Wilder's Mate

Chapter Ten

Nathaniel was a vampire.

She wasn’t supposed to know, but Satira had never been stupid. She’d also never been as obedient as Nathaniel might have liked, not when obedience fought curiosity—or concern.

So she’d eavesdropped, and she wasn’t ashamed. Oh, perhaps she was a bit ashamed that her focus on the conversation inside the lab had allowed Archer to all but ambush her, but it didn’t alter her conviction that she’d done the right thing. Now she knew how desperate Nathaniel was. How ready to die.

Now she knew how hard she’d have to fight to save him.

The bloodhounds had disappeared back the way they’d come, and Satira walled off her heart and her worry about Wilder and turned her attention to the oddities on the workbench in front of her.

A large glass sphere dominated the center of the table. A second sphere was suspended inside by thin metal rods, and filled with a hopeless tangle of copper wires that obscured whatever mechanism must lie inside. Sloppy, crowded work that looked nothing like Nathaniel’s usual neat and orderly inventions. A sign of his fracturing mental state or a subtle attempt at self-sabotage—it could be either. It could be both.

She touched the surface, sliding her fingers up to the top, where a metal plate had been fixed. It held an indent where one could affix a crank handle to wind…something, and two small openings just large enough for the end of a funnel. Something that required a chemical addition, perhaps.

“A weapon?” she asked, not looking at Nathaniel. It was easier not to. His voice was the same, but he appeared younger. Closer to thirty than fifty, and the effect was unnerving at a time when she needed every bit of nerve she had.

“A weapon, yes.” He sounded distracted. Tired.

A glass sphere. A chemical reaction. Satira froze, then lifted her head, so startled she forgot to keep her gaze averted. “You solved the sustainability problem. You solved it, didn’t you?” For a moment, his eyes sparked like they always did, and he leaned forward. “It’s the charge created by the copper coil. Do you see?”

She rocked up on her toes to get a better angle. Beneath the wires and coil sat a delicate, miniature version of the same mechanism that provided power for the reading lights Nathaniel had built several years ago. “You must have altered the chemical ratio, though. A charge run through the composition we have in our rounds would cause an explosion.”

“Mmm, not through these.” It was odd to see his strangely youthful hands trace over schematics and formulas. “I’ve added a stabilizer.”

It was elegant, for all the awkwardness of its construction. Whatever they’d done to Nathaniel, they hadn’t taken his mind.

They had taken something else, though. Satira let her fingers fall away from the sphere and met his gaze squarely. “I heard everything, you know.”

He nodded. “You didn’t go far enough not to have.”

“Oh, I did at first. Until I thought of all the things you’d only tell Wilder if I wasn’t around.” She gathered her courage about her. “Do you have fangs?”

“Yes.” Nathaniel hesitated. “I’ve never bitten anyone, though.” It might explain why he looked so exhausted in spite of his sudden, explicable youth. “But they gave you blood. They must have, to transform you.”

“They did.” Nathaniel turned away. “There’s a hound here, a new one. I named him Hunter.” The man in the cage. A hound’s blood should have been toxic to a vampire—it was one of the founding principles of the Guild, and why Archer’s defection was so unbelievable. Never create a weapon the vampires can turn against you. If drinking from a hound provided youth and vigor, they’d be handing their enemies too much power.

But the Bloodhound Guild hadn’t created Hunter. Archer must have, presumably as a side effect from an attack during the full moon. The Guild claimed that the bloodhound’s curse couldn’t be passed along through infection, but it was true only because the infection tended to kill a human quicker than a mortal wound.

Hunter had survived—and his blood had never been tampered with by the Guild. Something in it had given Nathaniel a different sort of life.

Life. Could a vampire be alive? Her gut said no. Screamed it, even. Her mother had instilled principles in her from the time she was old enough to walk. Prejudices. Vampires were evil, whether they stole across the border or not. They preyed on the innocent, killed without feeling and had no soul.

They’d never been Nathaniel before.

Satira eased around the table and laid a hand on his arm. “Look at me. Please.”

“No, because I know what you’re thinking.” His shoulders hunched, stiffened. Shook.

