Chapter Twenty-Three

Twenty minutes back to the hotel. Twenty minutes of me quietly ripping my cuticles to shreds. The last ten minutes were just on the damned Strip which needed about ten lanes if it was going to hold all the damned cars. Dammit. Eliza drove, a good thing, because if I’d been behind the steering wheel, I was pretty sure I’d have driven on the sidewalk. If the cops came after us, I was also pretty sure we had assorted bloodspots on our clothes that might be hard to explain.

We didn’t engage in small talk during the drive. Or big talk, either.

When we finally arrived at the hotel, we drove up to the door and I hopped out, leaving Eliza idling the car. Sheila and Ian stood close inside the front door, pretending interest in someone’s slot machine. Sheila saw me in an instant, elbowed Ian, and strode toward the door. I realized Eliza was going to blow a gasket if Ian came with us, but came to the almost instantaneous conclusion I didn’t care. Ian was one more strong Were on our side, he was Carson’s uncle, and I would take all the help I could get.

When Sheila reached me, she held out her closed hand. I extended mine and she dropped Carson’s ducky pin into my palm.

“Found it on the floor,” she said.

I closed my fist around the pin, wishing it would spring open and impale my hand, wishing I could have some physical injury to take my mind off the pain I felt.

I’m not sure if it was the set of my jaw, the mulish look on Ian’s face, or the innocent expression worn by Sheila that elicited Eliza’s quiet “Damn you all” as the three of us slid into the car. She either decided we had no time to waste or decided she didn’t want to argue, because she pulled the car out of the drive without another word.

As we turned onto the Strip, she said, “Ian, if you get hurt, I’ll kill you. Julie, if he gets killed, you are telling Erin.” That out of the way, she asked Sheila, sitting in the navigator’s seat, “Which way?”

Sheila looked at her cell phone and proceeded to give precise directions to the Painted Desert Golf Club. Luck was actually with us as we took the most direct possible route and managed to locate the precise house Sheila saw in her scrying.

“There,” Sheila said, followed by, “No, don’t slow down.”

Eliza drove on for a block, made the first right, and parked the car.

“That one, part brick, white siding, number 578.”

“Okay,” I said and pulled out my phone. “Shit, I don’t have Tim’s number. Why don’t I have Tim’s number?”

Sheila rattled off the number.

“Uh, Sheila?” I raised my eyebrows at her. “Why the hell do you have Tim’s phone number memorized?”

After a moment of hesitation, Sheila turned and beamed a smile into the backseat. “Why Jules,” she said, “you know how numbers get stuck in my head.”

Actually, I knew no such thing, but I wasn’t going to argue. Instead, I had her repeat the number more slowly and dialed Tim. When he answered the phone, I asked, “What did you learn from Jimmy?”

“Well, first, I learned he lives at 578 North Painted Desert Drive.”

“Oh.”

“His friend and co-conspirator, a guy named Joey Daniels is there. He’s Dr. D. Three or four mafia goons will likely be in the house.

“From what our friend Jimmy says, there is a lot of infighting between the different mafia families in Vegas right now, hence the heightened guard. The plan to create Werewolves serving the mafia was Jimmy’s bright idea to ensure his future—and his father’s, but he hasn’t shared the plan with his dad yet. He wanted to make sure the procedure worked first.”

“Okay,” I said, “so, the doctor and three or four guards.” Yes, I cared about the big picture, but I focused on essentials and right now getting to Carson was the only thing that counted. “Dave will be there, too, we can’t forget Dave. But no other Weres?”

“No. Ken was the only Were working with Jimmy. There were two others—both lone wolves, one from California and one from rural Nevada—but they’re both dead. Killed by the doctor’s experiments. They weren’t strong wolves to begin with. Ken, full name Ken Martinone, was actually a dark moon wolf, turned by a bite. He was the one who brought all of this to Jimmy, the mastermind behind it all, if you will. Ken met Dave when he was in Vegas with his sister during the winter holidays and I guess he convinced him. Anyway,” Tim stifled a sigh, “I’ve learned all I’m going to from our friend Jimmy Bianco. I’m leaving Kayleigh here; I think I’ve impressed upon her the need for restraint. I’ll join you as soon as I can.”

