“Dylan, can you hear me?” she whispered urgently. Seeing his half-open eyes, she gave a sigh of relief. “I thought you were dead.” She peeled his fingers away from his side.
He looked numbly down at the wound, where dark blood was still flowing freely from deep, agonizing slashes.
“Let’s get you cleaned up.” She tore one leg off her sweatpants and he watched her quick, capable fingers transform it into a bandage. He winced as she pressed it against him.
“At least it’s over,” Nudge said weakly. She smiled through a split and puffy lip, then sat down stiffly on a step. “Well, almost.” She warily eyed Jeb’s quietly groaning, semiconscious form, still lying awkwardly next to the porch where he’d passed out earlier, but no one said anything—they’d deal with him later.
“Cheers to that.” The Gasman nodded and plopped down next to her with a sigh of relief, moving as if every muscle hurt.
And yet… for Dylan, it still wasn’t over. Not even almost. Dylan, after all, still had a mission.
Though he and Ari had had the same goal, he hadn’t trusted Jeb’s motives, hadn’t been sure that the rabid, enhanced wolves wouldn’t go wild after Fang was dead and take out the entire flock. He’d needed to eliminate all threats to Max before he attempted his despicable mission. And he knew that once he had made up his mind, he had to be the one to do it.
Well, he thought, now it’s up to me alone.
He had to be the one to kill Fang.
He struggled to his feet, conscious of Max’s sweet, concerned eyes watching him carefully.
“I’m sorry, Max,” he murmured, so softly that only she could hear.
And he whipped around, slamming his fist into Fang’s already broken nose.
68
DYLAN THOUGHT THE shocked look on Fang’s face was utterly priceless. It gave him the strength to do what he knew he had to do next.
Dylan rose into the air with powerful strokes, the air swirling and roiling around him. Fang had shot away from Dylan in shock, anger, and surprise, twisting his face into a grimace as his nose gushed from the blow. But Dylan matched him wing to wing. He was the hunter, his body strong and sure in the pursuit, his face set in grim expectation.
Dr. Williams had been right: He was stronger, more powerful, more advanced. He had been created for this.
There was only one way this could end.
In his mind’s eye, Dylan saw the fight from above—a giant bird of prey and a snarling, wounded grizzly clawing and screeching at each other, streaking violently through the sky like a shooting star, both intent on one thing: blood.
Dylan watched as the bear twisted his lean body defensively, his dark, matted hair lifted by the wind. He watched the paw swing and find its mark, saw blood gushing from fresh wounds. Then Dylan was aware of a spark of electricity, a wetness vibrating on his arm.
He saw those famous fangs, bared and gnashing as a deadly snarl built from somewhere vicious and animal within.
Then he watched the eagle, stalking its prey from above with graceful speed and huge breadth, wings spread, talons out, ready to strike.
Diving for the kill.
Going for the throat.
And before he could register what was going on, Max was there, between them, real and physical, her voice echoing in his eardrums.
“Dylan!” she wailed, blocking Fang, cradling him, propping his body up even as she kicked and clawed at Dylan’s face. “If you ever loved me, if you care about me at all, please”—her voice broke as sobs overtook her, and it was like a knife slicing through him—“don’t do this.”
She was fighting him with all her strength, pulling at his hands, pleading with all her heart. Pleading for him to spare Fang’s life.
As if waking from a nightmare, he blinked a few times and panted as he looked from the tears running down Max’s dirty, bloody face to the hands clenched, viselike, around Fang’s throat.
They were his hands, he understood with shock.
He had wanted to protect Max, he told himself miserably. But Fang’s death, he realized, would kill her as surely as any whitecoat could.
That was when he realized he couldn’t go through with it.