Patricia Briggs - Moon Called

She stood by me and looked at him, then looked at me. "Okay," she said finally, "I give. How are we going to get him to drink coffee?"

In the end, we dragged him out of the chair and propped his head up against Jesse's thigh. We dribbled the coffee, which was still hot, into his mouth. Neither of us could figure out how to make him swallow, but after a few dribbles, he did it on his own.

After the third swallow, he opened his eyes, and they were night-dark velvet. He reached up and grasped Jesse's hand where it lay on his shoulder, but his eyes were on me.

"Mercy," he mumbled. "What the hell did you do to my French Roast?"

I had a moment to believe all my worries had been for nothing when he dropped Jesse's hand and his spine curled backward, throwing his head farther into her lap. His skin went gray, then mottled, as his hands clenched. His eyes rolled back until all I could see were the whites.

I dropped the coffee and grabbed Jesse under the shoulders and dragged her away from Adam as far and as fast as I could.

"He'll hit his head," she said, beginning to struggle as she realized, as I had, that he was having a seizure.

"He'll heal a cracked skull, but you can't," I told her. "Jesse, he's a werewolf-you can't go anywhere near him when he's like this. If he hits you, he'll break bones." I thanked the dear Lord sincerely that he'd let go of Jesse's hand before he crushed it.

As if it had been awakened by the same demons that were causing his convulsions, I felt the sweep of power arise from him-as would any other werewolves in the area. Which, if Christiansen's figures were accurate, numbered twelve.

"Can you shoot?" I asked her.

"Yes." Jesse didn't look away from her father.

I pulled the SIG out and handed it to her.

"Point this at the door," I said, digging to the bottom of the pack for the. 44. " If I tell you to shoot, pull the trigger. The first pull will be a little stiff. It's loaded for werewolf. We have allies here, so wait until I tell you to shoot."

I found the revolver. There was no time to check it, but I'd loaded it before I put it in the pack. That would have to do. The Smith & Wesson was a lot heavier than the SIG, and it could do a lot more damage.

"What's wrong?" Jesse whispered, and I remembered she was human and couldn't feel the song of the Alpha's strength.

The music grew, abruptly doubling, and the focus faded until I couldn't tell that it was coming from Adam anymore. Light feet ran up the stairs and the bolt turned on the door. Jesse was still looking at me, but I had my revolver up and aimed as the door opened.

"Don't fire," I said, raising my gun and putting my hand on top of hers so that the automatic's nose stayed on the ground. "He's one of ours."

The man who stood in front of the door had skin the color of hot chocolate, a green T-shirt that said DRAGONS KILLED THE DINOSAURS, and hazel eyes. It was the shirt that told me he was David's man. He was standing very still, giving us time to decide he was on our side.

"I'm Shawn," he said, then he saw Adam.

"Damn," he said, stepping into the room and shutting the door quietly. "What's going on?" he asked, his eyes on Adam, who was flat on his back, his arms and legs doing a strange, jerky sort of dance.

"I think he's changing," Jesse answered.

"Convulsions," I said. "I'm no doctor, but I think that too much of the silver has worked its way into his nervous system and damaged something important."

"Will he be okay?" Jesse's voice shook.

"He's tough," I told her, hoping she wouldn't notice I hadn't answered the question. How much silver did it take to kill a werewolf? Usually it was a function of power-but there were some werewolves who were more sensitive to it than others.

"I was switching guard duty with Hamilton when the captain picked a fight with Connor and gave me the high sign to get my ass up here," Shawn said. "I hadn't taken three steps when every werewolf on the place was converging on the captain. I take it that something about this fit called them all?"

I nodded and explained to both of them as best I could. "I don't know how Christiansen is doing it," I told him, "but he's pulling Adam's power and muddying it. I bet everyone will think it's him."

"Because of the fight," Shawn said in an «ah-hah» voice.

But I'd lost interest in how quick off the mark Christiansen had been, because Adam quieted and lay limp. Jesse would have gone to him then, but I held her back.

"Wait," I said, using the opportunity to take the automatic back from her so that she didn't fire it by accident. "Make sure he's finished."

"He's not dead?" she asked.

"No. I can hear him breathing." It was faint and shallow, but steady.

I stowed the Smith & Wesson on the top layer in my pack and put the SIG back in its holster. Thanks to Christiansen we weren't going to have a pack of wolves converging on us-but that might change at any time.

Adam hadn't moved, but his breathing grew deeper. I started to tell Jesse that it was all right, when Adam abruptly rolled on his side and jerked into a fetal position with a low groan.

"Now is he shifting?" asked Jesse.

"That would be bad," said Shawn. "We don't want him changing until he's kicked off the effects of the drugs. I talked to some of the men who were in your house when he broke free. He was tranqued up then, too."

"Stop scaring her," I snapped. "He'll be all right. Besides, I don't think he's changing." Actually, that were-wolfy feeling of power had died to nothing. I had no idea what he was doing.

The dress shirt Adam wore, dirty, torn, and stained with drops of blood, looked more gray than white. A lot more gray. He'd broken out into a sweat, and the fabric began to cling to him, outlining the taut muscles of his shoulders and back. I could even see the bumps of his spine. The shirt shimmered a little under the cold fluorescent lights as he shivered miserably. I couldn't tell if he was conscious or not.

I holstered the revolver and walked slowly toward him.

"Adam," I said, because he had his back to me. It is never a good thing to startle a werewolf. "Are you all right?"

Unsurprisingly, he didn't answer.

I crouched and touched the wet fabric, and he grabbed my wrist-his movement so fast that he was just suddenly there, on his back. I don't remember seeing him roll over. His eyes were yellow and cold, but his grip was light.

"You're safe," I told him, trying to stay calm. "Jesse's here, and she's safe, too. We're going to get you on your feet in fighting shape, then we're getting out of here."

"It's the silver," said Shawn, awed. "That's why the shirt is turning gray. Fu-I mean, damn. Damn. He's sweating silver. Damn."

Adam didn't look away from me, though he flinched subtly at the sound of Shawn's voice. His blazing gold eyes held mine, somehow hot and icy at the same time. I should have looked away-but it didn't seem like a dominance contest. It felt like he was using my eyes to pull himself up from wherever the drugs had forced him. I tried not to blink and break the spell.

"Mercy?" His voice was a hoarse whisper.

" C'est moi, c'est moi, 'tis I," I told him. It seemed appropriately melodramatic, though I didn't know if he'd catch the reference. I shouldn't have worried.

Unexpectedly, he laughed. "Trust you to quote Lancelot rather than Guinevere."

"Both of them were stupid," I told him. "Arthur should have let them marry each other as punishment and gone off to live happily on his own. I only like Camelot for the music." I hummed a bit.

The mundane talk was working. His pulse was less frantic, and he was taking deep, even breaths. When his eyes went back to normal we'd be out of trouble. Except, of course, for the small matter of a warehouse full of enemies. One trouble at a time, I always say.