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  Fever

  The Silver Element, Book One

  Lara Whitmore

  Text Copyright © 2013 Lara Whitmore

  All Rights Reserved

  Table of Contents:

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter One

  The trees were a blur of shadow as Vincent ran through the woods. Overgrown foliage brushed his fur. Low-hanging branches whipped at his muzzle. Even as his speed increased with a rare desperation, boots crunched over fallen leaves behind him.

  Stupid, Vincent scolded himself as he ran. Should have known.

  He hadn’t expected to find anyone this deep in the woods, let alone a prowler. With winter around the corner and a chill in the air, scents were difficult to detect. As the man had been moving silently through the forest, Vincent hadn’t heard him either. His only saving grace were the eyes of the wolf. They saw everything under the moon among the stars tonight.

  He’d seen the prowler and froze. Their eyes had met.

  The man wore a hard expression when he raised a rifle to his shoulder and aimed at Vincent’s heart. The first shot only just missed him, and then he was off, calling on his speed and agility to propel him through the trees.

  Now his blood thrummed with the energy of the moon, muscles rippling beneath his fur. They emitted a heat that burned within him and fueled his need to survive.

  Something shifted under the breaths of his pursuer. Vincent heard the rifle transfer between palms, skin sliding over metal before the grip was firm. The footsteps paused. There was a resounding shot, and a bullet ricocheted off the tree beside him. He yelped as splinters of wood became embedded in his hind leg and rump.

  The bullets were silver. He knew that much. They pulsed with violet energy as they spun through the air. The color warned him against the presence of silver. Silver flatware, rings, knives. Bullets.

  It wasn’t supposed to happen this way. He was a predator among men. The inner wolf snarled, furious that Vincent hadn’t allowed himself to attack, to go for the throat once the first bullet missed him. It went against his nature to flee.

  But Vincent wasn’t a killer. He refused to become one and surrender his last shred of humanity to primal instinct. It was the only thing that separated him from the rest of the pack.

  Blood matted his fur as he ran deeper into the forest, coating the leaves and twigs brushing against him. Any pain was dulled by the adrenaline flooding his system.

  The call of the moon was irresistibly seductive. Had this been a willing transformation instead of one forced by the lunar cycle, he wouldn’t have possessed the strength to run while badly injured.

  Suddenly, the forest floor dropped out from under him. There was no time to slow before he was tumbling down a steep embankment, slamming against fallen logs and crashing through brush. Pain radiated through his bones. His legs flailed for a foothold, but he was falling too quickly.

  The wolf growled, as if warning him not to fight it.

  Vincent went limp, grimacing whenever his ribs absorbed the impact. The breath was stolen from him as he finally rolled to a stop at the bottom of the hill. Half buried in decaying leaves, he was too stunned to move. He could only listen to rocks falling down the embankment after him. Loosened earth showered ferns like a gentle rain.

  He heard the prowler reach the crest of the hill and curse. A flashlight scanned the area around Vincent, although the beam was uselessly dim. He held his breath, relying on his black fur to keep him hidden from view.

  There was silence. Then the prowler turned and began retracing his path.

  Vincent shivered, feeling the rhythmic throb of fresh bruises.

  After a time, the wolf retreated, too weak to keep its form. That’s when the strain of the change struck him.

  Every muscle in his body tensed as if electrocuted. He couldn’t think, or breathe. He could only feel. Blinding agony flooded his mind.

  A whine rose in his throat. His bones began to shatter, each with a sickening crunch. He spasmed as the seconds ticked by, unable to stop despite the accumulative waves of pain. They washed over him until he prayed for oblivion, instinctively curling into himself.

  His harsh breaths were cut short when he began to drown, choking on his own blood. Bile and flesh poured from his throat as his organs shifted. They stirred inside him like molten lava. His fur was seared away, the fire consuming every nerve in his body. Claws and canine teeth melted in their sockets. His vision faded as his eyes sank into the depths of his head. He was left a trembling, flesh-covered thing, not unlike that which struggles to break free of its amniotic sac.

  One of his legs shot outward, bone and muscle forming under skin. If he could have, he might have cried out. But his vocal cords hadn’t yet formed. The birth of every appendage was silent but for cracking bone and rustling among the leaves.

  His eyes snapped open as his facial features formed, and hair sprouted over his head. Teeth pressed through his gums, while nails grew over his fingers and toes. His first clear thought was that the change was almost complete.

  When it was over, Vincent lay gasping for breath in human form. Stars peered down at him through the treetops overhead. He clawed at the leaves, clenching his hands into fists as the pain began to fade. Dirt seeped between his fingers, grazing his knuckles. The gentle caress provided comfort.

  He was connected to this forest, and it was connected to him. The link was something he never could have experienced while fully human. Something worth the pain.

  He took a deep breath, violently trembling. Beads of sweat trickled over his chest.

  The wolf may have retreated, but it still lingered near the surface, allowing him to retain his night vision and elevated sense of smell.

  Even the crisp night air couldn’t veil the scent of fresh blood.

