new bolt set in his crossbow.
Blaine and Connor let the darts fall to the ground and groan. In pain, I guess.
“Jesus,” Blaine says. “What the heck are you all doing? You could have killed us.”
“We didn’t shoot to kill this time,” Carver says. “But you’re right, we could have killed you. What’s this all about, anyhow?”
“Frumberg,” I say. “They want to eat him.”
“We weren’t going to eat him,” Blaine says, rolling his eyes. “Just bite him, maybe. Or scratch him up a little. Turn him into one of our pack. Kind of a stupid idea, actually. Definitely not worth all this trouble.”
There’s a rattling then at the gate, but my eyes are on Blaine.
“Who’s Frumberg?” Andres ask.
Jonathan points to Gary, who’s lying on the ground.
“Wow,” Carver says. “Is he dead?”
Jonathan is crouching down next to him. “Nope,” he says. “He’s still breathing.” But then he gasps. “Dude, he’s bleeding. He’s been scratched. Who scratched him?”
“The dog?” I ask.
“Nope,” Blaine says. “We would have smelled the blood on him if he’d already been scratched. It was one of us.”
“Well, who was it, then?” Andres asks.
“I never touched him,” says Blaine.
“Nor I,” says Connor.
“Hold on a minute, are you accusing me?” I ask.
“Maybe it was an accident,” Jonathan says. “You were trying to protect him and got a little over enthusiastic.”
But before I can respond, the gate rattles. I glance over and see Enrique, his jaguar out in front of him. He can take care of himself, can’t he? I turn back to Blaine, who’s nodding at me.
“You probably just scratched him by accident,” says Blaine. “I wouldn’t lose sleep over it.”
“Is it enough to infect him?” Jonathan says.
“Don’t worry about it,” Blaine says. “What’s done is done.”
Enrique gasps in surprise, and from nearby I hear a few soft, haunting notes of a flute, but I’m preoccupied. “Tell me you’re not saying what I think you’re saying.”
Blaine shrugs.
“He’s going to be a werewolf?” Carver asks.
“I told you not to worry about it,” Blaine says. “Werewolf scratches usually carry the curse, but we’ve got more immediate problems.”
“Blaine,” Jonathan says, “this boy that Stanley scratched, maybe infected — do you know anything about him?”
Blaine shakes his head. “Besides the fact he came into our store and got some books on witchcraft, no.”
“Dude,” Jonathan says. “You do know what he did tonight, right, in the pentagram here? You remember what we just told you a few minutes ago before you got all aggressive? Or has bloodlust softened your brain?”
Blaine looks down. “He tried to conjure something?”