Wolf Fever

Chapter 27

A WEEK AND A HALF AFTER RYAN HAD KILLED MILLER, Carol sat at the kitchen table in Doc Weber’s rental home, tapping her bare foot on the floor and reading through books written over the ages that discussed various herbal and other home remedies for getting rid of viruses or colds or werewolfism. She wasn’t any closer to finding a cure for the pack.

Darkness had descended on the house hours earlier, so fluorescent bulbs flooded the kitchen with light. Ryan was still annoyed with her for having come to his rescue in Miller’s basement. But as soon as she’d realized that her vision of the room involving gunfire was the same place Ryan was investigating, she’d had to rescue him. She just hadn’t realized he was the one doing the shooting and not Miller.

Tom and Sam still weren’t talking to her, both mad that she’d taken off and nearly gotten herself killed. But she had been the only one not standing guard against the other red males! Besides, wasn’t that what mates did for each other?

She took a deep breath and continued to study one of the books, while Ryan examined papers spread all over the other end of the golden-oak table. He was looking for a clue to where Miller might have hidden a vaccine.

On a whim, Lelandi had mentioned that Doc Weber had a personal library that he’d accumulated before he’d had much medical training. A lot of his remedies had been passed down from their ancestors. Carol figured that trying those remedies on the sickened wolves was worth a shot, since nothing else seemed to work. For days, she’d been studying the books and testing the remedies on any willing participant.

If a person didn’t die from complications of the flu, which thankfully no one had, he or she would eventually get better. But for the lupus garous, the real problem was being able to shift into wolf form and then not being able to shift back. She was trying herbal remedies for lessening the effects of the flu and supposed cures for shifting, if any of them seemed in the least bit sound. Piercing a werewolf’s hands with nails and striking a werewolf in the head with a knife were supposed remedies for getting rid of the werewolf problem but she would leave them to myths and legends.

She rose from the table, crossed the linoleum floor, and opened the black fridge door. Inside, a bowl of diced onions sat in a thick, golden syrup of honey. She shuddered at the thought of anyone having to eat it.

A warm hand swept down her back, and she turned slightly to see Ryan looking down at her. His dark amber gaze was tender, and she knew that look in his eyes. It said she had been working at this for too long and she needed to sleep.

“In a little while,” she said.

He took a deep breath and nodded. “I’m going to take a shower. Join me?”

“Sure.”

He smiled, but she could tell he didn’t believe her. She wanted to shower with him and enjoy what would happen between them if she did, but he probably assumed she’d never make it to the shower before he was finished.

“In a little while,” she said again, trying to reassure him.

He kissed her forehead, let out his breath, and headed for the guest bathroom.

Carol closed the fridge door and turned on the teakettle. More of Darien’s pack had shifted to their wolf forms, including Jake, and none could revert to their human forms. Tom and Sam were still fine. And Lelandi had said she had no urges to shift, so was all right for now. Silva had been fighting the shift for a couple of days.

Those who hadn’t shifted were taking care of those who had. Everyone who was left was short-tempered, feeling the tension, and worried about shifting and about family members who were stuck in their wolf forms.

A small tickle in Carol’s throat had bothered her for the last hour or so, but it was probably just allergies. She prayed. She also felt a little warmer than usual, which she hoped only meant that the heater was on too high.

She thought of Nurse Matthew and Charlotte handling the patient load at the hospital while she wasn’t doing her fair share. Sure, she was trying to find an antidote, but it seemed too much like being on holiday. Except that she was worried sick she wouldn’t discover a way to stop the virus.

Doc Weber and Doc Mitchell remained at the hospital in their wolf forms. They urged Carol to use her experimental cures on them. Those ranged from herbal remedies like garlic and onion, Echinacea, licorice— which didn’t go over with any of the wolves—and Vitamin C for improved antibodies to fight the virus in an infected person. She had even tested the medieval concept that exercising the werewolf into exhaustion in his wolf form would force him to shift back to his human form. Nothing worked. Darien also had tried all of the remedies in good spirit, although he wouldn’t go along with the brutal exercise plan, probably figuring that was a bunch of medieval bunk.

Carol lifted two packages of licorice, one red and one black, and took a deep breath as she pondered the results of yet another attempt at creating a cure. She’d tested Darien, Jake, and both the vet and Doc Weber, but no one seemed to respond to the home remedies. The vet and Jake had both gone along with the exercise program, willing to try anything to snap out of the inability to shift back to their human form. But Darien was right. It didn’t work.

Her mind frazzled, she poured herself another cup of ginger tea, and took it back to the table. On page fifty-five of a set of handwritten notes on werewolf myths and legends, she had found a possible cure, or death. She closed her eyes as she sat at the table and rested her head on her arm, willing herself to think. Think, what hadn’t she tried that might work? Something that wouldn’t possibly result in death.

