Deceived By the Others (21 page)

I backpedalled, crab walking across the tile until I slammed my shoulders and the back of my skull against the cabinets behind me. Nick tilted his head back, a low, coughing growl escaping him as he shimmied his way out of the chains. Fabric tore and split as he fought his way free. Thick golden fur sprouted to cover his nakedness.

Dillon let loose with an ear-splitting howl, one that was soon answered by others in the pack outside. I tore my gaze off of Nick to see if Dillon had finished with his transformation.

To my horror, he had. He was the same black-coated Were with the cat-like green eyes that had once stalked me like prey, hunger glittering in his gaze as he approached me. He’d stopped in that stinking alley, leaving me alone only because Chaz had been there to protect me. He’d been there during the fight against Max Carlyle in Royce’s basement, too, though there had been too much going on at the time for him to be a danger to me. This time, there were no distractions, and Chaz wasn’t here to stop him from attacking me.

My fingers practically split the wood of the cabinet as I grabbed the door to pull myself up off the floor.

Dillon watched me from his crouched position, lips pulled back on that dog-like muzzle to bare yellowish fangs. Triangular ears were pricked forward as he took a careful step closer, pausing as his claws dug furrows into the wooden floorboards.

Panting with terror, I reached for the closest thing to hand—the coffee pot—and held it out in front of me in warning. Comical, perhaps, but it was the only thing within reach that I could use to defend myself.

Nick voiced another low growl, and I had to stifle a scream as he reared up beside me. I arched back against the countertop as he bumped his head on the ceiling, grimacing and baring his teeth in a remarkably human expression of pain. Both clawed hands came up to cradle his skull, rubbing where he’d struck it.

Even in this form, he still had the piercings I remembered seeing on his brows, nose, and ears. When he tugged the tatters of his shirt off his chest, nipple piercings remained, too. I didn’t dare peek lower to see if he had any others.

I flinched back when he leaned toward me, thrusting the coffee pot at him. He jerked back, then gave me a cursory sniff. Apparently satisfied, he turned away and lumbered toward the door, casting a glance at Dillon, who was still watching me with the intent hunger of a predator.

Dillon crept closer as Nick got out of the way, stalking forward on all fours. Panic at being trapped beat at my breast, and I frantically searched for some way—any way—out of this mess.

Nick growled, and Dillon froze. The pair looked at each other, ears flattening and lips lifting in threat, though now they made no sound.

Another howl split the air, this time much closer, from somewhere outside. As Nick turned to look, Dillon leapt at me.

I screamed, hurling the coffee pot at him in reflex. It struck a glancing blow on his snout before falling to the floor and shattering.

Just before Dillon reached me, though he was close enough for me to feel the fetid wash of his breath across my face, Nick knocked him off course and into the wall. Hot pain stung my arm, but all I knew was terror in that moment, and I skittered back as far as the tiny kitchenette allowed. The pair of wolves grappled, snapping and snarling at each other, claws soon wet with blood.

Unable to cope, I sank to my knees, clutching my arms around my chest as the two thrashed and fought. They crashed into the bed, shoving it into other furniture hard enough for wood to audibly crack. Nick thrust his jaws under Dillon’s, closing on the black Were’s windpipe as they rolled into the table, snapping one of the legs and sending the chairs tumbling to the floor. Nick soon had Dillon pinned on his back, his teeth digging tight into the fur and cutting off any hope of Dillon’s gaining the breath to fight back.

Though Dillon’s claws raked over his chest again and again, Nick didn’t let go. I flinched as one of his nipple piercings rolled across the floor and struck my shoe, leaving behind a tiny spatter of blood. Eventually, Dillon subsided, stilling under the golden-furred Were.

Once he stopped fighting, Nick released him, backing up a few paces. Nick bared bloodied teeth, keeping his amber irises locked upon the gasping, choking Were before him.

