Wolf Fever (30 page)

Someone yelled from in back of the house.

“Galahad!” the guy in the room shouted. “Deal's off if that wolf kills him.”

“The wolf won't injure Galahad if he doesn't fight back.” Hell, what was going on now? Then a sickening notion swamped Ryan. If the wolf was Doc Mitchell, he'd left Carol unprotected.

Hating the wait and not knowing what was going on in the house, Carol clenched and unclenched her hands, watching the front door, the windows… the windows. She saw movement in one of them. A gray wolf. The
smaller head indicated a female. She looked like she needed help and implored Carol to come to her. And then she disappeared beneath the window.

Was it a trick? Was Carol naïve to think the wolf needed her help?

She stayed put, waiting and observing the window. The wolf didn't appear again, and Carol couldn't stand the wait any longer. She wouldn't go in the house, just peek through the window.

After a few minutes, she'd traversed the yard, reached the house, and peered in. A mother wolf nursed her pups, and another due to have hers any day now was sitting nearby. Sucking in her breath, Carol turned to look at the front door, still open. The door to the room was shut, and the she-wolves were confined. She was a nurse. She could aid them if they needed her help.

The she-wolves saw her, eyes widening. The one with the nursing pups remained relaxed on the floor. The other was panting hard. Was she going into labor?

She needed someone to be with her.

Carol walked carefully to the front door, not making a sound. Then she peered inside. Nothing—no voices, no footfalls, silent as a ghost house.

She stepped inside the house and listened again. One of the she-wolves whimpered. The mournful sound of her voice spurred Carol to action. She hurried to the room and gingerly opened the door. The she-wolf that was heavy with pups rushed toward her, and Carol had the sinking feeling she'd just made one of the biggest mistakes of her life.

Ryan shoved the door to the cramped bedroom open as the man climbed out the window, and North jumped through the same opening in his wolf form. Ryan and Sam raced to the window as Tom ran beside them. A hundred yards from the house, Doc Mitchell had pinned Galahad to the ground. The man's hands held onto the scruff of the wolf's neck. Galahad's eyes widened in terror as Doc pulled his lips back in a snarl and exposed his sharp teeth even more.

“Doc won't hurt him, but this ends now. Drop the gun,” Ryan ordered Galahad's brother.

As a wolf, Tom leapt through the open window, joining Ryan and eyeing North, who couldn't seem able to decide what to do. The two reds found themselves facing a bigger gray wolf and Doc Mitchell, too, as he moved off Galahad and positioned himself to attack North. The other man finally seemed resigned and dropped his gun in the tall grass.

Something moved behind them, and Ryan whipped around to see Carol walking toward them, on the phone and with the very pregnant wolf and the nursing mother and her pups.

“Everything's going to be fine, Lelandi, once we find the lab. Can your uncle take in some wayward reds? They have a couple of females, one with pups and another soon to have a litter. We need to have them transported to the vet clinic.”

Ryan shook his head at Carol. He didn't think she'd ever mind him while he was trying to do his duty as her protector.

“What happened to sitting in the truck and waiting for us?”

“Two females needed my help. I never decline helping those who need it, you know. The female's ready to have her pups. We need to get them to some place clean and safe.”

Galahad rose from the ground, and Doc Mitchell eyed him warily. Galahad turned to his brother with a look of regret.

“It's over, Hank. It was a harebrained scheme to begin with.”

He spoke to Ryan. “The scientist's name is Miller Redford, a red wolf who was turned a decade ago and joined our pack a year ago. He gives the impression he's a mad scientist, but he's very sane.”

Sam grunted.

“That's debatable, considering what his meddling could cost our kind,” Ryan said. “Where is he?”

“In the basement,” Galahad replied, motioning to the house.

“Hell. Everyone stay put.”

Ryan headed for the open bedroom window, ready to end this now.

Ryan held his gun at the ready as he located a door off the kitchen that he'd assumed was a pantry. Without bothering with the light switch, he moved in the dark down the creaking stairs to the basement, where the walls smelled slightly moldy.