Her thoughts shut down, and as if in a dream or out of the mist of her mind, a lush green meadow appeared.

The sun was shining down on Ryan as he lay on the grass. Hands behind his head, he had his eyes closed and his leg cocked, resting peacefully, until two small boys attacked him with childlike exuberance. The boys were identical in size, maybe three years of age, chubby, with dark hair like Ryan’s, and smiles and dimples like his, too. Startled out of his peaceful pose, he laughed and tackled them, tickling them amid giggles and squeals. Twin boys.

Before she could come to any conclusions about the vision, the fragrance of blended almond, lime, and mandarin soap drifted to her, and she returned to the world at present and turned in her chair. Freshly showered and totally naked, Ryan advanced on her in a strictly lustful predatory manner. Her gaze shifted to the package between his legs. He sure was hung. She might have missed showering with him, but he wasn’t leaving her to stew over the dilemma of finding a cure all night. And she loved him for it.

She smiled at him, so handsome and caring and hunky, his mouth curving up a little, his eyes taking her in as if she was the most beautiful creature in the world—which as tired as she was, she knew wasn’t possible—and his expression determined, bordering on sinful seduction.

No matter how frustrated and anxious she’d become with trying to discover a solution, Ryan was always her champion. He told everyone she was getting close to a breakthrough, when no one really knew how long it would take.

He encouraged her, adamantly insisting that she could do it, and by doing so, she knew he trusted in her abilities with all his heart. That bolstered her confidence in the face of failure. Pride reflected in his expression every time he talked about her efforts to find a solution. She wasn’t sure if he did so to remind her she could fight this, too, or if he wanted her to know she was fully a werewolf now—just like any of their kind.

Despite how tired she was, she saw he was ready for some loving. She rose from the chair to recharge her batteries, too.

“Time to rest,” he said, massaging her shoulders with dreamy strength.

She knew he meant after they made love.

“So soft,” he whispered against her ear, his large capable hands moving down her pale blue cashmere sweater and settling on her breasts, measuring, feeling, circling. Then his lips curved up in a wicked way.

“Hmm, no bra.”

The way he said the words in a hushed and seductive voice, and the way he touched her, made her feel naughty and decadent. She swept her hands up his naked biceps—strong, smooth, and tensing with her touch— and encircled his neck with her arms. She couldn’t press against his length like she wanted, to feel his growing arousal and his desire for her building, not while his thumbs targeted her nipples, stroking and rolling the sensitive nubs between his fingers and stealing her thoughts, her breath, her willpower.

Already her loins tightened with need and her body quivering with desire—responsive, receptive, needy. She wanted him, wanted the feel of him mating with her, the closeness, the intimacy.

His mouth crushed hers, his hands moving from her breasts to the bottom edge of her soft sweater. He slid the luxurious fabric upward, his thumbs stroking her skin from her belly over her breasts, stopping to fondle her nipples for a moment in a deliciously sinful way, and then moving up her collarbone to pull the sweater off.

He dropped it on a chair, and head bent, leaned down to capture a nipple with his mouth, his tongue slick and hot, as it glided over the raised hypersensitive nub. She moaned, felt her knees give, and would have been kneeling before him if he hadn’t slipped his hands down to cup her buttocks and to hold her in place while he had his way with her.

She felt her bones melt, her blood and skin sizzle with his touch, and briefly worried that she was shape-shifting… until his thigh pushed between her legs, pressed gently upward, and rubbed, giving her a jolt.

Oh God, she’d never last.

His heart was pounding as thunderously as hers, despite his slow and measured moves. He recaptured her mouth with his, their breathing heavy and labored. The scent of arousal, hers and his, entwined in a pleasing fragrance, added to the sweet and spicy aroma of the almond, lime, and mandarin soap he’d washed with.

His fingers tangled in her hair, his eyes dark as midnight, his thigh still pressed between her legs, holding her up and tormenting her. Then he unfastened her jeans button and, after that, the zipper. Once he’d unzipped her jeans and slipped his fingers into her soft curls, he pulled his mouth away from hers, and smiled.

“No panties?” Again his words made her feel wickedly sinful.

As if he couldn’t last a moment longer, he tugged her jeans down and left them in a puddle of blue denim on the floor.

“You’re beautiful,” he said, and lifted her so that she was straddling him. “And all mine,” he added, sounding wolfishly possessive.

No coherent words could come to mind as her legs were spread open to him against his belly, his chest hair mingling with her soft curls, his stomach rubbing against her feminine lips with every step he took. She clung to him as he moved fast, heading toward the guestroom, his gait long and decisive.

