Post by ♥ Nathan ♥ on Jun 12, 2012 0:15:28 GMT -5
The car screeches and ambles along and Billy hardly knows where she is. She slips between consciousness and the void, she can hear voices - they mesh together and mix like colors until they are practically a foreign language. At one point she awakens through the brief ride only to notice she's tight in chains. There is a moment of weak struggling and rattling before she tilts backwards and is out again.
That doesnt make the ride any less long though.
She's lost blood, her clothes are tattered and cut and torn and every inch of her skin is on fire. She hasnt had water in practically three days and her mouth is cotton dry. She doesnt think she could talk - even if she knew what to say. So when Lucas drags her out of the car by her legs, flops her on the ground carelessly, the only sound she makes is air leaving her lungs and the -cracckkk! - of her head against asphalt.
She needs the wet feeling on her scalp to realize that she's bleeding again.
"nnngg..gg"
If lucidity was a luxury she could afford, she'd be scared for her life. But days of dappling in the between tend to dull out some things. Like the vigor to go on.
Corbin said:
"nnngg..gg"
“Oh come now, precious, stop that,” speaks the hunter as he fixing his handgun in its holster, just staring down at his cargo with amused blue eyes. He slips two more knives into his outfit before he slams the doors to his truck shut – the vehicle turned as some sort of barrier that cut off the way he came.
On the other side of the bridge waits another man, leaning against his smaller black Explorer. Fixed in a similar outfit, his black hair was sported in a well-tended-to cropped style, skin only a shade darker to the notorious Corbin hunter, five o’clock shadow along his jaw line. His blue eyes weren’t the bright shade of Lucas’s but were more a shockingly pale steel blue. He’s looking down at Lucas’s prize, expression unreadable, but eyes reading something along the lines of pity – or maybe even concern.
“Oh Boyd, you can’t welcome your older brother, now can you?” Lucas crows with his famous cheshire grin as he walks over to Billy and effortlessly hoists the girl to her feet, but more like holding her in place.
Boyd, the other man, looks up to him, eyes scanning both him and Billy. “You tortured her.” It was no question – it was more as if Boyd was realizing the fact that yes, his brother did do that. “Even after you told Eli and Jada you wouldn’t?”
Lucas rolls his eyes and turns to his prize, raising his hand and holding her chin in place. “Don’t chastise me, Boyd. Those are only words for the children.” says Lucas, looking at his younger brother who is less than amused. “You of all people should know that.” There’s a moment of silence. “Now, are you going to stick around and watch me finish off little miss Blackwater here?” Werewolves had no names in his eyes.
Boyd stays leaning against his truck for a few moments.
Until he pushes off and walks to his car door.
“Thought so,” Lucas says coldly as he watches his younger brother drive off, the father of Eli and Jada. When his car is out of view, Lucas turns to Billy, and smiles wickedly. “Now, where were we? Oh, I remember.” He’s pulling her toward one of the edges of the bridge, having her stand right in front of him, several inches away from falling into the dark water. It didn’t help her hands were tied with rope and the rest of her body chained up.
“Sorry sweets. You were quite an enjoyable three days, but everything must come to an end. What do you think, hm?” His bloodied fingers are still gripping her chin and blue eyes are looking down into the water below them. “Perfect ending, I think for you. You’re going to drown.”
His smile only widens. “You’re going to drown in black water. Blackwater! Haha!” He turns to let at her, the devil visible in his features. “Get it?” And then he pushes, and Billy falls over the edge.
Lucas is laughing as he backs up one foot, putting a finger to his eye to wipe away a tear. “I crack myself up.”
Nate said:
There is a wolf in the back of Logan’s pickup.
It had been one of the most difficult changes of Nathan’s life, a twisted and wretched reconfiguration of flesh and bone crammed into the smallest amount of time his body could handle; the final minutes of the ride to the bridge find him disoriented and hurting, a confusion the beast can’t comprehend. There is something important he has forgotten, something beyond the pain of limbs grown too quickly and muscles rearranged, something that floats over and away from him on the strands of cool breeze. The creature lolls its head over the side of the pickup's bed, squinting in the wind, and as his tongue flaps lazily from his mouth he remembers.
It is nothing like a human memory. It is brash and harsh and put together in still images and noises and painted blood red, a thing represented more by a lack than by a presence. A void where something important should be.
