Requiem for the Dead

Chapter Eighteen

Wyatt and I were on our way downstairs when Tybalt called me back. Marcellus had agreed with my decision to tell our Watchtower allies that we were both alive. He knew the Assembly vote would happen tomorrow, and he understood my need to mend fences with my coworkers. I told Tybalt to pass along my thanks, and then gave him the heads-up about Aurora.

"We know," he said. The noise from his end of the line suggested he was in the field somewhere—sounded like music. "Someone from the Dane compound called and told Astrid. I'm sorry."

"Don't be sorry, pal, I just want them found."

"I know. We'll do what we can."

"Thanks."

"So when are you making your grand resurrection?"

"Officially in a few hours, I think. Wyatt and I are checking out some leads first. Tell Astrid she can let the cat out of the bag."

"So to speak."

"Exactly."

"Be safe."

"You too."

We hit the sidewalk and made tracks straight for the black SUV idling by the curb. Marcus flashed us a droll look from the driver's seat. He'd surprised me by offering to pick us up and help with the motel search. "Two noses are better than one," he'd said.

I'd accused him of working too soon after being shot—I still hadn't thanked him for knocking me down that night—and he had said it was the perfect cover for getting out of the Watchtower for a few hours. He was off-duty, officially, so he could come and go as he pleased.

I took shotgun so I could navigate, and Wyatt sat behind me. Our first stop was only four blocks away, on the edge of Mercy's Lot, a pay by-the-hour place I wouldn't have slept in if I was wearing a full-body Hazmat suit. Wyatt went inside to talk to the clerk while Marcus sniffed around outside. It didn't take long for my pair of Therian noses to suss out that Vale hadn't been there.

Motel number two was ten blocks north.

Marcus cast frequent glances in my direction, none of them hostile, but they were intent enough to make me squirm. He was entitled to be unsettled, considering what I'd put him through today, so I endured the discomfort for four more motel checks. The boys alternated who went inside and who stayed outside, and this was Marcus's turn to stay put.

While Wyatt went into the office, I pinned Marcus into the driver's seat with a frustrated stare. "Okay, what?"

"I understand your reasons for faking yours and the Elder's deaths today," Marcus said, his tone tinged with danger. "Family is important, and I know that fact well."

"But?"

"Today I found myself in the unique position of having to lie to Milo, and I'm furious at you for putting me there. He's seriously hurt, and he didn't need the added stress of hearing that you'd died. He values your friendship, Evangeline."

"Milo's my best friend, you know that. I didn't want to hurt anyone, Marcus, especially him and Wyatt." I hadn't properly thought this plan through today—that was becoming abundantly clear as I cleaned up the damage I'd done. Not that I'd had time to consider the consequences of my actions beyond saving my parents.

"I'm grateful that he didn't believe you'd died. I didn't want him to carry that emotional pain, along with the physical pain he's battling."

"Why did you kiss him?" I hadn't meant to ask the question, and especially not in the middle of an investigation. It slipped out without conscious thought.

My pulse raced when his face twisted into an epic frown. Marcus was genuinely scary when he was angry. "He told you?"

"I knew something was up between you two, so I kind of pushed."

Marcus studied the steering wheel with intense concentration, then looked at me with perfect calm. "I care for him a great deal."

"As what?"

"That's for us to define." With that, he climbed out of the SUV and checked the perimeter of the motel.

He was pissed and entitled to it, given everything he wasn't saying out loud. No matter where their fledgling relationship did or didn't go, I was glad that Milo had him. I was far from an expert on relationships, but they seemed good together. I didn't have to warn Marcus about handling Milo with care. We'd both seen Milo fall apart when Felix died; he wouldn't give his heart away so easily again.

The motel check has seemed like a good idea at the time, but when we were three motels from the end of the list and nothing had panned out, I'd added this little adventure to the long list of Shit I Did Wrong This Week. We hadn't even rustled a nest of Halfies to take the sting out of several wasted hours.

"At least we know where he isn't," Marcus said.

"Yay," I replied with an eye roll. "A city this size and we've deduced he's not in one-thousandth of a percent of the square yardage."

"We still have three locations left to check."

I gave him the next address, and he pulled out into the street. I glanced behind me at Wyatt, who'd been quiet since returning to the car. He was frowning at the back of Marcus's seat, eyebrows furrowed in a deep vee. Silver flashed in his eyes, and something about that drew Marcus's attention.