  Vincent raised his head and glanced down at himself, taking note of several lacerations. Nothing appeared to be life-threatening. He could do little more than allow his head to drop and rest for a moment, exhausted.

  It wasn’t turning out to be one of his better nights.

  When he could move without searing pain, he rolled onto his stomach and slowly pushed himself to his feet. He had no desire to climb the embankment, but he was left with no choice. He lived within walking distance, in an abandoned church. While in wolf form, he hadn’t wanted to lead the prowler too close, but they’d been running in that general direction. Now he needed to take shelter there before he was too weak to do so.

  As he began to climb, Vincent wondered how the prowler could have tracked him. He was always careful about such things, although his skills were scarcely needed in the vast wilderness of Maine.

  This new development warranted a trip into town tomorrow. The prowler would be staying there and Vincent could further access his reasons for journeying to Pinechester. Perhaps even make him leave before he got himself killed.

  One wrong step on the crest of the embankment sent Vincent crashing to the ground. A cry escaped him before he grit his teeth. Rocks and pine needles pressed into the deepest of his abdominal wounds. The sweet aroma of soil filled his nose when he turned his face to the forest floor.

  “Come on,” he breathed. “Just a little farther. Get up. Now.”

  A growl rumbled through his chest as he pushed himself to his feet. The wolf would see him to the church. He leaned on it like a
crutch as he stumbled onward, leaves and thorns like velvet beneath his feet. His core warmed until heat blanketed his skin.

  He felt the wolf’s presence like a shadow. It was both a part of him and apart from him. With him forever, but only forced to emerge once every month, when the night sun was full. Protector and oppressor. His beautiful curse.

  By the time the church came into view, moonlight shining onto a roof of patchy shingles, Vincent’s mindset had shifted to one of calm clarity. It would be all right. Rest was what he needed.

  He ascended the rickety front steps and pushed open the door, glancing over his shoulder before crossing the threshold.

  The room was one of cobwebs and broken glass. It’s musty scent greeted him as the air stirred with his arrival. One breath through his nose confirmed that no uninvited guests lurked in the church. The shelter for his human form was safe.

  As he moved into the room, scraps of yellowing newspaper crinkled under his feet. Stepping over shards of glass, he padded to the far wall and climbed, ever mindful of his injuries.

  The rafters were made up of beams suitable for crawling across. He dragged himself to a platform in the corner, partially curtained by a tattered cloth. A sigh of relief left him as he eased himself down onto his sleeping bag.

  There was a simple camping lantern beside his pillow, but if he lit it, the prowler might notice the glow. It wasn’t worth the risk. Relying on his night vision, Vincent opened the medical kit he kept on hand and began methodically cleaning and stitching the worst of his wounds.

  The wolf paced inside him throughout the process. It studied his work to ensure the stitches would hold. When he was finally finished, his vision was dim and his hands were shaking.

  So tired…

  After using a towel to wipe the worst of the dirt, sweat, and blood from his body, Vincent crawled into his sleeping bag. He didn’t bother with clothing. If the moon radiated enough energy tonight, he might wake to an overwhelming desire for a midnight run. It was unlikely considering his injuries, but the wolf was too unpredictable for assumptions.

  He turned onto his back, blearily eying spots of moonlight through holes in the roof.

  Just another night in paradise.

  Chapter Two

  Logan raised an arm to shield his eyes from the sunlight glaring through the motel window.

  He fumbled for his watch on the nightstand, squinting as the digital numbers came into focus. Just after two in the afternoon. Well, that explained the light. But it was probably still cold as balls outside. He tossed the watch aside and ducked his head under the covers.

  It was an act of shame as much as anything else. The damn werewolf had gotten the drop on him last night. He would need to return to the woods today to either continue tracking it or finish the job by dragging the body deeper into the wilderness. The sooner, the better.

  Grumbling under his breath, Logan threw back the covers and swung his feet over the side of the bed. He nearly stepped on an empty beer can as he stumbled to the bathroom. The whiff of alcohol was enough to make his stomach churn.

  A sheet of paper stuck to his foot and he shook his leg to get it off. When that didn’t work, he reached down, snatching it up to glance at the cause of his annoyance.

  It was a copy of a Black Bear report.

  He scoffed, crumpling the report and tossing it toward the far trash can. Bear, his ass.

  It was black all right, but the recent killings around Pinechester had occurred during a full moon. That was his first tip-off. According to the Prowler Society records, violent deaths and disappearances were far above normal for the region. It was enough to bring him here, especially since he’d only been one state over, prowling for another werewolf.

  Only new werewolves were sloppy enough to kill, which meant some werewolf-hosting towns lit up like homing beacons during the full moon. Something about a werewolf’s first transformation triggered a lust for blood that overruled the need to mate, the need to survive.

  Thank God for that, because otherwise no prowler would stand a chance against them. They would overtake the nation. The Prowler Society couldn’t stop them, not if their numbers weren’t limited by their own urges.