Light came from around the edges of a door, but when Ryan reached it, he found it locked. The blood thundering in his ears, he holstered his gun and used his lock picks. Once he heard the soft click, he put away
his lock picks, pulled his gun out, steeled himself for trouble, and then twisted the door handle.

He expected to face a man armed with a syringe or a gun, but instead he saw a room exactly as Carol had described to him from the earlier vision. The wide-screen TV hanging on the wall was dark. Sconces hung on the walls and shot soft light upward toward the ceiling, showing off the gold walls. Leather chairs were companions to a leather sofa, and all were brand new, their leather fragrance permeating the air. Brown carpeting smelled new, too. No moldy odor down here, and the paint was fresh.

If he'd had any doubts about Carol's psychic talents, this was proof she had them. The analytical part of his brain still fought with him, reminding him that she might have been here once before. But he shoved the notion aside. The chances she would ever have been here were miniscule at best. She truly was psychic.

A door off the living area was shut, and soft country western music played overhead. Ryan moved quickly across the carpeted floor. He twisted the handle. No resistance. Miller wasn't expecting the troops. Or he was just plain crazy, despite what Hank had said.

Slowly, Ryan opened the door. Definitely a lab with tables and a couple of stools, a microscope, beakers, some jars filled with liquids, and others filled with powdery substances, as well as all-white, sterile-looking cabinets. The smell of disinfectant lingered in the air.

Something clinked in an adjoining room, and Ryan rushed through the open doorway. This room was smaller, set up like an office with books on shelves
against one wall, a neat desk with all the papers stacked in a tray, and a toilet visible in another small room off this one. Next to a fridge, a coffeemaker, coffee mugs, and a microwave oven sat on a counter, and the aroma of cinnamon rolls permeated the air.

Miller hovered over the coffee pot, pouring himself a cup. He wore a lab coat, black pants, and brown slippers. He was a husky man, a little over six feet tall and much taller than most reds.

Ryan had hoped he'd catch Miller off guard. And he had, but only for an instant. Miller whipped around, his bearded jaw dropping, his yellow eyes narrowed, and blond hair sweeping his shoulders. Miller threw the hot cup of coffee at Ryan, yanked off his lab coat to reveal his bare chest, and then kicked off his slippers and jerked off his pants.

Ignoring the burning-hot coffee soaking his shirt and chest, Ryan fired two rounds as Miller shifted and lunged at him. The bullets both struck the wolf's chest, but because of his hefty size and the shot of adrenaline that had to be running through his system, the hits didn't stop him for long.

Ryan holstered his gun and yanked off his clothes as quickly as he could, but Miller knocked him to the tile floor before he could shift. Miller growled, his teeth bared.

“You're a dead man…” Ryan said with authority— although the wolf bearing down on his chest made his breathing labored—as he gripped Miller's neck with every ounce of strength he possessed “…unless you give us the vaccine.”

Considering the fate they all faced, Ryan was sure
Miller wouldn't be allowed to live. He was too dangerous—and he knew it. Then again, Ryan was at a distinct disadvantage, and he imagined Miller must be laughing at his boastful threats.

Someone rushed through the living area at a gallop, and Ryan assumed either Tom or Doc Mitchell was coming to his rescue. When he saw Carol as a wolf, Ryan's heart did a flip.

Miller turned to face the snarling, growling female wolf that was Ryan's mate, and as he did, Ryan tried to shove him off. Unsuccessfully.

Miller stayed where he was, his hefty size pinning Ryan down, but his attention remained focused on Carol.

She snapped at his flank with her wicked teeth, and he moved out of her way, still trying to keep Ryan—the greater threat once he shifted—pinned to the floor.

She moved behind Miller and bit his stiff tail. He yelped and Ryan's heart raced, but he still couldn't get out from underneath the big wolf.

She lunged at Miller's backside, like a small fish poking at a shark, and nipped his rump.

Again, he yelped, but this time he turned to retaliate.

