt.”

His only answer was a loud groan.

I zipped across the Capital City Mall parking lot, making tracks for the entrance to the Watchtower at a dangerous speed. I hit the brakes at the last minute as I went through the barrier and nearly clipped a parked car. All thoughts of procedure flew out of my head, and I just kept going. I drove right down the short hall that spilled into the broader mall corridor. It was wide enough for two cars to drive side by side and still have room for a third to pass them.

A handful of familiar faces sprang out of my path. It wasn’t very far to the infirmary, and I hit the brakes again and swore I smelled them burning. I didn’t even turn off the engine, just shifted into park and tumbled out the driver’s-side door.

“Dr. Vansis!” I shouted as I circled to Wyatt’s side of the Jeep. “I need help!”

Wyatt was slumped over the passenger door, head lolling. He hadn’t passed out, but he wasn’t completely conscious, either. His pale skin burned with a fever I could feel without touching him, and sweat had soaked through his shirt.

“What happened?” Dr. Vansis asked. He shouldered me sideways, and if he had been anyone else, I’d have reacted way more violently. The doc was of average height and build, with curly multihued brown hair and a prickly personality, but he wasn’t my enemy.

“Werewolf attack,” I said. “Maybe fifteen, twenty minutes ago.”

Dr. Vansis gaped at me. “You’re serious?” My glare stopped any more questions. “All right. Hold his head while I open the door.”

A small crowd of gawkers watched us get Wyatt over Vansis’s shoulder in a fireman’s carry and take him into the infirmary. His actions seemed effortless, but all Therians had a way of surprising me with their hidden strength. He deposited Wyatt on the exam table and turned on a bright overhead light.

“He has gashes on his neck and a big bite on his left arm,” I said. The wounds were fairly obvious, but all the extra blood could be confusing. “He got the wolf pretty good before it ran off.”

“The Lupa blood could be what’s irritating his wounds,” Dr. Vansis said.

“Does that happen a lot?”

“To my knowledge, Lupa have been extinct for centuries.”

“Then why—?”

“It’s a theory, child,” he snapped as he examined the wounds on Wyatt’s arm. “I once saw a vampire react rather violently when she accidentally drank from a Cania, so there is grounds for it. But humans rarely react to Therian blood, and certainly not this badly.”

The infirmary door burst open, depositing Kismet and Marcus into the room. And if Kismet looked half as freaked as I did, I had to be a sight.

“There’s something wrong with him,” I said.

“Is he going to live?” she asked.

“I don’t know,” Dr. Vansis replied before I could. “Everyone out. I need to examine him and run some tests.”

I took a step toward him. “But—”

“Out!”

Marcus steered me into the corridor, where I promptly fell back against the storefront wall and collapsed onto my ass. My heart hammered against my ribs, and I felt sick. Kismet crouched in front of me and rested her hands on my knees.

“Are you hurt?” she asked.

“No, they didn’t come after me. Just Wyatt.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know. What about Phin?”

“Nothing yet,” Marcus said. He was tense, coiled, as though his jaguar form was waiting just below the surface, ready to spring free and pounce.

“Anything else from Felix?”

Kismet shook her head. “No, and I don’t think we’ll get anything else out of him now.”

“Why?”

“I’ve tried, Tybalt’s tried. We even floated your Serenity Serum theory past him with no response. The only person he wants to see is Milo, and Milo refuses to go in that room.”

I wanted to pretend I was surprised, or even upset at Milo’s unwillingness to face his former Triad partner, but I wasn’t. I’d once witnessed a friend in a similar position, and I couldn’t imagine the horror of seeing someone you loved going through that.

“You know why he won’t do it,” she said.

“Yeah, I know.”

“Well, I don’t,” Marcus said.

Milo told me about it the day Felix was infected. In some ways, I’d expected the confession. I wasn’t completely oblivious to the people around me. But it wasn’t something for me to share with Marcus.