Bite the Bullet Read online

  Sasha promised herself that she would not barrel into Doc’s arms if he silently guaranteed that he wouldn’t try to hug her. Theirs was an old dance all done without words, burned deep within unreadable expressions. Promises made and kept over too many returns from too many hazardous missions to count, with too many sighs of relief to even begin to describe. But this time, with a being who was a lifelong friend in critical condition and Hunter gone and in peril, it took unimaginable resolve not to follow that natural human impulse.

  “Dr. Holland,” Sasha said stiffly as she entered a lab area that had been made available to him and her team. Fae entities were definitely embedded in the hospital administration and ER, she noted, as she looked around at the significant facilities Doc had been given.

  “Lieutenant,” he said crisply, very aware of the outsiders from the hospital that gathered around them.

  “We’ve been working with Tulane’s medical team,” Clarissa said carefully, her gaze scanning the other doctors before returning to Sasha. “We’re trying to isolate why a transfusion from a compatible donor is erupting the patient’s system almost as virulently as a classic organ rejection.”

  “We cannot be responsible for the wait-and-see approach the NORAD team has adopted,” Dr. Lutz complained.

  “It almost looks like his system is battling a widespread staph infection, and our recommendation to begin IV-delivered antibiotics was firmly rejected by Dr. Holland—and we want that on the record,” Dr. Sanders informed the group.

  “Pretty soon that man’s kidneys and liver will fail. His heart muscle is under attack,” Dr. Williams said, talking with his hands as he leaned against a lab table. “Just be straight with us. What twenty-first century plague are we dealing with here?”

  Sasha pulled off her elastic-banded paper cap and shoved it in her yellow dressing gown pocket. “Might as well tell ’em because a) they’ll never believe us, b) they aren’t stupid enough to stake their professional reputations on leaking this to the media, c) nobody within NORAD will confirm or deny it, and last but not least, d) if half of what was chasing us is already in New Orleans, then come the next full moon, this hospital should quietly be prepared for major triage.” She leaned back on a desk. “I’m just glad it’s after Mardi Gras.”

  Nervous glances passed around her team. The Tulane staff stared at her and didn’t blink.

  “Are you sure, Lieutenant?” Xavier Holland waited. “The patient is dear to me, too . . . but I don’t know if we’re authorized to divulge that level of detail.”

  “I’m sure,” she said, her gaze locked within his. “We need the best minds on this in the region—because after what I saw in the field, we need more antitoxin. Not to mention, I think these specific doctors were handpicked.” She gave Doc a meaningful glance. “They may be unaware, but they must have checked out—there are friendly embedded cells in this facility.”

  “Terrorists?” Dr. Williams said in a tense whisper, aghast.

  “Hardly,” Sasha replied quickly. “More like folks on our side.”

  She watched the Tulane staff relax, knowing they hadn’t a clue why they had. But she’d take cool heads over hysteria for now. “Doc, we’ve got a lot of good men down from the last siege.”

  “I got a head count from Woods and Fisher,” Holland said. “I brought the last of what we’d developed. In order to make more, I need a live subject—which is next to impossible to locate and even more dangerous to trap. Facilities here won’t allow for that.”

  Sasha followed Doc’s careful choice of words and watched his very wary eyes, as well as the other doctors’ attention that moved between them as though witnessing a tennis match.

  She placed a hand on Doc’s arm, for the first time since he arrived allowing that level of familiarity as her voice became gentle. “I know of a live subject that I can get close enough to . . . who is an exact DNA match with the patient . . . who’s gone full blown.”

  Xavier Holland closed his eyes. “Is that how the patient sustained multiple gunshot wounds?”

  “Yes,” Sasha said quietly. “The patient was accidentally hit by friendly fire.”

  “I’ll give him the first series and inoculate you and your team. But I’ll hold one back . . . just in case.” Breaking protocol, he stepped forward and hugged Sasha. “I’m so sorry we lost him.”