Unencumbered, Ryan shifted. His natural instinct was to growl and draw Miller's attention, to let him know he had real trouble in the form of an alpha male gray and give him a fighting chance, but he couldn't risk Miller tearing into Carol. The red who had changed her had torn into her once. Ryan couldn't have her traumatized all over again.

He leapt at Miller's back as Miller railroaded Carol into a corner of the office between a file cabinet and a chair. Her teeth bared, she growled, her eyes narrowed
into slits, the blue color when she was human transformed into rich dark amber. She was beautiful and threatening.

Ryan grabbed Miller on the back of the neck, crushing his spine with one bite, and regretting it as soon as the wolf collapsed. What if he'd hidden the vaccine? What if they couldn't discover a cure? How would they survive?

A
WEEK AND A HALF AFTER
R
YAN HAD KILLED
M
ILLER
, Carol sat at the kitchen table in Doc Weber's rental home, tapping her bare foot on the floor and reading through books written over the ages that discussed various herbal and other home remedies for getting rid of viruses or colds or werewolfism. She wasn't any closer to finding a cure for the pack.

Darkness had descended on the house hours earlier, so fluorescent bulbs flooded the kitchen with light. Ryan was still annoyed with her for having come to his rescue in Miller's basement. But as soon as she'd realized that her vision of the room involving gunfire was the same place Ryan was investigating, she'd had to rescue him. She just hadn't realized
he
was the one doing the shooting and not Miller.

Tom and Sam still weren't talking to her, both mad that she'd taken off and nearly gotten herself killed. But she had been the only one not standing guard against the other red males! Besides, wasn't that what mates did for each other?

She took a deep breath and continued to study one of the books, while Ryan examined papers spread all over the other end of the golden-oak table. He was looking for a clue to where Miller might have hidden a vaccine.

On a whim, Lelandi had mentioned that Doc Weber had a personal library that he'd accumulated before he'd
had much medical training. A lot of his remedies had been passed down from their ancestors. Carol figured that trying those remedies on the sickened wolves was worth a shot, since nothing else seemed to work. For days, she'd been studying the books and testing the remedies on any willing participant.

If a person didn't die from complications of the flu, which thankfully no one had, he or she would eventually get better. But for the
lupus garous
, the real problem was being able to shift into wolf form and then not being able to shift back. She was trying herbal remedies for lessening the effects of the flu and supposed cures for shifting, if any of them seemed in the least bit sound. Piercing a werewolf's hands with nails and striking a werewolf in the head with a knife were supposed remedies for getting rid of the werewolf problem but she would leave them to myths and legends.

She rose from the table, crossed the linoleum floor, and opened the black fridge door. Inside, a bowl of diced onions sat in a thick, golden syrup of honey. She shuddered at the thought of anyone having to eat it.

A warm hand swept down her back, and she turned slightly to see Ryan looking down at her. His dark amber gaze was tender, and she knew that look in his eyes. It said she had been working at this for too long and she needed to sleep.

“In a little while,” she said.

He took a deep breath and nodded. “I'm going to take a shower. Join me?”

“Sure.”

He smiled, but she could tell he didn't believe her. She wanted to shower with him and enjoy what would happen
between them if she did, but he probably assumed she'd never make it to the shower before he was finished.

“In a little while,” she said again, trying to reassure him.

He kissed her forehead, let out his breath, and headed for the guest bathroom.

Carol closed the fridge door and turned on the teakettle. More of Darien's pack had shifted to their wolf forms, including Jake, and none could revert to their human forms. Tom and Sam were still fine. And Lelandi had said she had no urges to shift, so was all right for now. Silva had been fighting the shift for a couple of days.

Those who hadn't shifted were taking care of those who had. Everyone who was left was short-tempered, feeling the tension, and worried about shifting and about family members who were stuck in their wolf forms.

A small tickle in Carol's throat had bothered her for the last hour or so, but it was probably just allergies. She prayed. She also felt a little warmer than usual, which she hoped only meant that the heater was on too high.

