Broken Heart 09 Only Lycans Need Apply(7)

“We have speed,” said Patrick. “And stealth. I suggest we use it. We’ll be better able to control where we enter the camp.”

“I will see to Dr. Jameson,” I said. I looked at my brother. “Shift?”

He nodded.

The vampires took off toward the camp, mere blurs gliding over the sand.

Darrius and I had to take precious seconds to remove our clothes. Otherwise, shifting would rip them to shreds and we would have to stay in wolf form, or walk around as naked men. Darrius was already shifting by the time I got my jeans off. He raised his snout in the air and sniffed, then turned toward me and barked.

“I’m hurrying,” I said. “Go on. I’ll catch up.”

He barked again and then raced out of the cave, across the moonlight sands of the Sudan desert.

I got down on all fours . . . and I let my inner werewolf out.





Chapter 4


Moira

“Moira!”

“Earthquake,” I mumbled as my body was flung back and forth. I opened my eyes. A distraught Dove was inches from my face. Despite the fact that I was looking right at her, she continued to shake me by the shoulders. “Ugh! If you keep doing that, I’m gonna need a Dramamine.”

She let go of me and dropped to her knees next to my cot. Her skeletal fingers dug into my arm. “Something just whooshed by our tent.”

“Like ‘death on swift wings’? You’re not gonna throw quotes from The Mummy at me, are you? I told you to knock that shit off.” I leaned up on one elbow and attempted to give her the evil eye. Unfortunately, I was too tired to be effective, so my eyes just crossed and my lids started to droop. There was a metallic taste on the back of my tongue, and my skin felt clammy. These were typical aftereffects of the nightmares . . . but I didn’t remember the terror-filled dreamscape. Maybe Dove had inadvertently saved me from the worst of it.

“Gah! You are the worst waker-upper ever,” she whispered harshly. She gave my shoulder a hard squeeze. “I’m telling you someone is out there.”

“Okay, okay. For the record, you’re the waker-upper. And I’m the waker-uppee.”

“I’m so glad you’re focused on the important issue,” she hissed. Her voice held a catch. The real fear in her tone was almost like a cold dash of water to my face. Almost. I really was a bad waker-uppee. I rolled off the cot on the other side, then reached under my pillow and took out my sub-compact Beretta. It was loaded with thirteen 9 mm rounds. If you’re wondering how someone on psychiatric medication is allowed weaponry, well, I have lot of money and I know a lot of the right people. Learning to shoot guns was actually part of my grandfather’s therapy, and knowing how to protect myself freed another part of my soul from that sea of rage.

“Sleeping with a loaded gun under your pillow?” she asked, sounding more like the smart-ass I knew and loved. “Really?”

“Relax. It has a manual safety and a decocker.”

She snorted. “A what?”

“Decocker,” I repeated. “It’s a lever that lets the hammer—”

“I don’t care.” She smirked. “I just wanted to see if you’d say it again.”

“I hate you,” I said. And then because I was a heartless bitch, I demanded, “Go get Tikka.”

“Or not.” Dove imperiously pointed a finger at me. “You shouldn’t name weaponry, you know that?”

“She already had the name.”

“Nor should guns have gender. Personalizing the—”

“Shut up,” I snapped. Her sense of urgency had wormed through me, and now I was feeling surly. “Giving someone a dirty look doesn’t exactly have stopping power—not even one of your patented I-wish-you-were-dead specialties. If you want to be protected from whooshing things . . . then get the fucking rifle.”

“Whatever,” she hissed at me. Then she flopped onto her belly and crawled toward the footlocker that housed the rifle and other gear. Obviously she was too rattled to access the gun like a normal person. As she pulled out the weapon and the box of bullets, I glanced around. A single lantern cast a muted glow in our tent. Dove wouldn’t admit it, but she was scared of the dark. Why she was studying to be an archaeologist, a profession where exploring dark, cramped, and airless spaces was the norm, was beyond me.

While Miss Quiet as a Raging Storm rattled around trying to get the rifle loaded, I crept to the tent flap and peeked outside. If the grad students had gotten stupid enough to play a prank, or to sneak out of camp to go party in the desert, I would stake them all out in the sand and leave them to burn. And then I would fail them in every single class . . . and put big, red F’s on all their dissertations. And their graves. For failing life.