Asa

The sun feels high, not quite at full strength due to the time of year, but it's certainly kill-worthy for me. A short, restorative sleep helped relieve the mental strain from questioning the employees, but I really need bagged blood to feel better. I don't drink much from live donors anymore after learning how painful my bite is to humans. I haven't heard of another vampire whose feeding causes such agony and I've often wondered why mine is so off. I waited to confess my aberration to Vivian, wanting to put it off as long as I can.

The dull quiet of the basement is welcome after the last few hours listening to Pat bitch about his gunshot wound.

It took me all night to question the employees one-by-one, and it drained my strength, causing me to fall into rest like the walking dead. Still no answers. On the surface, it seems like none of them is responsible for hunting off-season. No one held Jon or his wolf dogs in particular disregard, most exhibited an indifference to the well-trained animals and the head groundskeeper.

Could someone have gone on leave recently and not be on my summer staff list? That would make sense. Someone sneakily taking vacation time and staying behind to wreak havoc... but it doesn't add up. Surely, I would've encountered at least a twinge of hatred during questioning to indicate someone knew something?

I settle deeper into the swivel chair in front of the desk and stare mindlessly above the four monitors. Things could have been far worse for Pat. The bullet could've landed higher and shattered his spine, paralyzing him. Would that have led to a follow-up kill shot?

My slow-moving blood runs cold at the thought of being so close to losing an old friend. Even a shock-jock like Patrick has his good moments. What if they had been aiming for Eric? It could easily be him the doctor stitched up on the med table.

This morning, Jon issued a no-hunting policy on the property while guests are in attendance. The new restriction seemed to be received well, as if the majority figured that was a given when we had paying clients and jobs to do.

Who could have done this and was it truly a mistake?

Then why were three shots fired?

Eric walks in. "Pat's ass doesn't look good."

A snort of laughter escapes me before I have a chance to clamp it down. "What did you expect with a ripped-up fat lady tattoo?" I swivel my chair around to face my brother. "It didn't look great to begin with."

"Nah, that's a given. I mean the wound. Neither of us has been shot before, so I have nothing to compare it to. But hey, how long do you think a compound fracture would take to set?"

"Are we talking about a human or a Were?"

"Were."

"You tell me, dog-boy. I'm the vampire." I smile at the absurdity of my own words.

"Speaking of which, have you eaten since you did all that mesmerizing and questioning? You look like pale vomit."

"Gee, thanks." I stand and stretch, realizing he's right-I do need to get some blood in me before the stinky dog smell coming off him and Pat no longer repulses me and I decide to snack on them. "Back to the broken limb?"

"Yeah. While in Romeo's pack, I fell out a window."

I raise an eyebrow as I walk past him into the hall, heading for the mini-fridge and microwave set up in the conference room.

He continues talking while following me. "Don't ask. Lots of alcohol and a stupid drinking game. But after the bone was set, I could use my arm again in a few hours."

Eric trails behind me and then sits in one of the leather office chairs. I take a bag of blood from the fridge. "Sounds a little slower than vamp healing abilities, but yours could get stronger as you age." I pop a small vent valve and place the bag in the microwave. The whir of the machine causes an almost Pavlovian reaction and my fangs start to itch.

"My point is, I think Pat's stitched wounds should have stopped weeping blood and started healing a long time ago."

"What does Jon say?"

The stocky wolf in question answers from the doorway, "What does Jon say about what?" He's wearing a scowl and appears to be taking the shooting of Pat very personally. Which I don't blame him for-either someone purposely tried to shoot his packmate or one of his dogs. Hard to not take that personally.

"Pat's injury," Eric says when the microwave timer dings. "It's not healing."

With my back to the men, I pour the dark red liquid into a travel mug. A rich copper penny smell fills the air and I know their sensitive noses can pick it up easily. I slap the cover onto the tall stainless steel container, hoping to cut down on the released odor.

It's one thing to be a vampire and quite another to open a vein on someone whenever hungry. I much prefer the more civilized bagged blood approach Vivian provides for the guests, but still feel creepy when drinking in front of an audience. I down a long slow drink before turning around, not wanting to look like a greedy bloodsucker.

Jon continues, hopefully ignoring my actions. "Sometimes these things take time. Healing can depend on the Were's strength reserves when they were shot. I didn't think he was worn out or hungry, but he could have been. Has Dr. Cook looked at it again?"

"Not that I know of," Eric replies.

After my second long pull, I face them and sit a couple of chairs down from Eric.

"Could a fragment of the bullet still be inside?" I suggest.

Jon shakes his head. "No, the doctor did an x-ray to confirm no metal remained."

"He's sleeping, now," Eric says. "We could go and check it out if you think that will help."

"No, thanks," Jon says. "I already have Pat's lily-white, tattooed flesh emblazoned on my corneas for the rest of time. Who the fuck gets a fat girl tattooed on their ass, anyway?"

Eric doesn't rise to the bait. I shift in my chair and take another sip of blood. "A guy with exceptionally high standards who thinks it's easy to get laid?" I smile as a thought occurs to me. "And then he moves to Alaska and realizes real women who like frequent sex don't look like they're starving to death."

Eric stands and walks to the door, his movements stiff and jerky. "I think I'll call Dr. Cook again. You guys can sit and make fun all you want, but I think something's wrong."