She thought of Nurse Matthew and Charlotte handling the patient load at the hospital while she wasn't doing her fair share. Sure, she was trying to find an antidote, but it seemed too much like being on holiday. Except that she was worried sick she wouldn't discover a way to stop the virus.

Doc Weber and Doc Mitchell remained at the hospital in their wolf forms. They urged Carol to use her experimental cures on them. Those ranged from herbal remedies like garlic and onion, Echinacea, licorice— which didn't go over with any of the wolves—and Vitamin C for improved antibodies to fight the virus in an infected person. She had even tested the medieval
concept that exercising the werewolf into exhaustion in his wolf form would force him to shift back to his human form. Nothing worked. Darien also had tried all of the remedies in good spirit, although he wouldn't go along with the brutal exercise plan, probably figuring that was a bunch of medieval bunk.

Carol lifted two packages of licorice, one red and one black, and took a deep breath as she pondered the results of yet another attempt at creating a cure. She'd tested Darien, Jake, and both the vet and Doc Weber, but no one seemed to respond to the home remedies. The vet and Jake had both gone along with the exercise program, willing to try anything to snap out of the inability to shift back to their human form. But Darien was right. It didn't work.

Her mind frazzled, she poured herself another cup of ginger tea, and took it back to the table. On page fifty-five of a set of handwritten notes on werewolf myths and legends, she had found a possible cure, or death. She closed her eyes as she sat at the table and rested her head on her arm, willing herself to think.
Think
, what hadn't she tried that might work? Something that wouldn't possibly result in death.

Her thoughts shut down, and as if in a dream or out of the mist of her mind, a lush green meadow appeared.

The sun was shining down on Ryan as he lay on the grass. Hands behind his head, he had his eyes closed and his leg cocked, resting peacefully, until two small boys attacked him with childlike exuberance. The boys were identical in size, maybe three years of age, chubby, with dark hair like Ryan's, and smiles and dimples like his, too. Startled out of his peaceful pose, he laughed
and tackled them, tickling them amid giggles and squeals. Twin boys.

Before she could come to any conclusions about the vision, the fragrance of blended almond, lime, and mandarin soap drifted to her, and she returned to the world at present and turned in her chair. Freshly showered and totally naked, Ryan advanced on her in a strictly lustful predatory manner. Her gaze shifted to the package between his legs. He sure was hung. She might have missed showering with him, but he wasn't leaving her to stew over the dilemma of finding a cure all night. And she loved him for it.

She smiled at him, so handsome and caring and hunky, his mouth curving up a little, his eyes taking her in as if she was the most beautiful creature in the world—which as tired as she was, she knew wasn't possible—and his expression determined, bordering on sinful seduction.

No matter how frustrated and anxious she'd become with trying to discover a solution, Ryan was always her champion. He told everyone she was getting close to a breakthrough, when no one really knew how long it would take.

He encouraged her, adamantly insisting that she could do it, and by doing so, she knew he trusted in her abilities with all his heart. That bolstered her confidence in the face of failure. Pride reflected in his expression every time he talked about her efforts to find a solution. She wasn't sure if he did so to remind her she could fight this, too, or if he wanted her to know she was fully a werewolf now—just like any of their kind.

Despite how tired she was, she saw he was ready for some loving. She rose from the chair to recharge her batteries, too.

“Time to rest,” he said, massaging her shoulders with dreamy strength.

She knew he meant
after
they made love.

“So soft,” he whispered against her ear, his large capable hands moving down her pale blue cashmere sweater and settling on her breasts, measuring, feeling, circling. Then his lips curved up in a wicked way.

“Hmm, no bra.”

The way he said the words in a hushed and seductive voice, and the way he touched her, made her feel naughty and decadent. She swept her hands up his naked biceps—strong, smooth, and tensing with her touch— and encircled his neck with her arms. She couldn't press against his length like she wanted, to feel his growing arousal and his desire for her building, not while his thumbs targeted her nipples, stroking and rolling the sensitive nubs between his fingers and stealing her thoughts, her breath, her willpower.

