Chapter Eight
C HAPTER E IGHT
Even trained dogs need instruction.
—Man’s Best Friend: An Essential Guide to Dogs
Arms stuffed with grocery bags, Claire kicked the door shut and weaved her way into the small kitchen. After a morning idly strolling antique stores and then grocery shopping, she had almost convinced herself that everything was normal, that she was on a holiday. Almost.
Unpacking her groceries, she paused to rip open the expensive deli cheese, roll a slice, and take a bite. Her tongue savored the woody flavor as she continued putting her hoard of food into the refrigerator. The blinking red light on her parents’ ancient answering machine caught her eye. Cell reception was spotty out here, so her mom kept a landline and an old-school answering machine. She punched play and reached for the can of Reddi-wip. Swallowing her last bite of cheese, she tilted her head back, opened her mouth wide, and squirted the luscious whipped cream onto her tongue.
Her mother’s voice filled the air, assuring her that Molly was safe and sound. Claire pulled a face at the machine. Disloyal cat. “Should have bought a dog,” Claire mumbled, crouching down to store the fresh vegetables in the bottom drawer, fending off feelings of resentment over her cat’s betrayal.
“… Oh, and I bumped into your friend Gideon. Such a nice young man, very handsome…”
Claire stood so fast her head smacked against the freezer door she had left swinging open.
Rubbing the top of her head, she scowled at the machine, her unease exploding into full panic as her mother went on to say, “I told him you should bring him to dinner when you get back from the lake…”
With her heart in her throat, Claire spun around, desperate to put as much distance between herself and the cabin as possible. Only she collided into a wall. A wall that hadn’t been there a moment before.
With a cry, she staggered back, crashing into the open refrigerator door. The bottles and jars lining the door rattled noisily. Had she been small enough, she would have crawled inside the refrigerator and closed the door. But she wasn’t. She had nowhere to run. Her eyes lifted and settled on a furious Gideon March.
He twirled a pair of handcuffs on his index finger and took a menacing step forward. “You have no idea how much trouble you’ve put me through.”
Obviously not enough. He had found her. No thanks to her mother.
She darted past him. Hard fingers caught the ends of her hair and gave a yank. Arms flailing, she careened into that familiar wall of muscle. His arms came up to lock around her, squeezing her ribs until she couldn’t draw air. Even panicked, she was conscious of the way her breasts rose and fell on top of his forearm, conscious of how heavy and achy they suddenly felt, of how her nipples hardened. The air deepened into shadows of hazy red and purple, mirroring her varying emotions—rage, fear, excitement.
He pressed his mouth close to her ear and growled in a voice that sent shivers down her spine, “We’re through talking.”
Oh God. He’s here to kill me.
Guided by instinct, she flung her head back, crashing it against his chin. With a grunt of pain, he loosened his hold. She broke free and bolted, snatching her purse from a wall hook by the door.
Her hand barely grazed the doorknob before her feet flew out from under her. One moment she was airborne, the next flat on her back—every bone in her body painfully jarred. Dazed, she saw a flash of silver overhead and remembered what had dangled from his hands. Handcuffs. Crouching over her, he grabbed one of her wrists with the cuffs poised in the air, ready to shackle her.
“No!” Her leg shot out, kicking him in the shin, bringing him toppling down on top of her, washing her in the male scent of him. She concentrated on keeping her hands away from those cuffs, concentrated on ignoring the wild need pumping through her bloodstream.
Cursing, he caught one of her flying hands and chased after the other one. An ache throbbed at the center of her thighs. The proximity of his body, the male musk of him, even his rough handling, excited her. He excited her. God, she was demented. Or sick.
Pinning both her wrists above her head, he flattened his body along the length of hers. “Enough,” he barked.
Nose to nose, they glared at each other, hot breaths mingling, his smell overwhelming her, his hammering heart loud between them.
“Stop looking at me like that,” he warned, his green eyes wild. The catch in his voice sent a tremor through her body.