Telepathy. Satira closed her eyes and leaned her forehead against his arm, a meaningless, impersonal touch when she wanted to throw her arms around him. “I’m thinking all the things a girl raised by Ada and Levi is supposed to think. And I’m thinking they wouldn’t care a damn about how I’m thinking they might have been wrong, because it’s you. I don’t care what you are, Nathaniel, as long as you’re you.” His shaking intensified, and his arm slid around her, steely hard instead of comforting. “I’m sorry, Satira.”

At first she thought he was apologizing for not believing she’d believe in him. Then his arm tightened, jerking her back against his chest with enough force she’d have bruises across her midsection. “Nathaniel?”

“I can’t fight him,” he grated out harshly. “Not when he commands me to obey.” Him. Thaddeus Lowe.

Damn it all, Wilder was going to throttle her for getting herself killed.

The residents of Clear Springs hadn’t been run out.

They’d been enslaved.

Another ghoul leapt at Wilder and locked grasping, uncoordinated hands around his neck as the one he’d been fighting scrambled to drag himself away with one arm broken.

Fending them off was easy. It always was, provided the ghouls didn’t outnumber you too drastically, which was why most vampires needed an army of them. His instincts had been right—alone, he would have been hard-pressed not to exhaust himself. He might even have fallen. But with Archer and Hunter fighting alongside him, the ghouls stood no chance.

Especially with the way Hunter fought, as if the violence had only been waiting for a chance to spill free. It wasn’t training or intent, just feral, brutal instinct, and all the more vicious for it.

Archer slammed two of his opponents together and took a moment to glance around. “We’re getting close to the ballroom. Damn ghouls are thick as flies up here.” Hunter let out a roar and dove past them, slamming into a fresh wave of bodies. Three hit the ground in a tangle of limbs, but two more scrambled over him and jumped at Wilder. One had a knife gripped in one hand, and he swung it toward Wilder’s throat.

Wilder shoved the one wielding the knife into the other, the blade sinking deep into sallow flesh as the ghoul howled. He could see the door they struggled to protect, a heavy wooden thing that hung there like a shield, barring him from his goal.

He fought harder.

It became more difficult to maneuver, with bodies crowding the narrow passage. Hunter caught one ghoul by the back of the shirt and sent him skidding down the rough wooden floor until he crashed into the bottom of a staircase. Fewer were appearing at their backs now, and the ghouls left protecting the door turned and began scrambling for the knob.

One of them found it. The door flew open and the remaining ghouls fled inside, whether through some lingering instinct to survive or at their master’s command, it was impossible to tell.

Hunter panted for breath and braced his hands on his knees. “I can hold the hall.”

“You sure?” Archer asked.

One of the forms on the floor dragged itself to its knees. Hunter slapped his hands on either side of the ghoul’s head and twisted sharply, cracking its neck. “Yes.”

The hound’s recent change of heart aside, Wilder wasn’t fully comfortable only having Archer at his back. He’d proven inconstant, and facing Lowe with someone he couldn’t trust beside him was worse than going it alone.

Still, he wasn’t ready to challenge Archer, fight him, so he had no choice. “Break it down, Arch.” The ghouls had slammed the door shut again, but whatever attempts they’d made to block it wasn’t enough to stop a hound. Archer lifted his foot and drove one heel just below the knob. Wood shattered, sending splinters flying as a cry of pain rose from the opposite side.

Archer grinned and pulled his gun. “Just plain old silver, but it’ll hurt ’em, at least.” Wilder strode into the ballroom, two of his own guns drawn. He barely paid attention to the ghouls that rushed forward, the brunt of his focus on locating Lowe. If he could kill the vampire, the ghouls would scatter. They wouldn’t recover, but at least the thrall, the command, would dissipate.

The cavernous room echoed with screams, snarls and gunshots. Wilder felt the anger rising, blood pounding in his ears until it almost eclipsed all those inhuman sounds.

And then the ghouls froze.

Archer put a bullet between a ghoul’s eyes, and he toppled backwards without a whimper. The others didn’t stir, all of their unnaturally focused attention fixed on a door at the back of the room.

“Never seen them do this before,” Archer murmured. “Figured we’d have to fight through them to get to Lowe.”

Repulsion washed over Wilder in a sickening wave. “They’re obeying his will. He’s—”

“Here.” The rich, melodious voice seemed to come from nowhere and everywhere as the door swung open, revealing darkness beyond. “Have you brought me a gift, Archer?” Archer shifted his weight and tossed a tense look at Wilder. “Wouldn’t say brought is ever the right word when it comes to Harding. He tramples just about anywhere he wants.”