Something that keeps him in check.
Filled with a sudden impulsiveness, a disquiet that leaves him unsettled, the black demon rises to all fours and circles with a whine in the small space allotted to him, nose lifted to catch his bearings. He is unfamiliar with human concepts of distance and time, has no grasp on notions like waiting, but there is water in the air and in his ears and in his nose, and the beast knows where he is. In the last half-mile of the trip, while the truck still navigates bouncy back roads all hemmed in by trees, the animal gives up on patience entirely; leaps bodily from the bed of the Ford and rolls, stumbling to his feet on ground that won’t keep still.
A shortcut through the trees, to the place that calls to him despite his inability to care about, to process orders given to his other half, and the black depths of the lake grow before him. The woods thin out; the bridge is revealed, the drama in all its glory played out on his own personal stage.
The man is turned away from him; the scent of Billy, of fright, high in the air, and even the beast’s animalistic mind can process the scene. He knows these smells – he trembles with memories misunderstood at the vaguely recognized presence of Lucas – but the wolf is unfamiliar with the human sentiment of fear. In a fight or flight world, his only choice is the former.
Silent as a ghost, the blue-eyed wolf charges, all fire and brimstone and vengeance on the move.
Obelisk said:
He is alpha. He is king. He is absolute.
He is God.
And his kingdom has been compromised.
Someone, some brash insignificant thing, has stolen away his queen. They have taken the sun of which the beast’s world revolves around. Without that light to guide him, to keep the shadows of his demons away, the animal recedes into a state of reckless, vicious chaos. A brain, that when human, houses an enviable intellect has been reduced to a primal, predatory mantra of suggestions.
Kill. Blood. Rip. Mangle. Kill.
What has been taken will be retrieved and the knave that dared disturb his world, that dare take away that which is most precious to him, will drown in his own blood. The wolf will tear his ribcage open and swallow down his heart; a poetic end, a justified one. Attack the fiend where they attacked him. The wolf’s mind does not understand the weight behind the desire, but human inclinations often bleed through --
Especially where so much emotion and fear is involved.
The pack closes in but the silver-maned creature operates on his own accord. Caution, tactics, those nice, human things that ensure victory have no place here. Feral green eyes watch from the darkness of the tree line. The moment the water’s surface breaks, the animal is propelled forward by an insane eruption of fury, of protectiveness.
He bursts forward, unstoppable, and charges directly towards the cackling man. The desire to kill is strong, but the desire to save is stronger. Through gunfire, through potential injury, he persists. The wolf knocks straight through the hunter should he remain in its path and dives directly into the water.
Teeth secure tight around metal chains. Air bubbles send a riot of commotion towards the surface. The animal pushes against the murky bottom, tugs back and towards the shore.
He will save her.
Then he will eat the hunter’s heart.
Vianne said:
The drive seems incredibly long. Hunched over the wheel, she's flooring it as best she can and riding bumpers. Then the bridge appears and there's a pounding in her chest. The jeep was obvious, so she wouldn't have the time to linger.
Her foot slams on the brake. The car jolts to a stop. Frantic eyes search through the windshield and find. Billy. Time freezes. A frail form tumbles and falls.
Her mouth parts in a silent scream. Billy. The name catches in her throat and never makes it to her lips.
All other fear is forgotten, save for that over Billy's life
The door is shoved open, rocking and bouncing back on the hinges. Eyes are glued and she moves as if to run from the seat, but there is a wolf and the wolf is faster. She watches, transfixed. Vianne is cognitive enough to realize that she also lacks the speed and the strength to pull her sister from the black depths in time. Wide eyes watch as he lunges and plunges. He'd better save her, if it wasn't too late already. She could do nothing and it tore her. So she turns her attention to the devil.
Her wolf rages, spitting and snarling. Pulling and pushing, straining to go on and send him on to hell. He deserved worse than death. A living death. Eye for an eye, tooth for a tooth, he would see. They'd gut him. Her wolf was gunning for the throat, but she was a person now, not a beast. She'd skin him alive and keep him alive. Pour salt on the wounds.
Then she sees the black wolf charging.
Caution was thrown to the wind and it took her.
Driven by the emotions, the fear and the hatred, the constant and overwhelming worry, Vianne snapped.
