Stolen (Otherworld 2)

Almost against my will, my feet moved toward the infirmary door. Winsloe sidestepped to give me room and put his arm around my waist, pulling me in.

"Can you believe that?" he said, then laughed. "I guess you can, right?"

At first, I saw nothing. Or nothing unusual. Beyond the window was the counter, shining antiseptic white, stainless-steel sink gleaming like something in a kitchen showroom. A row of bottles stood at attention along the back of the coun

ter. Carmichael's binder lay at a perfect ninety-degree angle beside the sink. Everything ordered and spotless, as always. Then something along the base of the counter caught my eye. An obscenity amid the pristine cleanliness. A star-shaped splatter of blood.

My gaze traversed the floor. A smear of blood six inches from the counter. Fat drops zigzagging to the crash cart. The cart upended, contents scattered and broken. A puddle of blood. A shoe print in the puddle, edges razor perfect. Then another smear, bigger, the bloodied shoe sliding across the floor. The filing cabinet. The hundred-pound steel cabinet toppled over, blockading the far corner as if someone had tipped it and hidden behind its imperfect barricade. Papers scattered across the floor. Blood spattered over them. Beneath the bed, a shoe with a bloodied bottom. Above the shoe, a leg. I whirled to face the others, to tell them someone was in there. As I turned, my gaze traveled up the leg to the knee, to a pool of bright crimson, to nothingness. A severed leg. My stomach leaped to my throat. I spun away, fast, but not fast enough. I saw a hand lying a few feet from the bed. Closer to the door, half-obscured under a spilled tray, a bloody hunk of meat that had been human.

Something hit the door, reverberating so hard I stumbled back with the impact. A roar of fury. A flash of yellowish brown fur. An ear. A blood-soaked muzzle. Bauer.

"Tranquilizers," I wheezed as I regained my balance. "We need to sedate her. Now."

"That's the problem," Tucker said. "It's all in there."

"All of it?" I inhaled, blinking, struggling to get my brain working again. I rubbed a hand across my face, straightened up, and looked around. "There must be a backup supply. Where's Doctor Carmichael? She'll know."

No one answered. As silence ticked by, my guts heaved again. I closed my eyes and forced myself to look through the window. Back at the foot under the bed. The shoe. A sensible, sturdy black shoe. Carmichael's shoe.

Oh, God. That wasn't fair. It was so, so, so not fair. The refrain raced through my head, chasing out all other thoughts. Of everyone in this goddamned place. Of all those who I'd gladly see die. Of those few I'd even be happy to see die a death as horrible as this. Not Carmichael.

Rage surged through me. I clenched my fists, gave in to the anger for a moment, then shoved it back as I turned to face the others.

"She's fully Changed," I said. "You have a fully Changed, half-mad werewolf in there, and if you don't act fast, she'll come right through this door. Why's everyone standing around? What are you going to do?"

"The question is," Tucker said. "What are you going to do?"

I stepped away from the door. "This is your problem, not mine. I warned you. I warned and warned and warned. You used me to help her recover, then you threw me back in my cell. Now things have gone wrong and you want me to fix it? Well, I didn't screw it up in the first place."

Tucker waved at the guards. One moved to the door, checked through the window, and turned the handle.

"You'll find sedatives in the cupboards along the far wall," Tucker said.

"No way," I said. "No fucking way."

Four of the remaining guards lifted their guns. Trained those guns on me.

"I will not--"

The door opened. Someone shoved me. As I stumbled in, the door slammed shut, catching my heel and knocking me to the floor. Scrambling to my feet, I heard nothing but silence. Then a sound vibrated through the room, more felt than heard. A growl.

CHAPTER 32

RAMPAGE

Still on all fours, I looked up slowly. A 120-odd-pound wolf stared back, yellow-brown fur on end, making Bauer seem as big as a mastiff. She stared me in the eyes, ears forward, teeth bared, lips curled in a silent snarl.

