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My ears rang. I pulled myself up. The corners of my vision browned and spotted until I was standing in a smoking tunnel with August’s amber eyes a searing hellfire at its end.
Shaking his head, the wolf scrabbled upright, shards of porcelain bright in his fur.
I reached back for the gun.
“Nope!” Caelan forced me hard against the wall, yanked open the front door, and dragged me through. “You're done."
He slammed it shut, but not before I caught a glimpse of stiff fur and bared fangs.
My world spun. My hand dropped off the gun. A hot rush trickled down my wrist and into my palm. Blood poured through the sweater and shirt. My tunnel vision flickered and quaked.
“Oh, shit." I staggered into the nearest shrub. “I’m a river!"
“You’re okay." Caelan held my arm. Or my waist. Something. I didn't feel anything except dizzy.
“Well, I've never had this much come out of me before, and let me tell you, I've had some monster periods." Come to think of it, Mother Nature should've come calling days ago. Probably would have, if werewolves, creatures I'd always thought operated on a cyclical (if not fictitious) schedule, hadn't gone and traumatized mine.
“Buckle up," Caelan was saying, interrupting my thoughts.
I stared at the seat belt on my right, unsure if I was sitting in the truck because I'd climbed in myself or because he'd put me there. Either way, the belt refused to cooperate with my injury. Caelan strapped me in.
“August?" I asked with belated alarm.
“We’re mindful killing machines. He won’t charge out in broad daylight."
“I'm taking his keys," I decided, patting my sweater pocket. Immediately Caelan’s hand dove into said pocket, fishing out my prize. I frowned. “Hey!"
“You want him picking these up?" His amber gold eyes were every bit as wild as his brother's, but his voice was mellow, soothing, as he touched my sweater. “Let's see what you've got going on."
I batted his hand away and removed the sweater myself. Lifting the shirt, I peeked at the damage. “Okay," I whistled, pressing my sweaty forehead against the window. The sweater I balled and held firm against the wound. “That's bone."
“I'll get you to an ER."
“We had a doctor," I hissed. “You murdered her."
A part of me wanted him to challenge me, wanted the chance to tear into him and his kind for everything, but it never materialized. He turned his attention on the road and got us the hell off Rachel's street.
“Where do you want me to bring you?" he asked, tone stiff and clipped.
Lisa's apartment address danced on the tip of my tongue, followed by 'home', but those weren't realistic options. “Where do packs go to get healed?"
“If a major injury were to occur, trouble with a birth, loss of limb, stuck silver, etcetera, they call in a healer or a shaman.”
“Well I don't know any healers, and I'm not going to see Harry Styles or whoever it was we interviewed."
“Harry Shan."
“Yeah. I'm not letting him poke around in me. Or Zakar." The mere thought of him returned the dreams, this time of bites in tender places and licked ribbons of blood. I shivered. “Especially not Zakar. Ingram Hayes might be the Second Head, but Zakar is the First. He’s the dealer in the painting. He’s the first man in my dreams.”
“We could’ve had him,” Caelan said, and came again a frustrated growl to his tone.
“We will. Right now, take me to Cal," I decided. A quick conversation with Talon pack's alpha and she'd promised (between several curse words) to have a physician ready.
As I lifted the sweater to see if anything had clotted, Caelan rolled his window down and took a big gulp of fresh air. “Can you not?" His voice strained to stay coherent. His knuckles were white against the steering wheel.
“What are you, a vampire?" I retorted, touching the back of his nearest hand. With my finger I made a bloody smiley. He took one look at the mark and pulled the truck onto the road's shoulder.
“Blood turns you on doesn't it? I can see it." Wiping my fingers, I stroked his forearm. “I can feel the fire underneath your skin."
