“Mmm-hmm.” Niki’s forest green eyes were mellow, content. As soon as Sylvan had fallen asleep, Niki’s wolf had settled, reassured that the Alpha was secure. The awful tension twisting through her insides, howling of danger and threat, had abated. Even the sex frenzy that clawed at her for release was blessedly quiet. “How do you feel?”
“Good.” Sylvan clasped Niki’s wrist and brushed a kiss over her knuckles. “Thank you.”
Niki rumbled in pleasure.
Sylvan sighed and caressed Andrew’s shoulder where he rubbed against her thigh. Revitalized by her nap, her urges tempered by Francesca’s attentions, she assessed the looming dangers. Two young females had disappeared. Misha had been attacked. Had that been an abduction attempt gone bad? Now a Vampire was asking a human medic about Were fever. Were fever and humans.
How would the human population react if news of this threat became widespread? At the very least, the negotiations in Washington would be seriously compromised, but politics were not her major concern right now. Forceful retaliation was. She doubted that many humans would be as sympathetic as Drake McKennan appeared to be.
But would even Drake take their side if she understood what was really at stake? Sylvan remembered the intensity in Drake’s voice when she’d said, We need to find a cure. As if the fever were Drake’s problem as much as hers. She’d seen the frustration in Drake’s eyes when she had refused to confide in her. Frustration and disappointment. Sylvan regretted turning aside Drake’s offer of help. Regretted turning her aside, although why that should be she wasn’t sure. But she’d grown up protecting Pack secrets, and now she was responsible not just for secrets, but lives. She couldn’t afford to trust anyone who wasn’t Pack, even though her instincts told her that Drake McKennan was different.
Had Drake been a Were, she would have had the makings of an Alpha.
Fearless, focused, passionate. Sylvan’s skin still carried the memory of Drake’s touch. She had been right to put distance between them. Being around the human disturbed her focus, and too much was at stake for her to forget her purpose. She must protect her Pack.
Sylvan’s wolf stirred, not in warning but with a message Sylvan couldn’t identify. An unusual sensation. Excitement and impatience.
Hunger. Not sex frenzy, a deeper craving. She shifted uneasily, struggling to connect to the wolf, to the primal, instinctual core of her being. But whatever the wolf sensed, she could not reason it into clarity.
She grumbled, frustrated.
“Alpha?” Niki asked in concern.
“It’s all right.” Sylvan rubbed her face against Niki’s smooth, hard stomach to calm her second. Niki was more closely attuned to her than any member of the Pack. When she hurt, Niki hurt. When she hungered, Niki hungered. When she was in danger, Niki stood ready to defend her. “A Vampire detective questioned the human medic this morning about Misha. She implied there were rumors, maybe more than rumors, of humans with Were fever.”
Niki caught her breath. “How? If it were true, we would know.”
“Possibly.” Sylvan pushed upright and draped her arm around Niki’s shoulders. Andrew wrapped his arm around her thigh. “But we need to prepare.”
The Rover slowed to a stop. They were home. The time had come for her to do what she was born to do. Defend her Pack.
“I want to see Misha first,” Sylvan said, “and then I want a war council. Find Max and Lara. And Callan and Val.”
“You expect an attack?” Niki asked, eyes going sharp.
“No,” Sylvan said. “We’re going hunting.”
Drake should have gone home to sleep. She was due back in the ER in ten hours, but the early morning meeting with Sylvan left her too hyped to sleep. She couldn’t stop thinking about Sylvan and deadly fevers and a newly discovered world she found as fascinating as it was dangerous. She might never have her many questions about Sylvan Mir answered, which left her feeling oddly hollow, as if she were missing out on something more important than she could even imagine. She’d have to live with the personal disappointment, but she couldn’t allow her ignorance about a deadly disease to continue. She had a job to do, so she turned around and walked back to the ER.
“Mary,” Drake said to the clerk in the ER file room, “could you pull all the charts on patients with a diagnosis of FUO in the last six months?”
The attractive African American woman, stylishly attired in a deep red skirt and jacket, glanced up from her computer and gave Drake a flat stare. “And you would need this when, Dr. McKennan?” Drake grinned sheepishly.
“Now?”
“Uh-huh.” Mary pointed to a foot-high stack of papers by her right hand. “You know what that is?”
“Nope.”
“Billing.”
“Uh-huh.”
“You know what happens to the money we get from billing?” Drake concentrated. “Pays our salaries?”
“That and just about everything else around here,” Mary said.
“Double caramel latte or mocha?”
“Mocha.”
“Thank you,” Drake said. “Is an hour good?” Mary smiled brilliantly. “After you deliver my coffee, try checking the conference room. Sophia already has the charts. You two doing a study or something?”
“Something like that,” Drake said quietly. She pointed a finger at Mary. “And you cheated.”
“Oh honey, you’re just easy.”
Mary’s laughter followed Drake down the hall as she headed to the lobby and the coffee kiosk. Sophia should be off-call now too, but she was back in the ER reviewing charts of patients with fever of unknown origin. She had to be looking for other cases of Were fever. Just curious or carrying out her Alpha’s orders? Thinking back to Sylvan’s unexpected appearance in the ER at six a.m. in search of Sophia, Drake assumed the latter. Angry, uncertain exactly why, she purchased Mary’s mocha and threaded her way through the incoming morning crew of nurses, residents, and other staff back to the ER.
She’d almost made it to the double doors with the big red sign warning No Entry when a woman with skin a shade lighter than Mary’s coffee stepped into her path.
“Dr. McKennan,” the woman asked in a husky alto, “how did it feel to be threatened by an out-of-control Were? Did you fear for your life?”
“Who are you?” Drake asked.
The woman looked to be in her early thirties, dressed casually in blue jeans, low-heeled boots, and a fine-knit black sweater that clung to her swimmer’s shoulders and high, round breasts. She pointed to a plastic ID card clipped to the waistband of her jeans where a photo with her oval face, big dark eyes, and glossy black curls was clearly displayed.
“Becca Land. Albany Gazette. Did you call for security to contain the Were?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Drake said, although she was pretty certain she did know. Instantly furious at the accusations, Drake cautioned herself to say as little as possible until she got her temper under control.
Becca reached into her shoulder bag and pulled out a newspaper, letting it drop open to the front page and the photo of Sylvan and Drake with Misha. The angle of the shot made it look as if a snarling Sylvan—canines gleaming—was nearly on top of Drake. Drake wondered how many people were waiting for just this kind of “evidence” to prove that the Weres represented a danger to society.
“I’m following up on a report that a number of Weres threatened the ER staff this morning,” Becca said.
“Your information is incorrect. There was no threat. No danger. No problem at all.” Drake keyed in the code to open the ER doors. “If you’ll excuse me.”
“If you care about those Weres, Dr. McKennan, you’ll give me the true story.” Becca looked at the paper in her hand with distaste. “Because you can be sure that rags like this are only interested in selling papers, and they don’t care who suffers for it.” Drake hesitated, studying the woman who watched her with unwavering dark eyes. Friend or foe? In the course of a day she had become aware of a war in progress—battle lines had been drawn—and she was still uncertain of the sides. A strong compulsion to protect Sylvan Mir made her decision easy.