Chapter 16
Sylvan
I’m glad that part of the curse doesn’t go both ways.
Morgan can’t feel my pain, and for that, I’m grateful. Whatever they’ve shot me with, it makes shifting ten times harder. Any of my natural healing capabilities seem to be slowed, and my chest feels like it’s been crushed.
It still doesn’t stop me from shifting into a wolf and launching myself out the front door to fight.
The three figures haven’t passed the gate in front of the house, and that’s good. Whatever they are, they haven’t crossed onto our property line. I don’t know what magic the house has, but I trust it to keep bad things out to its best ability.
Morgan is safe inside.
The bad news is these creatures have guns. It’s bizarre to see weapons like this out in the world. It’s not very often I’ve even seen a gun, given that witches have magic, werewolves have their strength and speed, and daimons have a mix of both.
But these creatures are none of us. Neither werewolf, witch, nor daimon. And whatever they are, they’re fighting dirty.
The sun has settled beneath the mountain ridge and the sky has turned purple and gray. There’s magic in the air, but it makes my skin crawl. It’s dark and twisted and sickly smelling, like rotting flesh.
I have to protect Morgan. The panic she’s feeling right now almost hurts worse than the bullets in my chest, but I do my best to focus as I barrel toward the three figures.
Another bullet flies past me, but they've shot everything they have. They aren't fast enough to reload in the time it takes for me to launch myself over the fence.
I go for the throat, sinking my fangs into the darkness and ripping. While they look like shadows, they're still made of flesh and bone. There's no sound, but I can feel its body tense as I tear with my teeth. Bile rises in my throat as I get a taste of them.
There's something so deeply wrong with this. It’s worse than a curse. It’s like the cells of their blood have been drenched in evil. But I don't have time to think about that or consider what it means that they’re after my mate.
Mate. That pesky word again. Every time I think of Morgan, it comes up like an unwanted exclamation point.
I sink my claws into the creature’s chest and rip it open, breaking muscles, flesh, and bone. There's a hissing noise to my left, and I lean into my instincts. It's been a long time since I’ve fought, but I've always been a good warrior. Quick and in sync with my primal side.
I twist just in time to avoid another bullet, throwing one of the figures to the ground. I make it to the other one before it can even lift the gun.
I take it down, crushing its skull against the asphalt. It bursts like a grape under the pressure of my claws. I don't feel bad about it. I don't feel bad about any of their deaths. They threatened Morgan, and that’s a crime worthy of taking their lives.
I spin around. Blood mats my fur as I stalk toward the last one. It goes very still, like a deer in front of a truck. It stares at me. There are no features to its face, no voice or sound coming from its throat.
Everything inside me screams that it’s wrong. I don’t know what it is, but it should not exist. This darkness feels fundamentally against everything natural and right in our world.
It doesn't run. It's almost like it wants me to kill it. I don't care what it wants or what it doesn't want. I lunge for it, ripping open its throat and chest until it goes limp under me.
My chest heaves as I stand up, my head spinning like a ferris wheel. There are three bodies on the ground, and their blood pools like inkwells, reflecting the trees and mountains and darkening sky.
They’re dead.
It’s not the first time I’ve killed. It won’t be the last if someone comes for Morgan again.
“Fuck,” I whisper. I look up at the house. The gothic manor that sits in this quiet unassuming neighborhood harboring secrets.
The secrets of this place died with Maeve. But maybe there are clues. Somewhere in the library, in the walls. Somewhere. The Foxglove curse feels all the more real, and far more threatening than Morgan simply being clumsy.
They were after her. Those bullets could have hit her, and then what? She has no magic. She couldn’t heal herself. I’m just a werewolf, at the end of the day, and it’s not like I could heal her either.
It eats me alive, the thought of something happening to her.
A wave of panic hits me and I know it’s hers. I locked her in the basement.
Stumbling back toward the fence, I pant as my body immediately shifts back to my normal form. I make it back up the steps and through the front door, which promptly slams shut behind me and locks.
I have to get to Morgan. I can feel her panic. I unlock the basement door, giving it a gentle push.
I hear scrambling as it opens, and the second it does, Morgan's arms are around me. I sink to the ground, breathing hard as my face presses against the curve of her neck.
“Are you hurt?” I immediately ask. I cup her face, looking her over. Tears streak her cheeks, but she’s unharmed. All the pain in my body is my own.
“No,” she says quickly.