I summarized the information for three in the car and then said, “We can’t wait for him, though. He might be half an hour—I’m not waiting half an hour.”

No one contradicted me.

“All right,” said Eliza, “Ian and I will go in, either through the front door or a back entrance, we’ll figure that out on the ground. I’ll cloak us in darkness, but Dave will scent us through that. Ian,” she turned to search his face, “I know Dave is—was—your best friend. We may have to fight him. He might get hurt or even killed. Are you sure you’re up to this?”

I saw a muscle move in Ian’s jaw, but his eyes and voice were steady as he answered, “Yes.”

Eliza gave one decisive nod.

“Julie and Sheila, you come in behind us. Stay out of any direct fighting as much as possible. We’ll try to disable or distract as many guards as possible—after all, we’ll heal from bullets—”

“Unless they’re silver.”

Eliza continued over my interruption, “Even if they’re silver, unless they hit something vital. Just takes longer.” She pointed at me. “Julie, your sole mission is Carson, find him and get him out so he can’t be used as a hostage.”

Good, my mission accorded with my actual plan.

****

Sheila and I waited near a large hedge and tried to judge when we should follow the two Weres. Every atom of my body craned in the direction of Carson.

“Let’s give them two more minutes,” I said, looking at my watch. Sheila nodded, with her head twisted to see the house.

After not quite two minutes, I decided I couldn’t wait any longer, but Sheila didn’t quibble. We checked our guns, neither of which had actually been fired since I hadn’t managed to participate in the fighting earlier. I felt as confident as possible. Which meant not very confident, but I hoped I faked it well. I watched a lot of crime shows, after all. I read a lot of mysteries. Some with Werewolves.

Given the late hour, or maybe super early morning, we didn’t have to worry about nosy neighbors and we crept to the back door of the house. We hadn’t quite reached the stoop when we heard a crash, followed by cursing and Dave’s voice yelling, “I told you that Witch bitch would find us.”

The kitchen door stood ajar and, with a gesture of my head to Sheila, I bumped it open with my foot, gun held at the ready. The kitchen was empty, except for a dead body I attempted to ignore after a cursory glance. I motioned Sheila to follow me. When she came abreast, she whispered, “You know, I’m the one who knows how to shoot. I’m going first.”

We followed the sound of fighting toward the living room. As we stalked down the hall, pieces of the action came into view. A pair of legs jutted from behind a plaid couch, legs with jeans and cowboy boots, so not one of ours. Eliza faced the downed person, a snarl twisting her mouth, and, just as we arrived, a clap of thunder and a red bloom suddenly appeared on her right shoulder.

Immobile silence, like the shock after a camera flashes. Then Eliza crumpled to the ground, forcing my lungs to convulse in a gasp before she twisted into her wolf-self and disappeared from my sight as she called the moon. The next thing I saw, she flew through the air, a vengeful wolf, lunging at the shooter, whom I only saw for a split-frame, his own face morphing from satisfaction to terror.

She was going to be okay, our girl. She’d heal. I repeated the thought, then realized I had spoken aloud as Sheila responded with a fierce, “Yes.”

Yips and growls and crashes sounded from the other part of the room, the part still hidden by the wall, and I was about to peer out when I heard the other noise. My whole self was pulled straight and taut, as if by a dog whistle.

Carson, crying.

Looking at me in alarm, Sheila started to mouth, “What?” before she heard it, too. Her eyes narrowed. “Go,” she said, “I’ll help out here. Go!”

I didn’t need to be told twice. Actually, I didn’t need to be told at all. Without pausing to let my fears catch up with the rest of me, I darted straight through the living room and down the other side of the hallway. Carson cried hysterically with a note in his voice that said I-need-mama-right-now and I trembled, literally trembled in eagerness to reach him, pulled by a magnetism that had reset my compass on the day of his birth.

When I reached the closed door that kept me from my screaming baby, I still didn’t pause for thought. I smashed open the door, gun held in my hand but certainly not at the ready, more likely to bodily jump any goon in the room than have the presence of mind to take aim and fire. I was only momentarily disoriented by the scene, a low-lit bedroom obviously meant to soothe. Not some mafia thug, but a round-faced woman, hair pulled into a bun, gray hairs sticking out randomly from among the black, her face creased with worry, crooning at Carson and doing the two-step baby bounce. At my entry, she stopped moving and held my baby—my baby—close to her chest, as if to protect him. Protect him from me.