  She swallowed hard and melted into the embrace, and then after a moment stiffened and pushed away. “I’ll find him. I messed up, Doc. My body was definitely compromised by a carrier, and my system was obviously fighting the infection when we did a transfusion with the patient. But I was the only universal donor in the group at the time . . . one with the same cellular structure—we didn’t know if the others had been infected, either. He was bleeding to death, hemorrhaging, and needed blood. It was a crapshoot with the rest of the clan, too. They’d all been in a hot zone, each man and woman that made it through is all cut up and has open wounds and lacerations.”

  “What are we dealing with?” Dr. Lutz shouted. “Enough with the cryptic military speak!”

  “Demon-infected Werewolf virus,” Sasha said flatly. “You’re looking at a Preternatural Containment team, some of whom have wolf DNA fused with their human DNA spirals to better hunt the new supernatural predator that poses a security threat. One of our men went over the wall—went full blown and disappeared in a hot zone. His grandfather was accidentally shot. The patient has a different cellular structure—part wolf in his DNA. Like me. Like a bunch of the guys. Problem is, I was carrying contagion that my system is strong enough to fight off and didn’t know how seriously infected I was. But an injured elderly man whose autoimmune system and everything else is going haywire would go into shock from a transfusion from me—had I known, trust me, I wouldn’t have put him at risk like that. What you’re witnessing now is his system trying to self-repair while also trying to adapt to contain and eject a foreign viral agent. Does that clear it up?”

  Stunned mute, the senior medical team from Tulane just looked at Sasha.

  “You can’t be serious,” the chief of surgery finally said after a moment.

  “Dead serious on the next full moon, or from the looks of things, before that,” Clarissa said, glimpsing into a microscope.

  “Doc, we can set up distortion monitors,” Winters offered, glancing between Sasha and Xavier Holland. “With the new equipment, we’re able to get readings off energy displacement by setting up a grid to then tell if something physical left a heat trail entering or exiting a displacement band. That way we can be on comm with Trudeau while she’s hunting to tell her if something’s bearing down on her, and where it’s likely to emerge from the unseen before it does.”

  “That’s right, Dr. Holland,” Bradley said. “We can also devise a two-shot projectile that will first collect a tainted blood and tissue sample as it passes through the target and closes, then breaks off at the exit wound, leaving the second part of the device with heavy tranquilizers and antitoxin lodged inside the beast,” he added, opening his fist to extend his fingers. “Much like a multistaged rocket. The second cylinder will detonate inside the target using a small charge and will be filled with antitoxin and a tranquilizer cocktail strong enough to drop a charging elephant . . . so Trudeau can deliver remote range antitoxin, pick up the sample cylinder, and still have a reasonable escape window.”

  “You are serious,” Dr. Lutz murmured in awe.

  “You’ve actually seen these beasts?” Dr. Sanders asked, her gaze quickly jerking between Sasha, her team, and the three members from the Tulane staff.

  “Yeah. Up close and personal,” Woods said, pounding Fisher’s fist. “So have the rest of those guys who came in like dirty-faced Hell’s Angels toting heavy artillery. Those boys aren’t overreacting; they were in the trenches with Trudeau.”

  “In all my career, I prayed for a chance to work on something groundbreaking, something never before seen . . .” Dr. Lutz said, pure passion brimming in his eyes. “We all have.”


  “That’s probably why you three were selected—handpicked,” Sasha said in a weary tone.

  “I prayed for it, too,” Dr. Sanders said quietly. “I’ve been on my own personal research quest to try to understand some of the mysterious events that seem to happen here like nowhere else I’ve lived in my life. I’ve written papers that I haven’t been brave enough to publish . . .”

  “Well, be careful what you pray for, Doctor,” Xavier Holland warned. “I thought that, too, some twenty-five years or more ago. But you’ll never be able to post this in professional journals. There’ll be no awards or conference circuit. No peer recognition. Whatever you learn or help prevent will be one of those great accomplishments that you’ll have to take to your grave, no different than the tombs of the unnamed soldiers who fought and died so that we could have better lives . . . because no one but those unnamed souls know the extent of their sacrifice. Are you still in, or do we need to pull military rank and simply ruin your careers and lives if you mention this project?”

  “I’m a doctor and a scientist before all things,” Dr. Lutz said. “I’ve waited my entire life to know if there’s more to our human, frail existence. I’m in.”

