Blood oozed from the gash that sliced from her knee to her ankle.
“We’ll get her inside. Where’s Doyle?”
Something growled, low and deadly.
“Clear,” Bran demanded, waving a hand at the haze. Sawyer drew his weapon again.
The wolf stood beside Apollo. The big white dog lay on his side, his fur matted with blood, his breath coming in whines.
Doyle stood a foot away, his eyes on the wolf, blood dripping from his raised sword.
“No! Don’t!” Sasha started to push forward.
Annika broke from Sawyer, and in a limping run rushed toward Doyle. She dived under his sword, threw her arms around the wolf as Sawyer charged after her.
“Annika! For Christ’s sake.”
He would have dragged her clear, but she clung to the wolf, and Sasha moved to push him aside.
“Stop. Just stop. It’s Riley.”
“She’s hurt. And Apollo, too.” Crooning, Annika stroked both. “Help them.”
“You’ve got to be kidding me.” Sawyer shoved his gun back in its holster. “Riley’s a werewolf?”
She snarled at him, had him backing up one cautious step. “Easy, girl. Annika, we need to get you inside, stop that bleeding.”
“Apollo first. He’s innocent. He came to help us, and this isn’t his fight. Help him.” She turned beseeching eyes to Sawyer. “Please.”
“Okay. Sure. Okay. Don’t bite me,” he said to the wolf. “I’m just going to see how bad he’s hurt.”
“Let me see what I can do right here.” Bran crouched down, ran his hands over Apollo. “That’s a big secret you’ve held on to, Dr. Gwin. It’s not bad, no, it’s not bad.” He soothed the dog. “But even superficial wounds are likely toxic. And that goes for all of us. I have things that will deal with it inside.”
As he spoke, the last stars faded. The sun shimmered at the edges of the east.
The wolf howled, one long note that might have been pain, might have been triumph.
And began to change.
It hunkered down, muscles and fur quivering. Bones seemed to shift, to twist. Only the eyes remained the same. As the light bloomed, the woman emerged.
Riley sat, naked, her arms wrapped around the knees she hugged tight to her chest.
“Holy shit, and let’s add a wow.”
At Sawyer’s comment, Riley lifted her head. “Not to play shy, but maybe somebody can lend me a shirt. I had to leave my pack in the jeep.”
Saying nothing, Doyle shrugged out of his coat, tossed it to her.
“Thanks. Can we save the questions, comments, remarks until we get inside and start triage? He’s not bad, like you said,” she told Bran, “but he’s really hurting.”
Again keeping his silence, Doyle got his arms under the dog, lifted the considerable weight. Riley managed to get her arms in the sleeves of the coat, wrap it around herself, and, murmuring to Apollo, walked with Doyle.
Annika took three limping steps before Sawyer picked her up, carried her. “Riley’s a freaking werewolf.”
“Lycan,” she snapped over her shoulder. “Call me a werewolf again and I will bite your ass.”
“Can you walk?” Bran asked Sasha.