Werewolf Sings the Blues Read online

  The seconds drag like hours as I scan left to right. This is insane. We used cash. Fake names. The manager didn’t even see Jason. The car’s not visible from the highway. We didn’t tell anyone the name or location of the motel. There is no way in hell …

  The sight of Donovan rounding the corner with the manager knocks the damn wind from my lungs. How the fuck … ? As the motel manager points down the hall, Donovan’s head starts turning my way. I crouch down as instructed. My breath escapes me in loud, short bursts so I cover my mouth to muffle the sound. Oh, please, please, please don’t let him sense me. Oh, fuck. What do I do? Fuck. Plan. Need a—

  The sound of splintering wood and a thud makes me peek up. Donovan enters our dark room, gun up and ready for damage. I jerk upright as a moment later there are two explosions of light and booms from his gun. That’s the last I see of the fucker as he moves deeper into the dark. “Shit.” Shit. W—

  Gunshots right on top of each other reverberate through the otherwise still night from my room. I can’t count them all. Four? Five? One punctures our room’s window, then the Dodge Ram’s front window beside me as well. “Shit.” The barrage ceases, only to be replaced by a man’s howl and breaking furniture. It’s an old-fashioned werewolf brawl. There’s a flash of movement inside as a body is tossed onto the bed. There are two more gunshots as I think Jason rolls off out of sight just in time. Bits of feather float up from my pillow that a little over a minute ago I was asleep on. Holy hell. Jason leaps up from the floor and charges like a bull just as another shot erupts. Something. I have to do something. I can’t just sit here. What the hell can I do? Leave? I start the car. No. No. I wait for him. He—

  Oh, thank you God.

  Jason backs out of the door, firing another shot inside as Donovan, still cloaked in darkness, returns the fire. His bullet hits the doorframe inches from Jason’s head as my protector shoots again. With his arm raised, I notice his white shirt sleeve is saturated with blood. He fires once more before the slide moves back. Out of bullets. Jason ducks right as Donovan fires again. Time to leave. I put my foot on the brake and shift into reverse as Jason zips toward the passenger’s side. The millisecond his door shuts, I stomp the gas pedal. Donovan steps into view as I do, pistol pointed right at us. Shit! The bullet cracks both our windshield and back window, once again narrowly missing Jason, who ducked as I did. I slam on the brakes, shift into drive, and spin the wheel to get us the fuck out of here. So much for a restful night.

  I have to break cover to see where I’m going. Donovan fires again, I think hitting the bumper, before sprinting after us in the parking lot as he shoots again. I yelp as the rearview mirror explodes, raining plastic and glass over us and the dash. Better it than my head. I jerk the wheel to the right to maneuver us out of the lot with Donovan way too close behind. The man can move, I’ll give him that. Jason opens the glove box, retrieving another clip as I gun it down the deserted road toward the highway. He grimaces as he pushes in the clip.

  “Are you okay?” I ask, glimpsing at his bloody arm.

  “Just keep going,” he orders through gritted teeth. Not a problem. Don’t think I could let up on the gas pedal even with a crowbar. With another grimace, Jason pivots around to watch out the back window. “Shit.”

  Checking the side mirror, I see headlights barreling toward us. And gaining. Not good. I punch the gas pedal down to the floor, picking up speed. I make a hard right onto the highway ramp and for a split second lose control, back tires skidding. I brake hard and turn the wheel to gain control again, then punch the gas to get us revving again. We lose another second we don’t have as the tires spin in place before the car jerks forward like a rocket. Of course Donovan uses my miscalculations to bridge the gap between us. The Civic is a great car, but its pick-up sucks. Too damn slow. Donovan’s five car lengths behind, then three. Two.

  When we merge onto the highway, the bastard’s right on our bumper. Jason rolls down his window, leaning out of it. Taking quick aim he fires, cracking Donovan’s windshield. The Marshal swerves, then Jason aims lower to strike again. There’s a spark on the pavement near Donovan’s front tire. I’m so immersed in watching this in my side mirror I almost hit the semi-truck in front of us. We’d smash into it if I didn’t switch lanes in time. Pay attention, idiot.

  Donovan mimics my swift move into our lane, right before ramming into us. Jason roars in pain as his bad arm smacks into the side of the window as we crash back and forth. He falls back into his seat, clutching onto his bad arm and wincing.