  The chief of surgery gave a skeptical nod. “Just to know that I saw it and my eyes weren’t playing tricks on me . . . curiosity prevails.”

  “A pair of steel gonads better prevail,” Fisher said, shaking his head, “because I’ma tell you—you’d better pray that you never see one. Everything theoretical goes out the window. It’s the kind of thing that will make a grown man hope that the cavalry in the form of tanks rolling down Bourbon and Canal Streets will come posthaste as backup, if you do.”

  “I’m in,” Dr. Sanders said, lifting her chin. “I’m with Ira. We’re talking heretofore undiscovered species, hybrids of new species . . . it’s too fantastic to begin to comprehend.”

  “Good,” Holland said, “because we have a very short window to follow a very old and unreliable recipe for creating antitoxin in an unsecured lab—which resulted in staff deaths before. Some of our methods will seem peculiar and even superstitious, but one of the first things we’ll need to do is secure the work area against Vampire thefts.”

  The three doctors from the Tulane staff just stared at each other, hang-jawed.

  It had been a bullshit ruse but a necessary one. Hunter dragged himself through the demon door, exhausted from the spent energy needed to propel himself to the other side of it without his amulet. He hit the floor with a thud, having jettisoned himself back to the place he’d last held the image of Sasha in his mind. Almost too weak to lift his head he listened to the sounds of daytime street activity through the wooden floorboards.

  Car horns, a fat cockroach waddling between dust bunnies across the room. A family of squirrels had taken up residence between the eaves. Pigeons were cooing and screwing somewhere nearby. Voices, human—outside. Crack dealers never gave it a rest. Hunter placed his hands on the floor to push himself upright and froze, staring at a clawed fist.

  Panic ripped through him as he assessed his physical condition. The sun was up, the moon long gone, he was out of the Shadow land pathways and had gotten out of the demon doors without being maimed . . . and he was still a wolf? Worse than wolf, he was something terrible in between with a man’s forearm completely covered in the thick coat of a Shadow Wolf—hands, not wolf paws! He looked down his body and tried to back away from himself for a second—he had the bent hind legs of the Were-creatures but still the thick, natural tail of a Shadow Wolf.

  Instantly his gaze sought a hiding place. The Shadow lands were too dangerous, but no human could see him in this state, especially not the pack, or more importantly Sasha and her team. Before there had been momentary flashes of this abomination, now he was stuck in permanent transformation? Hunter closed his eyes. The extra poisoning from Dexter’s hidden rogues. His already impacted DNA. The battles where he was scratched and bitten. The energy that entered his system from beyond the demon doors. All of it met in the middle and changed his life. How long would it be until he ate like a true demon-infected Werewolf? When would his mind slide into the ultimate darkness, never to return?

  Hunter released a mournful howl. He had to get to the bayou. He was doomed.

  “How’s the antitoxin working on his system now?” Sasha asked, standing at Xavier Holland’s side as the other doctors watched Silver Hawk’s vitals and Clarissa took intermittent blood samples.

  “Although the first dose jolted his system into near cardiac arrest,” Doc said, rereading all the vital signs from the monitors and talking as he moved about, “now he’s stabilizing. But he may need more than anticipated, given he’s fighting off the infection at the same time repairing massive injuries.”

  Sasha closed her eyes. “Give him my dose . . . and—”

  “No,” Doc said. “It’s too soon to tell and you’re—”

  “Expendable. I’m a soldier,” she said, staring deeply into Doc’s eyes.

  Xavier Holland shook his head. “Not to me,” he said quietly. “Under no circumstance have you ever been expendable to me.”

  “Yo, Doc, me and Winters can tell you for a fact that we didn’t get scratched or bitten,” Woods offered. “You need more serum for the old man, you use our dose, all right?”

  “Ours, too,” Clarissa said, gaining nods from Winters and Bradley.

  “Never laid a glove on us,” Winters said with a smile, then went back to his monitors with Bradley.

  “Use mine for Hunter, if he needs extra,” Bradley said, and then averted his eyes to a screen.

  “Assuming we can get a sample,” Dr. Lutz asked, “how long does it take to manufacture new antitoxin?”

  “Barring all catastrophes, several weeks,” Xavier Holland said, with a weary sigh.