I looked away and stayed down, holding myself a few inches lower than Bauer. The submission rankled, but my life was worth more than my pride. And yes, at that moment, I was very worried about my life expectancy. Even Clay would avoid tackling a werewolf who was in wolf form when he was not. As a wolf, Bauer had the advantage of teeth and claws. Moreover, the human shape itself is awkward for fighting an animal--too slow, too tall, too easily thrown off-balance. The only superior weapon humans have is their brain, and that doesn't help much against something with an animal body and a human brain. Against a newly turned werewolf, the human brain is actually a disadvantage. Our minds are fundamentally logical. We assess a situation, devise possible strategies, and pick the one that represents the best compromise between likelihood of success and likelihood of survival. If I'm late for work, I can floor the gas pedal all the way to the office, but considering the risk of personal injury, I'll choose instead to drive ten or fifteen miles over the speed limit and arrive at work slightly late but alive. A new werewolf in wolf form loses that ability to reason, to assess the consequences. It is like a rabid beast, fueled by instinct and fury, ready to destroy everything in sight, even if it kills itself in the process.

I could fight Bauer only if I Changed into a wolf. But even under ideal conditions, that took five to ten minutes. Like Lake, I'd be completely vulnerable during that interim, too deformed even to stand and run away. Bauer would tear me apart before I sprouted fur. Yet no one was letting me out of here until I stopped Bauer. The only way to do that would be to sedate her.

To knock Bauer out, all I had to do was run across the room, grab a sedative-filled syringe from the cupboard, and jab it into her. It sounded so easy. If only there wasn't a blood-crazed wolf between the cupboard and me. Even if Bauer didn't pounce on me before I ran past, she'd attack the second my back was to her. I inhaled. First step: I had to find the proper mix of submission and self-confidence. Too submissive and she'd see me as easy prey. Too assertive and she'd see me as a threat. The key was to not show fear. Again, it sounded so easy ... if you weren't in a room littered with bloody body parts, reminding you that with one false move your limbs and vital organs would join them.

I inched forward, keeping my gaze focused below Bauer's eyes. As I moved, I scrutinized her body for signs: bunched muscles, tense tendons, all the signals that presaged an attack. In five steps, I was parallel to her, about six feet to her left. Sweat stung my eyes. Did it stink of fear? Bauer's nose twitched, but the rest of her remained motionless. As I sidestepped past, I swiveled, keeping my face to her. Her eyes followed me. I kept moving sideways. A dozen steps to go. Bauer's hind quarters shifted up, the first sign of an impending leap. With that early sign, I thought I'd have time to react. I didn't. By the time my brain registered that she was about to lunge, she was airborne. There was no time to turn and run. I dove past her, hit the ground, and rolled. Behind me, Bauer hit the floor, all four legs skidding. As I watched her slide, I realized I did have an advantage here. Like a new driver plunked behind the wheel of a Maserati, Bauer was unprepared for the power and precision handling of her new body. If I could take advantage of her mistakes and inexperience, I could survive.

As I lurched to my feet, Bauer was veering around. I sprinted past her and vaulted onto the counter. Throwing one cupboard open, I grabbed the wooden partition between the doors to balance myself and spun around. Bauer flew at me. I kicked her under the jaw and she somersaulted backward, skidding across the floor. As I flipped to face the cupboards, I saw faces crowding the infirmary window. Were they enjoying the show? Damn, I hoped so.

While Bauer recovered, I threw open the second cupboard door and searched both sides for syringes filled with sedative. Instead, I saw a box of plastic-encased syringes and rows of labeled bottles. A do-it-yourself job. Shit! Were these the right syringes? Which bottle did I need? How much should I fill it? I pushed my questions aside, grabbed a syringe, and started scooting down the counter toward the bottles. Then I stopped, plucked a second packaged syringe from the box, and shoved it into my pocket. Klutz insurance. When I reached the bottles, I scanned them for a familiar name. Behind me, Bauer struggled to her feet. Move, Elena! Just grab one! I saw pentobarbital, recognized it from Jeremy's medical bag, and reached for it. Bauer leaped at the counter but miscalculated and crashed into it.