“My apologies, Ms. Mir,” Drake said softly. “I meant no offense.”
Inclining her head infinitesimally, Sylvan said, “None taken.” Sylvan was impressed with the human’s fortitude. When Pack Alphas went dominant, they exuded a complex combination of powerful hormones that triggered a deeply ingrained flight instinct in the primitive brain centers of every species. Any other human, and even the most dominant wolves, would have cowered in the face of her rage.
But Sylvan had no time to ponder why this human female seemed able to absorb her fury without fear. Misha needed her.
Sylvan released Jazz and turned to Misha. When she stroked the girl’s cheek, the teenager nuzzled her palm.
“Where are you hurt, Misha?” Sylvan inquired softly.
Misha lifted her chin, seeming to take strength from Sylvan’s touch. “My shoulder.”
Drake watched the exchange, struck by the tenderness that passed between the Alpha and the young Were. Anyone who wasn’t looking closely would have missed the small signs of caring, but to Drake the subtle gestures said everything. The deep love that existed between these Weres and Sylvan Mir was unmistakable.
“Did any of you shift?” Sylvan asked, taking in the three teens.
The two boys had crowded around the stretcher now, each of them stroking the girl, comforting her.
Misha shook her head. “I wanted to, because I thought it might heal my shoulder, but I was afraid to try. You said we couldn’t, without permission.”
“So you did remember something,” Sylvan murmured, rubbing her knuckles along Misha’s jaw. “Turn over, let me see.” Obediently, Misha rolled onto her side and Drake eased into the cubicle for a better look. Misha’s shirt was in tatters and Sylvan swept it aside, revealing a long gash in the trapezius muscle, beginning high on her back just to the left of her spine and extending diagonally downward for six inches. The wound didn’t look like any knife wound Drake had ever seen. The edges were blackened and already beginning to fester.
Angry red streaks extended outward from the gangrenous margins for several inches. Something was very wrong.
“That wound is infected.” Drake pushed closer. “Let me at least take a loo—”
“No,” Sylvan lashed back.
Then Drake heard a sound unlike anything she’d ever heard before—not a snarl, not a growl. A deep, resonant rumble filled with pure animal fury. The air around Sylvan Mir shimmered, and a surge of energy skittered over Drake’s skin. Her breath caught in her chest as Drake tried to make sense of what she was seeing. Sylvan held Misha facedown on the bed with one hand clamped around the back of her neck. Her other hand was no longer a hand, but an elongated appendage with inch-long, razor-sharp claws. Before Drake could force her own limbs to move again, Sylvan plunged her claws into the girl’s shoulder.
Misha screamed.
Chapter Two
Drake shoved her way in front of the boy at the head of the stretcher. “Back up, let me get to her.” She briefly registered a look of confusion in his emerald eyes, then something like acquiescence. He made room for her, switching his grip to Misha’s arms. Drake grasped Misha’s shoulders to prevent the thrashing girl from throwing herself off the stretcher. Whatever Sylvan Mir was doing, Drake had to believe it was necessary. “I’ve got her.”
“Be careful, don’t let her bite you,” Sylvan ordered.
The Alpha’s voice was an octave lower than it had been and so rough Drake had to strain to make out the words. When she comprehended the warning, she bent down to see Misha’s face. Her eyes were wide and wild, a red-gold eclipsing the brown irises. Sharp canines extended beyond her blood-flecked lower lip. Bones grated, muscles bunched and rippled beneath Drake’s hands. The young girl emitted a terrified whine, bucking and writhing, the flesh on her fingertips tearing as she flailed at the table. A brackish black fluid welled from the laceration in her back, bubbling out over her smooth golden skin, an obscenity of putrefaction and decay.
“What is that?” Drake asked.
“Poison,” Sylvan snarled, forcing her claws deeper into the wound.
“Is she shifting?”
“She can’t—the poison is paralyzing her.” Rivulets of sweat ran down Misha’s face. The flesh beneath Drake’s hands was blisteringly hot.
“She’s becoming hyperthermic.” Drake railed inwardly at her helplessness. She didn’t understand Were physiology. Pre-Exodus the Weres had hidden their biologic differences to prevent discovery, and they still safeguarded that information. Some theorized the Praetern species feared their enemies would develop bioweapons to be used for their selective termination. Right now, Drake didn’t care about politics or power games. She cared about one teenaged girl who was going to die. “What’s causing it? What’s the toxic agent?” Drake demanded.
Misha’s lips were covered with pink froth and her breathing was labored. An ominous crackling sound accompanied every breath. “Her lungs are filling up with blood. Maybe I can administer an antidote. Let me help her before she drowns.”
“You can’t. ” Sylvan dragged a two-inch triangular object from the depths of Misha’s wound. It looked like metal of some kind.
Drake registered a babble of voices behind her in the hall, shouts and snarls morphing into an incomprehensible roar of anger and panic.
The next thing she knew, she was thrown against the wall and pinned there with an arm across her throat. Acting on instinct, she shot out her fist and connected with flesh and bone. Someone cursed. The pressure on her throat lessened for an instant, and Drake wrapped both hands around a forearm that was smaller than she had anticipated but as hard as sculpted iron. She managed to suck in a breath.
“I’m a friend,” she gasped, focusing on the fierce hunter green eyes that bore into hers. “A doctor.”
The only response was a threatening growl from the auburn-haired female who restrained her. Drake responded with a near growl of her own. She’d tried negotiating. Now she’d fight. Even the warning flash of canines couldn’t stop her. She let go of the arm across her throat, but she hadn’t counted on the inhuman speed of these Weres. Before she could even begin to throw a punch, her arm was slammed against the wall and held there in a granite grip. The constriction on her throat tightened again and her vision started to dim.
“Niki!” Sylvan shouted. “Let her go!”
Instantly, Drake was freed. She fought the urge to slump down as she struggled to fill her lungs with air. Her throat was raw and her wrist throbbed, but she refused to give in to the shadows that crept over her mind. Stiffening her spine, she stared at the female who stood between her and Sylvan with an expression in her eyes like nothing Drake had ever seen before. She had no doubt this Were wanted to rip her limb from limb, and probably would have had she continued her fruitless struggle.
Drake was aware of a crowd gathering outside the cubicle, but she didn’t care about anything other than Misha. To her astonishment, Sylvan reached down and lifted the unconscious teenager into her arms as if she weighed no more than a child. For the first time Drake noted the changes in Sylvan’s face—an angular elongation and sharpening of the bones that seemed to be disappearing even as she watched. The Alpha’s limb had reverted to a hand as well.
“She’s too unstable to move,” Drake warned.
Niki growled softly. Drake ignored her, her focus on Sylvan.
“At least let me check her before you leave. If her temperature is still elevated, she could seize. Her lungs are already compromised.” The Were Alpha seemed not to have heard.