Living with the Dead

HOPE





Karl rubbed Hope’s forearms as she shivered, caught up in the chaos still swirling around her brain.

“Ride it out,” he said. “Stop fighting it.”

“I have to get back to Robyn.”

“You can’t let her see you like this.”

“I know,” she said through gritted teeth. “That’s why I’m trying—”

“—to fight it. And that’s why I’m telling you not to. Robyn’s in a public place, surrounded by people. Look after yourself first.” He bent to her ear. “Enjoy it.”

He was right, but that didn’t make the advice any easier to take. She wanted to be able to say “sorry, bad timing,” and move on.

Karl straightened, still rubbing her forearms as he looked around.

“Any sign of him?”

He opened his mouth to answer, then scowled and swiped at the blood dripping from his lip, drops spattering the wall beside them. The blow that split his lip was what had brought Hope running. She’d been talking to Robyn and seen the younger werewolf’s fist connecting with Karl’s jaw, blood spraying, Karl reeling back.

The vision came without any spark of pleasure, more like the blast of a warning alarm, shutting down common sense and sending her flying to his rescue even when she knew he didn’t need it. She could only imagine what Robyn thought. Probably still sitting there, shaking her head.

Hope had followed that chaos burst to find Karl alone on this strip of land where he’d fought the werewolf, cursing as he’d tried to clean his bloodied face with a scrap of tissue, his fury and frustration like a beacon guiding her in.

Earlier, as they’d driven past the ice cream stand, it had taken him only one whiff to confirm his fear—that the werewolf he’d smelled earlier had tracked him back to the motel room. Karl had set out in pursuit while Hope went to watch over Robyn. He’d caught up with the other man—Grant Gilchrist, a younger werewolf he’d bumped into a few years before.

The blow to Karl’s mouth had knocked him off balance just long enough for Gilchrist to take off. Karl had been about to follow when a security car had turned the corner. By the time Karl could cross, Gilchrist was running through a busy supermarket parking lot where, with his white shirt covered in blood, Karl couldn’t follow. The last thing he’d seen was Gilchrist getting into a cab.

So Karl had retreated to clean up. The blood on his shirt and the wall came from Gilchrist. Karl’s only injury was the split lip, which bothered him no more than a broken nail. Still, Hope pulled out napkins from the ice cream stand and wiped his injury for a better look, which he withstood with an exaggerated patience that said he really didn’t mind being fussed over.

“That’s the best I can do.” She balled up the napkin. “And it’s still not good enough for you to walk around in public. I’ll run back to Robyn, make sure she’s okay, then grab a shirt at one of the stores. It won’t be up to your standards . . .”

“I’ll make an exception.”

She nodded and jogged off. She didn’t look back, but knew he was there, watching over her for as long as he could.