Chapter 20
Chapter
Twenty
His hold gentles but Grayson doesn’t act like I’m fragile, or someone who needs to be pitied and protected. He’s my anchor to the moment, a solid strength until I’m in full possession of myself again.
There’s no warning to cut it out or get a grip. Stop crying.
He keeps me close, with my arms around his neck like I deserve this and it’s his privilege to provide. Like his are the only arms capable of getting the job done.
The rising sun warms my back and the skin between my shoulder blades prickles.
Eventually I set aside the worry and panic and once those are out of the way, the tears settle.
I’m not sure how long we stay there with the audience at our backs. The prickle shifts, spreads like a rash, the itch small at first.
Then a rush of sensation I’m physically incapable of ignoring.
Sniffing, I lean back from Grayson only to see the same red scratch lines from his nails all along the sides of his neck, disappearing into his shirt.
His eyes catch mine, glowing with an amber fire. “Yeah. It’s getting worse,” he whispers.
Our time is up. My throat works and head swims. The tears brought on a rush of heat that refuses to budge but I’m cold enough to shiver on his lap.
Slowly Grayson helps us both to our feet and sets me to rights before stepping back, his fingers lingering on my wrist.
“Come on inside. Screw that wolf.” RJ spits in the direction where Jrue took off. “He looks like an absolute jerk. His hair is too perfect. I hate pretty boys like him.”
“We don’t trust anyone with perfect hair,” Aimee agrees.
The witches keep their voices uplifted and calm but the rolling itch beneath my skin fractures my concentration. I scratch lines of fire across my forearm but nothing helps.
“He’s probably running back to my dad to tell him what happened.”
RJ waves me off. “It doesn’t matter. What are they going to do to you?”
A whole lot, and it all depends on my father’s mood. After the attack the other day, and my desertion like a rat on a sinking ship, I’m going out on a limb to say he’s not going to give me any leeway.
More like this will be rope to hang myself with.
“Let’s go inside,” I mutter. “We’ve wasted too much time already.”
“You should rest,” Grayson says.
“I’m not tired.”
I rejected my mate. Officially and in no uncertain terms.
I let Grayson steer me inside the house, the door swinging shut behind us with no one touching it.
It’s easy enough to let hope disintegrate. To feel like nothing we do matters because everything is ruined and it’s too late.
A violent urge to scratch moves my hands for me, nails dragging along my forearm and brushing up against the raised bumps of the bite marks.
Goosebumps roll across my skin and my head goes light with the beginning of the fever. Every footstep upstairs carries whispers with no origin.
Somehow, Grayson and I do manage to fall asleep, caught in the web of unconsciousness. It feels less like rest than a complete giving in, like our bodies were too tired of carrying the weight of our mental strain.
Shallow sleep carries us to the last rays of golden hour angling through the window.
Twin thumps from upstairs sound the alarm that the vampires are awake and stomping on the floor right above our heads.
Grayson moans, throwing himself onto his back, his skin burning up. I blink the last bits of sleep from my eyes and for the first time, I tune in.
Whispers.
It’s not like the sound of people speaking in another room. More like the wind has solidified into vowels and consonants. I can’t make any of the words out, but they’re present and tangling over themselves.
Grayson shudders through a fever dream as I pull myself free of his weight. My feet touch down on the cool floor but rather than relief, I shiver, dragging a borrowed hoodie over my head.
I fluff my hair out, still tangled with debris from our frantic chase through the woods.
Who needs a shower when you’re waiting for a reaper?
A knock thuds against the door. “It’s time,” RJ calls through the wood. “We’ve got to go.”
“Where are we going?”
“I have a few questions about the shaman’s procedure.
We need library books. Figured it’s better if we all head out together.
Then we’ll have our answers. A few more tweaks to make sure we’ve got things exactly right.
” RJ pulls open the door and pops her head around. “And then hopefully a cure by sunrise.”
Will sunrise be too late?
I’m coming up short on answers.
