Jared's Wolf

"Aw, nuts," Derik sighed.



"What?"



"I could get to like this puke."



Hand, hand, knee, knee. Hand, hand, knee, knee. What the hell had they done with his clothes? Oh, well . . . Derik could use a good mooning. Hand, hand, knee, knee.



"What if one of you guys gave him a transfusion?" Jeannie asked.



"It'd probably work," Derik replied indifferently. "Speed up his healing for a day or so. Enough to fix him up."



"Well, let's give him some blood, then."



"Forget it. He's too stupid to let you help."



"Hello?" Jared called irritably. He kept his gaze fixed on the bedroom door, which was now a mere eighteen miles away. "I can hear you two."



"I disagree," Jeannie said. "Not about him being stupid—"



"And me without my gun," Jared muttered.



"—but he'd probably do it if it meant he could get to Moira that much sooner. And Derik, it's really important he get to her before sundown. Isn't it ?"



"Don't yell, I'm standing right in front of you. And I'm telling you, he won't do it. His tiny little mind can't get around the idea, and even if it did, he's a bigot. He's a—an anti-werewolfite!"



"Dammit, you two, am I even in the room?"



"Shut up," they said in unison. Then, from Jeannie, "No, wait. Derik, pick him up, would you?"



At once Jared felt himself effortlessly lifted and scooped into Derik's arms, as if he were a baby. A big, scowling, hairy baby. "I have to go," he nearly shouted, "and you two aren't helping." Moira was out there alone, thinking God knew what . . . because he was a jackass. He had to fix it right away. The thought of her unhappiness tormented him. He'd rather swallow a wasps' nest than be responsible for her pain.



Derik placed him on the bed, and Jeannie slapped her palms against his chest to keep him from rising.



"Jared, if we give you a pint of werewolf blood, your injuries will be healed within the hour."



He stared at them.



"I told you," Derik said triumphantly. "Too dumb. He has no idea what you're talking about. Look, any minute he's going to start drooling."



There was a 'thud' as Jeannie's sneakered foot landed on Derik's instep. The smile on her face never wavered. "What do you say, Rocky?"



"I say you guys better not let word of this get out," he replied slowly. Thinking: I'm going to pay a high price for my foolishness . . . but if it'll get Moira back, it's worth it. "People will hunt you down just for the properties in your blood. You'd be werewolves and we'd be . . . vampires, I guess."



"Okay," Derik muttered, " not so dumb."



"Let's do it," he said firmly. "Right now. I gotta find Moira. She made me care and by God, she's stuck with me."



Jeannie pretended to wipe away a tear. "That's so beautiful."



"What are we standing around for? Make a fist, Lassie Boy. Somebody get a needle," Jared ordered.



Derik snorted. "A) I wouldn't piss down your throat if your heart was on fire . . ."



"Gross!" Jeannie cried.



". . . and b) I'm not giving you shit. Besides, we keep some blood on hand in case Jeannie gets hurt, or one of our other human friends."



"Derik," Jeannie said reprovingly, "you shouldn't—"



"Back off, blondie. I've known Moira my whole life. I'm not much interested in helping someone who makes her feel the way Fucko did today."



"Fucko is going to try to make things right," Jared said. "So get me that blood—"



"Don't say it," Derik warned.



"Fetch!"



Chapter Twelve



Jared ran. He ran past the rose garden, into the woods. His headache was gone. His pain was gone. He felt like he could jump over the mansion. He felt like he could defeat an army. All this, from a pint of werewolf blood.



He understood the pack's secrecy, the way they kept to themselves. And he respected their discipline in a way he never could have before. What was to stop werewolves from taking over the world? From slaughtering humans like cattle? Wyndham, of course. Wyndham kept them in line. And dealt with the rogues, when he had to.



He'd never love them, Jared thought, leaping over a felled tree trunk, nimble as a gazelle. Or a wolf. But he could sure learn to respect the hell out of them.



He turned his thoughts away from the pack, toward Moira. He could actually smell her . . . her light, flowery scent, like spring violets, called to him. He had thought finding her would be tricky in the woods, the dark. About as tricky as tying his shoes. Jeannie had warned him the effects of the blood—the heightened senses—would wear off by daybreak, but he didn't care. He only needed a little more—there!



He burst into a clearing and saw her. She was nude, kneeling on the grass. She was crying, he saw with dismay, and soothing herself by rocking back and forth.