“You’re beautiful, too,” she said hoarsely, soliciting a deep-seated chuckle from him.

When they reached the bed, he didn’t set her down and then join her, like she’d expected. Instead, in one deft move, she was on the mattress and he was still between her legs. He shifted away from her slightly and ran his hand up her inner thigh, teasing her into submission.

But she would not submit! Her hands swept over his arms and his back, and lower to his buttocks. She squeezed, soliciting a shiver from him. She reached up and raked her hands through his damp hair, while his eyes studied her, lust-filled, desirous, and hungry.

She pulled him down and licked his shoulder, loved the salty and sweet taste of him freshly showered, all man and wolf, and hers. He groaned, a sound that said she was pushing him over the edge.

As if he couldn’t wait any longer, he began to stroke her between her legs, dipping a finger inside her and claiming her. He pressed his mouth against hers again, ravenous, passionate, greedy. His tongue danced with hers, their breathing fast paced as her fingers pressed against his lower back, her loins aching for resolution.

She arched her back, pushing against his fingers, demanding, begging. He stroked harder, relentlessly, watching her expression until she shuddered and fractured into a million wondrous bits of pleasure and gave out a cry.

Watching Carol come nearly brought him to climax. He dove into her tight sheath, and pushed hard and deep—and deeper still. Her body was flushed and moist, and every inch was delectable, gripping him with ripples of orgasm. Her fingers dug into his buttocks, her desire pronounced in her actions and heady arousal.

He stretched her and claimed her, merging, melding, and mating with her. Their tongues and lips tasted and teased, and he said her name softly against her mouth just before the final thrust—the eruption—when the heat sizzled between them.

She gave a tired smile, pulled him close, and held on tight.

“Mine,” she said.

He rolled over and cushioned her against his chest.

“Mine,” was his response.

After sleeping a few hours, and still feeling the sensual glow that always lingered after making love with Ryan, Carol returned to the kitchen to begin working on the Aconitum cure. The plant also was called monkshood, leopard’s bane, wolf’s bane, and dozens of other aliases. Not only was it touted as an herbal cure for colds and fever, but it also slowed the heart rate and numbed nerve endings to pain.

However, the roots of the plant were poisonous, and while the mostly deep blue or purple flowers were strikingly beautiful, they could also be deadly. So why did some werewolf lore state that the flower was a cure for being a werewolf? It killed wolves. But wouldn’t it kill the human half also? Still, often legends arose from some truth. What if it would cure what ailed them?

The dawn was just beginning to appear, the darkness fading as the sun rose. Ryan was again reading through the files on Miller’s computer, which Ryan had brought back to Doc Weber’s house. Ryan’s cell phone rang, and he yanked it off his belt.

“Yeah, Tom?” He glanced at Carol. She assumed it might be good news, but Ryan’s expression was noncommittal as he stalked out of the kitchen to the living room to speak to Tom.

Carol started boiling the roots of the wolf’s bane in a small stainless-steel pot. When Ryan walked back into the kitchen, she knew he was going on another fact-finding mission. Unfortunately, he’d done so at least once a day, sometimes more, and nothing had ever come of it.

She’d quit asking, and he hadn’t offered explanations. The disappointment at not getting any closer to a solution was too much to deal with.

“I’ll be back shortly.” He leaned down and kissed Carol’s cheek, but a new look of worry reflected in his eyes. She rose from her chair and took his hand.

“What’s the matter, Ryan?”

“Nothing. Just another lead, as usual. I’ll be back soon.” He pulled her close and hugged her tight.

It didn’t seem like “nothing.” Knowing him, he was probably afraid to make her more anxious than she already was.

“You’re not going into another wolf fight, are you? Without my help?”

He chuckled, kissed her generously on the mouth, and embraced her warmly.

“No more wolf fights for now. And I wouldn’t think of not taking you with me to get me out of hot water if I needed it.”

“Liar,” she said affectionately.

He smiled. “Truly, no wolf fights. Just another lead.”

She let out her breath, squeezed him back, and said, “All right. Bring me the vaccine, and I’ll make it worth your while.”

He laughed and cupped a breast. “You will anyway.” He rubbed her back, said his usual, “Good luck,” and headed out of the house.

If he said he wasn’t going into a wolf fight, she believed him. Only sometimes, the unexpected happened. Something was bothering him, and she wasn’t certain she wanted to know what it was. But she suspected—he was fighting the shift, just like she’d been doing for days now.

