“Open the goddamned door! I f**king hit a dog.”
A dog? Crap. “I’m not practicing anymore. Take it to the clinic.”
“Can’t.”
No, of course he couldn’t. Ross sounded drunk, and the town vet just happened to be married to the town’s chief of police. The vet was also a corrupt bastard who overcharged, took shortcuts with care and materials, and he’d been known to refuse help to any animal that was rude enough to be sick or injured after office hours.
“Dammit, Thornhart. I don’t have time for this.”
Help the dog. Suck it up, and help the dog. Sweat dampened her temples and palms as she flipped all the locks and opened the door. Before it swung all the way in, Ross shoved the pitch-black canine into her arms, knocking her back a step.
“Thanks.” He started down the porch stairs.
“Wait!” Awkwardly, she shifted the dog’s weight, which had to be a good seventy pounds. “You shouldn’t drive.”
“Whatever. It’s a mile.”
“Ross—”
“Bite my fine ass,” he muttered, as he headed down her gravel walkway toward his old Ford pickup.
“Hey!” She couldn’t stop him, she knew that, but he had a passenger, a petite blonde who looked like she might still be in high school. “Is your friend able to drive?”
He opened the driver’s-side door and tossed the keys at the girl. “Yup.”
As he stumbled around the front of the truck, and the girl climbed out, Cara called, “Why did you bring me the dog?” Subtext: Why didn’t you let the dog die on the side of the road?
Ross stopped, hooked his thumbs in his belt loops, and looked down at his cowboy boots. When he spoke, Cara had to strain to hear him. “No mutt has ever stabbed me in the back.”
Cara stared. Go figure. She’d always been judged harshly by people who didn’t know her, and she’d just gone and done the same thing to someone else.
Then Ross whooped, slapped the young blonde on her Daisy Dukes, and spat a wad of tobacco on the ground, once again reinforcing a stereotype, but hey… at least he liked dogs.
Cara closed the door, awkwardly locking it, and carried the limp bundle of fur to a room she’d shut up tight two years ago.
“Dammit.” Her curse accompanied the creak of unused hinges as she wedged open the door with her shoulder. The stale air reeked of failure, and no matter how hard she tried to tug up her big-girl panties and be brave, her hands still shook as she laid the dog on the exam table and flipped on the light.
The dog’s black fur was matted with blood, and one hind leg was twisted awkwardly, the broken end of a bone piercing the skin. The dog needed a real vet, not her. Not someone who healed through vibes that even she sometimes doubted were real. The only physical medical experience she had was as a veterinary technician, and that had been eight years ago, when she’d been a teen working in her dad’s practice.
She did a U-turn before she went too far down that dark road, snapped on gloves, and when she turned back around, she recoiled. The pup—at least, it had the rounded, cuteish features of a young puppy despite its size—was looking at her. And its eyes were… red.
Blood, it’s got to be blood. Which didn’t explain the eerie glow behind the irises.
“Um… hey, fella.”
The pup’s lips peeled away from extremely sharp, extremely large, teeth. What breed was the thing? It looked like a cross between a wolf and a pit bull, with maybe a little great white shark thrown in, and by her best guess, it was approximately four months old. Except that it was the size of a full-grown Siberian husky.
And those teeth. Those eyes.
There was a military base nearby, and since the day she had moved to this rural South Carolina town, she’d heard rumors of experiments, of strange creatures the government was breeding. For the first time, Cara considered the possibility, because this dog was not… natural.
The pup shifted on the table, yelping in pain at the smallest movement, and suddenly, it didn’t matter where it had come from or if it was a lab creation, a genetic mutation, or an alien from outer space. She hated seeing an animal in pain, especially when there was so little she could do.
“Hey,” she whispered, reaching out her hand. The pup regarded her warily, but he allowed her to stroke his cheek. And yes, it was a he. She didn’t have to look… she just knew. She’d always been able to sense things about animals, and although the vibes coming from this creature were odd… disjointed… she was still getting them.
