The Art of Seducing a Naked Werewolf (29 page)

Mom came out onto the porch. She gasped, falling to her knees beside me.

“Call Dr. Moder!” I yelled. “Now! Better yet, just run down the street to the clinic. Now, Mom, please!”

I tore off my jacket and threw it over him. I
pressed my shirt to his side to stanch the bleeding. There was so much of it, and the slick coppery smell was starting to turn my stomach. If the bullet hit something vital, something Dr. Moder couldn’t handle, we were going to have to get him to a real hospital. There would be questions I couldn’t answer, reports that wouldn’t be safe for us to file. And what if we couldn’t get him there in time? He’d lost so much blood. How much more could he have?

“Sam, please hold on, OK? Just keep breathing. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I thought you were kidding.”

“Woods,” Samson whispered. “Shot me. No smell.”

I shushed him. “OK, OK, just save your breath.”

I kept watching the wound, hoping that the bullet would be pushed out by his natural healing ability. The wound was growing smaller, but the little lead round seemed lodged inside. I heard Mama’s footsteps thumping up the street as she practically carried Dr. Moder to us. Sensing Mom’s growing panic, the doctor told her to fetch a blanket and towels from inside the house.

“What do we have here?” Dr. Moder asked, dropping her massive medical bag next to me as she kneeled down. She sounded a lot calmer than I felt. I guess she’d seen a lot worse from us over the years. I just don’t remember feeling this frantic when Cooper got his head stuck in a stair railing.

Up and down the street, I could hear doors opening, my family coming out of their houses to see what the ruckus was. For a second, I considered sending them into the woods to look for the shooter.
But that could result in more werewolves with gunshot wounds. Or a hunter with wet pants.

“Does anyone know who was running with Samson today?” I yelled. A few of my relatives shook their heads. “Everybody go inside!” I barked. “Do a head count. Figure out who’s not here. Don’t come out until I come to you.”

Immediately, doors snapped shut, although I could still see a few of my aunts silhouetted against their windows.

After slipping on a latex glove, Dr. Moder probed the wound with her fingertip while I cringed. She pulled out a huge bottle of hydrogen peroxide and poured it into the wound. She pulled out a plastic-wrapped scalpel and forceps.

“I think the bullet probably missed his organs, but I need to open him up to make sure.”

I made an embarrassing squeaking noise. “You’re going to do this right here? On my front porch?”

Dr. Moder’s teeth were on edge as she said, “The bullet’s pretty deep. If I wait any longer, to give him anesthesia or get him to a sterile room, the wound will heal over, and I’ll have to open him up again to get it out. He stands less chance of infection and will heal faster if I get it now. Trust me, your cousin Wayne’s been shot by enough grumpy locals that I would know. Just try not to breathe too much on him.”

I gritted my teeth, blowing a breath out through my nostrils. I handed her the scalpel, which she used to widen the wound, dipping the forceps past the bloody ring of tissue and rooting around.

OK, I could handle a lot, but this was pretty gross. I tried to think of it as a game of Operation. And the only consequence of Dr. Moder screwing up would be a buzzing sound and Samson’s nose lighting up red.

Samson’s hand twitched as Dr. Moder’s instrument gripped the bullet. I threaded my fingers through his, willing the tears gathering at the corners of my eyes not to fall. How could this have happened? Other than my dad and Cousin Wayne, no one in the pack had been shot in years. We’d learned to shy away from any signs of hunters.

At this point, I didn’t care if it was just some dumb-ass tourist who wanted a scary trophy for his den. I wanted to rip him limb from limb. But Samson needed me here now. And I was doing well not to phase on the spot and start howling like a lunatic.

Dr. Moder pulled the bullet free, and I blew out a breath. The little hole in his skin was closing, pink and healthy and shiny, as Dr. Moder poured more antiseptic over it. Samson groaned.

“Let’s get him to the clinic,” Dr. Moder said. “Maybe call a few of the bigger cousins, ’cause it will take all of them to cart his heavy butt. And we’re going to need anyone with his blood type to come down to the clinic and donate. He’s lost a lot of blood. Come on, Maggie, let go of him and get moving.”