What she wouldn't give for a gun- The glove compartment. She leaned across the seat, her hands fumbling and tugging on the latch. Opening and securing a hold on the pistol. The knife in her pocket wasn't suited for distance, but she still had it. Insurance, right. The pistol had more bite at this range.
Vianne stumbled out of the jeep, feet running as they hit the dirt with the weapon in her hand and a chilling cold in her eyes. She rounded the hood of the jeep.
The monster had pushed her sister over the edge. Pushed her. Ruthless and cold hearted. "BASTARD!"
And Vianne never used such language.
Sabra said:
Even with Dolan by her side the wolf refuses to end her barrage against those chains, gnashing teeth relentless, threatening to consume her whole. Control--so little practiced becomes physically painful for Sabra as she screeches around the bends, claws puncturing the wheel and eyes cobalt. The wolf is a storm of conflicting emotions and the dark-haired woman knows she can't trust her.
Not with Billy's life.
They round the last turn and Sabra slams the gear shift into park, scrambling out of the car with a heart beating like that of a hunted bird Sabra sees her friend's head disappear beneath the dark water. Blond locks drift around her with an etheral quality, entanglingly with the air bubbles that shoot upwards.
Time slows and nothing seems enough, not the dramtic charges of black and silver-maned beasts, nor Jericho's mad leap into the water. Sabra screams some wordless cry, born of adrenaline and fear and rage. She is the wolf in that instant, trapped beneath merciless fists and fighting, running for all she's worth, rifle shoved against her shoulder.
She drops to one knee, safety flicked off, her cheek pressed against the stalk as she stares down the sights, waiting for that perfect opening--and taking it. Daddy's voice is in her ear, Now, shoot! And just as Sabra squeezes the trigger, a scream, Vianne's, splitthe air, setting her aim off at the last possible second. Lucas' wretched heart is safe from her bullet.
"No, damnit!" It's not right, it's not enough and she's failed. The rifle is dropped to the ground unceremoniously, forgetting every lesson ever drilled into her head in that instant. Gravel sprays into the air as Sabra sprints for the bank, sliding down on her hands in back to where Jericho is pulling his mate from the water.
Even an enraged werewolf won't stop her from wading in, pushing Billy's head above the surface, chanting reassurances, "Gonna be okay, you're just fine, ain't nothin' gonna hurt ya no more, Bills, I swear." Chains scrape beneath the river bottom and Sabra drops down besides her, hands scrambling against the restraints, desperate to free her.
To know that they've saved Billy Wren, and not recovered her body.
Billy. said:
Someone is talking to her, they fade in and out like harsh whisper. She's hauled to her feet stumbling. She doesnt know what's going to happen. Where she might be able to easily predict the psychopaths motives before they muddle and loss to her. His words dont connect. They break off jagged and fray.
She's able to understand in the last moment, when unceremoniously she's thrown over the side of the bridge.
Billy finds her voice.
She gurgles in water - water everywhere. It consumes her, rushes around to cup her face, to swarm her lungs. Panicking has only made the situation worse. She takes mouthfuls of water and loses whatever little time she's had to begin with. She struggles and rocks in her chains. But it's futile. Billy sinks like a rock.
There is drifting consciousness, fluttering eyelashes.
And then there is a burst. The bubble that holds her, that contains her is torn to shreds as something lifts - drags - pulls. Her head breaches the surface and she greedily takes in air. She coughs and hacks and threatens to puke up the gallons she'd swallowed. Her belly lurches and ripples waves.
"Gonna be okay, you're just fine, ain't nothin' gonna hurt ya no more, Bills, I swear."
Something fingers at her chains. As Sabra's finds the niches and pulls and yanks at them, trying despairingly to free the blonde. Billy - disoriented - throws herself into a coughing fit. Water seems to leak from every crevice, she trembles and shakes and tries to roll over onto her stomach. And eyes wide - fades into a stupor of nothing. Staring absently at the sun, little life dancing in those jaded chocolate eyes. Everything shifts into a cacophony of deafening rip - tear - and screech.
And she just chokes.
Dolan said:
He had taken the knife Sabra allowed him to, stashed it somewhere where he could make a quick grab for. Followed her quickly into the car, eyes settling on her rifle for a few anxious seconds before looking out the window shield as the car’s engine revved to life and they were on the road. There was something he felt deep down, something anxious and worrisome as Sabra said those three words as they walked to her car, "I love you." It made him feel something warm deep in his gut, but something worse, something chilled and upsetting – like she was holding something from him.
