Page 71 of Cold Moon

But the number looked familiar, so I picked it up, hit the button to answer, and held it to my ear. That, naturally, was when my mind went blank. What did one say when answering a possibly murdered man’s phone?

“H-hello?”

“Skye?” came Linden’s strident voice, and I could have cried in relief. Dante must have written down the number on the caller ID from the clinic and given it to Linden.

I took a few gasping breaths, nodding, before I realized he couldn’t see me. “Yeah, yes, it’s me. I’m... does biting humans really work, Linden? I know it’s a ridiculous urban legend and we don’t—we don’t really do it, but—”

“Sometimes,” he said, stressing the word hard. “It can’t be counted on, Skye. If the human doesn’t have a remus gland to react to the wolf genes, then it’s just a bite. Tell me what’s happening. Did someone make you bite them?”

A sob burst out of me, and I shook my head—again, not helpful. “No. No, I just—His grandfather shot him. He’s dying and there’s no way his grandfather would let paramedics into the house if I called them, and I don’t want him to come back anyway, so I don’t want to remind him we’re here.”

I checked Archer’s pulse for the fiftieth time since I bit him, and it was the same as it had been. Slow. Too slow. But not slowing down more. And he was still breathing, if struggling. The spot where I’d bitten his arm had welled up with blood initially, but it wasn’t flowing. No, it was scabbing over instead of bleeding more. I felt like a terrible medical professional, paying more attention to his phone and the dresser than him, but if I didn’t get help and keep his grandfather from coming back, it wouldn’t matter what I did to try to save his life.

And given how much his grandfather seemed to hate werewolves, no doubt he’d see the bite as something even worse than Archer bleeding out in the middle of a dusty, abandoned room, with no company but a terrified stranger.

“I bit him,” I whispered down the line, like that would make it a secret. “It was the only thing I could think of because I can’t get him to a doctor, and he was shot in the chest, and I think—I think one of his lungs collapsed. I can’t—” I broke off and pressed an ear to Archer’s chest, first one side, then the other. There was air moving on both sides. Maybe... maybe it hadn’t collapsed?

“Skye?” Linden was asking on the phone. Still as calm as ever. My alpha. He was coming. He would protect me. Protect us, since—

“He’s... he’s breathing. I think maybe it worked? Does this make him a Grove now?”

“It makes him alive,” Linden corrected. “The rest will be up to him.”

“I asked,” I told him. “I asked before I bit him. He said to do it. I mean, it wasn’t a real choice, because who would want to die, but he said yes. I didn’t just—”

“Skye. It’s fine. You’re fine. You did the right thing. You’ve kept a cooler head than most people would have, and I’m proud of you. You probably saved his life.” Linden’s voice was as soft as ever, but there was also steel underneath it. Absolute confidence that he was right.

Because I had done it. I’d saved Archer’s life, probably. Maybe I hadn’t been calm, and I definitely wasn’t a doctor, but I’d thought of something. I’d done something. And Archer was alive.

I checked his pulse again, and it was steady. Stronger than it had been a minute ago.

Holy crap, I turned someone into a werewolf.

“Skye?” Linden was saying on the other end of the line. “Skye, Dante is here. We’re going to find you, okay? We’re—”

Whatever he was going to say was lost on me, because the doorknob rattled, and the door shook, followed by a soft curse. Then, another pop, and a crunching noise—wood splintering? And there was a small hole in the door, around head-height.

He’d shot at the door. My stomach swooped in shock and horror. He’d tried to murder me twice, and didn’t care that one of those shots would have killed his grandson.

But Linden said Dante was there. Dante would find me. He had to, right? There was no way Archer and I could die in this dusty hell. Especially not Archer.

Or maybe especially not me, since he’d actually been shot in the chest, but the man had jumped between me and a bullet, despite being a human who wouldn’t heal as fast as me.

I mean, yeah, I had a chronic illness, but he washuman.

Or, um, he had been.

I bit my lip, checking his pulse again. And again. It was definitely getting stronger. He was going to live.

And be a werewolf, when his grandfather was an enormous speciesist.

He gave a little cough, and his whole body jerked. Quickly, it turned into a big cough and he sat up, covering his mouth with both hands. I thought maybe he gagged once or twice. It sounded painful and went on for long moments, but then, he pulled his hands away from his face, and there—oh jeez. He’d coughed up the bullet.

We both stared at that in horror, and the scent of frightened omega permeated the room.

But... okay, not that I wasn’t scared, I was terrified, but I didn’t usually smell myself. I looked up at Archer, aghast. Had I... ?

I leaned in, taking a long sniff of his neck. When I pulled away, his brows were drawn together in confusion, but he was leaning forward just a little—like he wanted to return the favor. It made sense, really, since he was turning into a wolf. Scent wasn’t as important to humans as it was to us.

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