“Give me my baby,” I yelled and stormed forward.

“No, no!” The woman’s eyes focused on my gun first, then rose to my face. “No. Who are you people? Leave our sweet baby alone.

“Dave.” She cried, “Mr. Dave. Someone is trying to take your brother, help, help.”

“Give me my baby. Dammit!”

Carson screamed loudly, that baby scream where his lips turned blue and his face turned red and mottled. The woman hugged Carson to her, sidestepping me and dodging around a rocking chair.

I screamed. Yes, I threw my head back and screamed, pouring my rage and desire and frustration into a scream that left me hoarse and panting. The woman’s eyes widened and she crossed herself, praying quietly under her breath. Abruptly, Carson fell silent, perhaps awed his mama made that sound. Something to which he could aspire.

In the relative silence after my explosion, I looked the woman dead in the eyes, raised my gun, and fired a shot into the ceiling. The percussion made us jump, all three of us, and drywall fell down in a small landslide.

I said, “Give. Me. My. Baby.”

She did.

In romance novels, the author often uses phrases like “the world stopped” or “her heart only then began to beat” when the male and female lead characters first see each other. I don’t know about that kind of love, if it really exists, if it’s any truer than the love where you work together, where you accept each other’s annoying habits, where you roll your eyes inwardly at your partner’s occasional stupidity. I mean, I loved Mac, but I never felt he was the whole reason for my existence, that his appearance was like rays of sunlight piercing the clouds or any such thing. Our relationship was much more complicated.

But this? This. Taking Carson into my arms made me whole. He still gave those little shuddering sighs that end a fierce crying jag, and my heart shook, gasping along with him. He was so small, so small I could envelop him entirely, cradle him against my chest, smell his head, that sweaty-sweet baby smell, breathe in his little breaths. His cheek was so soft. Leaning my face against him felt like touching nothing at all, like putting soapy fingers through a bubble. My baby, my Carson, little Carson. He had been gone forever, the absence inside me had swallowed me alive, yet it had only been hours, a few scant hours. My whole life.

The woman in the room moved and my attention jerked, a spasm of alarm, but, no, she just sank down into the rocking chair.

“I don’t understand,” she said, “Mr. Dave, he said their parents were dead.”

“Mr. Dave said a lot of things, I’m sure. Look,” I said, clear this woman wasn’t involved in the greater plot points. “This is not a very safe place right now. If I were you, I would leave as soon as possible, go home. And don’t mention anything about any of this to anyone.”

“I never talk about Mr. Jimmy’s business,” she said and I wasn’t sure if she reassured me or felt affronted.

“Good, then.”

Ninety percent of my brain soaked in Carson, through every possible sense. The other ten percent decided my job—my only job at this point—was to get him out of the house to safety. I wasn’t likely to be any help in a fight, anyway.

I might need both hands, though. In the absence of my sling—why hadn’t I brought the sling—I grabbed a throw from the top of the chest footing the bed. Sage green chenille and would do in a pinch. I wrapped Carson to my body and tied a knot at my left shoulder. Fashioning a temporary sling made me feel fairly competent for the first time tonight. I fished out a spare pacifier from my pocket and gave it to Carson, hoping to soothe him until he could nurse. I kept my left hand on Carson’s back, unwilling to give up that touch even as his body nestled against me, and kept the gun in my right hand.

When I crept into the hall, I didn’t see anyone, friend or foe. I heard fighting in the living room and I sent a fervent prayer into the universe. I told myself over and over I couldn’t help and, in fact, Carson and I would be a huge liability. Nothing assuaged the guilt I felt as I walked to the front door. The hall was empty, as were the front steps, and I stepped out into the night feeling an absurd letdown. I hesitated on the front walkway, then turned to wait near the same hedges where Sheila and I had lurked earlier.

Carson stirred and I sat down in the midst of the brush to comfort him. Probably my most surreal parenting experience ever: shouldering aside prickly branches, untying my make-shift sling, setting the gun down within easy reach. This neighborhood was definitely pricey, large well-irrigated yards, cultivated trees and bushes for privacy. Which I guess was just as well, since a bunch of Werewolves and mafia fought in good old Number 578. I couldn’t hear the battle from where we hid.