He had pressed his lips to her deep black hair, and curled a stray strand around his finger a few times before letting it drop. She didn’t need those three words from him to know how he felt for her. So when she began the car, he hung on tight – and remembered why he even decided to help Billy in the first place. Oh, that’s right – she’s Sabra’s best friend. He didn’t like the bitch though. He didn’t like any bitches, or people, that give him broken noses.
The car screeches to a stop, and Sabra is the first out of the car, and Dolan follows, blue eyes stopping on the black form he thought may be the guy Nate he met when he bought Katana, charging at the hunter and-
But a flash of brown and silver caught Dol’s eyes and he saw the wolf that was Jericho lunge out into the water, desperate to rescue Billy. Dol hears a scream, and then a gunshot, and Sabra is off running for Billy who’s being pulled out of the water.
And that’s when Dolan’s attention is returned to the hunter, lips pulling back and eyes narrowing, black brows furrowing in a mask of anger. His hand draws near his knife, but he stops short, expression snapping to something equivalent of shock, frozen in place, as he just stares at the almost identical, but older face of the hunter.
His uncle.
Corbin said:
He watches as she sinks down, locks of blonde floating up above her skull, only to fall black like the water as she sank like a stone. He’s grinning like the cheshire cat, teeth all rimmed perfectly and white, his eye sparkling with such amusement he couldn’t get over how hilarious he made himself at some times. Come on, he just tried – no he did – to throw a girl over into a river wrapped in chains. Couldn’t he offer some sympathy?
Nope.
Neither could the approaching wolves. Lucas is snapped back to reality, not his simple wonderland and lost world, as a scream split through the air and he hears a bullet fire, only enough to feel a white hot flare of pain at the top of his shoulder as the bullet grazed through his clothes and across his flesh.
It only gave him a few seconds to see the wolf pulling Blackwater girl from the water, and the girl with the rifle run to their aid, and then, eyes shooting to the charging black wolf. He had just enough time to pull his gun, turn it to the wolf, and fire.
But it didn’t hit his intended target as the wolf rammed into him-
Evelynn. said:
It feels like they can’t move fast enough. Despite the obvious haste to get to wherever it is that they’re going, Lynn wants to move faster, to escape from her car and to go get her friend back. It’s a goal that all of them share as they travel down the roads, and it’s only while she’s in the safety and privacy of her Camaro that she makes the conscious effort to stuff her anxieties down her throat, to silence all of the possibilities that have made themselves home in her brain. After what seems like hours they come to a stop, and it looks like hell itself has broken loose.
Before Lynn has the opportunity to exit her car, the first thing she sees is the form of Billy…falling. At once she sees Nate’s wolf running one way, and another towards the river. Vianne is yelling at something, Sabra has a gun, Sabra’s running towards the bank now too… It’s too much at once, and for a moment Lynn stays where, not wanting to leave the safety of her car for fear of the beasts that are loose. But without giving it another thought, Lynn throws the door open and goes flying towards the river bank after Sabra, hoping that her adrenaline would give her the push that she needed to take care of Billy side by side with one of those things.
She finally makes it to Sabra and Billy—who is rolling over and choking and coughing and hacking, and dread sets in, feeling that overwhelming constriction in her chest that comes with the realization that you’re watching something horrible happen to someone you love. Lynn needs to turn it off like a switch, operate the way that she does when a coding patient comes into the E.R. Billy can’t be Billy—Billy is just another patient. Because if Lynn has to look at her as her friend, she knows she will be too frantic to check on her properly and thoroughly.
She drops to her knees on Billy’s other side, opposite Sabra. Her expression smooths over to something much more serious, ”Sabra, I need you to do exactly what I say without question, understand?” Her brain was creating a list of things to check. Is there water in her lungs? Is her BPM too high or too low? ”Help me turn her over, hold her in a half sitting position.” She talks as she opens her bag with shaking hands, hastily takes out her stethoscope. There is a loaded syringe with a capped needle to the left in the bag, a sedative that Lynn is ready to use on Billy if there’s any resistance or sudden strength, something that Lynn is all too familiar with when it comes to people in distress. She doubts that Billy has the energy do so such a thing, but Lynn is always prepared for the just-in-case moments.