Slowly, so as not to startle the dog, she slid both hands down his body. Right now, the most she could do was triage, keep him alive until she could get him to Dr. Happs. The jerk would only put the dog to sleep if no one would pay for its care, which meant that Cara would have to choose between paying the vet bills and paying her mortgage.
Her fingers dipped into a puncture wound, and the pup screamed in pain, his body trembling. “I’m sorry, boy.” God, it was a bullet hole. Someone must have shot the dog before he was struck by Ross’s truck.
Whimpering, the pup writhed in misery, and Cara felt his pain all the way to her marrow. Literally. It was part of what made her different from everyone she knew, this talent that had been both a blessing and a curse.
She’d sworn to never use her ability again, but seeing the dog suffer was too much. She had to do it, no matter how hard her mind was screaming against it.
“Okay,” she murmured, “I’m going to try something. Just hold on.”
Closing her eyes, she placed both hands over his body, her palms hovering an inch from his fur. She forced herself to relax, to concentrate until her emotions and energy centered in her head and chest. She’d never been formally trained in the arts of spiritual or energy healing, but this had always worked for her.
Until it had killed.
She shook her head, clearing her thoughts. Gradually, a tingle condensed and expanded inside her, until it pulsed with its own heartbeat. She visualized the energy as a purple glow that streamed from her chest and into her hands. The pup calmed, his breaths slowing, his whimpers tapering off. She couldn’t fix broken bones or ruptured organs, but she could slow the bleeding and manage pain, and this poor guy needed everything she had.
The energy built, vibrating through her entire body as though it was eager to be let loose.
Just as it had done that night.
The memory tore through her brain like a shotgun blast, hurling her back in time to the night when her gift had warped into something sinister and surged not into a dog, but a man. His terror-filled eyes had bulged as blood spurted from his nose and ears. His screams had been silent, but those of his buddies had not.
Stop thinking! Her power cut off, snuffed by her fear. The room spun and her legs wobbled, all carnival funhouse. Without the fun. A whine yanked her out of the trance, and she stumbled to the antique chest where she kept all the traditional medical supplies that had belonged to her father.
“Sorry, boy,” she rasped. “We’re going to have to do this the old-fashioned way.” She hadn’t gone to vet school, but she’d worked with her father for years, and she knew damned good and well that this dog was going to die if she didn’t act.
As quickly as her shaking hands could manage, she loaded a cart with tools and supplies and rolled it over to the dog, who was lying still, his breaths more labored than they’d been just moments before. In the area of the gunshot wound, the flesh was swelling rapidly, and when she looked closer, she gasped. Before her eyes, the muscle and skin was dying. If she hadn’t seen the progression herself, she’d have estimated that the wound had festered for a week. Gangrene had set in, and the stench of dead flesh filled the room.
“My God,” she breathed. “What’s happening?”
Afraid to waste even another second, she grabbed the scalpel and hoped the dog wouldn’t bite, because this was going to hurt.
Carefully, she made a small incision at the site of the bullet hole. The pup whimpered, but remained still as she mopped up pus and blood and then palmed the forceps. “Hold still, baby.”
Cara held her breath and prayed for a steady hand. Do it. Do it now…
She worked the forceps into the wound, cringing at the squishy sound of the metal passing through rotting flesh. Though she hadn’t summoned her power, a trickle she couldn’t stop ran down her arm and into her hand. Don’t panic. Somehow, she kept it together until she felt the forceps bump against the bullet. Though the dog yelped when she clasped the slug, he didn’t move… or bite.
As gently as possible, she eased the bullet free. Odd… it was silver. She placed the forceps on the tray, grabbed the bandages, and turned back to the dog.
And screeched.
The pup was standing on the exam table, head cocked and tongue lolling out as if he had been happily romping in a park and not minutes from death. The only sign that he’d ever been injured was blood matted in his fur and pooled on the floor and table.