When Carson finished feeding, his body was limp and soft with sleep. I carefully bundled him up again and tied him against me firmly. I weighed my options, wait longer? Go back into the house? Then a car turned onto the road, a car I recognized, Tim’s car. I rose slightly as he continued down the road and parked farther from the house. He stepped out of the car, closed the door firmly but quietly behind him, and slipped into wolf-form. He loped toward the house and flicked an ear as he caught my scent, quickly detouring to my side.

When he reached me, he didn’t change form, but poked his nose into my hand. Taking this as a normal wolf-greeting and a prod for information, I updated him as best as I could: some guards down, still fighting inside, Eliza shot but healing, I’d grabbed Carson, obviously, and headed out to wait for them.

“Do you—should I come in with you?”

The wolf shook his head adamantly, a human gesture that looked odd on a wolf but intelligible. He pawed the ground near my feet, glanced upward to make sure I understood, and turned to dart toward the back of the house. I watched his gray tail flick around the corner and bounced on my toes in that automatic baby-soothing motion.

Then, I heard a muffled crack. I ran to the back of the house, gun in my hand. After I’d taken half a dozen steps, my mind finally categorized it, “Gunshot, silenced,” and I extended both arms, holding my weapon, and darted closer to the side of the house. I hesitated at the corner, then bit my lip, exhaled, and rounded the corner, gun first.

Tim lay crumpled on the ground, close to the back steps, in human form. A clinical voice in my mind said, “That doesn’t bode well,” while the emotional voice said, “Shit, shit, shit, shit,” and focused on the man approaching Tim’s downed body. The half-moon illuminated him briefly and glinted off the weapon in his hand, the gun pointed steadily, oh-so-steadily, at the fallen Were.

I’m not sure if I made a noise or not, but I remember the man jerked his head in my direction, right before I shot him. I remember his head in the next instant, jolted back with the impact of the bullet, blood and bone and other things spraying out the back of his skull. I stood there, paralyzed as if I had been the one shot. Instead of the shooter. Holy fuck.

My gun had no silencer, and I noticed a light flick on in the neighbor’s house. Carson also began crying in protest and I had the horrible fear I’d somehow deafened him.

My mind blurred, but later, when I reflected back on the night, I felt overwhelming gratitude the recoil from the gun hadn’t harmed Carson. I managed to keep the gun steady without jerking into my baby—perhaps even in such a moment, my instinct to protect Carson outweighed anything else. Sheila couldn’t get over the fact I’d shot the man in the head. The next day, she repeatedly asked, “Don’t you know you’re not supposed to aim for the head?” Even once I explained I hadn’t aimed for his head, I’d been trying for something down on his torso; she just shook her head at me. Hell, maybe the lucky cow pin helped after all.

But at that moment, my ears still ringing, I found myself unable to construct any clear thoughts at all. I bounced Carson, soothing him automatically, and stared at the two crumpled bodies in the grass: Tim and the man I’d shot.

Sheila ran out the back door first, and gave an inarticulate cry as she skidded down on her knees next to Tim. The next second, she yelled, “Eliza, Eliza!” The buff-colored wolf launched from the back steps. She landed in human form, kneeling next to Tim, and my breath caught at her gracefulness.

“Who’s out there? I’m calling the cops.”

The voice echoed from the neighbor’s partly open window, and I heard a muttered curse from Eliza. Darkness seemed to rise from the ground like fingers of fog, encircling all of us, flickering. I hadn’t been on this side of the moon-calling before. I hadn’t actually realized she could call shifting darkness over this large an area, this many people. Carson seemed soothed by the moving darkness and fell quiet again.

When I reached Tim’s side, he was breathing, albeit with a rasp and a gurgle. Eliza bent her head to his chest wound and for a horrified second, I thought she might lick the blood.

“Silver,” she snapped, “still embedded.”

Her ponytail lashed the air as she disappeared back into the house and reemerged with a knife, an ordinary carving knife from the kitchen.

“Hold his shoulders. Sheila, hold his shoulders, I need to get this out.”