When Sabra complied Lynn would use two fingers on one hand to press firmly against the side of Billy’s throat for her pulse, not bothering to waste time trying to find the smaller beat in her wrist. Her other hand would operate the diaphragm of the stethoscope against Billy’s back. With the coughing and heavy breathing Billy is doing, it wouldn’t be hard to hear if anything was there that didn’t belong. And there is water in Billy’s lungs—enough for her to hear, but not enough to be of immediate danger to Billy’s life. And if she keeps coughing, chances are she would cough enough of the fluid up to start with. Her attention is moved to all of the open wounds on Billy’s body.
Lynn knows she can’t get to stitching right here and right now. That’s dangerous and stupid, they would need to move Billy off of the shore and somewhere that there would be absolutely no disturbance. But this was a river, not an emergency room—and even if Lynn doesn’t have the time or safety to go all-out doc on Billy, she can work with the temporary for now until they are somewhere better. She drops her stethoscope, puts gloves on to avoid any further contamination. Of course Billy would still be bleeding, but by now the worst wounds would be mostly coagulated, and that’s what Lynn is relying on as she opens a fresh package for the surgical sponges and uses it to wipe away and absorb any water or blood and tries to get it as dry as she can while moving in haste.
”Make sure she doesn’t move. I don’t want to sedate her.” With the airway issues Billy already has, Lynn wants to avoid risking anything that might further reduce her breathing. Provided that Lynn is uninterrupted, she would begin quickly applying iodine as necessary and doing the good ol compress-and-wrap that is used in emergency situations when no real medical aid was immediately available. She would try and get as many of these cuts as she could, the deeper ones first, compressing them together before covering with gauze and wrapping with the adhesive tape she had brought.
She would need a flatter surface to stitch, would need all of the chaos behind her to cease, because there is no way in hell even the best, most experienced doctor in the world could safely stitch even the smallest of wounds when there was two werewolves and a gunman running around.
”We need to get out ASAP.”
Nate said:
They connect; the full weight of the massive wolf lands with a dangerous, crunching accuracy on Lucas’ chest, and somewhere in the turmoil a thunderclap of gunfire sets the beast’s ears ringing.
There is a sudden, slicing pain; a lance of fire followed by the duller, but equally invasive sensation of burning, and were the wolf of a mind to care about such things, his keen nose would detect the pungent odor of singed flesh and skin. The damage is superficial – a graze, ultimately, along the muscled flesh of his neck and shoulder, flared into intensity by the pockmarked residue of close-quarters powder burns – but it serves its purpose, though not the one the hunter had intended. Instead, the sudden onslaught of pain, of this basic and intrinsic violation laid upon the beast by a wicked little man, is simply fuel for a near limitless well of savage and animalistic loathing.
It does not have the thought processes to garner full comprehension – to understand what has been done to Billy, what could have fallen upon the entire pack – but the creature understands pain, and the creature has known fear, and with that knowledge is the ultimate desire to put the source of such emotion down. That it is a residual inkling from traumas suffered by his other half is no matter; the wolf of Nathanial protects itself, protects the pack.
The pathetic, wriggling worm beneath him struggles, even as the wolf’s paws and weight and teeth pin him down, a delicate and practiced pressure held carefully and applied by his jaws as the black monster’s seeking fangs find the hunter’s throat. And though he has always thought himself an impressive, deadly beast – a proud, vain animal, all things considered – there is a sudden, confusing desire to spare the pale human’s life. If not ultimately, than temporarily; for those in charge to seek their ultimate revenge upon. They are alien thoughts, perhaps forced upon him by some vague tendril of human control, or maintained by the knowledge that he has always been, somehow and almost impossibly, a well-mannered monster. That those teeth have never spread the contamination that lurks upon his very breath, and that there is something important and wholly a part of him about that very fact.
He will be the loyal hound, pinning his hapless victim for the master’s final coup de grâce.