"Wyatt?" I said.

He pinched the bridge of his nose, then blinked hard. "I had the oddest feeling just now."

"Like what?" We were still discovering the nuances of his half-Lupa state, and I needed to know if he was about to go all wolfy on us so we could find a deserted building or something.

"I don't know. A sense of dread, but not mine."

"Have you been in contact with the Lupa children?" Marcus asked.

We both stared at him, surprised Astrid hadn't clued him into that particular subterfuge. "I have," Wyatt replied.

"Lupa Clans have a powerful sense of each other, even when not in proximity. Few other Clans have such a sense. It could be their dread—"

Wyatt yanked out his phone and dialed.

"—you're experiencing," Marcus finished.

I leaned between the seats, barely able to hear the electronic sound of the phone ringing. And ringing. Wyatt's face turned to stone. It rang until the service transferred him to a generic voice mail. He hung up.

"Take us back to my apartment on Culpepper," Wyatt said.

Marcus immediately made a right onto a connecting street. "They're in your place?"

"Yes. Something's wrong. They know to pick up when I call."

I squeezed Wyatt's shoulder. He reached up to twine our fingers, and I held on. I couldn't take away his anxiety for the three boys he'd adopted into his life, but I could be there for him. I'd fight for him, and I'd fight for them, because they were important to him.

Marcus pulled into the first free space he found on Culpepper, and we three tumbled out. We were a block away from the apartment building. Wyatt strode with purpose, desperate to get there, but unwilling to break into a full-out run with so many unaware pedestrians around us. This close to midnight, Mercy's Lot was just waking up.

At the door to the building, Wyatt froze. If he'd had hackles, they'd have raised on-end. "Vale," he said, the word almost a growl. "I smell the bastard."

Marcus made a noise in his throat was almost a hiss. "As do I."

"Evy?"

"I'll cover you both," I said.

As we went inside, I drew the pistol I'd kept tucked in my waistband. I preferred fighting with knives and that would never change, but I'd rather not have to get up close and personal with a were-cat's claws tonight. I'd much prefer to just shoot one between his damned copper eyes.

Wyatt went up first, and at the third floor landing, he paused to listen. Gave the all-clear signal before opening the door. We filed out into a quiet hallway. Wyatt growled again, and I could see the effort it took to not let the Lupa take over. To keep the bi-shift under control. He listened at the door. Held up two fingers.

Two people inside.

I swallowed down a flutter of fear.

Wyatt tested the door—unlocked. He pushed it open and charged inside. The kitchen and main rooms were empty, but the place was a disaster. Chairs overturned, books off shelves, pottery shattered on the floor. Two pizza boxes were broken open, their contents spilled on the carpet. Something about the chaos was too ordered, as if the ransacking was for show. A distraction.

We found them in the bedroom.

Mark and Peter were unconscious on the bed, stripped and beaten, their pale skin livid with blossoming bruises. Their hands were cuffed behind their backs, and those awful silver collars were blistering the delicate skin on their throats. A blast of fury ripped through me so unexpectedly that I almost hit my knees—and it wasn't only my fury affecting me. Wyatt's rage filled the small room.

"Where's John?" I asked. If Wyatt only heard two heartbeats—no. Not going there.

Wyatt let the bi-shift take over, and I avoided seeing it by grabbing some blankets from his hall closet. Marcus left us alone to search the apartment, and when I returned to the bedroom, Wyatt had snapped the cuffs apart. We turned the boys onto their backs, then covered them up. Their heartbeats seemed strong, their pulses steady.

"Vale's scent is all over them," Wyatt said, his voice horrifying and rough through his bi-shift teeth. "And another scent I don't know."

"So two Felia took down three Lupa?" It seemed a little impossible. Even if the pups couldn't fight, they should have left more of Vale's blood on the floor. Unless…

I pulled Mark's blanket down and checked his arms and torso. On his left shoulder, I found the puncture sight. "Wyatt, sniff that for me."

He did without question. "Medicinal."

"Fucker used the same tranq darts on them that he used on us. I bet you a year's salary."

"No bet. It's the same odor." Wyatt's eyes went flat silver. "Which means the coward beat them after they were unconscious."