  No, Logan reflected as he splashed water on his face. It was better this way. Veteran werewolves could only infect someone once or twice during each lunar cycle without drawing a swarm of prowlers to their territory. Be it by bite or conventional breeding, which also infected the pregnant mother. Lucky for him, impregnation was rare. Bitten werewolves were bloodthirsty. Pregnant werewolves were infamous for massacring entire populations.

  Logan believed he was prowling for someone recently bitten. For the past three nights, he’d surveyed the woods behind Pinechester using the stealth his mentor instilled in him. He searched for any sign of bears or other natural creatures. But there were no signs of life, natural or otherwise. Until last night.

  His direct encounter with the werewolf had proven his instincts accurate. Slightly larger than an ordinary wolf, the werewolf didn’t have a tail. A flash of gold when their eyes met had made him aim to kill. Circumstances rarely permitted an interrogation in which he might discover the sire’s whereabouts. Usually the new werewolf didn’t have a clue anyway.

  Logan roughly wiped his face with a towel.

  Although he’d decided to forgo any questions and pull the trigger, he had no body to show for it. Yet.

  By the time he stepped from the motel room, he was steeling himself against what he might find at the bottom of the embankment: the naked, battered form of some half-alive human begging for his mercy. They always pleaded for compassion. When they weren’t ripping out the throats of their friends and innocent strangers.

  Logan slipped a key into the door of his battered 1974 Plymouth Valiant. Although the paint was chipped and the body looked as though it’d survived a session of anger management therapy, the car never failed him. It soldiered on through the worst of prowls, baby blue color and all.

  As he moved to open the driver door, the hair on the back of his neck stood on end. He was being watched. Ceasing all movement, his eyes darted to the side.

  A little girl stood not ten paces away. She couldn’t have been more than eight years old.

  Logan scanned the parking lot for her parents, but he didn’t see anyone. Not wanting to be rude, although she was the one staring, he tried for a greeting. “Hello, there.”

  No response. Hands gripping the skirt of her dress, she rocked side to side. The hem brushed her ankles with each sway.

  He rubbed his neck and nervously smiled. “Look, uh, do you belong to anyone? Parents, or–”

  “You don’t have much time left.” Her head cocked to rest on one shoulder.

  He blinked. “I’m sorry?”

  “Have you ever seen an hourglass? Your time is running out. Grain of sand by grain of sand. They’re falling now. And there you are, standing there. Watching them.”

  The corners of her mouth drew up in a smile. Then she twirled and danced across the parking lot. Her bare feet flew through the air, soles black with grit and oil.

  “Ring-a-round the rosie, a pocket full of posies…”

  Logan watched her disappear around the corner. Kids. They were strange creatures.

  Ignoring the feeling of unease plaguing him, he climbed into his car. The engine refused to turn over at first, but after pumping the brake and shifting into neutral, it roared to life. He patted the steering wheel affectionately.

  Reminding himself that a visit to a mechanic was overdue, he drove toward the woods. He fiddled with the dials of a ham radio on the way, searching for the frequency used only by the Society.

  Calling in his location wasn’t something he took pride in. It made him feel as if he were reciting a secret password before entering a clubhouse. But after everything they’d taught him, tolerating basic protocols was the least he could do. He’d put it off long enough.

  The tires crunched over gravel as he turned into a cul-de-sac
at the edge of the trees. He made a U-turn to park facing the road. There were no other cars in sight.

  After turning off the engine, Logan snatched up the radio microphone. His fingers danced over the knobs to tweak the band and mode so outsiders couldn’t listen in. They would only hear static or a distorted mess of syllables. Not that it mattered. As far as they knew, he was just some guy camping.

  With the press of a button that functioned like a doorbell, Logan waited for an answer. He gazed out his window at the beautiful scenery and thought only of werewolves.

  “Eddie’s Pizza,” a bored voice droned over the airwaves. “Will your order be delivery or carryout?”

  He didn’t miss a beat. “I want a delivery of meatless pepperoni. But only if you’re willing to drag your ass into the wilderness of Maine. I’m in Pinechester.”

  “Dude,” the voice instantly changed. “Haven’t heard from you since your scheduled call-in last week. You switch towns already?”

  “It’s more like the middle of nowhere. Track my location and let me know you got it, all right? I’d like to get back to business on the front lines. You remember the front lines, don’t you, Eddie?”

  “I’m sensing some hostility, bro. Maybe you should take a vacation. Hell, Rudy just got hitched. Not that getting hitched is… uh… sorry, dude.”

  Logan winced at the reference to his former girlfriend. “Don’t worry about it, Eddie. Glad to hear my old mentor is settling in. I hear he’s moving up the ranks, too.”

  “He’s the boss. Cracking the whip these days, though. Numbers are looking too hot across the board.”

  “We’re doing our best.”

  “Right on. All right, dude, I have your location.” The sound of furious typing filled the car. Eddie was always forgetting to release the button catch on his mic. “Locked… and loaded. Watch your back out there. I’ll be waiting for your call-in.”

  “Eddie, come on, man. Nothing’s going to happen between now and 9pm. Can we call it good for the week?”

  “No can do. Keep talking like that and you’ll hurt my feelings. Ease a guy’s mind, huh? Call us at your usual time.”