“Doc Hayek’s here,” Sam said, gesturing to the doctor’s distinctive, older-model car parked on the other side of Garrett’s monster truck. As I followed her toward the house, I suspected this had something to do with why everyone had forgone the run, at least temporarily.
Subdued voices greeted us when we entered the kitchen. Supper had been cleared away, but only as far as the counter. Doc Hayek sat with the crew around the big table. When Sam and I arrived, the doc stood up.
“Liam, good, I need you to come with me.” He walked to the large cooler sitting along a wall and fetched a soft-sided bag from beside it.
The stab of pure panic that zipped through me offered insight into what an animal must experience when carted in to see me at the clinic. I braced myself for poking and prodding as I followed Hayek into the library, the room they seemed to use for all kinds of strange activities.
“Strip,” he told me.
“You know you werewolves have an unhealthy focus on nudity.”
“There’s no shame in living as nature intended,” he responded.
I realized I didn’t know the good doctor well enough to add any nuance to that remark. I sighed and slipped out of my clothes. I’d leave my underwear on unless otherwise instructed. He finished rooting around in his bag, turned toward me, and froze. I looked at myself and grimaced.
My entire body showed black bruising where various parts of Sherman had pummelled me, including a distinctively shaped crescent or two from his hooves.
“Good Lord,” Hayek exclaimed. “Did you get hit by a truck?”
“Uh, a bull, actually. That’s where I went tonight, to help a vet buddy. The critter proved tough to restrain.”
“Haven’t you ever heard of sedative?”
“Been there, done that; he still got me.”
Hayek shook his head as he examined the bruises. “You realize I have never seen you without some kind of injury.”
“The ribs healed,” I pointed out.
“I considered becoming a vet. There are times I’m glad I didn’t, although my present occupation straddles the line. At least I don’t get kicked and bitten.” He smiled wolfishly. “Well, not often, anyway.” Leaving me to my bruises, he set a series of Vacutainers on the desk, along with a syringe.
“All right,” he said. “Just so you know you’re not alone, I’ve already done this with Peter, Josh, and Chris.”
Chris? He took samples from Chris? Finally, my brain kicked in. Chris—who was intimate with Josh. My God, where will this end?
Hayek busied himself recording the date and my name on the Vacutainers before continuing. “I’ll take blood, tissue, saliva, urine, and semen samples to test for the virus.”
Reminders of all the potential manners in which the virus might be spread sobered me. No wonder the crowd outside was so grim.
“We have a wulfan on staff at the virology lab that will compare them against the regular strain of the virus, as well as the other samples taken from the bodies in Brandon.”
I didn’t ask what would happen if they came back positive with a link to a mutant virus. My heart pounded as he conducted a quick physical, so I was surprised when he told me my pulse and blood pressure were a little low. Suddenly, my brain kicked into gear—some of his tests might reveal my depleted state from the partials. “I haven’t eaten much over the last couple of days,” I said. It was true if you didn’t count what I’d inhaled recently.
“That’s not good,” Hayek said, fixing me with a stare, his mouth in a grim line. “If you try to shift in a weakened condition, you might die.” He paused as if to drive home his point.
Preaching to the converted, doc.
“Anyway, I’m recommending that all four of you not undergo shifts until we get these results back. Shifting might trigger the virus, and enhance its virulence,” Hayek continued. “Usually, the wulf gives you a week before getting restless, so bear with me.”
I nodded. Better a restless wulf than me locked in a cage.
The doc put aside his stethoscope and picked up the syringe. “Okay, here we go.”
After filling a series of Vacutainers with my red stuff, he froze a section of my thigh and removed a sliver of muscle tissue, preserving it in solution, and then took a saliva sample with two different swabs. Finally, he handed me containers.
“Urine,” he said, lifting one. “And semen.” He lifted the other.
With resignation, I sensed my face heat and saw the twinkle in his eye. He pointed down the hall. “Bathroom.”
Oh, man. The thought of doing this with a group of sharp-eared werewolves sitting just feet away, and within easy hearing of one small wulfan in particular, added to my state of embarrassment. The fact that three others had already gone this route before me did nothing to assuage me. I closed the bathroom door and leaned against it, debating using the facilities in the barn, but knowing that meant walking past said werewolves with sample containers in hand.
Right. So not doing that.
I got down to business, as it were, and in an undisclosed amount of time, returned to the library and handed Hayek the containers. He looked up from behind the desk and received them with a smile. “I have one final thing for you, and you may not like it.”
Have I liked any of this? I reconsidered. Okay, maybe one aspect wasn’t the worst thing that has happened today.
“Hit me,” I said with a certain amount of trepidation.
Hayek showed me a thick needle, similar to those vets used to microchip pets. “We are inserting three of you with a GPS tracker, to follow your movements in case you have a memory lapse.”
Or go on a rampage. I thought of Dillon, and found myself shifting from foot to foot,