  Sasha just stared at Doc for a second. They didn’t have several weeks. Two days prior to a true full moon, the lunation was anywhere between ninety-three to ninety-seven percent illuminated . . . full to the naked human eye and enough to allow Werewolves to shift. The UCE Conference would convene heads of state first—those senior, elder entities would meet in a secret plenary session on the third night of a full moon phase, which was last night, when the moon was exactly at one hundred percent. It had also been the peak of her heat. From there, it could still shine brightly for a few more nights in the high nineties of illumination power. That’s when the general body would meet. That’s what she and Hunter couldn’t miss. One day she’d have to sit down with Doc to explain it all, but right now there just wasn’t time. Still, a decision had to be made about who got meds and who didn’t.

  “Inoculate the guys who made it back here with us from the lodge,” Sasha said, causing Xavier Holland to briefly stop pacing about the machines to stare at her. She’d thought about it long enough; they had to make sure the pack was in their right minds. “They were cut up pretty badly and need their systems stunned clean. Next full moon is gonna come right on the heels of when the serum could be ready . . . and something tells me we’re gonna need it way before then. We need it during this cycle, Doc, for reasons I can’t get into right now.”

  “Where’re you going?” Doc said quickly as Sasha headed toward the door.

  “I’m gonna find a shower in the joint, some clean clothes, eat, and crash for a few hours.” She looked at Bradley, then Clarissa, and finally Winters. “When I come back, I’m gonna need that antitoxin-tranquilizer gizmo you guys were talking about making from the new equipment Doc had shipped in.”

  “Trudeau, we’ll—”

  “Thanks, Woods,” she said, cutting him off. “No. You and Fisher stay here with Bear Shadow. You’re the only men with combat training that I trust to have Silver Hawk’s back and to protect the team. The rest of those guys from the clan can lodge at a safe house that HQ can find for them, but I’d honestly feel better if they weren’t the ones on my six—feel me?”

  “I do,” Woods said, nodding.

  “What happened in the field?
” Doc asked, his gaze going right for Sasha’s.

  “An attempted coup and a friendly-fire assassination,” she said without hesitation. “If any of those guys come near the patient’s room, and don’t look right, you drop ’em on sight.”

  “You know we have no problem with that,” Fisher said. “But who’s gonna have your back in those demon holes when you go hunting, Trudeau? No offense, but if you’re going after who I think you are, last I saw him that was one big, burly, out of control motherfucker.”

  Sasha nodded and turned away, heading for the door. Doc tossed her a cell phone, no further discussion necessary.

  “Yeah, I know,” Sasha said in a weary voice. “But I’ll be fine. This is just something I gotta do solo.”

  Hunter clutched his stomach as he slipped from shadow to shadow. Gnawing hunger was giving him the shakes and he pressed on quickly, avoiding people at all costs. The concept of human flesh was revolting, but he was unsure of himself. The fact that cooked meats, the aromas from barbecue stands, and Cajun seafood joints made his stomach rumble was a good sign. Thankfully the houses and boarded-up landscape of the still flood-wrecked Ninth Ward provided plenty of shadows. He just needed to get to the place that was dominated by nature and draped with Spanish moss.

  A stray pit bull snarled and stepped into the shadows. Hunter released a warning growl from low in his throat. The animal had no idea how insistent the attack urge was within him until he dropped down on all fours and let the poor creature glimpse him. Releasing a frightened yelp, the pit bull spun, ran into traffic, urinating, and nearly caused a collision as it dodged to safety and kept going.

  “Shoulda been on a leash, anyway,” Hunter grumbled, and pushed forward. But when he came to a barbecue stand he hesitated.

  Fresh slabs of ribs had been thrown on hot coals outside a small fish fry place in a halved, fifty-five-gallon oil drum. He could literally smell the spices tickling his nose as the hefty cook behind the counter piled shrimp, lettuce, and tomatoes with mayo on French bread making dressed po’boys. Old men leaned forward in rickety metal chairs, talking trash and slapping down dominoes. Zydeco music blared from a crackling radio with bad reception inside, competing with the jazz the old men were enjoying with their outside game. He was drooling and hadn’t even realized it.