Dillon remained on his back for a few minutes, furred chest heaving as he regained his breath. Soon he rolled onto all fours, keeping his body low to the ground and his tail between his legs as he crept closer to Nick. His lips and ears were drawn back, though he didn’t show any teeth, and he only lifted his head long enough to lick Nick’s muzzle with a few swipes of his tongue.

Nick’s tail, which had been sticking straight out like an arrow, parallel to the ground, dropped, and he lowered his head, returning the fervent licks before glancing at me. I stayed where I was, unmoving, frozen with terror.

The pair didn’t pay me any more attention, turning and rushing out the open door on all fours, Dillon following Nick’s lead.

It was only after they were gone, as I was struggling up to my feet, that I realized my arm hurt and that I was bleeding.

Panic assailed me. I grabbed the closest chair with both hands, struggling to remain upright as my chest tightened, preventing me from pulling in enough air to fill my lungs.

Blood. My blood. Not Nick’s, not Dillon’s—mine. Dillon had cut me. With his claws.

Oh God.

Bile burned my throat as I stumbled to the counter, turning on the water and thrusting my arm under the stream, rubbing at the shallow cuts even though they now burned like fire. Panting with terror, I grabbed at the tiny bottle of antibacterial soap and dumped most of it on the wounds, scrubbing like it would make a difference.

Oh God.

I could be like them this time next month.

Oh
God.

I couldn’t hold it in. I threw up into the sink, crying even as I still frantically scrubbed at the cuts, knowing it wouldn’t do any good. If I was infected, it was too late. Lycanthropy couldn’t be washed out of the blood, no matter how good that soap was at cutting through grease and bacteria. The smallest nick of fangs or claws could carry enough of the virus to spread it to anyone unlucky enough to be attacked.

If it had made its way into my bloodstream, I was beyond fucked.

Chapter 21

It took a long, long time for the helpless tears to taper off. I remained limp and still against the counter, unable to bring myself to pull away from the running tap, though the water had long since ceased swirling in a pinkish streak down the drain.

After a while, it was the cold that brought me around. I was shivering so badly my teeth were chattering. The one lamp in the bedroom had miraculously survived the altercation between Nick and Dillon, illuminating the destruction and the first questing tendrils of night fog creeping in through the open door.

Wrapping a dish towel around the cuts, I slowly pulled away from the counter and trudged to the door. There were no visible signs of either Were pack outside save for a few tracks left behind by Nick and Dillon when they’d rushed off. Staring numbly into the white fog creeping between the trees, I listened for any hint of their whereabouts.

Not a sign.

Shutting the door, I stared around the room, taking in the wreckage in a detached way. The table was beyond repair, as was the dresser. Some clothes had spilled out when the lower drawers splintered. The floorboards were marred with claw marks.

Like the ones on my arm.

I covered my eyes with a hand, purposely holding my breath to keep from hyperventilating. The desire to gasp in air was powerful, but I couldn’t afford to pass out. Not now.

When the worst of the involuntary trembles tapered off, I hobbled across the room on shaky legs, keeping my eyes averted from the furrows in the floor. I snatched a T-shirt from a drawer and tossed it over the marks, hiding them so I wouldn’t have to see them every time I turned around.

Slowly, the rage that had fueled my actions earlier returned. None of this would have happened if I hadn’t agreed to Chaz’s suggestion to come here. If not for him, I wouldn’t have been put in the position to be infected.

Even thinking the thought was enough to make my stomach churn uneasily again. Breath came short and sharp between my clenched teeth as I tore open the drawers and tugged out his things, throwing every last stitch of his clothing on the bed.

Next, I stalked over to the fireplace, gradually regaining my balance as purpose and anger took over. My hands shook from cold and fury as I reached for the matches. It took a few tries before I managed to light one. The tinder caught immediately, flaring up with warmth that matched my rage.

I fed the flames, watching them grow as they consumed every last article of clothing Chaz had left. There wasn’t much after what the Nightstrikers had done to our first cabin. By the time I was done, the only set of clothes he’d have would be the ones he’d worn before he hopped into bed with that whore, Kimberly.

