Moonburn (14 page)

My leg was really hurting now, but I knew that I was missing something important here. “The Liminal?”

“Strictly speaking, it refers to the threshold of consciousness,” said Malachy, strapping a blood pressure cuff around my arm. “But Red uses it to refer to the boundary between realities.” Malachy paused as the cuff tightened around my biceps, then released.

“Hang on a moment. How the hell did I wind up in a different reality? The last time I drove to Westchester, there was no sign that said last exit from this dimension.” The rising note of hysteria in my voice kind of ruined the joke, but I couldn’t help it. I’d had a longstanding fear of accidentally ingesting LSD, but at least with acid, the crazy things you saw and heard weren’t real.

Red took my hand. “It’s like I told you before, Doc. The boundary’s breaking down. All those houses going up on Old Scolder Mountain that was sacred ground for generations. We’ve cut clean into their territory, and now they’re moving in on ours.”

I took a deep breath, trying to calm myself. It made no sense, panicking now, but panic was what I was feeling. “How did you guys even find me?”

Malachy stuck a thermometer in my ear. “I had nothing to do with it. Red went and sat cross-legged for an hour, then cut his arm and walked around, leaking blood until he found you. It took him about twenty minutes and a pint.”

I recalled the burial mound, the thick, old growth forest that had seemed to go on forever. Then I noticed the bandage peeking out from the rolled-up sleeve of Red’s work shirt. “What did you do?”

“Oh, this ain’t nothing. Just a trick to get back.”

The thermometer pinged and Malachy removed it. “He made a deal. That’s how it works, I believe.”

“Made a deal? With whom?”

Red flushed. I knew he hated how his redhead’s complexion
revealed everything. “Mal, you don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“It’s not my area of expertise, true. But because so much of my research hinges on the areas where myth and medicine intersect, I have done a fair amount of reading about various mythologies.” Mal began to unbutton my shirt, and I swatted at his hands. “You do it, then. I need to check your heart.” Malachy’s breath was cool and tinged with something faintly metallic as he leaned over me to press the stethoscope to my chest. His fingers were like ice on my skin. Either this was what he was like when he was up past his bedtime, or whatever was wrong with him was getting worse. He traced a line on my neck, and I shivered. “How long have you had this?”

At first I thought he meant the burn, but then I saw that he was lifting the moonstone pendant.

“My mother gave it to me. Why?”

Mal unfastened the chain and slipped it out from under my neck. “Because your skin is reacting adversely to the silver. Did you not realize you were allergic?”

I shook my head.

“Red should have told you.”

I looked at Red, questioningly.

“Hell, Doc, I didn’t know.”

Malachy looked irritated. “Well, you should have done. Never mind,” he said, cutting Red off. “How are you feeling, Abra? Any pain?”

“Not in my neck. What really hurts is my right leg. My shin.”

“Scale of one to ten?”

“Eight or a nine. I was mauled by a bear.” I glanced up at Red. “Except he wasn’t a bear.”

Red took my hand. “I saw his tracks.” He smiled a little crookedly. “Both sets.”

“I didn’t believe you before. Not completely.” I felt
tears sting my eyes. Right now, I didn’t want to be on the outs with Red. I wanted him by my side, solid and steady.

Red squeezed my fingers. “Lot of new info to take in, Doc.” His hazel eyes were level and knowing and just a little sad. I was just processing the implications of that look when Malachy took hold of my right ankle, and I stifled a scream.

“I need to cut away your jeans leg.”

“Okay.” I felt rather than saw Red move around to the head of the table, giving Malachy more room. I sucked in my breath as my calf was revealed. A piece of bone—tibia, probably—was protruding from a small hole. Open compound. “We’re going to need an X-ray.” Mal looked at me. “Ideally, a CAT scan would be in order, but we’ll have to make do. I need to know if there’s any possibility that you’re pregnant before we proceed with the X-ray.”

“I’m not pregnant,” I said, a little bitterly. Red gave me a funny look, but I just ignored him as Mal cut through the waistband of my jeans, and parted the fabric, revealing my faded blue cotton underwear and winter white stomach. He inserted the scissors at the hem of my sweater, at which point I called a halt.