Reeling from the impossibility of the situation, Cara’s legs gave way beneath her, and the cold floor rose up to meet her body. Her skull cracked on the tile, and the next thing she knew, the pup was beside her, his crimson eyes glowing. His tongue slathered across her face and mouth, and oh, yuck, his saliva tasted like rotten fish. Weakly, she pushed him away, but he came back and slammed his heavy body down on her.
He panted, his breath so toxic it worked like smelling salts, and she gagged even as she became alert.
“Ugh.” She wheezed, waving her hand in front of his mouth to ward off his stench. “We have to do something about your halitosis from hell.” God, she was talking like this was real.
It wasn’t. Couldn’t be. She was probably still in her bed, and this was a dream.
Suddenly, Halitosis was on his feet, crouched over her, a growl vibrating his deep chest. Not a normal growl, either. It was smoky, serrated, something she’d expect to hear from a dragon. Or a demon. Freaky.
The door burst open in a crash of splinters, and four men filed through the doorway.
A scream welled in her throat, but lodged there, blocked by terror. Not again, not again. Memories of the home invasion that had ruined her life collided with current events, and she froze up, so paralyzed that her lungs couldn’t expel her held breath.
There was a gunshot, a snarl… and then godawful screams. Blood splattered on the floor, the walls, on her… and she broke out of her paralysis to scramble to her feet.
Hal slammed one of the men to the floor, his claws—which somehow had extended like a cat’s—tearing into the man’s chest as the other two slashed at him with strange bladed weapons.
Cara scanned the room for a weapon of her own, anything at all. She lunged for a heavy glass jar of cotton balls but reeled back at an explosive, blinding flash of light. A beautiful blond man appeared in the middle of the room. Flames erupted from his fingertips as a ball of fire flipped into the air, bursting into a gold net that fell on Hal, who went down in a tangle beneath it.
“No!” She dove for the dog, but someone grabbed her from behind. Hal went crazy, a mass of teeth and claws as he struggled to get out of the net.
Curses flew, and someone fired a shot at the newcomer, who took the bullet in the chest with no more reaction than if he’d been stung by a bee. He scooped up the net, Hal with it, and in another flare of light, he was gone.
The man tightened his arms around Cara, and one of the men limped toward her, his left arm dangling, his face mottled with rage. “What are you?”
She blinked. “W-what?”
“I said,” he snarled, “what are you?”
“I don’t understand.”
His hand lashed out so fast she didn’t see it until her cheek stung from the blow. “What kind of demon are you?” he screamed, his spittle spraying her face.
Oh, God, these men were crazy. This whole situation was crazy. This was Crazyland, and she was the queen.
“Why…” She sucked in a ragged breath and tried to stay calm. It wasn’t easy when the man holding her in a vise grip against him was squeezing the air out of her lungs. “Why would you think I’m a demon?” Maybe they were religious fanatics, like the ones who had accused her of practicing witchcraft before she learned to hide her healing gift.
Her theory was blown out of the water when the third guy, the one who had been kneeling next to the dead man on the floor, stood and picked up the bullet that had been lodged in the dog. He held it out to her. “Because,” he said, in an eerily calm voice, “only a demon would heal a hellhound.”
Two
Hellhound?
These people were insane. “It was just a dog.”
“Really?” The red-haired, freckled one with the bullet, who reminded her vaguely of Carrot Top, spoke in a deceptively soft voice. “And was the guy who flashed into the room and took the dog just a man?”
She opened her mouth to answer, but what could she say? The guy had disappeared into thin air. “I… what else would he be?”
“Oh, maybe a demon. Like you.”
Keep them talking. And calm. Excellent plan in theory, but who was going to keep her calm? False courage gave her a voice, at least. “Who are you people?”
The one who had struck her whipped a strange, S-shaped, double-bladed weapon from a harness on his chest, and held the gold end to her neck. “Are you that stupid, or are you just playing that way?”
“Garcia.” Carrot Top put his hand on the weapon-wielder’s shoulder. “Look at her, man. She’s terrified. She doesn’t know who we are.”
“Stupid then.” Garcia dragged the tip of the blade down her throat, and she felt a sting and a warm drip. “I know you’ve heard of Guardians.”