Her breath came in short, rhythmic spurts, each one thrusting her breasts harder against his chest, pressing the hard peaks into his solidness. “Like what?”
“Like you wanna fuck.”
Heat suffused her face, rushing through her entire body like a firestorm. Her mouth sagged open. His accusation was ridiculous, absurd, impossible.
“Right,” she choked out, trying for sarcasm but her reply sounded more like agreement to her ears.
But it was too late. The damage was done, the fuse lit from the mental image his coarse language inspired. An image she couldn’t shake. An image so vivid she wanted—no, needed to make it a reality.
Thrusting her face forward the last inch separating them, she kissed him like a woman starved. She kissed him with a savagery that shocked her. He was still for only a second before surrendering and kissing her back. Releasing her wrists, he grabbed hold of her face and angled her for his slanting mouth. The feel of those large hands on her face, his calluses rasping her cheeks, awakened a hidden Claire, a Claire that felt feminine and desired. Bold and hungry.
Grabbing his shoulders with both hands, she strained against him, moaning into his mouth. His tongue slid against hers, stoking the inferno inside her even higher.
Desperate, driven by desire, she ran her hands down his back. Tongue parrying with his, she dropped her hands to clutch him, hating the denim that stopped her from feeling the texture of his skin.
Spreading her legs, she let him settle his weight between her thighs, moaning softly into his mouth as he rubbed and ground his hardness against her.
He tore his lips from hers to drag his mouth down her neck. His teeth clamped gently on her nipple through her shirt. She shrieked, bucking against him. Through the thin cotton of her shirt he continued to bite and suck her nipples into turgid pebbles, drawing each deep into his mouth. She brought her hands to his head, tangling them in the long, thick strands of hair. The roll of his tongue over the wet cotton created a delicious friction, drawing mewling, animal-like cries from deep in her throat.
Wild for the taste of him, she shoved at his chest and rolled him over, straddling him with a strength and speed that surprised even her. Something other than desire flickered in his gaze as he looked up at her, but she did not give him—or herself—time to think. Scooting low on his hips, she ran her hands down his chest to the waistband of his jeans. Unzipping him, she found him through the opening in his boxers. Closing her hand around the hard length of him, she gently squeezed. The blood burned through her veins as he pulsed in her hand. She traced her thumb over the silken tip of him, rubbing the bead of moisture that appeared there.
Groaning, he clamped hard hands around her arms and rolled her under him. Slamming his mouth over hers, he kissed her with a savagery that should have shocked her. A growl swelled deep from her throat. He thrust himself against her, driving her into the floor.
Panting, she tore her lips from his. “Please,” she begged, writhing beneath him.
She was lost. Mindless. She had to have him. Now. On the floor. She didn’t care as long as he was inside her.
“I know,” he murmured, hands sliding down her arms to her wrists in an almost gentle hold.
The soft, grinding click did not immediately register. Not until he pulled back. Not until it was too late.
Staring up at him, she blinked in bewilderment, bereft without his hands and mouth on her.
Then it hit her.
“You bastard!”
She tugged her wrists apart, but the steel handcuffs imprisoned her hands together. Fury exploded inside her—and with it an irrational sense of betrayal. He hadn’t wanted her at all. Her heart clenched in pain. He had only wanted to distract her. So he could kill her. With a bellow of rage she swung her cuffed wrists toward his head with all the strength she possessed and made contact with a satisfying whack.
Flat on her belly, cuffed to the leg of her mother’s antique woodstove, Claire wondered why he hadn’t simply killed her. Especially after the murderous look he gave her after she struck him.
Cold steel handcuffs chafed her wrists and she coughed up dust balls with every inhalation. She cringed at her once white T-shirt, covered in grime from the linoleum floor. Dropping her forehead to the floor, she wished she’d had the guts to shoot him back at her apartment when she had had the chance. Now it was too late. She had missed her chance, and now it appeared he would carry out his threat and kill her.