“I’m so sorry I locked you in here,” I choke out. “I had to protect you. I can feel your panic. I’m so sorry, Morgan.”
“It doesn’t matter right now. You're bleeding. I should call Verena back. I should tell her to come heal you—”
“No,” I rasp. I do not trust that witch.
My vision is already fading, and I curse as I try to sit back. I look down at my chest. Three small holes are seeping blood, and for a moment, I don’t even feel like I’m in my body. My healing powers should be spitting these fuckers out, but nothing is happening.
“Take them out. There’s pliers in the tool box under the kitchen counter.”
“I can’t do that.” Her eyes widen. “I can’t. I can’t do that to you.”
“You have to, or I could actually die, Morgan. I can handle it. Go get them.”
She stares at me for a moment, but then jumps to her feet, rushing up the stairs.
I groan and force myself up, too. I don’t like this basement, and if Morgan was panicking here, we don’t need to spend more time in this room.
I crawl up the stairs as I listen to her yank open kitchen drawers and slam cabinets until she finds the toolbox and pliers.
I sprawl out on the rug in the living room. A couple lamps flicker to life and I sigh, silently thanking the house.
Morgan’s face appears above mine. I hate seeing her cry. Her eyes are glassy and her cheeks are splotchy and red. I just want to hold her against me and sleep for a very long time.
“I got pliers, scissors, antiseptic, and bandages. We should call a doctor,” she says. “I should take you to the hospital.”
“No. Just do your best.”
Her expression drops as she looks at my chest. “This is going to hurt, Sylvan. You’re bleeding so much.”
“I’ll be okay.” Probably. It is either that, or I’ll die. I’m not very keen on the second option. “I believe in you, baby.”
She pauses, and so do I.
“You really are hurt if you’re calling me baby,” she mumbles, but she’s blushing.
Despite the pain radiating through every part of me, I smile.
“I can’t believe I’m doing this. Fuck. Okay. Here we go. I’m sorry. This is all my fault.”
“It’s not. Morgan,” I whisper. “I need you to do this for me. Please.”
I can’t believe I’m talking her through prying bullets out of my body, but I am. My eyes never leave her as she presses the metal tips through the wound opening. She pales when I wince. Every muscle seizes with pain, but I grit my teeth, trying to hold still.
She’s shaking as she digs them deeper. She sucks in a sharp breath as she pinches them around something hard. For a moment, my vision turns white. All I see is light. I think I pass out for a few seconds.
“First one is out.” Her voice is steadier. She covers the wound with gauze and presses it, her brows furrowing. “Fuck. This next one is deeper.”
“Okay.”
I focus on her. She centers me. Even as she digs those fucking pliers into me and moves them around until she finds the bullet, she keeps me grounded. White hot pain strikes again, and the agony is almost too much, but I hold on. For her.
She pulls out the second one, holding it up in the light.
“It’s silver,” she whispers. “And these bullets have inscriptions on them. No wonder you aren’t healing. One more.”
I nod as we go through this a third time. I start drifting in and out of consciousness, but every time I come to, she’s here.
“I used a little magic,” she whispers. I don’t think she knows I can hear her right now. “And it worked. I was able to pull them out. Fuck. Okay. I got it.”
The moment she pulls the third bullet free, relief ripples through my muscles. I exhale, already feeling my strength start to return. But with the bullets being made of silver, I won’t heal as quickly as normal.
We were targeted. I already know that, but through the haze of pain, I’m trying to piece together everything I know to be true.
“We should get you showered and bandaged,” she says.
Morgan surprises me with a soft kiss over one of the bullet wounds. Something warm and light flutters in my chest, and I swear I’m already healing.
I raise a brow. “You want to shower with me?”
“I didn’t say with you.” Her brows draw together. “Don’t go getting any bright ideas.”
“It’s too late for that.” I swallow hard and turn my head. “Just bandage me. I’ll deal with cleanup later.”
“Okay.” She runs her hands over my chest, then pauses. “You know you’re naked right now? And I can see everything.”
“Then you can see the effect you have on me when I’m weak.”
Morgan rolls her eyes. “Okay, tough guy. Can you even sit up right now? We need to get you to bed.”
“Are you going to be my nurse?”
I’m being a little crass, maybe. But the idea of Morgan in a nurse outfit does things to me.
I know I’m going to be just fine, because my cock starts to harden.
“Sylvan,” she hisses. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you’re in a rut.”