breath, and Zelda stared,
waiting for an exhale that never came.
“ Theo? Theo!”
Her hands trembled as she fought against her
seatbelt. When she finally freed herself, she unlatched Theo and
dragged him from the car, out the broken side window and across the
rocky bank of the creek.
She began CPR, blowing into his bloodied
mouth and doing chest compressions with shaking hands. Her flimsy
shawl had been forgotten in the accident, and her bare shoulders
shook violently in the cold night air.
After ten minutes, she pressed her forehead
to Theo’s chest and screamed, sobbing into his bloodstained
tuxedo.
“ No. No. No.”
She sat upright and rubbed her hands
together, feeling the electricity crackle beneath her skin. The
coven would never forgive her for this, but she didn’t care.
She placed one hand in the shallow creek
water and one on Theo’s chest. Then she tilted her face up to the
blood moon above and summoned every ounce of power she had access
to.
Three raw screams ripped through her skull,
and her own joined them as lightning splintered through her body
and into Theo’s. He convulsed as his back bowed and his chest rose
up off the ground. Soon he was screaming too.
But at least he was alive.
Chapter
Thirteen
Zelda woke covered in sweat. Her everything
hurt. A stray dreadlock stuck to her damp face, and her throat was
dry. She tried to sit up, but found a heavy arm draped over her
chest.
Logan snored softly beside her. The circles
under his eyes let her know that he hadn’t been asleep long, and
the fact that he was on top of the covers told her that he hadn’t
tried to get fresh with her.
Of course he
hadn’t, she thought, catching a whiff of
her own breath. Someone had given her wolfsbane tea. The day before
came back to her slowly, and she gently moved Logan’s arm to
examine her own, peeling back the multiple dressings.
The blisters on her palm and forearm were
already healing, but the werewolf bite looked infected. Pus seeped
from the wound, and the greenish bruise had turned purple.
Zelda sat up slowly, pausing to catch her
breath when her head throbbed in protest. She noticed the full,
abandoned cup on the bedside table and took a small sip, cringing
at the foul, lukewarm tea.
She stood gingerly and picked up the tray
with the teapot before making her way downstairs to the
kitchen.
A sliver of morning light peeked in through
the curtains of the back door as she refilled the pot and placed it
on the stove. As her eyes adjusted to the dim light, she noticed a
small wooden box on the kitchen counter. A note accompanied it,
written in Dr. Delph’s nearly illegible handwriting, instructing
her to drink at least three cups a day for the next week—unless she
wanted to be a legitimate alpha.
Zelda snorted and opened the box, finding a
stack of smelly wolfsbane teabags inside. But her smile melted as
she heard the jukebox kick on from inside the pub.
She slowly pushed through the swinging doors
and stared across the empty bar, lit only by the pale morning light
coming in through the front door, since the broken window had been
boarded up.
A shadowy figure sat on a
barstool, nodding her head in time to the Eagles’ Witchy Woman. Zelda’s
vision sharpened and her heart leapt into her throat.
“ Don’t worry, girl,” the
woman said softly. “If I’d meant you harm, I could have slit your
throat while you lay in your new lover’s arms.”
“ He’s not my lover,” Zelda
said. What little strength she’d recovered suddenly leached
away.
“ It matters not to me.”
The woman turned toward Zelda. Her face was a map of suffering, a
story that looked a hundred years old, though Zelda knew she was
barely forty. The shock sent her back a step. “Hazel?”
The woman nodded, a bitter smile tugging up
one side of her wrinkled face.
The last time Zelda had seen her had been in
California, the week before the accident. She had been
beautiful—thick auburn hair and skin like
waiting for an exhale that never came.
“ Theo? Theo!”
Her hands trembled as she fought against her
seatbelt. When she finally freed herself, she unlatched Theo and
dragged him from the car, out the broken side window and across the
rocky bank of the creek.
She began CPR, blowing into his bloodied
mouth and doing chest compressions with shaking hands. Her flimsy
shawl had been forgotten in the accident, and her bare shoulders
shook violently in the cold night air.
After ten minutes, she pressed her forehead
to Theo’s chest and screamed, sobbing into his bloodstained
tuxedo.
“ No. No. No.”
She sat upright and rubbed her hands
together, feeling the electricity crackle beneath her skin. The
coven would never forgive her for this, but she didn’t care.
She placed one hand in the shallow creek
water and one on Theo’s chest. Then she tilted her face up to the
blood moon above and summoned every ounce of power she had access
to.
Three raw screams ripped through her skull,
and her own joined them as lightning splintered through her body
and into Theo’s. He convulsed as his back bowed and his chest rose
up off the ground. Soon he was screaming too.
But at least he was alive.
Chapter
Thirteen
Zelda woke covered in sweat. Her everything
hurt. A stray dreadlock stuck to her damp face, and her throat was
dry. She tried to sit up, but found a heavy arm draped over her
chest.
Logan snored softly beside her. The circles
under his eyes let her know that he hadn’t been asleep long, and
the fact that he was on top of the covers told her that he hadn’t
tried to get fresh with her.
Of course he
hadn’t, she thought, catching a whiff of
her own breath. Someone had given her wolfsbane tea. The day before
came back to her slowly, and she gently moved Logan’s arm to
examine her own, peeling back the multiple dressings.
The blisters on her palm and forearm were
already healing, but the werewolf bite looked infected. Pus seeped
from the wound, and the greenish bruise had turned purple.
Zelda sat up slowly, pausing to catch her
breath when her head throbbed in protest. She noticed the full,
abandoned cup on the bedside table and took a small sip, cringing
at the foul, lukewarm tea.
She stood gingerly and picked up the tray
with the teapot before making her way downstairs to the
kitchen.
A sliver of morning light peeked in through
the curtains of the back door as she refilled the pot and placed it
on the stove. As her eyes adjusted to the dim light, she noticed a
small wooden box on the kitchen counter. A note accompanied it,
written in Dr. Delph’s nearly illegible handwriting, instructing
her to drink at least three cups a day for the next week—unless she
wanted to be a legitimate alpha.
Zelda snorted and opened the box, finding a
stack of smelly wolfsbane teabags inside. But her smile melted as
she heard the jukebox kick on from inside the pub.
She slowly pushed through the swinging doors
and stared across the empty bar, lit only by the pale morning light
coming in through the front door, since the broken window had been
boarded up.
A shadowy figure sat on a
barstool, nodding her head in time to the Eagles’ Witchy Woman. Zelda’s
vision sharpened and her heart leapt into her throat.
“ Don’t worry, girl,” the
woman said softly. “If I’d meant you harm, I could have slit your
throat while you lay in your new lover’s arms.”
“ He’s not my lover,” Zelda
said. What little strength she’d recovered suddenly leached
away.
“ It matters not to me.”
The woman turned toward Zelda. Her face was a map of suffering, a
story that looked a hundred years old, though Zelda knew she was
barely forty. The shock sent her back a step. “Hazel?”
The woman nodded, a bitter smile tugging up
one side of her wrinkled face.
The last time Zelda had seen her had been in
California, the week before the accident. She had been
beautiful—thick auburn hair and skin like
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