Heavy footsteps signaled Gideon’s return from the bathroom. Craning her neck, she readied her glare. He came into view, dabbing what appeared to be wet toilet paper on the nasty gash above his eyebrow.
Her nostrils quivered as a warm coppery scent assailed her. Her mouth watered and a strange sensation, much like desire, spiraled through her as her gaze narrowed on the dark crimson trickling slowly from the gash on his forehead.
“Hurt much?” She struggled for a bland tone.
“Yeah.” He shrugged, his shoulder muscles rippling against the thin cotton of his T-shirt. “Probably needs stitches.”
“Good,” she replied, unable to suppress her anger.
He scowled, tossed the wad of toilet paper onto the table still holding the weight of several bags of groceries, and planted both hands on lean hips. “Comfortable?”
“No.” She jiggled the cuffs for emphasis.
“Good,” he returned, tit for tat.
“Look, these are hurting my wrists—”
“Then stop tugging,” he advised, looming over her. From her prone position, she felt like an ant at his feet.
Claire couldn’t help pressing herself deeper into the floor. “If you’re going to kill me, just get it over with.” Her lips quivered despite the brave words.
“There are worse things than death,” he replied enigmatically.
She went still, trying to imagine what he could possibly be implying. Her imaginings made her blood run cold. Did he intend to torture her first?
“Get that look off your face. I’m not going to kill you.” His soft sigh sounded impatient to her ears and Claire wasn’t too sure if his impatience was directed at her or himself.
She eyed him suspiciously, unconvinced. “Then how about taking these off? You can’t keep me cuffed to the stove forever.”
“You’re coming into your strength.” He shook his head as if this were a great shame and pointed at the wound above his eyebrow. “You nearly knocked me out. I can’t trust you. At least not until you’re convinced—”
“I’m not strong. Really.” Claire beat her head on the gritty linoleum, no longer caring how dirty the floor was. “I was afraid. It was just an adrenaline rush.”
He snorted in clear disagreement. “I’m out of options. There’s only one thing left to do.”
The hair at the back of her neck prickled. She didn’t like the sound of that. Lifting her head, she watched warily as he moved back into the bathroom, out of view.
“W-where are you going?” she stammered, straining her neck to catch a glimpse of him.
He emerged from the bathroom holding his holstered gun. At the smooth sound of the gun sliding from its leather home, her throat constricted.
He took aim.
“No,” she choked, the word weak and strangled as she struggled to sit up despite the uncomfortable pull on her arms.
“I didn’t want it to come to this.” His lips thinned into an unforgiving line. Hard malachite-green eyes looked down at her, and she knew hope was useless. “It’ll be quick,” he promised.
Jamming her eyes shut, she tried to shrink into the smallest ball possible in anticipation—
The gun didn’t explode in her ears. Not like in the movies. A soft zing stabbed the air. At first, she felt only pressure. No pain. Claire opened one eye. Then the other. Gideon stood in the same spot, observing her with mild interest as he unscrewed the silencer.
Then came the pain, washing over her in undulating waves of heat, then cold. Bracing herself, she sucked in a breath and looked down. Blood soaked the front of her shirt, making it impossible to tell exactly where she had been hit. So much blood. The coppery scent overwhelmed her.
“Oh God,” she wailed, turning accusing eyes on him. “You really shot me.”
Only moments ago she had kissed him, drank passion from his lips, his body, reveled in the feel of his callused hands on her face. Hands that had now delivered her death. The betrayal hurt more than the hole in her chest. Which only made her a fool since she had known he was dangerous from the first moment they met and failed to do anything about it. She glanced back down at the blood spreading across her shirt like an orchid in bloom and cursed her stupidity. Why hadn’t she gone to the cops? Or used her gun?
But she knew the answer. She hadn’t truly believed him dangerous. In spite of everything, something about him had always struck her as… reasonable. Not a killer.
“You really shot me,” she whispered.
He nodded.
Tears blurred her vision.
“Sorry.” He nodded again, looking only faintly apologetic. “It’ll be over soon.”