Oh shit. I grabbed his hands before he could move away and punch a hole in the wall. Yanked him down so we were at eye level, and stared into the twisted face of my partner. "I need you to stay calm and focused, Truman. Calm and focused, do you hear me?"

His answer was a rumble from deep in his chest.

"We will take care of Mark and Peter, and then we fill find John. Okay?"

He nodded.

"Good. We have to get those collars off. Can you summon them?"

He blinked hard several times and some of the silver went away. I let go of him. He backed away and worked to return to human form.

Marcus appeared in the bedroom doorway, his face impassive. "There's no sign of the third boy," he reported. "But both Vale and a second scent permeate the place. I smelled it before, at the Tuck house. And I found something else."

I followed him back into the living room. He pointed at the apartment door, which was closed, and my stomach dropped to my knees. Painted on the door in dripping, splotchy red letters was a note: I don't like being lied to, Stone.

Shit, shit, and double-shit.

"It's Lupa blood," Marcus said.

John. The bookworm of the bunch. Oh God. Wyatt was going to rip Vale's guts out with pliers and feed them to him a bite at a time.

"How in the blue fuck did Vale find out I'm alive?"

Marcus's stare had are you an idiot all over it. "He'd have smelled you in this apartment."

I gave him an identical glare. "Maybe, but Vale is being hunted by the Assembly and the Watchtower. He'd be laying low, waiting for his ransom demands to be met, not randomly beating and kidnapping teenagers. Coming here makes no sense unless he was looking for leverage over me and Wyatt."

"Perhaps he is attempting to punish those of us he held captive."

"Still seems too risky." The power of the Break rippled the air of the apartment, standing the hair on my arms on end. Wyatt was using his Gift to get those collars off. "No one except the people at the Watchtower knew Wyatt left the compound, and no one outside the Watchtower except Elder Dane and Demetrius knew I was alive—shit."

"What?"

Ice scraped up my spine. "Marcus, what if Vale has a mole inside the Watchtower? What if someone is telling him everything we're up to?"

He looked like he wanted to deny the possibility, then bit off the thought. "Who?"

"I have no idea, but up until a few hours ago, everyone except a few very trusted people thought I was dead. Now Vale shows up here, kidnaps John, and leaves me a love note? Vale has proven that he acts recklessly when he's cornered or seriously pissed off, and I'm guessing right now it's the latter. I played him, and then I sicced the Assembly on his sorry ass."

So much for Wyatt's song and dance about trusting everyone I work with equally.

"Evy, what are you—?" Wyatt's words stopped, as did his footsteps. He was two paces inside the living room, eyes fixed on the door and those horrible words. He looked exhausted, but that disappeared under a brand new wave of hate.

"I'm sorry," I said.

Surprise flashed in his eyes. "For what? Vale did this, not you. He attacked defenseless children."

Marcus snorted at something, probably "defenseless children." The Lupa pups were hardly defenseless, but I understood Wyatt's meaning.

"Vale knocked them out with drugs and then beat the shit out of them," I said.

That got a flash of anger out of Marcus. "Vale continues to prove himself the worst sort of coward."

"Are the collars off?" I asked Wyatt.

"They are," Wyatt said. "Marcus, did you find a cell phone anywhere?"

"No, I haven't," he said.

"You think Vale took it?" I asked.

"Likely," Wyatt said. "He can't use John against us if he can't contact us." His head snapped in the direction of the bedroom, and then he took off.

I followed him. Mark was waking up, groggy and disoriented. The collar line on his throat was red and weeping, and he had a bruise on his jaw the size of an apple—or a grown man's fist. A surge of hate for Vale filled me to bursting, quelled somewhat by the sight of Wyatt climbing onto the bed and pulling Mark into his arms. Mark clung to him, to the familiar body and scent, even as his mind fought to catch up.

"Peter," he mumbled. "John. Where's John?"

"Hush, Mark, you're in shock," Wyatt said. "Peter's right here. I'm here."

"John?"

"He'll be fine. I'll make sure he's fine."

I backed out, giving them their privacy, my heart aching for their pain. People I cared about were still suffering because of me, and I hated that. Hated it so much. And I had no way of taking their pain away.

"They need medical attention," I said to Marcus, who was photographing the apartment with his phone.

"I assumed as much," he said. "I'll call Astrid and inform her of the situation. If she agrees, we'll take them back to the Watchtower. Under careful guard, of course."