As soon as Sheila placed her hands on Tim’s shoulders, Eliza said, “Tim, stay with us. You’re going to be okay.” She plunged the knife into his chest, widening the wound, causing a fresh gush of blood to stream thickly down his side. Her taut expression reflected her concentration and I focused on that, rather than Tim’s chest. She turned the knife, twisting and probing and I saw her eyes narrow as she found the bullet. After a very long minute, she coaxed it out of the wound and sat back, relief coloring her cheeks.

“Definitely silver and nicked a lung before getting hung up on his ribs. Probably would have killed him if I hadn’t gotten to it. I think he’ll be okay now, though.”

“You ‘think’?” Sheila’s voice came as barely more than a whisper, and her hands still lay on Tim’s shoulders.

“Well, as you noticed, we’re not exactly in an operating room. I definitely worsened the wound just now, but he should start healing.” Eliza wiped her hands on the grass, leaving long tracks of blood.

“Where’s Ian?” I asked.

“He’s inside, watching Dave, who is unconscious at the moment. For a pup, he put up quite a fight.” She moved her lips in what might have passed for a smile in other circumstances.

“What about the guards?”

“Also taken care of. Two guards and the infamous Dr. D are tied up in the living room. I see, uh, you took care of this one.” Eliza jerked her head in the direction of the fallen man, and I nodded stiffly.

The blood flowing out of Tim slowed, and his breaths sounded clearer. Sheila watched him, as if will alone could heal him. I sat down on the grass next to Eliza, my back to the other body. The body I hadn’t let myself think about too much, yet. Carson sighed in his sleep and I breathed him in, deeply.

“So, we won, didn’t we? Didn’t we? We won.” The whole evening seemed like a blur to me. “Now what?”

Eliza answered after a moment. “I think we contact the council and let them take care of clean up. They’ll question everyone involved, especially the doctor. And it’ll take the power of the council to cover up all of…this.” She gestured widely.

Tim made a small sound and his eyelids twitched once, twice. One of Sheila’s hands flew to her mouth, not muffling the sob that shook her. Her other hand moved to stroke his slightly shaggy hair, brushing the short curls.

“Shh, shh, you’re okay, you’re going to be okay, now. Tim, you’re okay,” her bent head murmured over him.

Several heartbeats later, his eyes opened and gazed up at her. “Sheila?”

Sheila laughed, brushing away the tears that fell on Tim’s face, and she bent down to kiss him, first on the cheek and then on his lips, gently, but with an undercurrent of frantic passion. Tim raised one hand, in the direction of Sheila’s cheek.

I closed my mouth and turned to Eliza, who met my gaze with a bewildered shake of the head. Abruptly feeling like a voyeur, I turned away from the murmuring pair and Eliza did the same.

The day’s emotions rushed over me, a hangover of fear, disgust, and violence roiling in stomach-turning confusion. I felt relief, jealousy, and bone-deep fatigue. In fact, such weariness, my eyes started to close of their own accord. I sank down onto the lawn. The grass was soft against my face, the night quiet now. From what seemed like a great distance, I was aware of Eliza prodding me, saying my name in a sharp voice, but I brushed her away like a troubling dream. Then she disappeared and I slipped farther away, farther and farther.

Something hit me, hard, across the face and I startled half awake, mumbling in protest. It came again, a sharp smack across my cheek and I opened my eyes to find Sheila, her hand raised.

“What?” I tried to say through my thick tongue.

“Get up, Julie. What are you doing?”

I started to say sleeping, of course, but then wondered why was I sleeping? Was I…lying on the ground? With Carson still attached to me in his sling? Alarm rang through me and I would have sat upright, if my muscles had responded. As it was, I sat up slowly, carefully, and looked around as full memories of the evening surfaced.

My first coherent question was, “Where’s Eliza?”

“She ran that way,” Sheila pointed toward the front of the house, “changing form as she went.”

“Why?”

“I’m not sure. She tried to rouse you, then jumped up and said, ‘Dave’ and took off.”

Since I was more or less myself again, Sheila resumed her former place, resting Tim’s head in her lap. Tim’s eyes were open, though still clouded with pain. No fresh blood showed, so I assumed his wound had started to heal.

He spoke quietly, taking shallow breaths after every few words. “Dave called the moon on you—probably tried for all of us. He must have made an escape.”

“He made me fall asleep?”

