Excessica Anthology BOX SET Winter (59 page)

“I
have to work,” Conner reminded him. His stomach clenched like a fist and he
closed his eyes until it loosened again. Softly, he admitted, “I’m not feeling
real well at the moment.”

Rand
turned towards him, then stepped closer, his hip pressing against Conner’s hand
on the rail. Gentle fingers touched his face to trace his jawline. “I’m sorry,”
Rand whispered. Before Conner could say it wasn’t his fault, nothing to be
sorry about, Rand added, “It’s always bad the first time, I know. But it gets
better. I promise.”

“What
are you talking about?” Conner asked.

With
one finger, Rand traced a path down Conner’s neck, over his Adam’s apple and
into the hollow of his throat, to pick at the medical tape holding down his
bandage. Lowering his voice, Rand leaned in closer, until his breath stirred
the hair at Conner’s temple. He tapped the bandage lightly. “This isn’t a tattoo.”

Conner
watched Rand with wide eyes, not daring to lie when they were only inches
apart, not daring to even
speak
with Rand leaning against him, touching
him.
God, please,
he prayed, as Rand’s hand toyed with the neck of
Conner’s t-shirt before easing down his chest to finger the apron strings knotted
at his waist. The last thing he needed was another bout of nausea to hit him
now. Conner’s stomach tightened beneath Rand’s touch, and he swallowed back the
sick feeling that lingered in his throat.
Please don’t let me mess this up.

Rand
picked at the apron strings as if trying to untie them. His gaze never left
Conner’s face. “It’s a bite,” he whispered. Conner started in surprise, and
Rand added, “A werewolf bite.”

For
a moment, Conner couldn’t breathe. Then he laughed and stepped away, putting
some much needed space between them. “You’re shitting me,” he said. Rand’s
faint smile faltered. Conner spun around, sure that Brett and Price were
somewhere nearby—“This is a joke, right?” he asked, scanning the empty
parking lot, but they were alone, and he couldn’t hear any muffled giggles or
scuffling sneakers out of sight. An arm came up around his waist and Conner pushed
it away, angry at Rand for pulling this stunt, angrier at himself for falling
for it. The closeness, the touching…the fact that his bandage really
did
hide a nasty bite pissed him off even more. Turning on Rand, Conner warned,
“This isn’t funny.”

“Am
I laughing?” Rand wanted to know. Conner shook his head but when Rand moved
towards him, he crossed his arms protectively in front of his chest and backed
away. “Listen to me,” Rand started.

Conner
felt the railing bump against his back—Rand had him in the corner. “I’m
not some stupid kid,” he growled. “Werewolves? Please.”

Rand
reached out and Conner thought he’d grab him, shake him, yell…but instead he
gripped the railing on either side of Conner’s hips and hunched down so that
they were eye to eye. “Listen. Werewolf bites don’t heal. They start to get
better and you might even think they go away, but every month when the moon is
full, the bruises return and the bite reopens. It never completely heals. I
know—”

“How?”
Conner challenged.

Straightening,
Rand unbuttoned the flannel shirt he wore. He stopped halfway down his chest
and opened the shirt to reveal a white tank top underneath. Conner watched as
he pulled the left armhole of the tank top over, exposing one dark nipple that
stood up in the chilly air. Rand held the flannel shirt open and pointed to a
spot just below his armpit, where a dark bruise blossomed around the torn edges
of a bite. The wound looked so much like Conner’s own that his hand strayed to
the bandage on his neck. “How’d you get that?” he whispered.

Rand
rebuttoned his shirt. “I was like twelve or so,” he said. “Hanging out late
with some friends down by the woods behind those apartments Brett used to live
in. Over on Branders Bridge?” Conner nodded—he knew where they were. Once
Rand’s shirt was settled into place, he put his hands on the railing again, trapping
Conner within the span of his arms. “I don’t really remember what actually
happened,” he said, his voice low and intimate. He took a step closer and his
shoe bumped against Conner’s. He nudged the foot aside to open a space between
Conner’s legs and came closer, standing between Conner’s feet. The heavy weight
of his groin pressed against Conner’s crotch. Rand moved his hips once,
grinding into Conner, whose dick stiffened between them. Rand’s wolflike grin
leered in front of Conner’s face. “What about you?” he wanted to know.

