Wild Wolf

Beneath them was Graham’s face. His eyes were closed, his skin pale, the scars and shadow of dark beard stark on his bloodless skin.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

"No!” Dougal shifted back to human even as he dropped beside Misty, his big hands scrabbling to move the vines. “Uncle Graham. No!”

His last word ended in a long wail, which held the pathos of a wolf’s howl. Dougal lifted his head and cried out to the echoing cave, then he put his hands over his face and bowed his body, rocking in grief.

Misty, her heart pounding until it ached, pulled at the vines over Graham. Graham—this strong, amazing man—couldn’t be dead. Couldn’t. Seeing him unmoving, not breathing, was a knife to her heart.

“Dougal,” she said sharply, trying to cut through his wails. “Help me uncover him.”

Dougal raised his head. His face was red and streaked with tears, and he sniffled, unashamed. He unfolded himself enough to pull at the vines.

The flowers were tough, and they fought back. Misty had spent years cutting flowers and sticking them into vases or baskets, where they’d last a while, then wither and die. She had the sickening feeling that the plants were taking their vengeance for all those flowers Misty had used.

“Harvesting flowers helps the whole plant,” Misty said firmly to them. “Reinvigorates it, makes more buds.”

The vines didn’t care. They reached for her, wrapping around her hands and arms, trying to drag her away from Graham.

Dougal, with amazing strength, ripped them away. He growled as he changed into a wolf, a black beast, like Graham, with silver eyes.

Dougal’s wolf tore the vines, dragging them out of the way. He revealed Graham’s torso, his neck with its Collar, his naked chest, his arms bound by the vines, which followed the lines of his tatts.

Misty put her hand over Graham’s heart. Through the pounding of her own pulse, she felt nothing. Barely able to breathe, Misty leaned down and rested her ear against his cold chest.

There. A flutter. A small but strong beat, a long pause, and another beat. Graham’s chest rose the slightest bit before falling again.

Misty sat up. “He’s alive. Dougal, he’s alive!”

Dougal kept tearing away the vines. He didn’t acknowledge her announcement but kept pulling, with teeth and claws, growling when a vine proved too tough to move.

The vines holding Graham’s arms and legs refused to budge. Dougal and Misty pulled the rest of the flowers away from Graham’s chest, but thick, tough stems wrapped his limbs and held him in place.

“Graham.” Misty touched his face, patted his cheek. “Graham, wake up.”

Graham didn’t move. Dougal put one big paw on Graham’s chest and shook him, his mournful howls returning.

Through it all, Matt and Kyle remained to one side, as though realizing they couldn’t move the vines with their small paws. They sat together now, pressed tightly together, watching as Misty and Dougal tried to wake Graham.

“Now would be a great time for Reid to pop in and save the day,” Misty said.

She waited, just in case. Nothing happened, no Reid, no response from Graham.

Dougal shifted back to his human form, snarling a little as his limbs jerked. “Reid left us to rot,” he said. “Fucking Fae. They all stick together.”

Rock clicked together somewhere, as though a spatter of gravel had fallen. Both Misty and Dougal froze, but the sound wasn’t repeated.

Misty pulled away several determined vines that had crept back over Graham. “We have to wake him up.”

“Don’t you think we’ve been trying?” Dougal growled. “Uncle Graham! Wake the hell up, already!” He shook Graham, hard. Tears trickled from Dougal’s eyes again, his fear stark. “He can’t die,” he sobbed. “I’ll be alone.”

“No, you won’t,” Misty said quickly. “You have these little guys. And me. And other Shifters.”

Dougal shook his head. “If Graham leaves me alone, the other wolves will kill me. They know I can’t lead them.”

Misty put her arm around Dougal, then rested her forehead on his bare arm, pulling him into a hug. She’d been around Shifters enough by now to know how a touch and embrace could calm them. Misty stroked Dougal’s long back until Dougal quieted a little.

“Graham won’t let that happen,” she said. “Because we’re going to wake him up.”

“How?” Dougal went back to his hunkering. “We don’t know what’s wrong with him. He’s Fae-spelled. He’s dying.”

“Be quiet a minute.”

Misty fished around in the fallen vines for her leather-bound book. She opened it, leafing through the pages. A few flowers raised their heads next to her, as though reading with her, which gave her the creeps.

The book had no table of contents and no index. Misty had to turn every page to find out if there was anything in the book that might help at all.

“Here we go.” Misty paused on a page about halfway through the volume. “For enchanted sleep. Did he mean to release from? Or to create?”

Dougal didn’t answer, sinking into his own fears again.

“Let’s see. Roses—no surprise—all these spells seem to have roses. Irises, a little trickier. Plus honeysuckle. Blend petals together, mix in water, and sprinkle over the victim. Hmm. I don’t like the sound of ‘victim.’ Call down the power of the Father God, and keep the victim warm. What does that mean? Calling the power of the Father God. Praying?”