“Levity does not become you.” A man stepped out of the shadows, tall and thin, with dark hair and piercing eyes. He was impeccably dressed in a coat and tails, and he smoothed the pinstriped fabric of his sleeve. “Wilder Harding.”

If he made his move now, without knowing where Archer stood or what tricks the vampire might have up that tailored sleeve… “Thaddeus Lowe. You have me at a disadvantage.”

“I’d hoped to not have you at all.” The vampire graced Archer with a chillingly disapproving look.

“Your colleague has underestimated you more than once. Fortunately, I am not prone to repeating the mistakes of the hired help.”

Damn straight. “Maybe my colleague wanted to get rid of you as badly as I do.” Lowe didn’t seem perturbed. In fact, he seemed almost eager. “Not as surprising a revelation as you might have hoped. He has been showing a remarkable lack of dedication of late. Or a sudden onset of complete incompetence.”

Archer spat on the floor. “Fuck you very much too.”

“As refined as ever.” Lowe strode to a throne-like chair set in the middle of the room and settled into it without any indication that the sun beating down outside had slowed his reflexes. “Almost all of us have arrived. Do you have any more pithy remarks before we begin?” As if they were there for a tea party. Wilder raised his gun, but hesitated as the full import of Lowe’s words hit him. “All of us?”

“I see what my children see, Mr. Harding. And they bend to my will, even when they don’t wish to.

That’s a child’s duty. And a woman’s. Perhaps you should have left yours at home.” They came in the door to Wilder’s right. He watched in dumb horror as Nathaniel dragged Satira toward the vampire’s chair with halting, jerky steps. Satira’s feet scraped the floor as she slumped lifelessly over the arm that held her.

“Nathaniel has been a far more dedicated servant than Archer has,” Lowe remarked, his voice dripping with smug satisfaction. “I think I’ll make her one of us, to reward him for his accomplishments.” Archer said something, shouted something. Wilder moved without thinking, his peculiarly focused anger exploding in a painful rending of flesh. Changing, he thought absently, and then that too was swept away in the dull roar of rage that consumed him.

One moment, her perfect plan was falling into place.

In the next, the world went mad.

Draped over Nathaniel’s arm, she didn’t have a good view of the room. Straightening would reveal her bag, and the incriminating bulge the sun-sphere made. Instead she twisted her head and caught her first glimpse of Wilder in his other form.

It was Wilder, but if she hadn’t caught a peek at the man standing there a few moments before, she might not have recognized her lover in the monster he’d become.

He was large. Tall, towering a foot or two above the height he should have been. None of his clothing had survived the change. What hadn’t been torn, he ripped from his body with massive claws. Fur covered him from head to foot, and that head—

They called them hounds, but it looked more like the muzzle of a wolf. A growling snarl revealed teeth almost as long as her fingers. A terrifying wolfman out of legend, eyes filled with a rage that eclipsed any anger she’d ever imagined before in her short life.

This was the beast. The unfortunate side effect of a mad scientist’s wild marriage of science to magic.

For the nights around the full moon, every month, this is what all bloodhounds became.

The full moon wasn’t for two more weeks.

He charged, bounding two large steps only to be knocked off his feet by Archer, who wielded a heavy length of board like a club. “You came this far to rescue Nate,” he snapped. “I’m not going to let you kill him now.”

Wilder scrabbled to his feet, jaws snapping as he lunged for Archer. The blond hound feinted left and then right, avoiding claws and teeth in a quick, violent dance.

She’d started this by feigning helplessness too well. Perhaps later, when they were all safe, she’d beat Wilder black and blue for underestimating her. For now she had to keep them all alive.

Slipping her hand back into her bag, she slumped forward a little more to cover her movement as she began winding the crank again. Loading the chemicals while Nathaniel struggled to drag her up the stairs as slowly as possible had been a far greater challenge to her dexterity, but the rough sounds of the fight made it difficult to concentrate on the task at hand.

Instead of giving in to the temptation to peek at Wilder, she chanced a glance at Lowe instead. The vampire had leaned forward slightly in his chair, a look of abject delight on his features as he watched the bloodhounds battle against one another. He’d underestimated her as well—and Nathaniel too.