"Of course." I didn't expect them to attack unless something happened to Wyatt, but I understood the need for caution. A few weeks ago, they'd topped our Most Wanted list, and for most people, nothing had changed.

Marcus moved away to make the call. I walked into the dining room and sat in a chair. Stared at the table where, six hours ago, I'd eaten Chinese food with Wyatt and the pups. Three teenage boys who craved love and attention—two of whom were hurt, and one of whom was missing. A long chain of events had led to this moment, and the chain always linked back to me. My resurrection. My refusal to lay down and die once and for all. I had more things in my life to live for now than I had four months ago, and a lot more to lose. A lot more to save, too, if my death meant they could live and be safe.

The pups deserved a chance to be safe. And loved.

The table blurred and I blinked back tears. They'd get that chance, dammit. No matter what.

Imagine two teenage boys who are terrified and in serious pain, and who are trying very hard to not show it to the adults around them. Add in the fact that two of those adults are Therians, and the boys are teenage werewolves, and it's not a pretty picture. When Peter came around, he freaked out so badly that I thought we'd have to knock him back out. Wyatt banned me from the bedroom, afraid of me getting accidentally bitten, while he dealt with them.

A while later, all three came out of the bedroom. Mark and Peter were dressed in sweats too big for them, and they were clutching each other, limping and sweating from the pain of moving. Therians healed faster than humans, but they were also dealing with the affects of the silver collars they'd worn. They glared suspiciously at Marcus, but tried to smile at me.

"They know we're leaving," Wyatt said.

So we left. It took a while, because the pups moved like old men who were trying hard to not let you know how much their arthritis pained them. Marcus went ahead to bring the car closer. Wyatt climbed into the backseat with the boys, so I took shotgun.

"I told John to not answer the door," Peter said, his thin voice reedy and furious. "Guy said the people across from us ordered pizza and then weren't answering. Asked if we wanted to buy it. John loves pizza."

Classic move to get someone to open the door to a stranger, and the evidence was staining the floor of Wyatt's apartment.

"We didn't think you'd mind if we bought the pizza," Mark said to Wyatt. "Honest. We couldn't go out, you know?"

"You couldn't smell he was Therian?" Wyatt asked. A question, not an accusation.

Mark flinched. "I didn't think to try. All I smelled was the pizza. John opened the door. They shot him."

"With a tranquilizer?"

"I think so. He wasn't bleeding, just unconscious. Peter yelled. I tried to get the phone to call you. Everything happened so fast, and then he must have shot us too."

"The men at the door. What did they look like?"

"I think they were both Felia. They had copper eyes." Mark glared at the back of Marcus's head. "One had reddish-brown hair. He was big, muscular. Taller than Wyatt."

Sounded like Vale.

"The other man?" Wyatt asked.

"Woman," Peter said. "The other one was a woman."

I met Wyatt's eyes, both of us surprised. I don't know why, though. Chicks could be turncoats too. "What did she look like?" I asked.

"Pretty. Tall. Blonde hair, all tied back."

Not a super helpful description, but it was something.

"Possibly Starr Tuck," Marcus said.

Roof sniper's sister. Did that entire family inherit a crazy gene? "What time was it?" I asked the boys. "Do you remember?"

"A little after nine," Peter said.

Not long after we'd left. Damn.

"I'm sorry," Mark said.

"For what?" Wyatt asked.

"We screwed up."

"You were attacked without provocation, Mark. This wasn't your fault. It was my fault. I left you in an obvious place, and I wasn't there to protect you boys. I should have been more careful."

We both should have done a lot of things differently today.

Mark and Peter tried to remember everything they could about the attack, but they'd both been knocked out pretty quickly. They were embarrassed and in pain, and they were worried about their brother. I was worried about John too, more than I expected to be. The pups had been six strong once, then their numbers were cut in half. I didn't know what they'd do if they lost John.

I didn't know what Wyatt would do.

A small group of curiosity seekers (and enforcers) were waiting in the parking area when we returned to the Watchtower. Astrid and Rufus were there, along with Kismet, Tybalt, and Autumn, her arm free of that sling. They were the official welcoming committee, and I wasn't surprised to see a pair of human recruits nearby with side arms. Tranqs, probably, in case someone flipped out.