“Hey, what about a modesty drape?”

“Oh, good lord.” Malachy sighed. “Red, see if you can reach up for one of those surgical drapes in that closet. No, that one, to the right. Thanks.” As Mal draped the surgical cloth over me, he added, “Haven’t you become casual about nudity, yet? I find most therians develop a more animal sense of their bodies.”

“Well, I’m still more woman than canine, so give me a break. And I’d like some goddamn painkiller. When are you going to give me a shot of morphine?”

Malachy stared at me, then rubbed his temples. “I really do not have the time for this. What is the most
common side effect of preoperative morphine on canines?”

“Vomiting,” I said, beginning to understand. Mal’s crack about therians being nudists hadn’t just been another attempt to tease me. “What else do you know about my condition?” Because clearly, my boss knew a great deal more than I did.

“Oh, for crying out loud. Don’t you know anything about your own condition?” Malachy turned to Red. “Haven’t you taken the time to explain her disorder?”

Red flushed. “I’m the guy you call when you need to get rid of a pest, remember? I don’t know what the hell is wrong with giving morphine. And since I’m not into the Guido look, I wasn’t aware that there was anything wrong with wearing silver. I just thought it wasn’t too healthy to have the stuff shot into your gut.”

Malachy slid a photographic plate underneath my calf, which made me yelp. “Right. So, let’s begin with the basics. You are aware that theremorphism is caused by a rare virus, the most common strain of which is lycanthropy. Most commonly, transmission occurs through the exchange of bodily fluids—blood and semen.”

“Hang on a moment, Mal,” said Red. “I think you’re overgeneralizing, here.”

“I’m trying to give an overview. But, yes, there is a genetic component, which determines who is affected and how much. In certain families, such as your own, Red, a specific strain can dominate, appearing in different individuals from early childhood on.” Malachy lifted the X-ray camera and positioned it over my leg. “In early-onset lycanthropy, the children stabilize fairly rapidly and retain a fair amount of cognitive awareness in either form.” Mal gave me a level look. “In cases such as yours, however, there tends to be a fair amount of disassociation between states.”

I took a deep breath, pressing my palm to my chest.
“Meaning that I’m never going to be in control of my wolf?”

“Bullshit,” said Red sharply, making me jump. “It’s just practice, is what it is,” he added in a more measured tone. “Give it a few more years, Doc, and you’ll be planning your evening menu while you’re out stalking rabbit.”

“That is completely unsubstantiated conjecture,” said Malachy, moving around the table. “What is established is that for anyone infected as an adult, the disease is progressive and, in the female, marked by neurological changes and greater divergence of lupine and human persona concordant with the onset of estrus.” Malachy paused. “In the male, changes in brain chemistry are somewhat dependent on placement in a pack hierarchy. Sensitivity to silver is a common side effect in either gender, and there is a clear correlation between viral activity and the lunar cycle. I am intrigued by the effect that this town seems to have—I’ve been calling it the Northside factor in my notes.” Malachy’s voice trailed off and he bent his head, rubbing his temples as though a headache had come on suddenly.

“Are you all right?”

He made a grunting sound, then raked his hand through his tangled black curls, looking as though he would like to tear his hair out. “I’m fine.” Malachy straightened up and filled a syringe with a blue liquid. “Unfortunately, the wider medical community has never had much time for my theories, or my research.” He uncapped the needle. “Which is why I have been forced to conduct so many of my experiments in less than optimal conditions.”

“Hang on a moment,” I said, more than a little unsettled by these revelations. “What’s in that hypodermic?”

“Don’t worry, it’s not for you.” Without batting an eyelash, Malachy rolled up his sleeve and injected himself
in the arm. After a moment, he sighed, then removed the sharps and disposed of them in the medical waste container. “Red, you need to release Abra’s leg and stand behind this door whilst I take the X-rays.”

“Actually,” Red said, not looking at me, “you might want to hold off on that.”

“Is there a reason why—ah.” Malachy came back into the room and lifted the camera up and out of the way. “We’ll have to work with a manual assessment, then.”