I shot an incredulous look at her. She put a light hand on my shoulder and shook me gently. “It’s OK, Mags. He’s going to be fine. You can let go of his hand.”

I looked down at our joined, stained hands, and gripped tighter.

Dr. Moder frowned. “Or . . . maybe not.”

T
HE NEXT FEW
hours were among the longest of my life. I did a head count and was ridiculously grateful to find everyone accounted for, except for Clay, who had stayed late at the garage where he worked. I questioned my relatives. I called Nick, who didn’t understand my sudden need to check up on him while he was working from his place in Grundy. And even more confused when I told him to stay there until I came for him.

As I walked into the clinic, I felt as if I was moving through molasses. I felt helpless. I didn’t know what to do. And I hated it. No wonder Cooper ran from the responsibilities of running the pack. This feeling sucked.

“Sam?” I called softly. I poked my head into the sole treatment room at the clinic. Shirtless and swathed in gauze, Samson was propped against a pile of pillows, with a full gallon of Mom’s chicken noodle soup and a full pan of Mo’s triple chocolate brownies in front of him.

“I think you scared everybody pretty good,” I said.

“I’ll say,” he said, chewing happily. “There’s two more batches of brownies in the office. Mo was panic-baking. She and Cooper are going to stay the night. Cooper was, er, a little nervous.”

Some small voice in the back of my head balked at the idea of having Cooper and his family here.
He’d brought them right into our mess. If there was still someone out there with their sights trained on the pack, Mo and the baby were in the crosshairs now. But of course, if I tried to send them away, Mo would just swing at me with some heavy piece of kitchen equipment. I made a mental note to search the clinic for tranquilizer darts.

“I’m really glad you’re OK,” I told him, pinning his eyes with my own. I wanted him to understand that I was having a rare moment of absolute seriousness. And of course, he responded by grinning at me through the chocolate like a toddler.

“That said.” I paused and then smacked the back of his head.

“Ow!” he yelped.

“What the hell were you thinking running alone? After I specifically told every member of the pack to use the buddy system,” I demanded. “No one had any idea you were out or where you were. What if you hadn’t made it back home? You could have bled out, in the woods, alone. Leaving behind the biggest fucking corpse the bears had ever seen. It took pints from me, Cooper, and Mom to get you up and going again. Pops tried to donate, and it took four of the uncles to keep him from sticking the needle in his own arm.”

“Maggie—” Samson started, before I smacked him again. “Ow!”

I crossed my arms over my chest to prevent further smacking. “Sorry, go ahead.”

“I got restless,” he admitted. “Clay is my running partner. And he said he couldn’t make it out today
because he was working late. Sometimes you just have to phase and go, you know? I was just running along the edge of the valley. I heard a weird popping noise, then another, and
wham,
I felt like I’d been hit by a truck.”

“Do you think it was a hunter?”

“No, a hunter probably would have collected my carcass as I lay bleeding on the ground.”

“Good point. An accident, maybe?” I suggested, knowing I was grasping at straws at this point.

“You mean, oops, I took my high-powered rifle, looked through the scope, and happened to fire at the bear-sized wolf in my crosshairs?” he suggested. “’And then I fired again, because I missed the first time?’ “

“I didn’t say it was a
good
theory,” I snarled at him. “Forgive me for trying to grasp at any possibility besides members of my pack being picked off by an unseen but well-armed menace.”

“Look, Midget, I will admit, there is a pattern of shit that’s happened in the last few months. Your truck brakes. Your office. Strange wolves sniffing around the borders. Hunters getting all trigger-happy . . . though who could blame them for wanting such a fine trophy as yours truly. But there’s no reason to circle the wagons and get all paranoid.”

“If you call me a hysterical female, I am not above pulling the plug,” I deadpanned, reminding myself that it was a good thing Samson didn’t know about the bag incident.