Already her loins tightened with need and her body quivering with desire—responsive, receptive, needy. She wanted him, wanted the feel of him mating with her, the closeness, the intimacy.

His mouth crushed hers, his hands moving from her breasts to the bottom edge of her soft sweater. He slid the luxurious fabric upward, his thumbs stroking her skin from her belly over her breasts, stopping to fondle her nipples for a moment in a deliciously sinful way, and then moving up her collarbone to pull the sweater off.

He dropped it on a chair, and head bent, leaned down to capture a nipple with his mouth, his tongue slick and hot, as it glided over the raised hypersensitive nub. She moaned, felt her knees give, and would have been
kneeling before him if he hadn't slipped his hands down to cup her buttocks and to hold her in place while he had his way with her.

She felt her bones melt, her blood and skin sizzle with his touch, and briefly worried that she was shape-shifting… until his thigh pushed between her legs, pressed gently upward, and rubbed, giving her a jolt.

Oh God, she'd never last.

His heart was pounding as thunderously as hers, despite his slow and measured moves. He recaptured her mouth with his, their breathing heavy and labored. The scent of arousal, hers and his, entwined in a pleasing fragrance, added to the sweet and spicy aroma of the almond, lime, and mandarin soap he'd washed with.

His fingers tangled in her hair, his eyes dark as midnight, his thigh still pressed between her legs, holding her up and tormenting her. Then he unfastened her jeans button and, after that, the zipper. Once he'd unzipped her jeans and slipped his fingers into her soft curls, he pulled his mouth away from hers, and smiled.

“No panties?” Again his words made her feel wickedly sinful.

As if he couldn't last a moment longer, he tugged her jeans down and left them in a puddle of blue denim on the floor.

“You're beautiful,” he said, and lifted her so that she was straddling him. “And all mine,” he added, sounding wolfishly possessive.

No coherent words could come to mind as her legs were spread open to him against his belly, his chest hair mingling with her soft curls, his stomach rubbing against her feminine lips with every step he took. She clung to
him as he moved fast, heading toward the guestroom, his gait long and decisive.

“You're beautiful, too,” she said hoarsely, soliciting a deep-seated chuckle from him.

When they reached the bed, he didn't set her down and then join her, like she'd expected. Instead, in one deft move, she was on the mattress and he was still between her legs. He shifted away from her slightly and ran his hand up her inner thigh, teasing her into submission.

But she would not submit! Her hands swept over his arms and his back, and lower to his buttocks. She squeezed, soliciting a shiver from him. She reached up and raked her hands through his damp hair, while his eyes studied her, lust-filled, desirous, and hungry.

She pulled him down and licked his shoulder, loved the salty and sweet taste of him freshly showered, all man and wolf, and hers. He groaned, a sound that said she was pushing
him
over the edge.

As if he couldn't wait any longer, he began to stroke her between her legs, dipping a finger inside her and claiming her. He pressed his mouth against hers again, ravenous, passionate, greedy. His tongue danced with hers, their breathing fast paced as her fingers pressed against his lower back, her loins aching for resolution.

She arched her back, pushing against his fingers, demanding, begging. He stroked harder, relentlessly, watching her expression until she shuddered and fractured into a million wondrous bits of pleasure and gave out a cry.

Watching Carol come nearly brought him to climax. He dove into her tight sheath, and pushed hard and deep—and deeper still. Her body was flushed and moist, and every inch was delectable, gripping him with ripples
of orgasm. Her fingers dug into his buttocks, her desire pronounced in her actions and heady arousal.

He stretched her and claimed her, merging, melding, and mating with her. Their tongues and lips tasted and teased, and he said her name softly against her mouth just before the final thrust—the eruption—when the heat sizzled between them.

She gave a tired smile, pulled him close, and held on tight.

“Mine,” she said.

He rolled over and cushioned her against his chest.

“Mine,” was his response.