Fueled by reckless rage, that last thought gave me an excellent idea.

I rose, not bothering to look for a weapon to take with me as I exited the cabin. The fog could’ve hidden anything, from werewolves to Werebears, and I wouldn’t have taken notice. All my anger and energy were focused on reaching Kimberly’s cabin.

A big, rangy crow cackled at me from a nearby rooftop. I ignored it, but it followed me, fluttering from building to building as I wound my way along the muddy path.

Kimberly’s door wasn’t locked. I strolled right in and wasted no time in hunting down every last stitch of clothing and footwear I could find.

Once I had everything piled on the bed, I took an empty designer suitcase that had been tucked in the closet and tossed my findings inside. Intent on my mission, I lugged the full baggage outside. The crow had waited for me there, watching with bright, beady eyes, tilting its head this way and that as I struggled with the bag on the stairs.

The bird fluttered to the ground. Up close, it was much bigger than I’d thought; it was closer in size to an eagle than any other crow I’d ever seen. No wonder they called him “Hawk.”

He squawked at me, and I paused, setting the bag down at my feet.

Apparently satisfied that I wasn’t going anywhere, the oversized bird hopped in its gangly, awkward way behind a nearby bush. Familiar popping and stretching sounds, accompanied by a somewhat pained groan, were soon followed by Hawk’s distinctive features—sans glasses, leaving his pitch black eyes clearly visible, even in the dark—peering at me from around the thick cover of leaves.

“Hey, look, I wanted to apologize. It didn’t occur to me until later how upsetting that must’ve been for you.”

I stayed where I was, swaying slightly on my feet as the absurdity of the situation and his statement hit me. Upsetting. Right.

“The Nightstrikers are around if you need us. Look us up on Other-net sometime, okay?”

“How are you—”

“Human?” He smiled. “Doc, Spike, and I aren’t bound by the moon like the werewolves are. We’re keeping an eye on things in case Chaz decides to pay you a visit tonight. Get out of town as early as possible tomorrow, okay? We’ll stick around until we’re sure he’s not going to come back this way to take anything out on you.”

“Thank you,” I said, taking a few breaths to calm myself. “I don’t think he’ll be coming back until morning.”

“Maybe. We’ll be around for a couple of hours, then we’re heading back to the city. Until then, call for us if you need us.”

I nodded, pressing a hand to my forehead and closing my eyes. When I opened them again, he was gone.

Too shaken by everything that had happened, I stayed where I was for a few minutes, shivering. Despite the blood loss and the cold, I felt energized. Vibrating with the need to destroy things. If I wasn’t careful, I might end up doing more damage to myself in the rush of hate and fear-fueled adrenaline than Dillon had.

It took a while for me to get going again. Not because I didn’t want to move, but because I knew that if I allowed myself to give in to the seething fury, I’d start screaming and never stop. I might do something irreparable, like hunting down every last Sunstriker until they cut me down, or until they were all dead.

Panting, I came to a halt before my cabin, tilting my head up and closing my eyes as I breathed in the night mist, forcing calm on my unraveled nerves. It took several long minutes before I felt composed enough to do what I intended.

With deliberate care, I unzipped the suitcase and sorted through the clothes until I found the shirt, pants, and underclothes Chaz had left behind in Kimberly’s cabin. As I held up the pale blue silk boxers, the same color as his eyes, I dimly noted a few blood spots blooming on the slick cloth. I hadn’t felt the sting of my nails biting into my palm, cutting even through the fabric.

With a sense of finality, I tossed all of his things into the muddiest spot I could find, the mulch still damp from the sprinkle of rain on our first night here. With a bit of stomping and grinding of my toe, I soon managed to cover every last inch of fabric with dirt and bits of leaf mold.

That task accomplished, I stepped over the suitcase and over the threshold, making a beeline for the closet. There, tucked away in the bottom of my duffel bag, lay the contract that sported my signature. My unspoken promise of devotion to Chaz and the rest of the Sunstrikers.