He bolted.
It was half a flight of stairs back to the door. It had been years since Dylan had run track, but he was still fit. He should be able to make it.
The needle of instinct in his brain knew he wouldn’t.
He ignored it as he took the stairs two at a time. A misstep made him stagger, and he went down hard on one knee, the broken edge dug in under his kneecap. The impact jarred up Dylan’s spine and spiked refreshed pain across his face, hot and thorny behind his eyes and across his cheekbones.
There wasn’t time to feel sorry for himself. Dylan scrambled the last few steps to the landing on all fours. Behind him, the man laughed, a guttural rattle in his throat, and it was too close. That flat, tasteless panic hit again. Dylan exhaled raggedly and threw himself at the door. He grabbed the handle and yanked it open.
The familiar, antiseptic smell of the hospital eddied out around him. He got to enjoy a second of elated relief, and then a hand grabbed the back of his neck.
“You’re It,” the man rasped in a rough, scratchy voice.
Then he slammed Dylan into the door, which banged shut. Dylan managed to get his arm up to protect his face, but the impact still knocked the air out of him. It steamed from his lips and condensed on the door.
It was… cold.
It was a concrete stairwell in a Minnesota winter. Of course, it was going to be cold.
Notsee your breathcold, though.
“I know you,” the man said. His grip on the nape of Dylan’s neck tightened, nails dug into skin deep enough to sting. He made a snorting, wet sound that sounded like a pig at a trough. “I smell it on you.”
He spun Dylan around and pushed him back against the door. This time, his hand was around Dylan’s throat, forcing his head back until his skull bumped against the door. The air was cold enough to hurt Dylan’s lungs as he tried not to pant in fear.
“You were there,” the man said. “Last night.”
That connected the dots in Dylan’s head. Some of them, at least. He glanced down at the stained Wolf Pack T-shirt.
The rowdy groom with the mean right hook.
It looked like someone had told Irene where he was after all. She probably wished they hadn’t.
“I tried to help you,” Dylan said. He grabbed the hand around his throat and pulled at the fingers to try and loosen the grip. “It’s not my fault you got arrested. I didn’t call the—“
The groom lifted Dylan until he was on his tiptoes and slammed him into the door again.
“Not him,” the groom said. His breath was foul, sticky-sweet and rotten with ketones as he panted, and it was warm against Dylan’s face as the groom leaned in. “Later. I smell it on you. Winter blood.”
Dylan stared at the groom in confusion. The man had still been under observation when that happened last night. He hadn’t been there. It didn’t seem smart to argue.
“I tried to help him, too.”
“Help me now,” the groom said. He kept Dylan balanced precariously on his toes, held by the neck, as he demanded, “Where is he?”
Dylan licked his lips.
“They airlifted him out,” he lied. This time, he felt better about it than he had with Somerset. Even more so when the groom dropped his head to give Dylan’s shoulder a loud, snotty sniff. “He was in a bad way.”
The groom lifted his head. He looked confused and then curled his lips back in a snarl. His teeth were discolored, dull green, thready lichen dug into the enamel, and his gums were raw-red and swollen. The jagged points of what looked like thorns jabbed out through the flesh, bloody already from the groom’s gums.
“What’s—“ Dylan started to ask in a quiet, horrified voice. Before he could finish, the groom dragged him away from the door and shoved him against the railing. He pushed Dylan backward until he was pitched precariously backward over the six-floor drop.
“Not him,” the groom said. “He’s nothing.”
Dylan grabbed the groom’s forearm to try and hold himself up. His breathing was ragged and panicked. The only thing between him and broken bones was the hand throttling him. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the woman—Irene—stumble through the door back into the hospital. At least one of them had made it.
“Then I don’t know what you mean,” he said. “I don’t know what’s going on.”
