Wild Wolf

“Not to mention not sterile,” Misty said.

“We don’t have a choice. Don’t worry, I’ve done this lots of times.”

“Really?” Misty put her fingers where Dougal guided her. “Graham gets shot often, does he?”

“Not always Uncle Graham. But other Shifters. Hospitals were too far away from our old Shiftertown, and hunters liked to take shots at us.”

Graham gave another grunt. “Hunters and old Craig Morris.”

Dougal snorted a laugh. “Yeah.”

“Who was he?” Misty asked. She pressed down as Dougal showed her and spread the wound. More blood poured out, which Dougal mopped up with the T-shirt.

“Old Shifter,” Graham said. “About three hundred years old when we were rounded up. He hated living so close to other Shifters—he should have stayed in the wild and died with some dignity. He’d been alone a long time, and bringing him in and giving him the Collar was tough on him. He used to shoot anyone who came too close to his house. His eyesight was going by then, so his aim was usually off, but once in a while, he got lucky. Shit.”

Dougal had dug his fingers into the wound. “Press down hard,” he told Misty. “We have to keep him still. This is going to get bad.”

“Don’t worry.” Graham’s words were tight and faint. “I’ll try not to kill anyone.”

“That’s what you always say.” Dougal put his hand on Graham’s shoulder as he started fishing around for the bullet.

Graham roared, fingers sprouting claws as he reached for Dougal’s throat.

“Grab him!” Dougal yelled. “Hold him down. No matter what happens, hold him!”

Misty caught Graham’s wrists and quickly laid herself across his chest and shoulders. She knew she wouldn’t have the strength to grapple with him, so she used her weight to keep him down.

Graham growled, his body rippling beneath her. Misty felt him change. Fur burst across his bare chest, his face elongated into a muzzle, and his eyes went silver gray.

“Don’t shift!” Dougal shouted at him. “Hold him, Misty.”

Misty pushed her face at Graham’s terrifying wolf one, which was emerging from his human’s. His eyes were white gray, and full of pain, rage, madness.

“Stop!” She tried to sound firm, but everything came out shaky.

“I’m touching it,” Dougal said. “Just . . . trying . . . to grab it.”

Graham’s growls grew more fierce. Blue snakes of electricity arced around his Collar, the sparks stinging Misty’s skin. She pressed him down, her head on his shoulder.

“Hang on,” she said. “Almost done.”

More snarling, but she felt Graham strain to hold himself back. All that strength—he could snap her in half and Dougal too, but he didn’t. Graham’s hands balled into huge fists, claws jabbing into his own skin.

“Hang on,” Misty whispered.

“Got it!” Dougal lifted his hand, coated with gore, and held up a piece of metal. He whooped in triumph, then grabbed the T-shirt and jammed it over the wound.

“Keep pressure on that,” Dougal said to Misty. “I’ll try to find something to help patch the hole.”

Misty pushed down on the cloth, which was already red and sopping. Graham’s face gradually returned to human, and his Collar ceased sparking. But his skin was sallow, his breathing rapid.

Graham opened his eyes to slits, the silver gray of the wolf shining through. “Was it good for you?” he asked, his voice a scratch. “’Cause it sucked for me.”

“It really sucked for me too,” Misty said, giving a breathless laugh.

Graham reached for Misty’s hand. She slid hers into his, his fingers barely squeezing.

“What do you know?” Dougal said, returning from inside the shed. “Duct tape.”

Graham let out a chuckle, closing his eyes again. “One human invention that’s useful.”

“Lots of human inventions are useful,” Misty said, babbling while Dougal peeled off pieces of tape and ripped them from the roll with his wolf teeth. “Cars, for instance.”

“Paved the world and clogged all the clean air with crap,” Graham said. “Destroyed Shifter territory and made us vulnerable to humans.”

“Thanks, Graham.”

“Sure thing, sweetheart.” His eyes opened again. “Are you going to tape me up anytime soon? Like before my guts fall out?”

Dougal wiped the wound as clean as he could with the soaked T-shirt, then Misty helped him hold Graham’s skin together while Dougal taped it closed.

“This will hurt like hell when you pull it off,” Dougal said.

“Yeah, well, it hurt like hell going on,” Graham said. “Now you need to get out of here and look for a spot with a cell phone signal. If you have to go all the way back to Shiftertown for help, do it.”

Dougal stared. “You want me to go?”

“Yes, you. Misty will never make it across fifty miles of desert on foot, without water. Right now, I’m a wuss because I’ve been shot, had a hand dug into me, and am being held together with duct tape. That leaves you.”

Dougal gazed out at the empty land, his fingers picking at the roll of tape in his hands, his face almost gray. Dougal, though in his early thirties, was considered barely an adult by the Shifters. Graham had told her Dougal had come through his Transition—whatever that was—and had been an adult for about a year. But though in years Dougal was older than Misty, in many ways he acted like a scared teenager.