“I…I
don’t remember either,” Conner stuttered. At the moment, with Rand’s body so
snugly fit against his own? Conner had trouble remembering what they were
talking about, let alone what happened over a month ago. All he could think of
was the hardness he felt in Rand’s jeans where they rubbed against his own and
the strong arms that hemmed him in. This close, Rand was intoxicating. There
was something wild and free about him, something unbound, that made Conner want
to wrap his arms around the guy’s neck and pull him in for a long, heated kiss.
But he didn’t dare—part of him was still angry, though he wasn’t sure why
anymore, and part of him feared this might all be one elaborate joke to leave
him blue-balled and hurt. He settled for resting his hands on Rand’s arms, his
fingers massaging thin muscles. “I was coming home from work—”

“Last
month,” Rand reminded him. His hands shifted on the railing, moving together
behind Conner, almost drawing him into an embrace. Conner had to look up into
Rand’s face, and this close, he could count the small scars on Rand’s nose and
cheeks. Were they
really
from a car accident? Before he could ask, Rand
continued. “It was raining and you decided to cut through the woods on your way
home, right? Only someone followed you. Someone who took advantage of the dark
and the storm and the full moon to give you this.” He nodded at Conner’s neck
and murmured, “Usually they attack to kill, but the only way to become a
werewolf is to survive the bite.” Leaning closer, he nipped at the air above
Conner’s bandage playfully. Deep in his throat, he growled. The sound was so
realistic that Conner’s arms pimpled into goose bumps. “Whoever gave you this
didn’t want to kill you. He wanted to make you one of us.”

One
of us.
Conner whispered, “But who was he?”

In
reply, Rand pressed his mouth against Conner’s. His tongue licked between
Conner’s lips, tasting him, testing him, and Conner closed his eyes as he gave
into rough, brief kiss. Then Rand pulled away. When Conner opened his eyes, he
was gone.

* * * *

Back
in the dining room, Conner expected to see Rand sitting with his friends but
the corner booth was empty, the table already bussed. Brett stood at the
register, paying the bill, and when he saw Conner, he waved. “Dude, you okay?
You look out of it.”

Conner
ran a hand through his hair. “I’m fine. Where’s Rand?”

With
a laugh, Brett asked, “Didn’t you hear? He got sick halfway through his burger
and left. I mean really sick. Ran into the bathroom puking, almost.” Nudging
Conner, he winked. “You didn’t poison him, did you? Business at home too slow?”

Conner
shook his head. “I think there’s something going around,” he said as his
stomach roiled. He covered it with one hand and waited for the nausea to pass.
So Rand was sick too?
Maybe he’s right,
Conner thought.
Maybe I was
bitten by a werewolf, and now what, my body’s changing? Didn’t Sylvia say something
about a full moon tonight?
Weakly, Conner murmured, “Oh God.”

Brett
peered at him with concern. “What, you too? Geez, this is the last time I’m
eating here.”

Conner’s
mind raced as he tried to remember anything he’d heard or read about
werewolves, but all he came up with were jumbled bits of superstition.
Something about pentagrams appearing in a victim’s palm…or was that only in the
movies? Crosses, holy water, garlic—no, those were for vampires, not
werewolves. Silver bullets, that sounded right, and Conner felt the skin around
his piercings begin to tingle as his pulse quickened. Did that mean any silver
in his body? Or just on an open wound? Why couldn’t he be into gold instead? As
if seeing Brett for the first time, Conner asked, “Where’s Rand again?”

“Went
home,” Brett said. “You should, too. You look like death warmed over, kid, and
I’m not just saying that because you live at a morgue.”