He yawned. “We’ll just do what we always do. We’ll keep an eye out. We’ll keep the youngsters
close to home. No one goes out alone, using my little incident as a painful example. But until some rogue werewolf trots down Main Street and declares war, I say we relax.”

“That’s your solution to everything.”

He shrugged. “And so far, it’s worked out great for me. Up until getting shot.”

There was a light knock at the door. Alicia stuck her head in and gave me a sheepish little smile. I glanced from her to Samson, who was staring at her with a completely smitten, stupid expression, and back again.

My lips twitched, but I maintained my neutral face.

“I hope I’m not interrupting,” she said.

“Uh, no,” I said, hopping up from the bed. “Did you hear from Clay?”

“Yeah, he’ll be home as soon as he can,” she said, her gaze never leaving Samson. “Your mom came over to watch the boys and Billie. She knew I wanted to stop by and bring this, uh, Jell-O.” She put a very full Tupperware container on the little roll-away table.

I eased toward the door. “Yeah, she knows how much Samson loves Jell-O.”

Truth be told, Samson hated Jell-O. He said food should only twitch if it’s recently deceased. And maybe covered in barbecue sauce. But he really liked Alicia, that much was clear.

I wandered out of the clinic, pondering this new development. Alicia was a good match for Samson. I mean, she was used to wrangling dangerous preschoolers.
Although Alicia’s previous mating meant that Samson would never have children of his own, he was good with Paul and Ronnie, who seemed to view him as sort of a man-sized jungle gym. And he would get all of the benefits of having sons without the cranky pregnant wife, two
A.M.
feedings, and diapers.

I jogged to my office, sat at my desk, and fired up my computer. When he installed the cameras around the valley, Nick had hooked a wireless transmitter into my modem to record anything the cameras picked up to my hard drive. I’d expected the activity to escalate after the incident on the cliff. But so far, we’d mostly gotten footage of elk prancing around the tree line as if they owned the place. But when I opened up the video cache folder on my desktop for that night’s feed, I found . . . nothing.

There was a clip of a young bear cub wandering on the southern ridge the day before, which I’d found on my daily check of the folder. That was it.

“Damn it.” I sighed.

I don’t know what I’d expected. A clip of some Elmer Fudd lookalike waving at the camera and showing ID?

I sat back in my office chair, chewing up my lip. My mom was probably wondering where I was. And Nick had already texted me five times, demanding a less cryptic phone call. I couldn’t seem to bring myself to face either of them.

I sprang up from the chair. What if the cameras weren’t working? Some of the units on the south side of the valley hadn’t deposited a video in the
cache folder. It couldn’t hurt to go check, right? It was something to do, and I was itching for something to do that didn’t involve talking or emotions.

I dashed out of my office and jogged up the slope behind the clinic, shrugging out of my jacket and boots. My feet slipped through the patches of tough dead grass, the edges of each blade pricking my ankles. I closed my eyes and breathed deep, searching for a trace of Samson’s blood on the breeze. My face naturally inclined north, to one of Samson’s favorite napping spots in the valley. A patch of dirt he’d dug out on the north lip of the crescent. Nothing. I faced south and caught the faintest scent of rust. I followed it on human feet, silent and swift, my braid bouncing against my back as the scent grew stronger. There was a trail there, worn through the trees by generations of paws.

I skidded to a stop when I recognized the shiny black patch of blood on the ground. Samson’s paw-prints hadn’t gone any farther, as if he’d come running along and stopped suddenly before he was hit. Had he heard a noise? I couldn’t smell any sign of a human or a wolf nearby. I looked up at the bare, imposing limbs overhead. There was nowhere to hide. And there was no camera in sight. Was that blind luck on the shooter’s part? Or did he know where the cameras were?

Samson would have seen a human standing close. The shot must have come from a distance, which could have meant a skewed shot from the game preserve. But there were so many trees. What was the probability of a hunter shooting wild and then the
bullet making it all the way through the forest without hitting anything but Samson? I’d say it ranged from no freaking way to none. This was the work of our fabric-softener-loving friend.