She strained against the cuffs, overcome with the need to free herself and staunch the wound.
“Uncuff me! Let me at least die with my hands free.”
“You’re not dying,” he said a touch impatiently.
“It burns,” she groaned, even as the burning sensation seemed to ebb. Numbness was setting in. Death must be near.
“It’s the healing sensation.”
Claire blinked several times. “What?”
“Your cells are regenerating.”
For a moment, she allowed herself to hope, but then concluded this must be part of his plan to torture her before she died. No way could she survive a chest shot. She looked away, dismissing him, having no wish to stare into the eyes of her killer as she drew her final breath.
“Look.” He crouched down next to her and pulled her shirt up. Horrified at the mutilated flesh she was sure to see, she squirmed away.
“Stop wiggling.” He yanked her shirt higher. “See?”
Claire couldn’t resist looking.
Gideon swept his hand over her belly and ribs, wiping the blood away. Something clattered to the floor with a ping. She stared at her torso. To her astonishment, no gaping hole stared back.
“See, it already sealed itself.” Picking up whatever fell to the floor, he displayed a small, crushed piece of metal between his thumb and forefinger. “Now if this had been silver, we wouldn’t be having this conversation. You’d be dead.”
“My God.” Her eyes focused on the bloody bullet, and her eyes finally accepted what her mind could not.
Gideon unlocked her handcuffs. Claire’s hands roamed over her chest and stomach. She felt nothing beyond the slipperiness of blood.
“I’m not shot.” She looked back at the bullet, undisputable evidence.
His lips twisted into a semblance of a smile. “Oh, you were shot. You’re just not dead.”
Tearing her gaze from that tiny chunk of metal, she searched his face, her eyes scanning every line, every nuance, missing nothing. She suddenly saw him for what he was. Not… wrong. “Tell me. Tell me everything.”
He nodded slowly. “Get cleaned up first.”
On unsteady legs, she moved to her suitcase. Her hands shook as she rummaged for clean clothes. With her mind reeling, the simple act took far longer than it should have. Once alone in the bathroom, she took a moment to lean against the door and let herself shake at will. She deliberately avoided looking in the mirror as she stripped, unwilling to look at her eyes now that she understood the reality behind them.
Standing under the showerhead, she tilted her head back and let the water pelt her face, thinking over everything Gideon had told her, everything she had once refused to believe yet now knew to be true.
Lenny was truly dead. She couldn’t pretend otherwise anymore. Yet she couldn’t blame Gideon for killing him. If he hadn’t, she would be dead. Still, she gave in to the grief, to the tears, letting them disappear in a rush of water down the drain. She told herself that once she stepped out of the shower she wouldn’t waste another moment to tears. Lenny was gone, but she was still here, and she needed to figure a way out of this nightmare.
Shutting off the water, she stepped from the shower. As she wrapped herself in a towel, her gaze slid to the mirror, to the stranger staring back, pewter eyes gleaming with a hunger that she now understood.
Without thinking, her hand snatched up the first thing it could find—a small vase of dried flowers on the back of the toilet—and let it fly. The mirror shattered with a loud crash. Shards of vase and glass rained down on the counter and floor. Still, those lycan eyes were visible, distorted through the fractured mirror. The eyes of a beast, mocking, laughing at her display of pique.
“No,” she raged, wanting to gouge them from her face.
Her hand closed around the ceramic toothbrush holder just as Gideon burst into the bathroom. He caught her arm before she could let it fly.
Prying the toothbrush holder from her clenched fist, he tugged her away, his grip warm and firm on her arm. Shards of glass cut into the bottoms of her feet and she winced, stumbling against his chest.
Gideon looked down. “Damn,” he muttered, sweeping her into his arms and carrying her out of the bathroom. Claire soon found herself on the bed, her feet propped in Gideon’s lap as he plucked glass from the soles of her feet, his hands surprisingly gentle.
She watched him silently for a moment before asking, “Why are you doing this?”