“He’s summoning me. I’m to bring you to him. Take the gun and shoot me now, Satira, or I’ll have to take you there. I won’t be able to stop myself.”

“I’m not shooting you, Nathaniel. I didn’t ride up and down the Deadlands with Wilder fucking Harding so I could shoot you.”

She closed her eyes and blocked out the sounds of the battle, concentrating on the winding mechanism on the sun-sphere. The vampire was strong, so the weapon had to be primed for its highest setting.

Strong, but not smart.

“Damn it, Satira, this isn’t a game.”

“Of course it is. It’s the game I’ve always played best. You watched me do it to Levi for years. Find the loophole, Nathaniel.”

Her fingers trembled. A roar sounded from behind her, Wilder’s roar, with pain and rage mixed into a single, heartrending sound. She should have given him a sign, some indication that she wasn’t hurt. That she had a plan.

“There’s no loophole. I have to bring you upstairs. To him.”

“Did he tell you I couldn’t bring anything with me?”

She tried to twist the crank. It resisted, just enough that she knew much more could damage the coil.

She slid her fingers to the top, where a tiny ring sat between the funnel holes. Pulling it up would collapse the barriers between the chemicals and start the electric current. Sunlight, in the palm of her hand.

If she did it now, Nathaniel would die along with Lowe.

“Once we’re close enough, pull the pin, Satira. Don’t wait.”

“I’ll do it.”

She’d lied.

Easing her hand away from the sphere, she groped for the modified rounds that she’d slipped from her gun and tucked in her bag. They wouldn’t kill Nathaniel, but they’d burn him—and shock his system just long enough to shake his compulsion. I’m sorry, Nathaniel.

She curled her hand around two small glass capsules and pulled them from the bag, then took a deep breath. Before she could second-guess herself, she whipped her body around and slammed the glass against his temple, shattering them both in a flash of artificial light.

He didn’t cry out as he stumbled away, and his silence bought her a single extra second before Lowe’s head swiveled around. Before the frozen and slumbering ghouls surrounding her sprang to life.

“Archer!” It took that precious second to draw her gun. “Get Nathaniel into the hallway. Now.” He ducked under another wild swing from Wilder and dove for Nathaniel. “Hope you know what you’re doing, girl.”

So did she. As soon as Archer had wrestled Nathaniel out of the way, she shot one of the ghouls and unleashed the only weapon that might buy her the time she needed to end this. “Wilder, help!” He faltered and threw a ghoul into the air as he rushed toward her, half loping on all fours across the dusty, littered floor. She caught sight of his eyes, then—yellow. Inhuman.

It took everything in her to hold her ground in the face of his charge. She remembered the words from the new moon— Don’t push me away. A different sort of madness gripped him at the moment, but underneath it he was the same. His basest instincts had been brought to light, and she had to trust that she was at the center of them.

He faced down two more ghouls who were reaching for her, one with a wicked-looking scythe in his hand. Wilder ignored the blade and bit down on the creature’s shoulder, eliciting a howl of pain.

The ghouls were no danger to her. Not with Wilder there. Satira gambled everything on it as she pivoted to face Lowe and dropped the gun. She pulled the sun-sphere out of her bag, one finger already curled through the pin’s copper ring. Archer had dragged Nathaniel halfway across the room, but they weren’t clear. Not yet.

So she stalled. She smiled at the vampire and inched the pin up, just a little. Enough so it would jerk free if anyone jostled her before Nathaniel was safe. “You should be more precise with your orders.” The vampire’s eyes narrowed. “And you, my dear, should watch your pretty little mouth. Someone might—”

Wilder roared again and dove for him, teeth bared.

Adrenaline surged. Time slowed. Some tiny, scientific part of her brain babbled at her in Nathaniel’s driest voice, explaining the physiological reaction that made Wilder’s leap take weeks.

At the far side of the room, Archer all but threw Nathaniel through a doorway and dove after him.

Satira tightened her finger and whispered a prayer to a God her mother hadn’t raised her to believe in.

Lowe flicked his fingers and Wilder stumbled back, clawing at his muzzle as long lines of blood appeared on his fur. The vampire turned—slowly, oh so slowly—toward Satira.

The pin slid free as smooth as one of Ophelia’s silk dresses.

For one moment—a terrifying moment—nothing happened. A gear clicked and something inside the sphere sparked.