  “Are you—”

  Donovan rams us again. Fuck. I lose the grip on the wheel. We twist out of control, left, right, left, almost off the damn road, until I grab the wheel to straighten us out. No matter what, do not let go of this wheel, Viv. I keep a vice grip on it as he smashes us again. And again. And again, my companion groaning in agony with each assault. This is bullshit. Another car appears in front of an SUV, and I pass it with Donovan as my shadow. Except he moves into the parallel lane and speeds up. He’s beside us. He’s going to swerve into us, force us off the road or be close enough to aim. Either way we’re screwed.

  I hate being right sometimes. He collides against Jason’s side. I can barely maintain control as half of our car slides into the grass. Donovan is now a car length ahead as I straighten and return us to the asphalt. He slows to smash us again. Another car appears in his lane. Donovan pumps the brakes to change lanes. He’s behind us again, then moves again to our right when its clear. Next time he’ll really do it. He’ll hit us with the force of all of the car’s tons. We’ll probably flip over and either die then or he’ll walk over to the crash and shoot us in the head. Fuck that.

  The world slows to a crawl and all its working parts crystallize in my mind. The distance between the car behind us and Donovan. The angle of his current swerve. The amount of time it’ll take for him to smash us. Jason beside me slowly raising his gun in preparation for the onslaught. I relinquish all control to the reptilian section of my brain. Just as Donovan’s car completes its move to the right lane, I slam on the brakes. The force slaps us both to the back of our seats but the reptile barely notices. She’s too happy that we’re stopping. “Jason, tires!” Donovan continues forward for a millisecond before he brakes too. Jason only has that moment to lean out the window again and take aim. Damn good thing his reptile is just as badass as mine.

  When he’s out, gun ready, I punch the gas again. Our car remains stationary for a second, tires skidding on asphalt, then jerks forward again. The moment it does, Jason fires twice at Donovan’s still slowing car. Despite the smoke brimming from the burning rubber, I can tell one of the bullets hits home from the loud pop. Donovan’s car lurches to and fro like a drunk as he loses control. I maneuver us past him as the SUV Donovan just passed, who isn’t as fast on the brakes as the Marshal, clips his left bumper. Donovan’s car does a full one eighty into the SUV, walloping them both off on the side of the road into a cloud of dust. I keep the pedal to the fucking metal until they’re out of sight, and I say a silent prayer for the SUV driver. Donovan’s on his own.

  Jason thumps back into his seat with a groan. I’m too amped up to pay him much attention. I’m focused on the road. The road. We can’t stay on the highway. Police are probably on their way. The werewolves know we’re using it. Once again, the reptile takes the wheel. Before I realize it, my foot touches the brake again. “What are you doing?” Jason asks through his heavy pants.

  I slow enough so we can safely veer left onto the sandy divider. We switch from the eastbound lanes to westbound, back the way we came. “They’ll be looking for us on 80. We can’t use it anymore. We’re ten minutes from the Utah border. It’ll take time for the Wyoming cops to coordinate with the Utah state police. We go back to I-15 then I-70 and switch cars when we can.” Within seconds, we pass the accident site. Thank God. The SUV driver stands outside his car, talking on his cell phone. I don’t see Donovan, but
his car remains still. Too bad. I had hoped it flipped or exploded. I’ll have to settle for out of commission.

  We drive a mile. Two. “You should, uh, slow down,” Jason says, or really moans. I glance at the speedometer. Shit, I’m doing ninety. I decelerate to seventy and loosen my grip on the wheel, which proves difficult. My hands may as well be superglued into position. Damn, my fingers are numb and I wiggle them to bring back sensation. Another mile and my breathing normalizes. The hyper-vigilance fades enough for me to stop scanning the periphery for cops or other dangers. Nothing. Another mile, and I realize I’m not alone in the car. I glance at Jason who is clutching his blood-soaked arm.

  Oh, shit.

  Now that it has time, my brain processes just how bad a shape he’s in. The back of his head has a gash that isn’t bleeding anymore but was bad judging from the fact his blonde hair is now red and tacky, along with his neck. His right cheek is swollen as if he has an egg underneath. Of course the biggest concern is his still-bleeding bicep. He moves his hand enough for me to see the wound. The saturated shirt is almost glued to his arm, especially where the bullet entered. Bullet. Which means … “Holy shit, you’re shot!”

