Dallas swore, ending the call. “That was Javier. A bunch of college guys came in from partying all day out at the lake. There was a fight out in the parking lot. One of them fell. Hit their head. Cops are on scene.”
We turned the corner, his house coming into view. He’d gone all out with the decorations this year. Multicolored lights were strung along the edge of the roof, the columns along the porch wrapped in strands of plain white twinkly lights that glittered like stars. It was the first December that I could remember when he’d made the effort.
“Naomi just texted. She’s on her way over.”
Dallas listened wordlessly while I explained about the vitamin deficiency, then checked his phone. Swore. “I should really go in for a bit. Handle this. Should only be an hour or two.” Our eyes met. “Promise me you’ll stay on the couch watching reality TV. I’ll bring home takeout and we can light the fireplace.”
“And put on A Charlie Brown Christmas.”
“It’s a date.”
After making sure Godiva and I made it up the porch steps, he backed down the drive, the ruby red glow of his taillights disappearing at the end of the block.
The cat-safe Christmas tree Dallas had put up in the large bay window up front by the street was decorated with fat old-fashioned lights and glittery plastic balls. I leaned back against the front door and inhaled, taking in the scent of blue spruce, gingerbread cookies and werewolf. In the kitchen, I let Godiva out of her carrier, set out her bowl of water and some dry food, and poured myself a cold glass of milk. A cardboard box from Blair’s sat out on the counter. Inside were an assortment of the Christmas cookies our team of elves had been decorating all week, gingerbread men with red-frosted Santa hats and smiling gingerwolves. Taking a gingerwolf, I nibbled thoughtfully on its tail, something London had said back at the park nagging at me.
We know males carry a higher viral count than females and that everyone’s numbers spike each month at the full moon. This biologic agent stops the lycan virus from over-replicating. Basically, it suppresses viral load so that a shifter under the influence of the drug would be temporarily unable to shift, unable to heal, unable to properly defend themselves in a fight.
And if we took that thinking one step further, unable to infect others.
Why would the vampires develop a drug that suppressed the lycan virus? Sure, there were potential advantages if it was deployed during a fight, but was it that much better than silver or wolfsbane? Potentially it was longer lasting, but it also came at an exorbitant cost.
I took another bite of cookie, pulse picking up.
A drug like this wouldn’t benefit vampires. A drug like this, one that targeted the lycan virus and reduced viral load, would benefit the hundreds of werewolves who went feral every full moon, most of them male. It would benefit the families who suffered while watching their loved ones lost to feral insanity, powerless to help. It would have helped Ethan, who’d suffered for years with silver addiction, the only known therapy once one’s wolf began to gain control of the human mind. It would help August, one of the marginalized few who suffered with an autoimmune sickness brought on by lycanthropy that medical science had no way to treat. This biologic agent had cost hundreds of millions of dollars to develop. Why would the vampires ever make the effort? The answer was simple.
They wouldn’t.
But we would.
The only question remaining was why the werewolf council was pretending to know nothing about Project Eclipse when I would have bet every cent in my bank account that they were the ones who’d developed it in the first place.
I jumped a foot at the sound of the doorbell.
“Hey,” Naomi said. She had on a dark red wool coat over a retro tee from one of the funky coffee shops down in Austin. She shoved her phone into her coat pocket and shifted her messenger bag of medical supplies to her other shoulder. “Let’s get the bad part over with.”
Ten minutes later, I was good as new. Better than new. As in, was it so terrible that I was covertly looking for my favorite kiwi-green track shoes even though it was currently snowing out?
“Wow. How many espressos were in that thing?” I joked while Naomi packed everything back in her bag.
“I know, right? They should really come with a punch card and a free biscotti. We’ll need to repeat the shot every fourteen days for at least the next three months depending on your blood levels.”
“That sounds, um, serious?” Godiva streaked past the open doorway, making a beeline for the kitchen. Would it be weird to ask Naomi to check and make sure I hadn’t bitten her in my cupcake-induced rage?
“No, but your test results showed one other thing.” A little crease formed in her brow. “Did you know you were pregnant?”
My heart kicked in my chest. “I’m not. I mean, I’m sure I’m not. I took a test. Actually, I took two of them.”
Naomi’s voice softened. “Those tests you get at the drugstore aren’t calibrated for shifters.”
I didn’t hear what she said next. Wasn’t sure if I even answered. At some point much later I found myself alone, a cup of peppermint tea I hadn’t made warming my hands, a plate of gingerbread cookies beside me on the coffee table. Heart pounding, I set the mug of tea down. The jittery feeling from earlier squeezed my chest until it felt like I could barely breathe. I got up, pacing from the big bay window overlooking the street back through the front hallway, around the kitchen island and into the living room. Shaking uncontrollably, I covered my mouth. Blood roared in my ears, the walls of Dallas’s house threatening to close in around me. I had to get out, had to go—
The next thing I knew, I was out on the sidewalk. The freezing night air stung my cheeks, flecks of sleet sticking to my eyelashes. I blinked, brushing them off, and was surprised when my fingers came away wet. Red and white Christmas lights had turned the old pecans lining the sidewalks of the downtown district into a procession of candy canes. A gust of wind scattered fallen leaves along the sidewalk, bringing with it the rich scent of espresso and cinnamon. Warm, buttery light spilled from the windows of open shops as I passed, holiday music piped over the outdoor speakers as shoppers juggled bags of books, cinnamon-vanilla scented candles and stuffed bears waiting to be unwrapped under a tree.
Across from the park, a line of customers snaked away from a food truck, a couple in plaid wool scarves and knit hats stealing kisses as they waited for hot chocolate and eggnog lattes on a cold winter night. A little girl, five or six, tugged on her mother’s hand to ask for cocoa. Tears burned the backs of my eyes, pressure I had fought against for so long threatening to break me in two.
I ended up in an alley behind Main Street, huddled on cold cement steps as a light dusting of snow swirled down. The stars were completely obscured, as if all the bright places left in the world had winked out one by one. This wasn’t happening, couldn’t be real. I couldn’t be pregnant. I wrapped my arms around my middle. Everyone around me got hurt. How could I ever protect a child?
The door across the alley banged open. A familiar figure, dressed in what could only be called holiday goth with a short black mini skirt, fishnets, red Doc Martens and a zombie Christmas tee under a black apron printed with Dark’s logo stalked out to the dumpsters. The light from the open door spilled over me.