The threat within those jaws, poised so precisely about Lucas’ neck, does not seem to deter the man – a fight flared to life within Lucas out of some instinctive desire to stay alive, and not one of poor judgment? The wolf does not care either way; it twists aggressively, reminding its prey of the dangers that await it, but the thrashing does not cease. The man’s hand, gun still clutched desperately, flies at the werewolf’s head. There is a crack and a blinding white light – the feeling of something come painfully loose in his skull – and his right eye is suddenly sluggish and slow to focus, skipping and stuttering across his field of view. The beast simply shuts the dysfunctional thing, ignoring the slick wetness that now beads and pools behind his ear and along the angle of his jaw.
But now it is a game of revenge.
His weight shifts; pressure is maintained by his chest, his paws, to keep the man beneath him, and those wicked teeth find purchase in flesh and bone and now neatly severed muscle, removing the man of such burdens as fine motor control; as entire fingers. The damage is localized to the man’s hands, his wrists and forearms and the threat they contain, rendering skin and sinew and the very fabric of his jacket pulped and useless: indecipherable units of red.
Those limbs will not be used against him – against Billy – a second time, and with a twisted sense of satisfaction, the wolf’s jaws return to play again on Lucas’ throat.
That the blood in his mouth is not entirely the human’s is a matter he has no time for.
Obelisk said:
Heartbeat. Shallow breathing. The queen yet lives. There is a thrill of triumph tempered with relief but the wolf is trapped within a state of disquiet. Massive teeth gnash at the metal of her chains and he is unwilling to let go of what is his – his to protect, his to own. Wild, feral green eyes snap up to glare viciously at the dark-haired woman. What follows is the eruption of a growl. Billy is his, his alone – he could not possibly trust anyone else with something so precious.
But the wolf remembers. The woman with the dark hair is the queen’s most trusted knight. The stalwart guardian. He recants his aggression, steps back and allows the knight access but takes a moment to eye the new, small human suspiciously. The animal brain cannot read too deeply into actions, into intent, but there is the distinct and frantic desire to help and save electric in the air. A paw moves back, another follows, the beast is unsure but with one last look cast towards Sabra, he retires his obsessive vigil.
The sound of horrified screaming, the sharp tang of blood tickling at his nostrils, call to the killer. His mind reverts to the mantra of Kill. Blood. Rip. Mangle. Kill. There will be justice and it will be served by his teeth. The king approaches with deliberate steps and from high above, the beast looms. Green eyes wander over the hunter’s face and there is a deceptively calm and methodical aura around the silver-maned animal.
He could end it all with a well-placed bite to the man’s throat.
The beast side-eyes the black wolf and then, without warning, snaps forward to shoulder it away. This is his kill, his absolution. He circles around the writhing human once, then twice, and there is madness in his stilted gait, within his gaze. There will be no mercy. The beast lunges forward, teeth sink through clothing and into the flesh of the hunter’s abdomen. He tears and he pulls, he rips and he mauls through flesh and through muscle until the human opens up and his entrails spill onto the ground.
They glisten in the light, reek of blood and of bile. The beast becomes a vulture, sticks his head into the cavity of the man’s body and yanks and rips. It is an expert dissection of horrific proportions. Powerful jaws snap ribs with deliberate intent. The animal sticks his head deep inside the now ruined cage of bones, remains tucked inside the gruesome cavity of blood and flesh. Growling like a lunatic, the beast finds what he is after. Teeth secure around the hunter’s heart, puncture forth, and he snaps back, he pulls the muscle free.
The king stands victorious, heart tucked within his mouth. His silver mane is stained red with blood and he reeks of violence, and it is glorious. The wolf begins to gnash, begins to swallow. This is justice. This is absolution.
Sabra said:
The silver-maned beast is a testament to what a wolf can become when his mate is threatened, but Sabra refuses to move a muscle, pulling away the chains that he can break--freeing Billy of at least one of the weights pressing against her chest. The water in her lungs will kill her more quickly she knows, but this is what she can do right now.
As Billy wheezes and coughs, she casts a fleeting look to Dolan, standing there frozen--in horror, shock? Guilt squeezes her heart, but she can't take back what's already been done. At least now she knows her lover had no idea of the Corbins' plans, but victory is bittersweet. Tasting more of ashes than fruit.
The dark-haired woman turns back to her friend, hoping to bury her feelings beneath duty and obligation, where thoughts of Dolan's hurt can't affect her.
How many times has Billy been forced to put the pack before an individual? And had bare their anger, their pain. How many times has she fought against the blond for doing what she just did? To a man she loves.