His brow creased as he concentrated on her feet. “You might be a lycan, but it’s still gonna hurt to walk around with glass in your feet.”
Claire wet her lips. “I mean, why are you helping me?”
He looked up, studying her for a moment before returning to his task. “We’ll head back to town today. We don’t have a lot of time, so you’re going to have to help. I need to know everything about Lenny. Family, friends, where he liked to hang out. There’s a good chance he knew the lycan who infected him, so we’ll start by retracing his movements of the last month.”
Claire considered him for a moment before nodding. He was helping her, trying to stop her from turning into a bloodthirsty monster. A killer. She shut her eyes and gave her head a slow shake. That was all that mattered.
Opening her eyes again, she asked, “What happens when we find the one who infected Lenny?”
“I’ll kill him.” He said it so simply, like he killed all the time, and it was then that Claire finally accepted that he did. All except her, a small voice in the back of her mind reminded her.
“After you kill him, the curse will be broken.”
At this, Gideon hesitated, his hand hovering over her foot. “If he’s the alpha, yes.”
“Alpha?”
“Each pack has one alpha and every lycan can be traced back to that alpha, either through birth or infection.”
“So if you kill the alpha, the rest of the pack will become human again?”
“No.” His eyes cut directly to hers. “Only those who aren’t damned.” Lowering his head to examine her foot closer, he explained, “If you kill and feed, you’re lost. It doesn’t matter if your alpha is killed or not. The curse can’t be broken after you’ve fed. There’s no going back after that.”
Claire shook her head. “What if we can’t find Lenny’s alpha?”
“You’ll shift on the next full moon. And you’ll kill.”
Claire sat motionless, too horrified to even flinch as he plucked a chunk of glass buried deep in the arch of her foot. His words rolled over her, too horrible to believe. Except she was past denial.
“Even if I don’t want to?” she asked, trying to keep the desperation she felt from rising in her voice.
“Lycan instinct is too powerful. You won’t have a choice.”
Gideon slid her feet from his lap, his eyes locking with hers in a silent message. And neither will I.
Claire nodded. The words hadn’t been spoken aloud but she understood. She understood that the man who had saved her life in a dark alley might very well become her executioner. Gideon March would not spare her life twice.
Gideon buried his hand in his pocket, rolling the silver bullet between his thumb and forefinger. The bullet he had originally planned for her.
He had tracked her down intending to end it once and for all. His lips twisted wryly. That he had nearly taken her on the floor only confirmed in his mind that he had gotten way too involved with his target. He had lost all objectivity. Time was running short and she was a ticking time bomb.
Only face to face with her, he couldn’t go through with it. Unbelievable. After all the trouble she put him through, he couldn’t do it. At least not yet.
He watched her collect her things from around the cabin. Her movements were quick, purposeful. Her feet padded silently over the floor, all sign of injury gone. She clearly didn’t realize what a mess her feet had been. The average person would have needed stitches. He grunted, sliding his hand out of his pocket. Hell, she took a bullet in the chest. The average person would be dead. He might as well face the fact that there was nothing average about Claire Morgan. Or his feelings for her.
Determination etched her features as she packed. Misplaced determination. But then that was his fault. He was only prolonging the inevitable. Giving her hope he had no right to give. He ran a hand over his bristly jaw, asking himself what the hell he was doing.
The odds were against her. Lenny had been alone. With no clues to go on, it would be hard enough to locate the lycan responsible for infecting the kid—and next to impossible to track his alpha. But it was a chance. A chance Gideon’s parents never had.
His gaze drifted to her mouth, instantly distracted, instantly reminded that Claire was not like the others he had destroyed in one very big way. He’d never kissed the others. Never felt such a bone-deep want for them, not even when the females had turned their considerable wiles on him in an effort to save their wretched lives.