Ryan had been surprised as hell when he discovered that Miller had a bank account and safe deposit box at the Silver Town Bank. That seemed to confirm that Miller was plotting to take over the town. Ryan had wasted no time in getting a court order from the local judge that allowed him access to the safe deposit box. He hoped something in the box would reveal whether a cure of vaccine existed, although it was a long shot, and he didn’t want to give Carol any more false hopes.

She was aware that something more than usual was bothering him. The real dilemma was his need to shape-shift, which had been growing since the night before. He’d never worried about shifting, but as more of Darien’s people were affected, his own concern had grown.

Not only that, but he’d noticed that Carol’s body temperature had been warmer the previous night, and he thought she’d been running a low-grade fever. Although she hadn’t mentioned anything to him about it. Even he had a sore throat this morning. He wondered if the virus was geared to push their wolf half into taking over once they were at some stage of being sick.

Thankfully, humans in the area were no longer shooting wolves. Darien’s stiff policy of jail sentences, hefty fines, and rescinded hunting licenses had been enough of a deterrent. Also, those who had shape-shifted into wolves were trying to stay close to their homes in the woods. Those who lived in town had been taken in by families living out of town to try to reduce the problem of human-wolf contact.

Ryan drove to the bank, parked, and stalked inside where Mason, the bank owner, quickly greeted him. Mason took him to the bank vault, where the safety deposit boxes were located behind a cage door.

Wearing one of his expensive gray suits, the gray-bearded banker led Ryan inside the vault. “I’d wring Miller’s thick neck if you hadn’t already killed him,” the banker told Ryan.

“I wish we could have kept him alive, at least until we learned if he had a vaccine or not,” Ryan replied.

“From what I’ve heard, it couldn’t have been helped.” Mason unlocked the metal box with its two keys and let Ryan open it. He scoured over the documents, receipts for medical supplies, rubber-banded bundles of one-thousand-dollar bills, and…

Ryan pulled a deed for a house in Silver Town out of the box. “Hell, apparently Miller had set up housekeeping here only a month after the big fight between Darien’s people and the reds.”

“Well, I’ll be damned. No one ever thought to see if he’d purchased real estate here. Now what?” Mason asked, stroking his beard.

“Time to pay a call at his house at 150 Oak Drive. Thanks, Mason. I’ll let you know if I find anything.”

As Ryan headed out of the bank to his truck, he called Tom with a heads-up and then drove over to Miller’s home. It was a modest place with black shutters framing two large windows and massive oaks shading the grass. The lawn was a little shaggy, probably because Miller had been dead for ten days and a warming trend and spring rain had encouraged the growth.

Sheriff Peter Jorgenson drove into the drive, and Ryan gave him a silent nod of greeting. He’d planned to use his lock picks, although he supposed that some of the neighbors might be human and having a police officer on hand would be better. The sheriff was better yet.

“Peter,” Ryan said as the sheriff climbed out of his vehicle.

“Ryan. Tom called and said to meet you here. Think this is where the gold is?”

“I sure as hell hope so.”

Peter stifled a cough.

“You, too, eh?”

“Hell, yeah. I don’t think any of us are going to escape it.”

Deputy Trevor drove up, lights flashing. He waved and joined them as Peter unlocked the door.

“Can you believe the bastard was living among us?” Trevor said, punching his fist into the palm of his hand.

“The guy had balls. I’ll give him that,” Ryan said.

When they entered the house, the smell of fresh paint assaulted them. New carpeting covered the floors, but the place was empty. No drapes over windows covered in mini-blinds. No furniture.

“Not moved in yet, looks like,” Trevor said, sounding thankful, as though just the knowledge that Miller hadn’t been living under their noses all along was a relief.

But the knowledge that Miller hadn’t moved in ratcheted up Ryan’s anxiety a notch. If Miller hadn’t been here, he most likely wouldn’t have left anything here. Still, they had to make sure.

While Trevor checked the bedrooms and bathroom down the hall, Ryan and Peter stalked toward the kitchen.

Everything looked brand new—appliances, cabinets, black granite countertop—despite the home being an older model.

“He was getting ready to move in, I suspect,” Peter said, searching through the drawers and cabinets.

“Yeah, probably just waiting for us all to be infected and unable to shift back. Wonder what he would have done about the wolf half of us. Not many of us would have let him live if he’d ventured out of his house.”

Ryan noticed that the fridge was running. He pulled open the fridge door. Through the glass top of one of the drawers, he spied several vials of liquid and packages of powder in a manila envelope.

“Might not be what we’re looking for,” Ryan said, pulling out a vial and looking at it like it was the most volatile thing in the world, “…but then again it might be.”

“Hot damn,” Peter said.

Ryan opened a piece of paper from the envelope and read the first few lines of scribble. And smiled.