”Sabra, I need you to do exactly what I say without question, understand?” ”Help me turn her over, hold her in a half sitting position.”
She does as she's asked, the wolf thrashing against her chains, insisting that she is dominant and Alpha here, not to be ordered about by a pup. But Lynn is far more experienced, and she'll be what saves Billy's life in the following days. With her knees jammed against the gravel Sabra follows Lynn's directions, chains scraping against one another.
”Make sure she doesn’t move. I don’t want to sedate her.”
As the doctor works on her Sabra's mind is elsewhere, beyond this cold, stinking river and the bloody form of her best friend. She is on the road with Billy and Vianne, laughing as music pours from the stereo, lounging in the morning sun with Dolan, and it is all so sweet--removed from this harshness. Lynn's words snap her out of the warm visions.
”We need to get out ASAP.”
There's no one else, Jericho and Nate are wolves, off devouring Dolan's uncle, Logan is god knows where, and she simply can't ask this of her man. Sabra slips her arms around the blond woman, one beneath her knees and the other grasping her shoulders. Rather it be through adrenaline or the wolf, or a combination of both Sabra manages to lift her, legs shaking slightly with cold and effort as she cradles Billy's head against her shoulder. "I'll put her in the back of my car," She bites out before starting the descent up the bank, single minded determination driving her forward.
"Let's go home."
Vianne said:
Vianne had loosed that scream and found that the word felt good on her lips. Appropriate and fitting for a monster of his caliber. She holds that weapon close, but Vianne knows she's a horrible shot. The black wolf is too close and the scrawny girl isn't crazy enough to leap in with the wolves for a chance at him.
So the girl watches, transfixed and taking it all in as if watching television drama. Billy is hauled from the water and Sabra rushes to her, followed by Lynn. Billy. Was she dead? It only took a glimpse of that chained pale skin before the girl turns her face away. She can't bring herself to move. Her legs are unable to carry her any closer to Billy for fear of... Not knowing was better.
Vianne watches the wolves instead.
Ripping, tearing, shredding.
Finds the oddest satisfaction in staring.
If Billy was dead, she wouldn't die in vain. 'Cause how dare she leave them all behind? Leave her behind. Hell no. Her heart clenches in her chest, tears threatening to spring, but she chokes them back as she watches. Billy was family, her stubborn and crazy sister. The very one she cuddled with when she was scared. The one who had nearly killed her for frebreezing flowers. The one she and Sabra ganged up on when they had water gun fights.
A surprisingly steady hand raises the gun, but the man has already fallen to the wolves. She is too late because he dies too early. She holds it level anyway, pointed at the mess that had been him for several long moments. The wolves are too close. He's dead anyway. Vianne swallows and slowly lets it slip to her side, shoulders sagging. Only then does she find it within herself to glance towards the other two women and Billy. Sabra holds her close, heading up the bank.
"Let's go home." Please.
Vianne hears her, just barely. Billy looks dead. The girl stands quiet and pale, staring with wide eyes. The haunted expression freezes on her face, but her gave moves slowly from Billy to Sabra. Questioning, but too afraid to ask.
There was a reason they always sent her away every time somebody changed.
There was always that chance that the someone might die. Someone might not make it through that first shift. Vianne couldn't handle watching anyone's life float in the balance. Now Billy's hung, if it wasn't already lost. Billy's.
The loaded gun hangs limply by her side. She hasn't used it. That didn't matter though.
Vianne knows she would have.
Logan. said:
Logan has been distinctly absent throughout the engagement. Where the wolves and the core members act on emotion, propel forward on thoughts of vengeance and absolution, he remains pragmatic. The seasoned hunter of forty-three years understands the need to distance his emotions from the chaos. But to say he is not worried, to say he does not care, would be a heinous lie. Logan cares and that is why he steels his heart, clears his mind, and acts tactically.
He is not there to kill Lucas, he is not there to rescue the Blackwater alpha, but perhaps Billy can forgive him as he is elsewhere. The hunter scouts, ensures that there is no Corbin Calvary hiding around the corner. A few men with guns would be enough to make the rescue go horribly awry. A hail of bullets and the entirety of Blackwater’s pack would be wiped out in an instant. The hunter, as is his creed, supplies an invisible blanket of vigilance, of protection.