  “Yeah,” he whispers.

  “Jason, you—”

  “Just keep driving,” he orders, pressing the wound.

  He’s right. We need more distance between us and the crash. All I can do is keep my foot on the accelerator, one eye on the road, and the other on him. He removes his hand again, and mutters, “Fuck.”

  “What?”

  After he turns on the light above, he puts pressure on the hole again. I tense as he slams his head a few times on the headrest in frustration. “Silver,” he winces through gritted teeth. “Still in there. Won’t stop bleeding.”

  “Jason …”

  “Just drive.”

  I do. He takes a few deep, cringing breaths, then moves his hand again. Blood spews in a steady stream as he removes his shirt from the right side first. When it comes time for the left, he whimpers as he slowly peels the sleeve off. Oh my God, that’s fucking disgusting. The wound looks like it’s exploded outward, and I can make out the pinkish muscle inside. Stinging bile rises up my throat, but I swallow it down. The car’s disgusting enough without adding vomit to the mix. Jason’s panting just from the effort of this simple task. “I’m going …” He takes another breath, “… take the wheel. You … tourniquet with shirt. Tight.” He tosses the drenched shirt into my lap. “Ready?”

  I nod. He leans over, good hand on the wheel and wound right beside my face. More bile rises, but as I wrap the shirt over the grotesque hole, my automatic pilot pushes it down. I make a knot and yank it tight. Jason cries out in pain and releases the wheel. I quickly reclaim it as he falls back into his seat. He closes his eyes and pants.

  “J-Jason, that’s not going to do much good. You need a doctor.”

  “No, just … give me a minute to think. Just drive.”

  God, the pain must be insane. I don’t want to even imagine it. Instead, I keep driving. He’s been shot before, or at least had more experience with it than me. And he’s a werewolf. Super-healing. What might kill me is just a flesh wound to him. Just keep going. Get out of the damn state. That’s your only job, Viv. Carrying us forward to safety. Don’t fuck it up.

  When we cross the state border back into Utah, his panting has lessened. It’s about ninety minutes to Salt Lake and the interchange. We’ll lose about five hours getting to I-70. Definitely need to ditch the car. I’m positive there’s exterior damage, not to mention the bullet holes in the windows. The sooner the better. I check the clock. A little past three AM. Shopping centers are out. Hotels will have the best selection. Ten, twenty miles, then I’ll pull off, do the exchange, haul ass. I got this. I chuckle. Who’d a thunk I’d be so good in a crisis.

  “Okay, Jason, we’re—”

  I glance right, and my throat closes tighter than a nun’s legs at an orgy. Jason’s head bobs to the right in time to the movement of the car, eyes shut and jaw open. “Jason?” I touch his face. His skin feels normal to me but not his usual raging inferno. Think this is the werewolf version of clammy. “Jason?” I shout. Nothing. I give his face a slap. He doesn’t even stir. I glance at his exposed chest. It doesn’t move. Oh God, he’s dead. His … no, his chest moves up and down as he takes shallow breaths. Mine comes out in ragged spurts and tears rise to my eyes. Thank God. Thank you, God.

  The tears spill out regardless of how hard I’m trying to banish them. Crying won’t do any damn good. He needs me strong, thinking clearly, not a pathetic fucking girl. He may not be dead, but he could be dying. I have to do something.

  After several deep breaths, my tears haven’t ceased but the panic has cleared enough that logic can find its way through the fog. Plan. Need a plan. And what I come up with is … fuck all. All I know about gunshot wounds are if you get one it’s go straight to the hospital and pray. I can’t bring him there because we’re wanted fugitives. Oh, and he’s a freaking werewolf. Werewolf. Werewolf …

  I check around for the cell phone Jason gave me. Can’t find it, not even when I feel around in the back. Just as I turn front again, a minivan has materialized from nowhere. I swerve into the other lane just in time. Not even this rouses Jason. Okay, okay, I have to pull over and tend to him. Stop the bleeding. No choice. I take the next exit a mile down. There’s nothing around. No lights or houses, just infinite darkness. I drive down the two-lane road for a half mile before maneuvering down another and pulling to the side. I leap out of the car, the cold desert night adding goosebumps to my goosebumps. I find the cell underneath my seat. First-aid kit too. I collect both and hit redial.