A lot of them were glaring at me, too, and I ignored the looks. They had a right to be pissed. My pressing concern was for the pups, and to find Vale. Wyatt and I walked on either side of them, offering support and a physical shield from so many other Therians, all the way to the infirmary. I didn't try to listen to the conversation Marcus and Astrid were having as they followed.

Mark and Peter took in their surroundings as they limped between us, curiosity overwhelming their pain, keeping them sharp. Once inside the infirmary, we settled them onto exam beds, careful to keep the curtain between them open. I didn't think they'd take well to being separated right now, even by a thin piece of cotton.

Dr. Vansis approached from the back and introduced himself. He gave the boys the same bland, disinterested look he offered to all of his patients, seeming unimpressed that these were the Lupa whose bite had caused such radical changes in Wyatt's physiology.

"How long ago was the silver removed?" Vansis asked.

"Less than an hour," Wyatt replied. "They wore them for about three hours prior to that."

Vansis snapped on a pair of gloves, then approached Mark first. Mark's nostrils flared, but he allowed Vansis to probe at his neck. "It appears to be healing. I can apply a topical ointment to help with the pain. Where else are you injured, son?"

Mark glanced at Wyatt, who helped him take the sweatshirt off. His thin chest was a palette of blue, black, and purple, and seeing the depth of those bruises sent my temper boiling. He was just a kid, dammit.

Peter watched with sharp, angry eyes while Vansis examined Mark's bruises, starting every time Mark flinched from a rough touch. He even growled once, a sound cut short when Wyatt put a hand on his shoulder. Vansis listened to Mark's breathing, then had him lay down. He pressed around his belly, which made Mark squirm. He asked questions about pain levels and did this or that hurt.

The hushed voices of our shadows had continued beyond the curtains, but they stopped now. I peeked out to find the waiting area empty, except for the two guys and their guns. I might have tried to remember their names (Dallas? Austin?) if I cared enough to expend the energy, but I didn't.

"There is no obvious swelling in the abdomen, nor are any bones broken," Vansis said. "I'll observe the injuries for a few more hours, but I suspect young Mark will heal without complications."

A flare of something hopeful lit Wyatt's face. No permanent physical harm done. Didn't mean there wouldn't be emotional scars, though—not only for Wyatt, but for Mark and Peter, too.

Vansis moved on to patient number two, which took all of Wyatt's concentration. Peter flinched and growled every time Vansis touched him. He was definitely the more high-strung of the trio. While doctor and patient went through the motions, I slipped out to check on some of the other wounded haunting the infirmary.

Paul was asleep in his room, his color better than the last time I saw him. The bandages on his shoulder were clean, not seeped through with fresh blood. He'd probably have a hell of a scar, but he was alive. The little bastard was too stubborn to die.

Maybe we weren't really all that different.

In the next room, Milo was sleeping, too, but a lot less peacefully. A sheen of sweat covered his face, and his eyes twitched. Caught up in a dream or nightmare, I didn't know. I slunk over to the bed, as silently as possible. Touched his cheek with the back of my hand, felt the damp, clammy skin. I smoothed the hair back from his forehead, a light stroke that seemed to settle him.

My best friend was hurting, and if all I could do was chase away a bad dream, I'd take it. I'd do anything for him, and I hadn't felt that sort of loyalty to one person in a long time. In some ways, Milo and Tybalt had become my Jesse and Ash. My friends and partners. I needed them in my life.

When Milo slept peacefully again, I returned to the exam rooms. Mark and Peter's necks were both shiny with ointment, and they'd settled onto their beds to rest.

The compound intercom buzzed, and then Astrid's voice came over. "Stone and Truman to Ops, now."

"I'm not going," Wyatt said.

I blinked. "You're not?"

He planted himself between the boys' beds and crossed his arms over his chest. "No. I won't leave them alone." Again hung off the end of his sentence. I got it, and I agreed. If he left and one of the boys—namely, Peter—panicked, they could get hurt.

Or hurt someone else.

He probably also needed a break from me for a while. He couldn't work through his anger at me if we were attached at the hip. "I'll let you know what's going on," I said.

"Evangeline?" Peter said.

I stepped a little closer to his bed. "Yes?"

His silver eyes flashed. "Find our brother. Please?"

"I'll do everything I can to bring John home. I promise."

I hoped that I could keep my promise and bring John not just home, but home alive.