“Amy . . .” I swallowed, fighting the urge to run, “whose blood is that?” A better question would have been
“It’s everyone’s.” Amy shrugged and nodded toward my arm.
I followed her gaze. Blood soaked the sleeve of my shirt and coated my hand like a glove.
“Everything runs red here.”
A gasp lodged itself in my throat as I woke in a tangle of sweat-damp sheets. The room was filled with blue-black shadows, but early morning light slipped past the curtains. I had overslept.
I dressed quickly, making sure to pull my sleeve down to hide my arm—the same arm that had been bleeding in my dream. I wasn’t sure how my dorm mates would feel if they discovered I was a reg, and I didn’t want to find out. Hank always said people hated being lied to almost as much as being stolen from. He oughta know: he was an expert at both.
Eve raised herself up on her elbow.
From liar and deserter to pack leader and caregiver. How was it possible for two people to have such different opinions and expectations of the same man?
“Sure you’re up for this?” she whispered. Her gray-green eyes reflected the light from the bathroom doorway.
I nodded. After what I had found in the woods, Eve and I had regrouped with Kyle. There was no way I could wait another day before trying to get into the sanatorium—not with the implications of the grave markers and that yellow stake.
Since injury and detention were the only excuses a wolf had for being in the building, Kyle would injure himself. I’d play the part of the hysterical girlfriend and insist on going with him. Once inside, I’d try to slip away and find some sign of Serena. Eve had volunteered for the job, but given that we didn’t know if there were HFDs inside, I was the logical choice.
Plus, there was no way in hell I was letting Kyle go in there without me.
As far as plans went, it was about as sturdy as a house of cards in Tornado Alley. We just didn’t have much choice.
“Good luck,” said Eve. Then, just in case I was in danger of thinking we were on our way to becoming BFFs, she added, “Don’t screw it up.”
Tossing her a glare, I bent down and grabbed my shoes. Then, sneakers in hand, I walked past the sleeping girls and out of the dorm.
Puddle water soaked my socks as I stepped outside.
It had stopped raining sometime during the night, but the paths and grass still shimmered wetly as the sky lightened to mauve.
A shadow broke away from the side of the building: Kyle.
Warmth flooded his eyes, and for a brief, heady second, I actually believed I could be the center of someone’s world. A small voice in the back of my head reminded me that he had left me and run away to Denver, but I pushed it aside.
“Tired?”
“Exhausted,” I admitted as I pulled on my sneakers. I curled my toes inside my damp socks. “I spent most of the night trying to figure out if there was a way to get inside the building that
Kyle wrapped an arm around my shoulders as we started walking. “She’s okay,” he said. “We’ll find her and figure out what’s going on.”
I wanted to believe him, but I knew he was just telling me what he thought I needed to hear.
We walked in silence until the sanatorium came into sight. If possible, the building was even more imposing in the early morning light. It threw a shadow over the entire courtyard and loomed over the admission building and the small cluster of white vehicles near the gate. It was a photographer’s dream—all harsh angles and creeping ivy. In its own way, it was oddly beautiful, but I couldn’t quite shake the feeling that its dozens of dark windows were somehow watching us.
Kyle let his arm fall from my shoulders as we stepped off the path and headed for the side of the sanatorium where an extension was being built. We reached the edge of the construction site, and he gracefully hopped up into the partially completed wing.
I hoisted myself up after him—much less gracefully—then brushed wood shavings from my clothes as I stood and looked around.
There wasn’t much to see. Piles of lumber and discarded tools littered the floor while skeletal walls supported wires and plumbing. The wing was larger than it had looked from the outside. Almost cavernous.
I turned to Kyle. There was a familiar, unsettling expression on his face: it was the one he always got right before telling me something he knew I’d hate.
He ran a hand over the back of his neck. “I’ve been thinking. Me slicing my arm might not be enough.”
I tried to ignore the twinge of alarm in my chest. “What do you mean it might not be enough? What do you want to do instead?”
“We’re not supposed to shift outside the zone and class. I have to be hurt badly enough that the injury won’t heal without shifting but not so badly that I lose control.” Kyle hauled his shirt over his head and let it fall to the floor. “It’s going to take more than my arm.”
I swallowed. “How much more?”
In response, Kyle walked a few feet away and picked up a long copper pipe. It was at least two inches in diameter and the edges were jagged, like it had teeth. He came back and held it out to me. “I figure it’ll look like I fell and accidentally impaled myself.”
“Kyle, no. . . .” I took a step back as bile rushed up my throat. “This isn’t what we agreed on.” This was crazy. Insane.
Kyle let out an exasperated sigh. “I’m a werewolf, Mac. I’ll heal.”
“Like you healed after the fire at Serena’s? You were in a coma for an entire night! They weren’t even sure you would wake up.” The memory of sitting at his bedside—scared and bargaining with God—sent a shiver rocketing up my spine.
Kyle shifted his grip on the pipe. “This is different. I know how much damage my body can take.”
“Bullshit.” I meant the word to sound fierce; instead, my voice broke over the second syllable. “You’ve only been a full-fledged werewolf for a couple of weeks. How do you know?”
“Think about Serena,” he shot back. “This is our best chance of finding out if she’s okay.”
My vision blurred. “We’ll find another way.” Without giving Kyle a chance to respond, I turned and headed for the edge of the construction site.
There was a sudden clang—metal on wood—followed by a heavy thump.
I spun.
Kyle was on his knees, fumbling for his shirt. He balled it up and pressed it to his stomach. Blood soaked the fabric in the three seconds it took me to reach his side.
He pushed himself to his feet and swayed. I caught his weight and just barely managed to keep him from hitting the floor.
I pressed one hand over his, trying to help him hold the bloodstained shirt against his stomach. “Shift.” I swallowed. “Please, just shift.” He was hurt badly—a reg would be in real trouble—but if he shifted, he would be okay.
Probably.
Panic threatened to pull me under.
“I’m fine.” Kyle’s voice was pinched and far away. “Werewolf, remember?” A shudder wracked his body, and his face shone with sweat. “I’ll be okay. I can hold on.”
The muscles in his back writhed under my arm, jumping and crawling like things lived under the skin. It took everything I had not to cringe back.
The only way this would work would be if Kyle had the self-control not to shift. When the plan had been for him to cut his arm, I hadn’t been worried. But this . . .
He started walking and I supported as much of his weight as I could. “Just need to get inside,” he said