The whispers prick against my eardrums again, senses on high alert on our way downstairs. Lacey and Colt fall into line behind us like soldiers in an endless war, and Grayson stumbles wearily at the end of our progression of ragtag warriors.
This. This is who we’ve got to work on a cure, something no one else in any of our combined worlds has managed.
No vampire, or werewolf, or witch has been able to stop lunging for each other’s throats long enough to work together. Only the shaman with whatever awful gains he sought from the people he helped.
And now his memory-hungry, pink-obsessed daughter.
Plus the six of us, working together through no small number of miracles.
An entire chain reaction of them strung together as fragile as flowers
If RJ hadn’t come into her powers, if Lacey hadn’t managed to fight off multiple attacks by moon-mad wolves and survive a transformation, we wouldn’t be there.
But me…
What the hell do I bring to the table?
I can’t even shift.
Like Jrue said, I’m a liability. There’s no guarantee my portion of the cure will be enough to work. I’m not a wolf, not in the ways that matter.
Chatter twines our voices into a single rush of noise in the entry foyer.
Through it all, the whispers continue, words without form or substance, yet somehow those are the ones I pay attention to.
I shake them off, ignoring another rush of chill from the fever spinning my brain. It’s crazy how fast the change comes on. Like what happened to Grayson before the potion.
There doesn’t have to be a reason with the moon madness.
RJ and Aimee carry canvas totes out to the van, stacking the supplies they’ve already worked on in the back and securing them. Grayson brushes past me on the front porch stoop and I stop, grabbing his elbow and pulling him toward me.
His eyes, glazed over now, drop to where my fingers touch but it’s not the connection that worries me. Or him.
It’s the skin slowly sloughing off him, the coarse black hair like his wolf is desperate to push through.
He covers my hand with his, his palm boiling against my chill.
“It’s going to be okay, Mandi,” he assures me.
His voice is tired, worn out from fighting this for so long. The madness is coming on stronger since his change in the car. Our reprieve from the potion has run out and I’m a short slide behind him.
“I’m scared too. I don’t know what’s going to happen.” I sigh, weighed down.
“You’re going to get in this vehicle—” Grayson helps me toward the van. “You’re going to sit while we get our library research on, and then you’re going to take your medicine. This will all be over.”
My tongue knots itself, my mind too occupied by everything that’s happened to correct him.
Neither one of us recognizes the way the air parts.
Or the sharp whiz of a projectile fired.
We’re too late to recognize the shot when it comes, our keen hearing muddled by distraction. The bullet zips out of nowhere and skims Grayson’s shoulder, leaving a smoldering trail of smoke and charred skin behind.
He yells, pivoting to face the direction of the gunshot and shoving me behind him at the same time.
The scent of the wound fills my nostrils and I flinch, eyes popping wide.
Chaos reigns like a finger snapped or a white flag dropped. The peaceful front lawn in the otherwise quiet neighborhood fills with noise and life and mess as RJ sends a blast of energy toward the tree line, intuition guiding the shot.
Her countermove slams against one of the trunks and demolishes it.
Movement flashes from several feet away and another shot rings out, this one close enough to burn the air near my cheek.
I drag in a breath, lungs heaving, Grayson moaning and gripping his shoulder where the bullet wound refuses to heal. It smokes and adds a noxious scent to the air.
“Silver.” I coat the word in dread when it slips free.
We’re so fucking screwed.
I bend in time to avoid another shot and help Grayson out of the direct line of fire. His skin is burning up and smoke funnels out of the wound.
RJ and Aimee work their magic to protect us, to give us enough time to duck for cover, Lacey and Colt already in the van.
Another blast sails through the air. It hits the side of the van where I’m heading, a reminder. There’s nowhere to run.
A film falls over my gaze, refusing to budge when I blink.
“Come on, Grayson, we have to move.” I struggle with his weight.
Silver is one of the worst pains to experience. It’s not as bad as the moon madness slowly eating away at us, but a blast of agony sucked straight into the bloodstream. Even a surface wound like the one on his shoulder makes it impossible to think.