They all have their favorite places, Jeannie had said. Places they go when they don't want us to see them. Or hear them. Moira's is the clearing just past the orchard. She'll be there, Jared, and you'd better be nice to her when you find her.



He had promised. He would have promised anything. And now here was Moira, so upset she hadn't spotted him. Here was Moira, sobbing so hard her back shook with it. He had done this. Through stupidity or willfulness or plain Rocke stubbornness, he had wrought this.



He had no idea how to fix it.



He took a slow step forward just as Moira threw her head back. "Oh!" she cried, almost screamed.



"Oh! Ohhhh . . . ohhhhhhhhhhhh . . . ouuuuuuuhhhhhhh . . . oooooooooooooo!"



One minute he was watching her cry, helpless. The next—and it was that fast, that quick, if he'd blinked he'd have missed it—she was standing on four paws. Her champagne-colored fur riffled in the brisk wind. The moon came out from behind the clouds and still she cried up at the moon, a wolf who dreamed she was a woman, or a woman who dreamed she was a wolf.



He sat on the ground. He hadn't thought to, but really had no choice . . . his knees unhinged and bam!



He was on his ass in the leaves. Suddenly, he was very glad— very glad—he didn't have his gun. He didn't want his hands anywhere near a weapon right now when he was so terrified. And fascinated.



He'd seen a werewolf change before, of course. Had been revolted, of course. But that had been a thug, someone he used for information. It hadn't been someone he cared about. Someone he'd held, kissed, made love to in the dead of night. Showered with. Cooked breakfast for. Oh, hell, it wasn't Moira.



And he'd denied her. Told her she couldn't be a werewolf. Shrugged off her confession, turned his back on what she was. For what? For vengeance? Renee was revenged. For his stupid, human sense of the way things should be? Or simply because he didn't know how to open to her?



"Moira," he said, but what came out was a whisper.



She turned and looked at him. In the moonlight, her eyes were dark purple. She was as gorgeous a wolf as she was a woman.



She stepped away—no, cringed away, and he felt his face get hot with shame. He had done that. Taken a fearless, gorgeous creature and made her cower like a whipped hound. In a flash of understanding, he realized Moira was all the things he cared about—good, intelligent, strong, willful, charming—because of her heritage, not in spite of it.



Too bad he hadn't figured that out a little earlier.



"Moira," he said again, just as the wolf—just as his wolf spun and ran out of the clearing.



He sprinted after her. "Wait! I get it now! You're a werewolf! Great! Good! I figured it out!" And all she had to do was change right before his eyes because he was so fucking stupid. But he wouldn't say that . .



. not when she already knew . . .



"It's okay! The kids can be furry! I don't care, I swear!" Could she even understand English in her wolf form?



A tree branch swiped him across the cheek, hard enough to make his eyes water. He plunged ahead, ignoring the pain. "Moira, come back! I don't care that you've got more chest hair than I do!"



He was glad Jeannie had insisted he borrow a pair of Wyndham's sweatpants. They afforded his legs some protection, but the branches were scratching the shit out of his arms, chest, and face. It didn't matter. He had it coming, anyway.



Tripping over an exposed root, he went sprawling, sliding on his stomach across the forest floor.



Gasping, he rolled to his feet and saw another wolf, one much bigger, with fur the color of sunlight and eyes so vividly green they were nearly hypnotic. The wolf's paws were as big as each of Jared's hands.



Muscles flexed and bunched beneath the luxurious pelt as the wolf started toward him, laughing.



Laughing?



Yes. A wolf-laugh—Jared hadn't imagined such a thing was possible. The wolf made chuffing noises in its throat, and there was definitely an amused gleam in its eyes. Still, as it crossed in front of Jared, the wolf let out a warning growl and Jared realized that although the wolf didn't like him, it couldn't keep from laughing.



Derik.



And, on the heels of that thought, Jared realized he was in the middle of a forest filled with werewolves.



"I don't care," he said out loud, but of course he did care. He cared a shitload. "I'm not leaving without Moira."



He saw her, peeking at him from behind a tree. She had stopped running, then. Or . . . maybe heard him and came back? His heart pounded giddily at the thought.



"Moira, I'm sorry. I'm about ten thousand kinds of fool. Don't run anymore, and don't be afraid."



Slowly, the small, light-colored wolf came forward, staring at him. He couldn't read her expression as he could Derik's. In this moment, he had no idea if that was a good thing, or a bad thing.



She scratched at the dirt with her paw. Even her paws were small and delicate; the claws looked like mother-of-pearl. Scratching at the dirt . . . symbols?