  “Jason?” Frank asks on the other end after four rings.

  “Frank, it’s Viv. Jason, he’s … been shot,” I say, voice cracking. “He-He-He won’t wake up. I don’t-I don’t know what to do-do.” Shit, I can’t even talk.

  “Vivi, doll face, calm down. Calm down,” he orders. “Take a deep breath.” I listen to the man. It helps a miniscule bit. “Good girl. Now, where was he shot? Was it silver?”

  “The arm, and I-I think he said it was silver. It won’t stop bleeding.”

  “Okay. Are you safe?”

  “I-I guess. The police are probably looking for us. I don’t think Donovan’s dead.”

  “But you’re not in immediate physical danger?”

  “No.”

  “Good. Okay, do you have a sewing kit? First-aid kit?”

  “First-aid. W-Why?” Stupid question. I already know the answer but my brain won’t accept it.

  “If he hasn’t started recovering by now, then it was definitely a silver bullet. The only way for him to heal before he bleeds out is for him to turn, at least where the wound is. But the bullet has to come out first or when he shifts it’ll cause more internal damage.”

  “You want me to dig the bullet out of his arm? Are you fucking crazy?”

  “Vivi, you have to do this. It sounds as if it nicked an artery. He will continue to bleed, and he will die. Doll face, you can do this. I know you can.”

  I can do this. I can do this. I can do this. “O-Okay.”

  With my quaking hands, I switch the phone to speaker before setting it and the first-aid kit on the hood. Inside the kit are the basics: gauze, tape, burn cream, aspirin, and plastic tweezers. My throat snaps shut at the sight of the last one. I can do this. It’s damn near impossible to slap on the latex gloves as my fingers won’t stop twitching. I can’t even put gloves on, how the hell am I supposed to get a damn bullet out? “Frank, my hands are barely working. I can’t—”

  “You can,” he insists, voice hard. “You have to.”

  I have to. Right. Fuck.

  It takes two attempts, but I manage to pick up the tweezers and cell before moving to the driver’s door. Jason’s still unconscious and the shirt covering the wound gr
ows redder by the second. I set the cell phone on the dash. I can do this.

  “You have to wake Jason up if you can. The pain will do it, but he may attack on instinct if he’s not aware what’s occurring right away.”

  “Right.” I quickly get out to retrieve the smelling salts. They work for Victorian ladies, why not a two-hundred-plus werewolf? I snap the packet open under Jason’s nose. Damned if he doesn’t jerk awake.

  “What the—”

  “Jason, it’s Dad,” Frank says over the speaker. Jason’s a little out of it so he glances around for the source. “Vivi needs to get that bullet out so you can change.”

  “Dad …” he says, still searching.

  “He’s on the phone,” I tell him.

  “You need to keep incredibly still for her. Vivi, see if you can locate something for him to bite down on.”

  “Um …” I spot a shell casing on the floor. I grab it and hand it to Jason, who wearily stares at me. “It’s good enough for Clint Eastwood.”

  Despite the pain, Jason quickly smiles then opens his mouth. He actually bites the bullet. Okay … here goes. I untie the tourniquet. Oh, shit. I manage to poke my head out of the car to dry heave. I think I can see bone amid the gore. That is so fucking disgusting.

  “Vivi?” Frank asks.

  “I’m okay,” I pant. I sit up inside the car. “I’m good.” I glance at the stoic Jason. “Sorry.”

  “You can do this,” he says through the bullet. “I believe in you.”

  Those words bring fresh tears to my eyes. “Thank you.” He nods.

  Just get it the fuck over with. I take another deep breath, snatch the tweezers from the dash, and before I lose what little bravery I ever possessed, I plunge them into his arm. Jason moans in pain. As the blood pours out onto my hands in gushes, and the moans become groans, I move deeper until the tweezers are halfway inside his body. I’m too busy to force the vomit back down my throat but do keep it in my mouth. I hit something. I grab the bullet, yanking it to the surface. The moment it’s out, I vault from the car and throw up. Twice. Oh, Jesus. My stomach seizes a third time but nothing comes out. Fuck. At least I didn’t puke on Jason.