I considered who I could call. No one from my pack. One of my pack had done this to me, and I’d just driven T.J. away. Not too many others would know what to do with me. I thought of Rick, then thought of what he might do when he saw this much blood drenched over everything. He might not have my well-being immediately in mind.
I called Cormac. Again, I called Cormac when any normal, sane person would have called the police. And for the same reason: How would I explain this to the police? To a hospital staff, as the nurses watched my wounds heal themselves? I wouldn’t have to explain any of this to Cormac.
I dialed the number, and as usual he didn’t answer until after half a dozen or so rings.
“Yeah.”
“It’s Kitty. I need help.”
“Where are you?”
“Home.” I dropped the phone into its cradle.
I made my way to the kitchen sink and ran water over my arm. I watched the patterns, water turning the blood pink, the holes in my skin that were revealed when the blood washed away. If I stood quietly, I could watch them heal, like time-lapse photography; watch the scabs form and the edges of the holes come together, like dirt filling in a grave. Fascinating.
The next thing I knew, he was standing there. Cormac. I squinted at him. He might have been standing there for hours, watching me.
“How’d you get in?” I said.
“You left your front door open.”
“Shit.”
“What happened to you?”
“Sibling rivalry. Never mind.”
He was as cool as ice. Never once broke his tough-guy tone. He searched the kitchen cupboards until he found a glass. He leaned over the sink, turned the faucet away from my arm, filled the glass with water, and handed it to me. I drank and felt better. A drink of water. I should have thought of that.
“You look like hell,” he said.
“I feel worse.”
“You’re not hurt that bad. Looks like you’re healing pretty quick.”
“It’s not that.” Wolf was still gnawing at my insides for putting her on the leash.
“Have anything to do with the mangled body in the driveway?”
Shit. Had he called the police? “Yeah.”
“Did you do it?”
“No,” I said harshly.
“Anyone you know do it? Was it the rogue?”
“He—the guy outside—was a werewolf, too. Pack squabble.” He watched me, frowning, his eyes unreadable. Like a cop at an interrogation, waiting for the suspect to crack. My throat felt dry. “Do you believe me?”
He said, “Why’d you call me for help?”
“I can’t trust anyone, and you said you owed me. Didn’t you?”
“Don’t move.” He went to the dresser on the other side of the room and opened drawers, looking for something. I stayed where I was, leaning on the counter until he came back. He had a towel over his shoulder and held a shirt out to me.
He turned away, staring at the opposite wall as I removed the shredded T-shirt and pulled on the tank top.
“I’m done,” I said when I was finished changing.