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 through gritted teeth. He repeated the words like a mantra.
By the time we reached the glass doors at the front of the building, his voice had faded to barely audible, nonsensical mumbles. At one point, he called me Amy and the mistake cut like a blade.
The guard at the door took one look at Kyle and told us to take a left followed by a right.
We finally staggered into the infirmary, and a doctor with hair as white as his lab coat looked up from his coffee and donut.
“What happened?” Keeping just out of Kyle’s reach, he ushered us through a door and into a tiny room with metal walls. It was like a vault.
I hesitated on the threshold, holding Kyle back as I bit my lip and took in the heavy bars and locks on the door.
“It’s all right,” said the doctor. “The room is just reinforced in case a wolf needs to shift.”
The explanation didn’t make me feel any better, but Kyle pulled free of my grip and walked forward, bearing his own weight until he sank onto an examination table in the middle of the small space.
He closed his eyes. For a horrible second I thought he had passed out, but then he shifted his weight and arranged himself more comfortably. A ripple swept through his torso as his muscles tried to tear themselves apart. Kyle clenched his fists and the movement stopped.
I brushed a strand of hair from my face and caught sight of my bloodstained fingers. My stomach did a slow flip. You couldn’t catch LS through blood—you had to be bitten or scratched by a fully or partially transformed werewolf—but it was Kyle’s blood and the idea of it on my skin left me feeling shaken and sick.
The doctor was speaking to me—had clearly been speaking to me for at least a minute or two. I forced myself to focus on his repeated question. What happened?
“He spotted something up in the rafters at one of the construction sites. He climbed up to take a look, but the boards were slick and he slipped. . . .” My voice cracked.
“Why didn’t he shift?”
Kyle’s face twisted in pain, but he opened his eyes and stared at the ceiling. That had to be good, right? Eyes open had to be better than eyes closed. Focus.
“He was scared he’d get in trouble. I would have taken him to the zone, but the infirmary was closer.”
The doctor’s gaze fell on my hands, and a sympathetic look flashed across his face. “There’s a sink in the outer room,” he said as he turned his attention fully to Kyle.
He asked Kyle a series of inane questions, and something inside my chest unknotted when Kyle choked out his favorite color and the name of the president.
Legs shaking, I walked to the sink. The water ran pink and I couldn’t get all of the blood out from under my cuticles, but I could at least stand the sight of my hands.
I headed back to the small room—the vault—and hovered in the doorway.
The doctor was still asking questions.
Kyle’s eyes locked on mine and he gave me a small nod.
Telling myself that wasting this chance would mean he had hurt himself for nothing, I slipped out of the infirmary.
The wing housing the infirmary was made up of locked doors and identical gray hallways that were all empty save for the occasional—improbably healthy-looking and utterly ginormous—potted plant. I passed three of the things before realizing they were fake.