My focus sharpens again when the man working on my back says something about a Healing Center. “You shouldn’t need to stay long,” he says. “We just have to make sure these don’t get infected.”
“What about Max?” I ask.
The man guides me carefully to my feet. “He’ll be coming with us as well. Don’t worry, we’ll take care of the both of you. You’ll be good as new in no time.”
“Can Hank come?” Normally, I’d hate the weakness in my voice, the shivering vulnerability, but for once I don’t care.
The healer smiles. “Of course. You are more than welcome to have a family member come along.”
AFTER THE HEALERS LEAVE me alone in my room for the night, Hank goes to get some sleep, I slide out of bed and go in search of Max. Though in much worse shape than I am, he’s not too far down the hall, and grins up at me when I slip through his door and climb onto his mattress.
Flat on my stomach next to him, I lay silent, content to stare at him. Max traces my cheek with the back of his finger. Most of his minor cuts and bruises have faded, though the deeper, more severe ones remain, ugly black gashes across his skin.
“Where will you go?” I ask. “Now that you no longer have a bounty on your head?”
Max’s chest expands, then slowly deflates. “I have an idea. But I’m going to need some help.”
“The kind of help a bounty hunter might be able to offer?”
“I think it’s the kind only a bounty hunter can offer.” A corner of Max’s mouth slides up into a half smile. “I want to find out what happened to my mom’s other conquests. I know you said the Amazons and Brynn are looking into it, but I want to help. Even with the bounty canceled, or whatever, I don’t think I’ll ever be really free unless I can give some people a little closure. If not real justice.”
I squeeze his upper arm. “I like that. A little closure, maybe some justice. Count me in.”
We both wiggle toward each other, sealing this new contract with a soft kiss, prepared to do whatever is necessary to bring a small fragment of peace into our restless world, and grateful to be able to do it together.
Epilogue
SAM
When Hank’s gone, the wolf has a tendency to pace.
Which means all I want to do is pace. The creature camping out in me turns restless circles as I try to concentrate on bussing tables, dumping all my energy into the sweaty, sticky work. After three nights of the full moon forcing him into the driver’s seat, he usually has a little more chill. But change puts me on edge, which puts him on edge.
As I scrape etouffee off a plate, he growls in my mind. It’s not words exactly, but the meaning is clear as creek water. Helps that it’s pretty much always the same desire. Out. He always wants out. To be free. After three years with him in my head, he’s gotten easier to understand.
It’s also gotten easier to keep him calm when I’m working, but it’s still a battle.
I haul my plastic tub out of the restaurant and into the kitchen. Cooks shout at each other on the other side of the expo window, shrimp and sausage sizzle in pans, knives slice through celery and carrots at top speed. My stomach snarls something fierce. The wolf growls along with it, insisting we eat now.
Transferring dishes into the washer, I glance around, then mumble under the roar around me, “Don’t worry, brother, just a few more hours.”
It’s weird talking to the wolf. Far as I can tell, most who’ve been bitten don’t do this, but something about having conversations with the critter who takes over a few days out of the month makes sense to me. No point in pretending he’s not around and doesn’t have a mind of his own.
My pocket buzzes. I scramble to retrieve my cell and unlock the screen.
Hank: Headed back with Fee and Max tomorrow morning. Holding up ok?
Relief runs through me and even the wolf relaxes. I trust the cage I’ve built for myself on the full moon, but without Hank for backup, anxiety scrapes my nerves. For the last three nights, dread has followed me around like a second shadow, worry that one of my precautions might fail and Hank won’t be around to stop me from hurting somebody.
Doesn’t much matter that I have more control than most werewolves, the risk terrifies me. Thank God Hank’s on his way back. Fee too. I’ll have to double check her pipes to make sure that leaks all sealed up. I text him back.
Me: Holding up. Will be glad to have you home.
A solid wall of muscle rams into my back, shoving me against the metal corner of the industrial dishwasher. Every cut and bruise from the last few nights smarts with the impact. Arthur Trahan — a vampire server with an intense dislike for werewolves — muscles me out of the way to drop a trio of food encrusted plates into my tub. He stops for about two seconds to throw me a glance.
“Sorry,” he says without sounding much like it. “Didn’t see you.”
Sure, you didn’t, friend.
I don’t waste energy on either a fake smile or a glare. Instead, I keep my head down, ignoring him even as my wolf rages at the clear challenge. Long as Hank’s around, Arthur leaves me be. Strong or not, vamps can’t go toe to toe with a gargoyle, not even on their best days. Right now, though, he’s feeling brave.
He shoulder checks me again on his way back out onto the floor. The wolf’s pacing shifts into a furious sprinting circle, his howl so loud in my head I have to squeeze my eyes shut. I grip the rim of
