“I’m fine. You’re the one who was shot.”
Graham released her and stepped back. “I know. And look at me.” He put his hands on his hips, standing upright. His face was no longer drawn and gray, and the spent look was gone from his eyes. He looked hale and well, tall and strong.
Graham ripped the tape from his side. Underneath, his skin was whole, the only thing left of the wound a patch of dried blood. He was completely and undeniably healed.
Misty reached out and touched his side to find warm, firm flesh. “I guess Shifters do heal fast.”
“Not that fast. There was magic in the water, and there’s only one kind of magic going around these days. At least around Shifters.”
“Magic? What are you talking about?”
“Bastards. They’ll do anything to get Shifters under their power again, and you went and handed me to them. Damn it.” He turned away, pacing again. “This is what I get for being nice to a human.”
Misty took a step back. “What the hell do you mean I handed you to them? Them who? I didn’t hand you to anybody.”
“You forced that water into me. Now I’m screwed. Shit.” Graham balled both fists and slammed them into the rock wall.
He hit so hard Misty expected his fingers to break, but the wall chipped, and dirt pattered down like rain. Graham hit the wall again and again, the curse word sounding with each slam. He was enraged, and behind the rage on his stiff face, Misty saw fear.
“Graham, what is wrong?”
He swung to her. His eyes were white gray, a wolf’s eyes, and his snarl filled the cave. “You are what is wrong. Don’t you understand? You have f**ked me over.”
Misty’s lips parted, her breath hitching. He was furious, more so than she’d ever seen him, and he was mad at her.
Emotions tumbled through her. She’d been terrorized this morning, her fear for her brother overriding her fear for herself. She’d been rescued by Graham, who’d looked pissed off to do it. Then she’d been in danger of dying of heatstroke while she watched Graham start to expire with a bullet in his side. And now Graham was standing here, yelling at her.
Words wouldn’t come, and neither would her breath. Misty turned her back and walked outside. The sun was beating down hotter than before, afternoon well underway, but she didn’t care.
Graham came after her. He didn’t bother to stop her; he pushed past her and started down the hill.
A plume of dust rose in the desert about a mile away, a vehicle approaching. Graham went on down the wash, stepping through the slithering stones with agility. Misty picked her way down, the soles of her sandals split, her feet burning.
The dark spot in front of the dust plume enlarged until it became a large black pickup. It skidded a little in the soft dirt as it turned off the track and headed for the shack and Graham.
Even before the truck stopped, Dougal leapt out of the back door of the four-door cab, clad in a new shirt. Dougal ran at Graham, hurtling himself into Graham’s arms like a scared adolescent. Graham gathered his nephew into his embrace, holding him, rubbing his back.
The pickup halted, the driver’s and passenger’s doors opened, and two men got out of the cab. Misty recognized them as she drew near—Diego Escobar, a human who was the mate of her friend Cassidy, and Stuart Reid, a tall man Misty had met only a few times. Reid wasn’t Shifter, but he lived in Shiftertown and didn’t talk much about his past. He used to be a cop, as had Diego. Now they both worked for Diego’s private security company, DX Security.
Misty pressed her hand to her side and hurried the last few yards, breathing hard. The two men and Graham turned to watch her, but Dougal kept his face buried in Graham’s shoulder.
“Please say you have water,” Misty said as she reached them.
Diego silently held out a sports bottle. Misty upended it, pouring the liquid in a stream into her mouth. The water didn’t taste anywhere near as good as the water the hiker had given her, but it was wet, which was the point.
“We need to get out of here,” Graham said.
“That’s the plan,” Diego said then turned to Misty. “You okay?”
“Fine,” she said. “Now that there’s water.” She took another long drink.
Graham ignored them and pushed his way to the truck, Dougal still hanging on him. Without a word, he continued to the truck bed, where he convinced Dougal to turn him loose so Graham could lift his ruined motorcycle into the back, then they both climbed in with it.
Diego watched Graham, a puzzled look on his face. “I thought he got himself shot.”
“He did,” Misty said, too weary to go into details. “Can we go home now?”
Diego opened the pickup cab’s back door. “Your carriage awaits.”
Misty gave him a weak smile and let him help her up into the cool interior. Diego had the air-conditioning going full throttle, the icy blast making her blink. Misty leaned back into the soft leather of Diego’s custom seats, thinking nothing had ever felt so good.
Diego slid into the driver’s seat. Reid, who’d not said a word, was at the back of the truck talking to Graham. Misty couldn’t hear what they said, but Reid wore a worried expression as he scanned the desert.
Reid then climbed into the pickup’s bed, still conversing with Graham. Diego said nothing, only put the truck into gear and pulled out.
“Can I borrow your phone?” Misty said, her voice thin and tired. “I need to call my brother.”
“Already taken care of,” Diego said. “Your brother is safe, in Shiftertown, in fact. My brother and a couple of my guards are at your house, making sure no bad guys show up there. Paul’s at Eric’s house, which is where we’re headed.”
“No,” Misty said sharply. “I want to go home.”
Diego looked at her in the rearview mirror, surprise on his face. “Your brother’s worried about you.”
“Keep him safe, and thank you. But I need to be alone for a little bit. Tell Paul I’m fine, and I’ll see him later. If my house is safe, I want to go there.”
Diego still looked puzzled, but he didn’t argue.
Misty dozed off once the truck left rutted road for smooth pavement. The pickup’s deeply tinted windows kept out the sun and leather seats cradled her body.
The sleep didn’t refresh her, though. Flashes of dreams struck her—Graham with blood all over him, Flores’s pockmarked face when he’d pushed it close to hers, the despair when she’d been locked in the hot shack. Threading through these visions was the remembered sensation of the wonderful, sweet, clear coolness of the water. Misty wanted more. She had to have more.