Something About Harry(63)

Hang tough, Carl—I’m coming!

Left! Carl was to the left—in a patch of thick pines. The clank of a chain vibrated in Harry’s ears, resonating until his head throbbed, threatening to explode.

And then he saw Carl, as clear as day. Gaunt and still, pale with that greenish tint to him, eerily glowing under the moonlight, and slumped against a tree in his rigid, postmortem pose. The new shirt Nina had bought him torn, his eyes wide and glazed, his mouth slack in defeat. Closer inspection showed he’d been tied there with a heavy chain of some kind.

Son of a bitch. Whoever did this would pay.

His heart crashed in his ears, his fury rose to a higher level, one he hadn’t experienced quite this way, one that had him gnashing his teeth on Carl’s behalf.

Skidding to stop, he opened his mouth to soothe Carl and realized he couldn’t speak. What the hell?

Harry looked down.

He had paws. Big hairy, black paws.

Holy shit—he’d shifted. No help from the shifting gurus. No big drama. Just boom. Full-on werewolf.

Carl moaned again, fretful, keeping him from wasting time marveling about the ease with which he’d shifted, and turning all his concern toward Carl.

Trotting over to him, Harry used his muzzle to nudge Carl’s stiff hand, running his nose along it with a gentle sniff. Carl shrank back in fear, his body banging hard up against the trunk of a gnarled tree as he used his stiff legs to try and scurry around the base of it and away from Harry.

Shit. He had to find a way to show him he was just bologna-sandwich-loving Harry—or shift back. Which he wasn’t entirely sure he could do just yet. For now, he had to convince Carl he was safe.

So he rubbed his large head against Carl’s knee then rolled over on his back to show his submissive nature. But Carl howled in response. More terrified than ever by the look in his usually dull expression, now wide with fear.

It was while he was on his back he realized that Carl wasn’t just tied to the tree, he was rigged to it. Jesus Christ. As Harry got a better look, he found Carl’s arms were high above his head, one wrong move and Carl could loosen those chains and . . . If Harry used his super-strength to yank the chain off, it would trigger an ax, high above Carl’s head, effectually swinging down and embedding in the zombie’s skull.

He was a huge fan of zombie apocalyptic fiction. Not a fan of it when a sweet, if not precocious, man-child he’d like to think he’d bonded with over heads of broccoli and carrot sandwiches would end up eradicated with one wrong move.

Who would do this? It would kill Carl if the evil, glinting ax fell on him. Wasn’t that how you killed zombies? Slicing off their heads?

Who else knew about Carl? Guido? He was the only other person who knew of Carl’s whereabouts aside from the girls. And what was his motivation for killing him?

Rage burned in the pit of Harry’s gut as his suspicions turned to the witch doctor. But Carl had something else attached to him, a rumpled note in the pocket of his dirty, torn shirt.

Harry decided it was time to let everything else go and focus on keeping Carl from jerking the tightly wrapped chains. He hopped up, using his hind legs to anchor his feet before placing his paws on either side of the tree and willing Carl to look at him—feel his emotions—see Harry meant him no harm.

Instead, Carl keened a high wail of terror. Harry licked his face to get his attention, forcing himself to forget it was dead flesh he was licking, willing Carl to understand. It’s me, buddy. Harry.

He stared harder.

Carl stopped attempting to release himself and cocked his head.

Sort of. It was a slight shift to the left, but it was definitely inquisitive in nature. He thwarted all motion and stared intently at Harry for a brief moment, as though he got the message Harry was trying to send with his werewolf mind-meld, but then terror streaked his face again, and he began to wail.

“Carl?” He heard Mara call out from the darkness, her voice full of anxious worry.

“Where the fuck are you, Carl?”

Nina. That was Nina. And some fear. Nina was afraid for Carl. He smelled it.

Christ, this was crazy.

Snow crunched beneath several pairs of feet as the women and Darnell hit the thick patch of trees where Carl was tethered. Harry hopped down, unsure how to warn them about Carl’s precarious position, seeing as he wasn’t quite sure how to shift back.

Carl saw Nina first, his cries easing and his face going slack again, the relief on his face evident.

Nina made a dash for Carl just as Mara and Marty approached, her feet moving in a blur of motion.

“Harry?” Mara asked, surprise riddling her question. She reached a hand out to cup his muzzle, gazing into his eyes. He bumped her hip with his hindquarters, nudging her in acknowledgment.