I tasted blood. Blood in my mouth, in the back of my throat. I could taste it on my breath, all the way down to my stomach.
I choked, unable to hold back a sob, and my stomach quailed. I pulled away from Cormac and vomited. It was purplish. It had chunks. After a couple of waves, and a couple more dry heaves, I could take a breath and start to think of what had happened. I rested my head against the brick, which was cool and rough.
“Heap big werewolf, eh?” Cormac said with a half-grin.
“That’s me,” I said weakly.
&
nbsp; “I told you not to fight him.”
“It was self-defense, Officer.”
“Can you stand?”
I thought about it, taking a couple more deep breaths while I assessed myself. I thought I could stand. I tried. I got my legs under me, but when I put weight on them, they shook. When I tipped, starting to fall, Cormac caught me.
I cried. I pulled close into myself and cried, gritting my teeth to stop the sound, embarrassed that I couldn’t stop the sobs shuddering through me. I hugged my arms around my head, all the hiding I was able to do.
Cormac held me. He didn’t pet me or make silly comforting noises. He just held me, halfway on his lap, bracing me.
Eventually, the crying stopped. The trembling stilled. My eyes squinted, swollen. I hiccuped, trying to fill my exhausted lungs. I didn’t feel any better after crying my heart out. But I did feel ready to fall asleep without having nightmares.
Sometimes I had dreams where I was covered with blood, running through the forest, killing things, happy to be doing it. Sometimes I couldn’t remember if they were dreams or not.
“You okay?”
“I don’t know,” I said, my voice small. I rubbed my face, which was gritty with dirt and grime.
“Come on. I’ll drive you home.” He started to stand, and this time when I put weight on my legs, they held me. Cormac kept his hand under my arm, just in case.
The blanket went down to my knees. I walked gingerly; my feet were bare and the alley was covered with broken glass and metal bits. I watched my feet and wasn’t paying attention to much else. When Cormac stopped, I looked up.
Detective Hardin stood there. She turned and said something to the half-dozen uniformed cops trailing behind her. Reluctantly, they backed away. All of them had their guns out.
Hardin tucked her gun into a belt holster. She crossed her arms, regarding us like she was a high school teacher who’d caught a couple of kids necking behind the bleachers. Or maybe it was just that I felt like one of the kids.
She said, “I’ve got a body back there with its face ripped off. Why do I get the feeling if I check the guy’s DNA, I’ll get a match with the suspect’s evidence from my mauling victims?”
I swallowed. My throat was still raw from trying not to cry. “You will.”
“What about the guy from outside your apartment?”
“No. But, I’m ready to talk about him. I think.”
Her face took on a pained, annoyed expression. “Does this happen often? Werewolves slaughtering each other for no apparent reason?”
“Oh, there’s always a reason,” I said. Realizing how bad that sounded, I looked away. “No, it doesn’t happen often.” Only when the power struggles happened. When a junior wolf like me got too big for her britches.
“Huh. And I thought police internal affairs was tough.”
I glanced at Cormac. His expression was a mask, inscrutable. I was sure he hadn’t called the cops. I said, “How did you know where to go?”
“Your sound guy called me.”
“Matt. Bastard,” I muttered. I thought he knew better than to get mixed up in supernatural rumbles.
“Why didn’t you call me?”