She was a lycan now, without control. Soon to be without conscience. He should have known better. He had succumbed to that soft mouth, to those breasts, to her hands on his cock, before reason asserted itself and he slapped the handcuffs on her wrists. A moment of weakness. That’s all. What sane man could resist a taste? Hell, she was one ball of raging hormones right now. No man was safe from her. A point he wouldn’t forget again.
She must have felt his stare. She ceased shoving garments into her bag and looked up at him.
“What?” she asked, her voice whisper soft. Her eyes reminded him of a wounded animal’s.
“Nothing.” Looking out the window at their two vehicles, he drew a deep breath and willed a return to the cold practicality that had ruled him.
He had killed hundreds of lycans in his life. Sometimes two, three in a single week. Only he had never hunted a particular one before. Never had to. But then it had never been necessary.
“We’ll leave your car here,” he announced. “On the drive back you can go over everything you remember about Lenny. Starting with his family.”
“No problem,” she muttered, pulling her suitcase off the bed and dropping it to the floor with a thud. “He didn’t have one.”
Claire leaned across his lap and yelled into the intercom, “A bacon triple cheeseburger and large fry and—”
“And?” Gideon echoed.
A warm flush crept up her face. She could have pretended she wasn’t hungry and ordered a fast-food salad of wilted lettuce and dry, prepackaged chicken, but she had missed lunch and couldn’t deny her rumbling stomach.
Her gaze scanned the menu. Swallowing her pride for the sake of her hunger, she finished her order. “And a large order of onion rings, a large chocolate shake… and a large Diet Coke.”
“Diet?” He lifted an eyebrow, his voice mocking as he asked, “You sure about that?”
“Yeah.” She sat back in her seat, her tone daring him to comment further as he drove up to the window. She might be seriously hungry, but she still liked her Diet Coke.
“Diet Coke,” he muttered, shaking his head as he passed her drink and shake to her.
She secured them safely in the double cup holder and looked at him blankly when he extended his own soda into the air. He looked down at the occupied cup holders and back at her.
“Can’t you hold it?” she asked.
“And drive?” he grumbled, wincing as he secured his ice-cold soda between well-muscled thighs. “Sure. No problem.”
She looked out the plastic window of the Jeep’s Bikini top as they waited for their food, her dark thoughts lingering like the gray, low-hanging clouds in the sky. On the next full moon she would succumb to an instinct that demanded she feed on human life.
Bile rose in her at that, and she glanced at his hard profile. Only he wouldn’t let that happen. He would make certain it never came down to that. One way or another. He would destroy her first. He hadn’t said as much, but she knew, she understood, and she didn’t blame him. Claire looked back out the window at the impending night.
There was still a chance. Claire swallowed hard and nodded in conviction, clinging to that belief. They’d find the alpha and break the curse before Gideon had to resort to such measures. He must believe it possible. Otherwise he would have already killed her.
And why hadn’t he? The question continued to rattle around inside her head. What was his motivation for helping her? Was she his good deed of the year? A single altruistic measure to break up a long line of kills?
“I haven’t told you thank you.”
The soft beat of his thumbs on the steering wheel abruptly ceased. “For what?”
Claire looked at him again. “Helping me.”
His lips thinned. “I haven’t helped you yet.”
“I think you have.” Claire recalled what he had said about the police force being full of hunters like him. “Those other hunters you mentioned, would they do what you’re doing?”
“No. They’d have destroyed you that first night.” The muscles in his jaw knotted and his eyes grew intense, burning as they looked at her. “I guess I’m just growing too soft for this job.” There was both sarcasm and anger in his voice. Claire wondered to whom it was directed.
Gideon turned, relieving her of his intense gaze as he accepted the bags of food through the window. She took the warm bags, the aroma of fried food tantalizing. He shifted the gear stick and they were soon speeding along the frontage road. Even with the top attached, the air hummed loudly around the vehicle as they merged onto the interstate. Grease soaked through the white paper bags balanced on her lap, singeing the tops of her thighs. But she didn’t care. A burger in one hand, she shoved fries into her mouth with the other, hardly chewing before she swallowed.