“Called you into oblivion.” Tim’s breath hitched and he paused for a moment. “One of the hardest powers. Easier on a human than on another Were. Or a Witch, maybe. He really is strong, that one.”

“So Eliza went after him. Should we try to go help?” I asked, mostly a rhetorical question.

“Ian.” Tim closed his eyes, but the one word made me jump to my feet. I swayed, but most of the fuzziness had dissipated.

“Right,” I said, “you guys stay here.” My comment was mostly for show, since I didn’t think Sheila planned to leave Tim’s side anytime soon.

Since Eliza had taken off around the side of the house, I assumed Dave wasn’t inside, but I still entered cautiously. No surprises, no mafia thugs jumping out at me, no loose Werewolves. In the living room, I found several bound people—I assumed the guards and the doctor—and I checked briefly to make sure they remained secured. Then I moved to my main target: Ian. He wasn’t moving, but I didn’t see a lot of blood, so I was hopeful. But when I reached him, my stomach jumped and I instinctively wrapped my arms around Carson.

Ian’s neck lay at an unnatural, contorted angle, his head misplaced on his spine.

As I gasped, he blinked and moved his eyes in my direction. After a moment’s pause during which I tried to conceal my horror and shock, I knelt at his side.

“Ian, can you hear me?”

“Yes.” His voice came out through clenched teeth.

“Are you going to be okay?”

After a silence, he said, “I think so. But not if my neck heals crooked like this. You need to straighten my spine.”

My mouth went suddenly so dry I cleared my throat several times before my voice sounded. “All right.”

Hands shaking, I found a safe spot on the floor for Carson and loosened the blanket binding him to me. I snuggled him into a cozy position and tucked the blanket around him tightly. Then, as much as I wanted to find some other reason to procrastinate, I turned back to Ian.

“I’m not sure how to do this,” I admitted.

“Me neither. Is Eliza around?”

“No, she took off after Dave.”

Fury flashed in Ian’s eyes, but he took a shallow, shuddering breath and re-focused.

“With my spine aligned, everything can heal correctly. So, it should just be like, uh, setting any other broken bone?”

I had never had a more surreal conversation, which spoke volumes, considering the last two weeks of my life.

I looked at Ian clinically, trying to remember my days of CPR, correct positioning of the neck and all of that. Kneeling behind his head with my hands under his shoulders, I first hefted his torso to ensure a straight line from his hips. Then, I cradled his head in one hand, placing the other at the base of his neck. Taking a deep breath, I pulled his head up and out, into alignment, trying to ignore the grinding noise and the small pops that resulted. I held his head firmly in both hands, running my fingers down his neck.

“That seems okay, now. I think.”

“Thank you.”

I swallowed firmly, feeling my stomach roil in aftermath.

“How long will it take for this to heal? For you to move and everything?”

“I’m not sure.” Sweat stood out against the pallor of Ian’s upper lip.

“Can I get you anything? A glass of water?”

“No, but can you move those guys? I’m not a freak show.” Ian darted his eyes in the direction of the tied-up guards and the doctor.

“Oh.” The three prisoners or hostages or whatever they were had been so quiet I’d pretty much forgotten them. Maybe that’s what they hoped—we’d forget all about them.

As I stood up to walk over to them, Sheila and Tim came into the room. Tim walked quite slowly and leaned a bit on Sheila, but his mobility this soon after taking a bullet in the lung amazed me. Lots of benefits to being a Were.

“This is the doctor?” Tim looked down at one of the bound figures, the man with jeans and cowboy boots I noticed earlier. He looked like he’d lived in the desert for too long without ever using moisturizer or sunscreen. His brown hair grayed at the temples.

I shrugged.

“You,” Tim toed the man none too gently, “Are you Dr. Daniels?”

After a moment, the man sighed and said, “Yes.”

“You’re the doctor responsible for mutilating those people?”

Funny. Tim, barely able to walk, with his baby face, rumpled clothes, and scruffy hair. Yet, somehow, the tone of his voice made Dr. Daniels blanch under his tan.

“I would not expect you to understand the cost of medical experimentation,” the doctor said stiffly. “Each of those men volunteered.”

