It had startedto rain during the drive over to Liam’s house. Soft drops pelted the windshield and then the navy cover wrapped aroundLiam.
My bare stomach was covered in goose bumps that had little to do with the weather and everything to do with the direness of Liam’s predicament, and the memories of another time when another silver bullet had pierced the flesh of another wolf. I crossed my arms in front of me, to cover myself and to ward off the chill in mybones.
Seconds after we arrived, a middle-aged man wearing rubber Crocs and navy scrubs knocked on the door. “Where’sLiam?”
I assumed this was Greg, the doctor Matt had mentioned in the car. The man was neither part of our pack, nor did he smell like a wolf. From the way he dressed, I took it he was a real doctor. He blustered in, squeezing a black nylon duffel in one hand. I trailed him inside Liam’s dusky bedroom, keeping my eyes averted from the cadaverous-looking body nestled underneath a brown fleececover.
Even though my gaze was fixed to the painting of an oversized peacock feather that hung over the stone fireplace, cocooned in a Plexiglas box, my attention was on the hushed conversation whirring aroundLiam.
“You’re going to have to help me, Matt,” Greg was saying. “Hold himdown.”
My teeth ground hard as I heard metal clink—probably surgicaltools.
“Ready?” Gregasked.
Matt must’ve nodded because the next thing I knew, a hoarse cry shredded the room. Liam was definitely not dead. As suddenly as it arose, the cry abated, and the room oozed withsilence.
Abysmalsilence.
“I see it,” Greg said. “Hold him downagain.”
I squeezed my eyestight.
This time, the cry was muted, as though Liam’s ability to form sounds had gotten bogged down in a web of stickybreaths.
Metal pinged against metal. Footsteps. The gush of water. Was it over? Was Greg washing his hands? Had he retrieved thebullet?
I peeked toward Liam, who was out cold. His face was pale and shiny with sweat, like melted candle wax. A matching sheen of perspiration gleamed on Matt’s large, furrowed forehead. He was talking softly, steadily, using gentle words and shared memories to bring his friend back tolife.
Lucas stood vigil on Liam’s other side, wearing a pair of low-slung jeans surely borrowed from Liam. When his murky gaze met mine, I jolted my eyes toward my bare, bloodiedmidriff.
I was an intruder… I had no right to behere.
So Ileft.
The living room was bright. Too bright. I rubbed my eyes, wishing I could rub the horror of the night out. Waiting for news, I perched on the edge of the couch. I tried to pray like Evelyn did when I accompanied her to mass, but then remembered how many prayers I’d sent upward for my mother and how deafening the answering silence hadbeen.
The tangle of male voices in the bedroom had me perking up. The conversation was still hushed, but I caught a lilt to the tone. Greg must’ve gotten the bullet out… Or maybe it wasn’t made ofsilver.
That would begood.
A moment later, Matt emerged from the bedroom, shoulders hunched but foreheadsmoother.
“Is he— Did—” Nerves tore the volume from myvoice.
“Greg got the bullet out. It waswhole.”
I raked my clammy palms over my thighs and exhaled a deepsigh.
Matt tossed a piece of fabric at me—a plaid shirt. Since he was still wearing his, I assumed it was one of Liam’s. I slipped it on, and the scent of Liam envelopedme.
“Thank you.” I didn’t dare meet Matt’s gaze. Just the heavy, reproachful feel of it was painful. “Was it made ofsilver?”
“Yes.”
I shuddered, then rubbed the right side of my skull that tingled from a lump the size of anegg.
The couch cushion dimpled as Matt took a seat next to me. “Youokay?”
