“I’m so sorry.” John felt helpless spouting useless platitudes and rubbing her back. He couldn’t do anything to fix things or help her be any less upset. “I wish I could find out for you.” A thought suddenly occurred to him. “Maybe there is a way. Our psychic, Anna. Sometimes she only catches glimpses of things, but other times—like with pointing you out as our savior—her visions are very specific. Perhaps she can see something about you, an aura that will tell whether your father was George Blake or not.”
“Is that his name?” She looked up at him again. “Is he even still alive, does anyone know? According to Evan, the grandparents who raised him are dead now, so I can’t ask them any questions.”
“I don’t think anyone knows, but we’ll try to find out. I’ll do anything I can to help you learn what you want to know.” He turned off the water, opened the door and got a towel which he wrapped around Sherrie’s shoulders. Then he grabbed one for himself, briskly drying his hair and body.
When they were both dry and snug in bed again, John resumed his train of thought. “We’ll figure out your family history together and try to learn what powers you possess. If your dad really is a shifter, you could have more latent abilities.”
“Thank you,” Sherrie said. “I’m sorry for being such a Weepy Wilma. It’s not like me.”
“You have every right to be upset. Hell, most people would be curled up in a fetal position whimpering by now. I think you’re amazingly strong.”
“Really?” Her smile was almost shy…and delightful. John looked forward to learning all her smiles.
Chapter Twelve
Grant paused to lick his torn shoulder before loping the last hundred yards to Marina’s cabin in the clearing. His body ached from whiskers to tail, but he had to see her in the flesh before he rested. On the front porch of the house, he shifted to human form. Giving only a quick rap on the door, he entered.
The place was dark, the windows letting in little of the late afternoon sunlight. He strode through the room to Marina’s bedroom, again giving only a perfunctory tap before opening the door.
She lay in bed, face pale and eyes closed just the way he’d last seen her. Sonia Taylor, Marina’s nearest neighbor who lived about ten miles away, sat beside the bed reading a mystery novel. She glanced up at Grant and took off her reading glasses.
“She’s better,” the woman announced without waiting for his question. “She’s been awake. This is a normal sleep now. Reports have been coming in from around the area. All the coma victims are waking up except Greg Vincent and Audrey Goins. Both of them died suddenly late yesterday afternoon.” Her mouth was a grim line. “What happened, Grant?”
He gazed at Marina’s strong-boned face. The shadows beneath her eyes made her look at least a dozen years older than she was. “I found the girl I dreamed about. A human. A waitress named Sherrie Stoltz.” The words said so little about who Sherrie actually was. They didn’t convey her bright spirit or her powerful inner strength. “Along with a member of the wolf clan, we were able to…create a psychic power strong enough to defeat the man controlling the coma victims,” he succinctly explained about Evan Blake.
“You let the wolves have him?” Sonia rose and glared at him, eyes narrowed. “You should’ve killed him.”
“I know,” Grant agreed. “But it’s not too late. For the sake of peace, let the wolves have their trial and mete out their brand of justice. When they’re finished, we’ll deliver ours.” Sonia growled and nodded then turned to look at Marina. “She’s slept enough over the past weeks.
Why don’t you wake her up and say hello?”
She put her glasses and book in her huge handbag then approached Grant and touched the gashes on his bare arm. “Looks like the wolf took a chunk out of you.” He didn’t bother to explain about the mountain lion. It was too embarrassing to admit he’d nearly been bested by a common animal.
Sonia patted him on the ass before walking from the room. After she was gone, Grant went to Marina’s bedside and sat on the mattress. He leaned over her and breathed in her familiar scent—spicy and potent.
“Wake up, Mar,” he ordered, lifting her hand and rubbing his cheek against it. “Come on now. Don’t be lazy.”
Ever submissive, except when she wasn’t in the mood, Marina obeyed his command and opened her striking iris-blue eyes. “You are here.” Her thick Russian accent made the rolling R’s as rich and heavy as beef stroganov.