“Mind handing me my burger?”
“Oh,” she mumbled around a mouthful of hot, salty fries. She fumbled in the bag for his burger, unwrapped half of it, and handed it to him, avoiding the overwhelming temptation to take a bite.
“So,” she asked, biting into an onion ring, “how does one become a lycan hunter?” Silence stretched, so she pressed. “I mean it’s not exactly the kind of job you find in the classifieds.”
“I’ve been training since I was a kid,” he offered.
She ate another onion ring, waiting for him to elaborate. When he didn’t, she sighed impatiently. “What? Is it the family business or something? Was your father a lycan hunter, too?”
“No. Just another victim of its curse.”
Her gaze shot to him, the onion ring in her mouth suddenly dust. “He was infected? Like me?”
His jaw knotted again. “No, my mother was. My father merely her dinner.”
“Oh, my God,” she whispered, nausea churning her stomach. “That’s why you do this.” It was personal.
Cursing, he jerked a hand from the steering wheel to run through his hair, tousling the sun-kissed locks. “Christ. I don’t talk about this. With anyone. I don’t know why I am now.”
“Maybe you need to talk about it,” she suggested.
He slid her a bitter look. “Let’s get a couple things straight. Just because I’m helping you doesn’t mean we get friendly. We don’t chat and share life histories.” His gaze cut to her, penetrating, demanding nothing less than total agreement. “We’re not friends. Get it?”
“Yeah.” Claire understood. Even as his words undeniably stung. It should have occurred to her sooner. In the event they didn’t break the curse, killing her could be awkward, difficult, if they formed a friendship. “So how many like me have you helped before?” she asked.
He slanted her an unreadable look. After a long moment, he finally replied, “None.”
“None?”
“Look, my job is to destroy lycans. That’s the code. Whether you’ve fed yet or not doesn’t matter. You’re infected. Every agent in the country—hell, the world—would snuff you out rather than let you draw another breath.”
“Codes? Agents?” She shook her head. “What are you, the FBI?”
“Underground societies. I’m an agent for NODEAL, the National Organization for Defense against Evolving and Ancient Lycanthropes. Europe has EFLA, the European Federation of Lycan Agents.”
“Werewolves are that rampant?”
“Like damned locusts. And their numbers have been growing. Especially in the States. There’s been a lot of rumbling in the ranks. NODEAL’s considering merging with EFLA. They’re better at controlling their lycan population.”
“That many people are being infected by werewolves?”
“Actually, no. Lycans are very discriminating. They prefer to breed within their packs. A single lycan female can successfully procreate for a generation or two.”
“If they’re so discriminating, then why was Lenny infected?”
He frowned, staring straight ahead at the two-lane highway. “I don’t know. Rogue lycan, perhaps. Or maybe the kid got away before they could finish him off.”
Fighting back the brutal image that evoked, she swallowed down the tightness in her throat and asked, “So what else can I expect?” Besides turning into a monster and feeding on human flesh?
He was silent a long moment. “Heightened senses—taste, touch, smell, sight. You’re stronger. Faster. Quick to anger. Quick to react.”
She nodded. Her temper had certainly been hair-trigger lately. And her senses had been sensitive. To a distracting degree. She had tried to dismiss it. Rationalized it away, pretended not to notice.
“You’re the one living through it. You can probably better describe it.”
Moistening her lips, she volunteered, “I eat a lot.”
“You’re burning more calories now.”
Her head swiveled to look at him. “What?”
“Your metabolic intake has increased because lycans burn energy faster.”
“You mean I can eat like this and not gain weight?” She glanced at the discarded bags on the floorboard, her lips twisting. “Guess that’s one perk.”
“This isn’t a joke.”
“Am I laughing?” she snapped. “Trust me, I’m hanging on by a thread here.” Hearing the wobble in her voice, she blinked burning eyes and stared out at the pastureland flying past, knowing soon she would be back in a concrete jungle full of flesh-hungry beasts.
And she was one of them.