“A volunteer who expected—who had been promised—supernatural powers. Who had been told by you he would be transformed like Ken. Even though you knew Ken was a dark moon and these others were not.” Tim accompanied his words with a short kick in the doctor’s ribs before continuing. “Did you show the later volunteers what happened to others? Did they know?”

Spots of color appeared on Dr. Daniels’ cheekbones and the haughty look fixed on his face. “All scientific innovation has costs. People risk much to gain the abilities you were born with, Were. With each new set of bone marrow, with each group of stem cells, I got closer to the answers. If I only had access to stronger Weres, I know I could be successful.”

“Each new set of bone marrow?” My voice was shrill, and I shook. “That’s all they were to you, sets of bone marrow? These were people—people you killed. Including my…including Mac, my…People you killed when they were no longer necessary to your…your fucking experiments.” I spat the last word in rage. “That’s why you wanted my baby. My baby. The strongest, most helpless Were you knew about. To suck out his bone marrow and create monsters.”

Such rage gripped me, I actually understood why Kayleigh had lost it, why she had torn that traitor Were to shreds.

“You’re the monster,” I finally said. “You asshole.”

Pulling my rather tattered dignity around myself, I turned my back on him and walked back to pick up Carson. I sat next to Ian, focusing on him and the baby and trying to calm down.

From the other side of the room, I heard Tim questioning the guard. He started by explaining, very carefully, Jimmy Bianco and their safe house were under our control. Then he informed the captives he had called the pack Council earlier in the evening and an emergency team of Weres would arrive within two hours. He engaged in drawn-out speculation about the treatment of the captives by the Weres, about the reactions of the council upon seeing the malformed creatures at the safe house, about the chances the captives would ever be allowed to live now they knew Werewolves existed. Tim delivered all this in the mildest of voices, as if he made conversation at a barbecue. But by the end, all three captives spilled their guts, trying to outdo one another by sharing details about their doomed venture, hoping their lives would be spared. The doctor rambled about bone marrow, about stem cells reordering DNA, about Were healing powers overcoming normal complications like “type” or “rejection.” I didn’t listen to it all. I couldn’t bring myself to care. I just sat and watched Ian heal and Carson sleep.

My semi-trance broke when Tim stopped in the middle of a sentence and turned his head in the direction of the front hall. Ian’s eyes opened wide and a snarl twisted his mouth. His body twitched. A moment later, the front door opened with a bang that would have alarmed me, but for the warning. Eliza walked in the front door, dragging Dave behind her. Literally. She held him by one ankle, and pulled the tall teen behind her with no apparent care for his wellbeing, evident in the way his head crashed up the steps, into the doorframe, and on the wall. Eliza must have knocked him unconscious in their fight and, from the repeated blows his skull took as she dragged him in the house, he would remain so for at least a little while.

“Everyone okay here, then?” Eliza asked, with a searching glance around the room. “Ian?” Her eyes stopped on him and something in her face eased as she realized, although grievously injured, he was healing.

“We’re all fine, somehow. Maybe the lucky pins helped?” Tim shot a look at Sheila and a sudden smile shot across his face. She flushed. “The council’s team should be here in two hours.”

“Good.” With a thump, Eliza dropped Dave’s foot. “They can take care of this one, then.”

“I’ll take care of him,” muttered Ian.

“You, idiot pup, will be lucky if your mom doesn’t take care of you first.” Eliza dropped lightly onto the couch.

“Will he stay unconscious for that long? I mean, until the council’s people get here?” I asked.

Eliza frowned. “No, probably not. I guess we should tie him up.”

“With silver,” said Ian.

Eliza sighed and rubbed her eyes for a minute, then went over to Dave and got to work with the duct tape.

“Why is there always a roll of duct tape hanging around, anyway? Is it some sort of mafia accessory?” No one responded as I wondered aloud, though Eliza quirked a smile in my direction.

“More to the point, does anyone have silver chain of any sort?” Eliza sat back on her heels. “I didn’t bring any from the other house.”

I handed her the chains I’d pocketed after freeing Kayleigh. She hissed as the silver hit her fingers, looped the short chain around his wrists, and said, “We’ll have enough notice if he wakes up. Besides, I wouldn’t mind an excuse to bash him in the head again.”

“I’ll help,” Sheila and I said at the same time.