And he has seen that truck distant on a road leading away from the venue. A loose, suspicious thread that will need to be addressed later as Logan is not fool enough to give chase. With everyone committed to the center of action, Logan chooses to remain and bring up the rear.
Only when there is absolute evidence of no trap, of no lingering enemies, does the hunter return. His weapon is drawn but there is no need for him to use it. The wolves act as executioner and the hunter feels acrid bile rise into his throat. He is forced to look away because Nathan has degenerated into the monster that stalks the grisly fairy tales Logan was told as a child. All unbridled animalistic fury, a creature that takes pleasure in violence, in the kill – the type of beast that the Duvall line has sworn to put down.
If this is what wolves consider justice, then he will gladly bury and chain his beast deep inside where it will never again see the light of day. Lucas deserves to burn in hell, and Logan would have gladly put the bullet in the man’s head to send him there – but this cruelty, this ongoing demonstration of glorified violence goes against everything he was taught.
He is perhaps the most human of the wolves, and if this is a weakness, it is a weakness Logan will covet, hold proud and bold against his heart until the moment of his death.
The arena quiets and the women provide a triad of protection as they carry Billy off to Sabra’s car. Logan watches, reads only grim determination in the set of the dark-haired woman’s jaw. It is then he realizes that Billy is still alive. A small, fragile victory the he hopes will pan out.
Billy was the reason behind the posse but Logan’s concerns are elsewhere. The black wolf he knows to be Nathan is injured and while there is a hollow, instinctual fear, the hunter holds fast. His loyalty is not to the beast, but to the man it becomes when the fur and teeth, and the animal fall away.
He imagines it is the human Nathaniel Hart that is hurt and the thought is more than enough to inspire the intense need to protect and to nurture.
The rest bring Billy home. Logan resolves to bring Nathan home.
Nate said:
The waiting is dangerous, the flesh between his teeth a tantalizing and horribly fatal temptation; the man below him no longer struggles but still breathes, gasps and makes a shuddering attempt at life that the monster can feel on his tongue, on his lips and in his jaws. He releases the human only when the silver-maned demon makes his appearance, and the animal knows its job is done: the brown wolf, whom he does not recognize but understands by pure instinct, is a creature of absolute authority. The exchange is made with minimal fuss; he does not want a fight, and this is not his kill.
The spell is broken; the human has hold over him no longer, and the bloodlust fades in a wave of pain and growing weariness. He turns his head from the slaughter, muzzle slung low. The efforts of the day – a forced, hurried change without a hunt, a trek on foot, the stress and worries and emotion of his other half – slowly takes its toll on the injured black wolf, and he backs away from the grizzly scene, thoughts of the kill and the shared slaughter replaced only by those of a new, desperate need.
The human he requires is here – has returned – and the wolf seeks him out with a slow, deliberate step.
He whines, shies away at the last moment, because in this form the man is mate but he is also hunter – a dangerous label when one is broken, covered in blood. There is, too, a residual reminder of uncertainty that lingers about his hip and flank, a deep-set ache that only sets in after such reckless strain and exertion; a permanent mark in flesh and memory that is a warning from Logan himself. The wolf remembers, and the thought makes him hesitate.
A massive paw runs over the wreck of half his face, the process of a simple, wild thing attempting to remove hurt and pain and the unknown in the only way it can understand. Behind the blood and swelling that nearly blinds one eye is a blurred vision of the hunter that takes up half his entire world; a vulnerability that sets in with a stammer of feared weakness, and it is this that finally drives the animal close. He walks with his head listed to the side, shifted right and wracked with the occasional shake to remove the drying liquid from his eye, from his ear, but the effort is wasted. A determined attempt is made to stay vigilant on his blind side.
It is only at Logan’s feet that the beast can relax.
He stumbles, finally, with a huff and a sigh, and settles in to lie at the man’s feet; a tongue runs over his nose, his lips, his snout, but the blood there is caked and coagulated and glued in ragged spikes to his flesh and fur. There is a lingering memory, a need to hold this form and prevent the change from wreaking further havoc – from wasting time – but it is hard, and the wolf wants nothing more than to sleep.
In the end, is the same emotion that drove Logan’s own wolf to fall exhausted at Nathan’s doorstep; that despite any apparent danger, to the black beast, the hunter represents everything that is safe and understandable: home.