“Funeral
parlor,” Conner corrected absently. If Rand was serious about the
bite—and the way Conner’s body was fighting him right now, twisting with
odd pains and making him sick, he thought there might be something to Rand’s
story after all—then Conner needed to find him, now. He had too many questions
that needed answers. If the only way to become a werewolf was to survive the
bite, and Conner hadn’t died from the wound on his neck yet, chances were he
was going to…change, or something. Into a wolf? When the moon rose, or when he
saw it, how did that work exactly? How much longer did he have before he became
some ravaging monster tearing through Sylvia’s Grill—

He
had to leave. Now, before it was too late. He had to get home and—

No,
not home. His family was there, and more than likely there was a service being
held in the viewing room. He had to go someplace where he wouldn’t run into
anyone, where he wouldn’t
hurt
anyone, because if there was even a
remote
possibility that Rand was right…

He
had to go.

* * * *

“Sylvia.”
Conner stumbled around the prep counter, still holding his stomach. The pain
rolled in faster now like the incoming tide. Conner wanted to tear the clothes
off his skin, then tear the skin from his bones, anything to stop the ache that
throbbed in every pore of his being. How much longer did he have? Was it always
going to be like this, every month? He heard Rand’s voice in his mind,
It’s
always bad the first time.
A few feet away, his boss dressed burger buns
for incoming orders. “Sylvia,” Conner said again. When she glanced at him, he
added, “I gotta go. I feel like shit.”

“You
look like shit,” she answered. She wiped her hands on the towel hanging from
her apron and started to place a hand on his cheek, but thought better of it.
“Go on,” she said. “I don’t want you spreading whatever it is you’ve got around
to everyone else.”

A
stabbing in his abdomen doubled Conner over. “Thanks,” he sighed. With the hand
not fisted over his stomach, Conner removed his apron and tossed it into the
clothes bin by the trashcan. He wanted to stop and wash up but didn’t
dare—the clock over the register read five thirty. This late in October,
before Daylight Savings, it got dark early, and Conner again wondered when
night officially began. When the moon rose? When the sun set? He didn’t know.
Damn Rand for doing this to him, getting him all worked up, probably over
nothing.

But
what if he’s right?
Conner’s mind whispered.

He
pushed the thought away and hurried to the back door again. The chilly evening
air revived him, cooling his brow and fluttering through his shirt as he took
the steps two at a time down to the parking lot. He started for the front of
the restaurant, where Wolfried Road stretched in either direction, but the
sound of leaves rustling in the scant breeze made him stop. He glanced at the
woods behind Sylvia’s, at the darkness between the trees, the silver undersides
of leaves flickering in the wind, the gaping maw that marked the beginning of a
path. Above, the sky was a deep indigo like spilled ink, and shadows spread
across the parking lot like words written on a page. When Conner looked into
the endless night around him, he felt a surge in his blood that told him the
moon was on the rise. The woods seemed the safer choice, if Rand was right,
than walking home on a busy street in the dark. If he should change…

He
didn’t want to think of that, he
wouldn’t.
If Rand
wasn’t
right,
then a walk in the woods would just get him home that much quicker. That’s all.
Without giving it a second thought, Conner turned on his heel and headed for
the forest path and the dark beyond.

* * * *

The
light from the parking lot didn’t stretch far down the path before the darkness
swallowed it. Conner stumbled over an unseen sapling and prayed that it was
past poison ivy season. Outside in the growing night, the pain in his body
subsided. His senses seemed heightened—he could smell the stench from the
dumpster behind Sylvia’s, the earthy odor of the woods and dirt path, the fresh
evening beyond. Now that he was among the trees, he wanted to race through them
like…
like a wolf,
his mind whispered. Yes, like a wolf. He wanted to
feel the wind against his face and through his hair. He wanted to feel the
earth beneath his hands and feet, dig into the soft ground and roll in the
grass. He wanted to howl out all his dreams and frustrations at the moon above,
and wait for an answering call to beckon to him. Where were these thoughts
coming from? His hands shook against the strange desires flooding through him
and Conner fisted them both in the front of his shirt, pressing hard into his
stomach to keep the pain at bay and ground him in the present. His feet
followed the path blindly, heading in the direction of his home because he
couldn’t think of anywhere else to go.

A
few yards into the forest, a shadow detached itself from those around it and
Rand stepped out onto the path. Anger and relief warred within Conner. “Where the
hell’d you go?” he asked.

Rand
waited as Conner approached, then fell into step beside him. “Right here,” he
replied, as if Conner should’ve known that. “I was beginning to think you
wouldn’t come.”