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“No,” Pat said, breathless. “It’s Jarred, honey. I think he’s…”
I didn’t wait for her to finish. My wolf came tearing out of me. I ran toward the house at top speed, getting there in seconds, tearing through the screen door.
I bounded up the stairs, three at a time. There was shouting behind me, but I didn’t stop.
I felt him before I saw him. Years ago, we had broken our telepathic link. It didn’t matter. I skidded to a halt in front of Jarred’s room, knowing that his heart had finally stopped.
Pain shot through me. Grief. Horror. It came out of me in a wailing howl.
I went to him. Jarred lay on the floor, spread eagle. His vacant eyes fixed on the ceiling. Colorless. Bloodless. I sniffed his head. The scent of death poured off him. I went very still. Listening. Waiting. I would not accept it. Could not believe it. He was in there somewhere.
I shifted, then pressed my ear to his chest. There. It was faint. Erratic. But I swore I could still feel his heart taking its final beats.
“Tem!” Anson shouted as he got to the door. “Get away from him.”
“No!” I cried. “No!”
Anson held his arms out, gripping both sides of the door frame. He looked behind him. Another howl sounded. My father. He knew. Even in his weakened state, he sensed his son was dying.
“Get away from him,” Anson said, his voice low, threatening.
“Call Dr. Olivet!” I yelled. I could hear her coming through the ruined screen door.
“It won’t help,” Anson said, coming into the room. He sank down beside me. “There’s no time. Wait outside.”
“For what?” I said. “I’m not leaving him. I won’t…”
Anson didn’t ask permission. He took my brother from me, hoisted him over his shoulder. I scrambled to my feet, yelling after him.
Anson laid Jarred on the bed facedown. My brother took a great, heaving breath. When he exhaled, his whole body trembled in a death rattle.
Anson tore a hand through his hair. He covered his mouth with his other hand then started to pace.
“Dammit,” he yelled. “Dammit!”
“I’m calling the doctor,” I said, pushing past him.
Anson raised his wrist. I watched in horror as he let his fangs drop. Then, he laid open his own flesh. Blood poured in a river down his arm.
“What the hell are you doing?” Anson didn’t answer. Instead, he pulled my brother’s head up, grabbing onto a chunk of his hair. Jarred’s jaw hung slack.
Anson held his arm over Jarred’s mouth, letting three drops of blood fall on his tongue.
“Get away from him!” I shouted.
“Tempest!” Pat shouted. Her breath was labored from her own trip up the stairs.
Anson rolled Jarred to his back. His lips were stained red. I went to his side. Anson stepped back and grabbed a washcloth from the basin Pat kept on the dresser. He wrapped his arm and leaned against the wall. Then it happened.
Jarred’s eyes snapped open. His back arched. He took in a great, gulping breath, convulsed, then passed out, his body going slack beside me.
But he was breathing. I pressed my ear to his chest. His heart was beating. Shallow still. But steady.
Pat walked into the room. She took Anson’s arm and turned it, checking the wound. Then she pressed the cloth back to it.
“What have you done?” I asked. “You know this. You know what this is?”
Anson stood mute, letting Pat minister to his wound. But it had already started to heal. He was a wolf shifter, after all.