****

When Dave roused, however, we weren’t quite so quick to knock him unconscious again. He groaned and tried to move before realizing he was bound. Apparently, the fact his hands were duct taped behind him brought back the night’s events in full, because his eyes opened with a start and he swung his head around, assessing the situation. Immediately, Eliza and Tim were on guard, hovering over him.

“Try anything and I’ll slit your throat,” Eliza said grimly. “Not with silver, mind you, I don’t want to deprive the council of a full trial.”

Ian remained on the floor, though he’d gained enough mobility to roll onto his side and look at Dave. The positions of the two teens were oddly mirrored, lying on the floor facing each other. Ian’s expression gave no clues to his thoughts as he stared at his friend. Dave returned the look for a brief moment before closing his eyes, throat moving convulsively.

“You nearly killed me.” Ian said, voice devoid of emotion.

When Dave didn’t answer, Ian continued. “You were my best friend. You nearly killed me. You killed my brother—not directly, but you’re in league with them. You might as well have killed him yourself. You were my best friend.” Ian’s voice rose and broke, the emotion suddenly pouring through. I clenched my hands at the raw pain on his face, while I struggled in turn with my own anger and grief over Mac’s death.

“You—you—you—” After a moment’s pause, Ian voice dropped again, to a near whisper. “You were my best friend.”

“Ian.” Dave opened his eyes, and I saw anger and sorrow warring in them. “Ian—I didn’t mean to hurt you; you have to know that. I didn’t want it to be like this. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. I saved you—I got you back when they took you—they weren’t supposed to take you, but they didn’t know, and I got you back and I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

“If you didn’t mean to hurt me, then why did you bring me to Las Vegas?” Ian said. “Tell me that. You brought me here to give me to them, didn’t you? Didn’t you? You certainly didn’t come here to help me avenge my brother.”

“I brought you here so you would understand, so you could join us.”

Ian recoiled at Dave’s words.

“No, listen,” Dave continued, urgently. “It’s not their fault they had to kill Mac. That wasn’t the plan either. Mac wouldn’t listen—he could have been helpful; he could have part of my pack—”

“Your pack?” Eliza’s voice cut in, dripping with scorn. “Is that what they offered you? Leadership over a pack of mongrel—”

“We weren’t making mongrels.” Dave’s eyes shone with fervor. I sank down on the couch as he continued. My stomach hurt.

“Don’t you understand? We were making Weres. Making those pathetic, weak, useless humans into Weres. Once we did that, once we allied with the families—once we took control of the others—think of the power we could amass. The pack and the mafia together? We wouldn’t need to live in secret, wouldn’t need to hide our existence from these pathetic humans, we could rule openly, take control.”

“Dave. You almost killed me. They killed Mac. And Carlos,” Ian sounded bewildered, “What the hell were you thinking?”

“They wouldn’t have had to kill Mac if he’d been reasonable and agreed to help. His bone marrow was useful; Dr. D was so much closer to finding the answers. But Mac wouldn’t bring us other Weres. He didn’t understand. He wouldn’t listen. They tried so hard to make him understand the potential—Ken spent time with him, Dr. D, Jimmy—he wouldn’t listen to any of them. They had no choice; he made them kill him.” Dave talked fast and loud, as if he honestly thought he could convince us—convince Ian—he had made the right decisions, that any of this could be justified. “Carlos was on our trail; he’d tracked down Dr. D and nearly killed him in the park. We were lucky Ken was close by and he had time to intervene. Even though they didn’t have a chance to get a sample from Carlos.”

A sample. I opened my mouth, then closed it and shook my head futilely.

“But those people…” Eliza’s voice trailed off for a moment. “Dave, those things aren’t Weres. They are monsters.”

“Those were the first ones and the process almost worked. Dr. D refined it.” Dave’s earnestness was more painful than anger would have been. “They were only humans, anyway. There were bound to be mistakes.”

“Eliza,” Ian said, “Take him away. Please, get him out of here. I…”

Eliza drew back her foot, as if to kick Dave in the head, but then stopped. Her mouth tightened and she said, “Don’t try anything, Dave.”

“I won’t. When I explain it all to the council, they’ll understand. I know they will.”

None of us said anything more, as Eliza dragged Dave into the other room. There didn’t seem to be anything left to say.