I started to ask what Red meant, and then comprehension dawned. Any chance you might be pregnant, Malachy had asked. The standard query for any woman of childbearing age about to receive radiation. And there was that night that I didn’t remember, when I’d woken up to find Red fairly glowing with happiness and excitement.

“No,” I said firmly, not looking at Red, even though he was still holding my leg straight. “There’s absolutely no reason why I can’t have an X-ray.”

“Yes, there is,” said Red, which sent me over the edge.

“Funny, but it seems like neither of you know quite as much about my condition as Magda does. Or did you two just not care to mention that nonalpha females aren’t fertile?”

The two men exchanged glances. For once, Malachy didn’t launch into a scientific analysis, and Red didn’t try to reassure me. Instead, everyone focused on small tasks, like getting the photographic plate under my leg and setting the switches.

The X-ray showed a compound fracture in the tibia, which was already fusing back together. Too bad lycanthropy didn’t speed up the healing of emotional wounds.

“Here you go, Doc, door to bed service.” Red, who had insisted on carrying me into the cabin like a bride, deposited me gently on the couch. I scowled up at him as he handed me a flashlight.

“It’s freezing in here.” After Malachy had cut off my jeans, he’d offered to lend me something of his, but nothing had fit. So he and Red had wrapped me in horse blankets, which were itchy and did little to keep me warm.

“I’ll take care of that in a sec.” He went into the bedroom and brought back our quilt, which he draped over me. Then he headed back to the truck for the hawk and raccoon. Red had used the animals to help find me, flying the hawk during the daytime, and setting the raccoon out to help him explore the woods at night. I knew I should be grateful, but I was cold and unsettled, and when the door opened, letting in another blast of cold air, I had to bite back another complaint.

I hobbled into the bedroom, dragging the quilt behind me, and searched blindly in the drawer of the bedside table for my spare glasses. After a panicky moment, I found them, slightly scratched from the nail scissors I’d thrown in with them. Putting them on, I peered at myself in the mirror. My hair looked like it had been styled by harpies, and my rimless spare specs—all the rage
when I’d bought them—did nothing to hide the dark shadows under my eyes. At least I could see again, even if I didn’t like what I was seeing.

I limped back to the couch and huddled under the quilt, watching as Red settled the animals in their cages, speaking softly to them before taking his flashlight and heading over to the woodpile by the fireplace. As he hefted a great armful of lumber, I was reminded how deceptively strong his wiry body was, how competent he was in a nineteenth-century cabin.

Except my teeth were chattering, and I hadn’t really ever planned on living in a nineteenth-century cabin.

“You doing okay there?” Red lit the oil lamps. Misinterpreting my pinched expression, Red said, “I could get you something for the pain.”

“I’m not in the mood for drugs.” I didn’t have to add the reason why, because I’d had enough of altered consciousness. Red paused in the act of setting a match to a piece of kindling wood.

“I was thinking of a different kind of something.” Lighting the kindling, Red arranged it under the larger logs in the fireplace. He listened until he was sure the fire had caught, then replaced the grate. “Let me see your leg.” He was still facing away from me, gazing at the fire as if trying to remember something.

I pulled the quilt back from my leg, which was swollen underneath the Ace bandages. A human would have needed a cast. I kind of wished I’d had a cast. My leg looked awfully vulnerable like this.

Red approached me. “How bad does it hurt?”

“It’s throbbing.”

Red unwrapped the bandage, then stood up and brought back a mason jar filled with a pale yellow substance.

“What’s that?”

“Special ointment. Granddad’s own recipe.” Red carefully
lifted my injured leg, then sat down with my heel resting on his thighs. Scooping the ointment up in his fingers, he began rubbing it into my foot and ankle with long, slow, circular motions. The lotion smelled like lavender and mint, and my skin began to tingle pleasantly wherever Red was massaging it. He was murmuring something low, under his breath, and I realized it wasn’t English. I leaned my head back, lulled by the touch and the chant, and as the pain in my calf eased, Red’s fingers began to move upward, toward my thigh. A gentle warmth had begun to build, and I found myself wishing that Red would work on the other leg, as well. “Wow. That’s good. Why didn’t you use that on my burn last year?”