Then—light. So much light Satira flinched back instinctively, sure it would sear the flesh from her hands. It took another few seconds for her to realize there was no accompanying heat. Just endless, pure sunlight, growing brighter by the second as Nathaniel’s simple, brilliant plan sprang to glorious life.

Squinting, Satira lifted her precious weapon higher as the ghouls began to scream.

Lowe’s upraised hands started to smoke. His mouth opened impossibly wide, and he let out a scream that sounded like a hundred voices crying out in unison. Sparks jumped from his pale skin, sparks that grew into tiny licking flames and flared up into an inferno that engulfed his entire body.

He was gone in the time it took to lower her hands, the ball of flames imploding in a way that pained her rational mind and stretched the boundaries of physics.

Magic, and a fitting end for a creature borne of dark powers beyond the understanding of men and science. Lowe disappeared as if he’d never been there at all, leaving not even ashes to mark his passing, only angry scorch marks on the floor.

And the lives he’d destroyed.

And Wilder. The violence in him hadn’t subsided. If anything, it seemed to intensify without a focus.

He whirled in a wide circle, seeking foes to vanquish, to feed his frenzy.

The sphere in her hands wouldn’t darken until the energy from the gear mechanism ran low, but tucking it into her bag dimmed it enough to let her blink away tears. “Wilder, it’s all right.” He stopped with a growl and turned.

Crazed yellow eyes fixed on her. She couldn’t help but stare at the sharp teeth filling a mouth large enough to crush her. “Wilder.” Perhaps if she said his name enough times, he’d remember who she was.

Who he was. “I’m safe. The danger’s past. We can go home now.” He didn’t charge, at least. He approached her slowly, almost warily, his claws clicking on the floor.

She’d seen Levi in his other form. Only once, when she’d been barely fourteen, and only for a few moments. When her mother had been alive, Ada had insisted on being the one who dealt with Levi during the full moon. After her mother’s death, he’d forgone the cage in the basement and spent the full moons in the wilderness.

A glimpse of a beast in a cage was far from facing the real thing with nothing to protect her. But Ada had tended to Levi, month after month. Her presence had soothed him…because she’d been his mate.

Satira lifted her hand, proud that it barely trembled. “Thank you for protecting me. Now let me help you.”

After an endless silence, he growled, a sound she probably imagined sounded like her name, and dropped to the floor at her feet, his sides heaving. His gaze darted back and forth, everywhere, still searching for threats.

He was low to the floor, but the tallest part of his shoulder came nearly level with her waist. Satira brushed her fingertips along the coarse fur at the back of his neck. When he didn’t snarl, she stroked his shoulder, awed by the promise of strength in the bunched muscles beneath her hand.

He was the perfect weapon, and he was hers. No matter what the Bloodhound Guild did to them in the days to come, they couldn’t take this from her. They couldn’t steal the perfect peace of knowing where she belonged. With Wilder, always, even if it broke both of their hearts in the end.

Archer crept in, his eyes wide. “What the holy fuck was—”

Wilder stiffened and rose to a crouch, a growl vibrating through him at the intrusion.

Hell. Satira kept her hand where it was, pressed against Wilder’s shoulder. He seemed tense, though he didn’t lunge at Archer. Yet. “Archer? I didn’t know it was possible for a bloodhound to change outside the full moon. How—how do we bring him back?”

The other hound dropped to his knees, putting his body lower than Wilder’s. “Hard to tell. Time, probably, though it’s bound to help if we get him away from here. From the fight.” Which meant moving Nathaniel. During the day. “I saw horses. Did Lowe have any carriages?

Anything to keep Nathaniel safe from the sun?”

“Most likely.” Archer didn’t take his eyes off of Wilder. “We’ll handle that part. You’d best be thinking about how to get your man there into one of them without a tussle.”

“We left our horses and packs tied up at the edge of town. Fetch those and get a carriage ready. I’ll take care of Wilder.”

“Yes, ma’am.” He ducked out of the shattered door.

Satira turned to Wilder and managed a shaky smile. “I know you’re in there somewhere, Wilder Harding. You need to come back to me. I think I earned one hell of a kiss, and I mean to collect.” The growling subsided, but he didn’t move. He stared at her instead, yellow eyes tracking every move.

A swift victory and a triumphant ride back to Iron Creek would have been too easy. Sighing, Satira settled in for a long afternoon.