Jon grabs Eric's shoulder as he goes by. "You're right, man. I'm sorry. I've been so wracked with anger over the shooting, I let a little bad humor creep in when I shouldn't."

Jon drops his hand and Eric's tension eases a bit. "What could cause this? I'll be the first to admit I'm still getting used to being furry and sure as hell don't have all the answers. But the holes won't stop weeping blood."

Jon's complexion pales. "You mean it's still bleeding after twelve hours?"

"Yes. I guess you missed that earlier part of our conversation."

Jon pushes past the taller, broader wolf and bolts down the hall toward Pat's room. Eric and I follow. Pat thrashes in his sleep, sweat covering his forehead.

"He looks like he's getting a fever." Jon says. "Which would indicate an infection-highly unlikely in a werewolf."

He whips the sheet off the lanky Were, revealing a blood-soaked gauze pad. He pries the adhesive from one end and exposes one stitched hole. A bead of blood swells up as we watch and slides away from the ragged seam.

"Shit!" Jon tears off the bloody pad in one sharp jerk. "This is not good."

Panic edges into Eric's voice. "What is it? Some kind of poison?"

"Yes, but not how you think." With fresh gauze, Jon cleans the wound's edge. "He was shot with silver. We missed it because we don't have the bullet. The damage is done and his system will fight the slightest trace of contamination."

Color drains from Eric's face, looking like he might get sick. "Can it kill him?"

Jon grabs scissors and cuts away the careful stitching. "If the silver remained inside or was injected into his blood stream, yes. I think this wound will just be a bitch to heal. He'll lose a lot of blood while his body fights to expel every last trace."

"Then why are you cutting his sutures?" I ask.

Ignoring me, he continues with his task of opening the wound. "Eric, call Dr. Cook. We'll need her to close this when we're done."

Eric leaps into action, looking grateful to have something to do. He grabs the wall phone and punches numbers.

"What can we do?" I try again, hoping to get an answer to the madness swirling from his energy permeating the air. "Why the hell are you opening it back up?"

"To pour in a cleansing agent to flush out the traces of silver."

"Okay, what do you need me to grab-peroxide?"

"No." Jon reaches into his boot and pulls out a silver dagger. "I need to cut your wrist."

I stare at the werewolf in confusion. "Did you say you want to cut me?"

Eric hangs up the phone and whips back to us. "She's on her way. What can I do next?"

"Grab your slack-jawed brother and haul him over here." Jon motions toward me where I'm still standing at the door staring at him, trying to figure out why he'd need to cut my wrist. "We need vampire blood to purge the silver."

"Oh," I say, stepping forward and placing my mug on a side table. "Why didn't you say so in the first place?" A rush of apprehension slides through me when I glance at the silver edge of the sharp blade. Eric hovers nearby, looking willing to grab me if I resist. "Relax, Eric." I take a deep breath and shove my own inner fears to the back of my mind. Humor usually helps when three grown men are tense. "You're sending off so much tension it's enough to make me worry you plan on sticking me like a virgin at the prom-fast, furious, and without a moment's thought to the young woman."

He cracks a smile. "Not my prom, man. Maybe yours."

I reach Jon and pull my left sleeve up. "Hand me the knife." The werewolf rotates the handle to me. I slice open a shallow cut and blood wells in the gap. "What do I do? Let it drip in?"

He nods, pinning down Pat's legs with his knee. "We're more sensitive to the silver than you are. Once it's inside our bodies it can circulate quickly and do more damage than expected."

I hold my dripping incision over Pat's torn and ragged flesh. When the crimson drops descend into the wound, Pat settles, his body relaxing into the bed.

Jon releases his hold, watching my blood mix with Pat's to staunch the flow. In a few seconds my wound seals and I look to the worried alpha with a question in my eyes. "Again?"

He examines the injury-some of the jagged flesh has puckered at the edges, starting to heal. "Looks like once was enough."

Eric wipes a wet cloth over the clammy sweat on his friend's face. "Is vampire blood the only thing that works?"

I hand back Jon's knife and saunter to my travel mug for a sip.

"No," he says. "There are several herbal compresses that work. But they take longer and should be used right away. His fever told me we already had an issue brewing."

We tidy up the room and change the sheets under our patient, anticipating what the doctor will have us do when she arrives. In a few minutes the soft form of the aging medic joins us and Jon explains what happened.

We leave her to the task of re-stitching the unconscious Were and step into the hall. Anger radiates off Jon in an almost palpable wave. "Asa, did you question Jerry last night?"

I think back to the dozens of employees, rather sure the cagey engineer was not among them. "I don't think so."

"We need to find the old man and see what he knows."

"What's wrong, Jon?" Eric asks. "You really think that nice guy tried to shoot one of us?"

"I think someone using silver bullets to hunt werewolves was no mistake-they were gunning for supernatural. We need to find out if any other employees know how to make their own silver ammo."

We head into the command center where I scan employee leave notices on the terminal. "He was on leave for a few days and due back tonight." Jon reads over the list as well. "Do we tell the visiting wolves?"

"Of course we do," says Eric. "Right? This is too important to keep from them."

Jon's face clouds over and he slams a fist into his thigh. "Dammit! They already left an hour ago. I told them our results with questioning the employees and issuing the no-hunting policy. Romeo and Elsa felt it was safe to proceed."

"Shit!" Eric runs a hand over his short hair. "What do we do?"

"What choice do we have?" Jon says dashing for the stairs. "We find them and warn them."