You focus on surviving the pain.
Someone curses, a fog of magic in the air.
The hunter emerges from the tree line in camouflage clothing designed to help him blend in with the shadows. He lifts his gun, a line of silver bullets strapped across his hips and another on a sash across his chest.
Trained. Lethal. Designed to hunt our kind.
Terror is bright as recognition clicks into place. It’s the same hunter who tracked us through the woods before. He’s found us again.
My numb hands flounder for the door to the van to get it open. Grayson is heavier than I can handle alone. With RJ and Aimee holding the line—
“Lacey! Colt! Help me get him inside,” I yell.
Time means nothing, not when it slows down like this. Every second counts and I’m squandering them with my weakness. Voices twine through my ears with their insidious whispers and the hunter’s gaze paints a target on my back.
The click of the gun. The reek of the silver wound.
Then a blast of cold announces the vampires as the doors swing open. Cool, capable hands help lift me and Grayson into the back of the van and keep us safe when we’re shut inside.
“Get us the hell out of here,” Colt demands.
RJ scoffs and the engine roars to life, one foot already on the gas pedal and the other leg out the door. “What do you think I’m doing?”
“Mandi, are you okay?”
I blink to find Grayson staring at me, his fingers manacled around my wrist before I knew he’d moved. “Me? You’re the one who got shot.”
RJ peels out of the driveway.
I sit up in time to watch the hunter step into our path. Or close enough to it to get a clear shot at me through the windshield. He takes aim with his finger on the trigger.
Rather than slow, RJ steps harder on the gas and twists the wheel sharply to the left. I suck in a breath as we slam into the hunter.
His body thumps beneath the tires, sending us careening over the curb and onto the street.
“You ran him over!” Shock colors my voice. “Holy shit.”
“It’s the least we could do after he tried to put you down.”
I’ve never heard Aimee so angry. She glances at her sister as we roll to a stop. The six of us get out of the car at the same time to inspect the damage.
I expect a mangled body. I expect the guy to be our new hood ornament. But we’re not driving away. And he’s not actually down.
He pulls himself free from beneath the back bumper, dragging his leg behind him and already shaking off the hit like it was nothing.
My jaw drops as Colt launches himself at the hunter. We ran him over and the dude’s getting up.
It takes both vampires to subdue him.
Grayson and I lean heavily against each other, our twin fevers slicking us together with sweat, surprise, and pain.
“Such an asshole,” Lacey grinds out. “Will you stop moving?”
“You guys stay here. We’ll take care of this.”
Aimee’s assurance doesn’t stop me from limping toward the hunter as RJ pulls the mask off the man’s face.
The first thing I see is teeth. Blindingly white teeth with the canines sharp points and the wolf clear in his features. His jaw is slightly distended through his struggles like the change is coming on him despite his superior control.
Aimee pats down the man’s pockets, Colt and Lacey holding him still on either side. “Who sent you?”
I want to know. I need to understand who would do something like this to us.
A slim folded piece of paper glows underneath the thin moonlight.
“What kind of orders are you hiding in your bag? Hmm? Oh.” Aimee holds it out to me.
For a long second, I stare at it. The hunter’s hatred muddies the air between us. It’s heavy, uncomfortable, leaving a terrible taste in my mouth.
Grayson takes the paper and holds it out to me.
We were the targets. We, or me. I’ll find out in seconds.
With trembling hands, I pull open the edges of the orders. These are no typed instructions. The handwritten note is clear.
“What does it say?” RJ demands.
The night hasn’t changed but everything is different. The van’s engine hums behind us, waiting and useless. The rest of the street is already asleep, but my heart plows against my ribs.
I read the instructions three times before they make any sense to me.
“He’s…been contracted by the Ironwood pack,” I say. “By my father. He’s meant to hunt down every moon-mad wolf, and kill them all. Starting with Grayson.”
And by association, me.