Page 2 of Midnight Mate
“Are you really going to go over there? That’s how stupid people die in those movies,” he whispered. He could only guess since he’d never watched a scary movie in his life. Not since Barney the purple dinosaur had frightened the living shit out of him as a child.
Great. Now the theme song was playing in his head.
As he grew closer, the shape resolved into an animal. A wolf.
Massive didn’t quite cover it. The animal had to be pushing two hundred pounds, maybe more. This thing would come up past his waist if it stood.
Black fur caught the light, and labored breathing rattled in its throat. Each exhale seemed to cost it.
Professional assessment warred with common sense. Approaching an injured predator ranked high on the list of spectacularly bad ideas, right up there with petting rattlesnakes and trusting expiration dates on gas station sushi. But something about the way the animal lay there, not trying to flee or defend itself, pulled at him.
Clint kept the light low to avoid blinding it. Animals in pain were unpredictable, and something this size could do serious damage if panicked. Its muscle and fur and teeth would make any sane person turn around and call animal control. Or the police. Or possibly the National Guard.
Against his better judgment, Clint took another step closer, medical curiosity overriding common sense. Blood matted the fur along the animal’s side, dark and sticky-looking in the flashlight beam. One of its back legs lay at an angle that suggested injury.
Ragged breathing possibly meant broken ribs, maybe worse.
Whatever had happened, this wolf was in bad shape.
And now that he was closer, it was definitely a wolf.
Blood matted the fur along its side, dark and wet. The smell of it mixed with earth and something else he couldn’t quite place.
“Easy,” Clint murmured, more out of habit than any real hope it would help. “Let me take a look at you.”
The wolf’s head lifted, and its eyes found Clint’s in the darkness. Intelligence looked back at him. Not the reactive awareness of an animal but something deeper.
Something…human.
Animals looked at you. They tracked movement, assessed threat levels, operated on instinct and learned behavior.
This wasn’t that. This was recognition. Calculation. Understanding.
This wasn’t looking. This was “seeing.”
“Oh, hell.” Clint’s grip tightened on the flashlight. “You’re a shifter, aren’t you?”
Well. That explained the size, at least. He’d treated a few over the years, the ones who couldn’t heal on their own. Once, Clint had been taken to the demon realm. He was still freaking out about that three years later.
The wolf’s head dipped. Barely perceptible, could have been a trick of the light, except Clint knew what he’d seen.
A nod. Deliberate and unmistakable.
“Stay here.” Stupid thing to say to an injured wolf that clearly wasn’t going anywhere, but Clint’s mouth was working faster than his brain. “I’m getting my bag.”
Turning, he jogged back to the house, his exhaustion forgotten in favor of the problem-solving part of his brain that had gotten him through veterinary school. He needed his medical bag, the one he kept stocked for emergencies.
Mabel looked up from her bowl when he rushed through the kitchen, but he ignored her in favor of grabbing the bag from the hall closet. Shifters usually healed when they changed forms, he knew that much. Broken bones mended, cuts closed, infections cleared.
That had always blown Clint’s mind.
But something was preventing the wolf from healing. Silver poisoning, maybe? That was the classic problem, wasn’t it? Or a hellhound bite. Those were supposedly nasty and possibly fatal. Perhaps a curse or toxin?
Could’ve been a dozen other things he didn’t know enough about because his degree covered dogs and cats and the occasional exotic pet, not magical creatures who turned into animals.
When Clint reached the yard again, the wolf was standing. Swaying badly, legs trembling, but upright.
For a second, he thought maybe it was recovering. Maybe the healing had finally kicked in and everything would be fine.
