The Way You Bite
Zoe Forward
To H, whose middle name should be Trouble.
Chapter One
Fifty-five minutes until wedding kickoff. She was going to be late.
“Wait up, Dr. Scarpa.” The request came from across the veterinary hospital’s main treatment room.
Vee Scarpa whirled, one step shy of exiting.
One of the day doctors, moonlighting as an overnight fill-in, flipped her blonde, frizzy braid over her shoulder and stomped Vee’s way. The doctor had to dodge the techs triaging a Labrador with a bleeding paw. She huffed to a parking spot in Vee’s personal space, close enough to rain spittle.
“Room One kicked me out. Says he’ll only see you. Actually, he said the Dr. Scarpa. Funny, ’cause he’s a new client. It’s a stat, but he won’t let the dog out of his sight for us to triage it. The owner also wouldn’t let anyone touch it even though the thing is bleeding a river.” She paused with a dramatic eye-roll and snort. “Fine with me if you see it. Looks like it’s a biter.” She held out the chart.
“It’s five after nine. I should’ve left over a half hour ago.” Vee eyed the chart as if it was toxic.
“I hate after-hours emergency. If I wasn’t getting paid extra, I wouldn’t be here. I’ve got no idea why you choose to do this long term.” The doctor shrugged and threw the chart on the counter. She snatched a new chart from the ever-dutiful tech, Crystal, who grimaced.
Vee flashed Crystal a supportive smile as the temperamental veterinarian strode away. She stared at the discarded chart for a few seconds before her give-a-shit meter spat out a maybe-I-should.
Don’t do it. Seeing this patient would make her late. Her appearance in one hour was mandatory. Tonight would’ve been a good night to take off, but she needed the shift. Only another three months on vet ER pay and she’d have enough money saved to leave this life behind and disappear.
“Shepherd mix. Fight wounds,” she read. At least it wasn’t another heatstroke emergency. The record-breaking heat wave in Charlotte was atypical for October in North Carolina. A dog fight, however, meant at least an hour between the sedation, wound care, and recovery. If this required general anesthesia, then it might take even longer. If the dog required surgery, then she’d have to punt it to another doctor. Maybe it wouldn’t be severe. An antibiotic, some pain relief, and see-ya-later.
“Want me to go in with you?” Crystal materialized at her left elbow.
“Sure. Get any history from”—she glanced at the name on the chart—“Mr. Vorste?”
“What you see is it. He wouldn’t even put his monster dog on the scale. The guy may be hot in a dark, Goth sort of way, but he’s really odd. I didn’t get the feeling he speaks English well. He’s Eastern European or Russian or something. I’m pretty sure that dog isn’t a shepherd. If so, it’s mixed with Wolfhound or Newfie. Be careful. It lunged when I tried to take its temperature.”
Dread twisted her stomach. Please let it be just a Newfie mix, not something else. “Is it up to date on rabies?”
“Nope.” Crystal’s eyebrows shot up in judgment. She’d profiled and condemned this client as one of those who viewed rabies vaccines and any level of preventive care as unimportant. Those people considered a pet to be a right, not a responsibility, an attitude that permeated certain populations around town.
Vee glanced at the unhelpful chart again. She took a deep breath to attempt a mental scan to see if she could pick up any nonhumans in the vicinity. Between exhaustion and blood hunger, focusing to do an effective scan was difficult.
Crystal interrupted her scan by touching her arm. She flinched while the tech said, “You going to see it?”
“I suppose so. Don’t get bitten. The last thing we need is the nightmare of phoning Animal Control and rabies quarantining a dog tonight. Let’s wrap this up quickly. I should’ve been on my way to an event twenty minutes ago, and I’ve still got to change out of scrubs. Grab a muzzle.”
A thirtyish guy slouching on the client bench greeted her in the exam room. His odd golden eyes tracked her entry. With an abrupt movement, he pushed at his dark hair and sat up straight. The short, choppy strands were too heavily pomaded into stylish disarray to dare alter direction. At his feet, a supersized black “shepherd mix” scrutinized her with eyes a shade too pale blue for natural dog irises.
One sniff and her pulse skyrocketed. Werewolf.
What were they doing here?
Only the king was rumored to have eyes as light in color as this animal. This couldn’t be him. Not in her ER.
Her “client” unfolded his over-six-foot muscular frame to stand, forcing her to look up. She wasn’t a shrimp at five-six, but he had many inches on her. His move to an onlooker may appear respectful, but he meant to intimidate her.
He extended a strong hand. “Eric Vorste.”
She glared at his hand. A public handshake was a symbolic truce. Doing so during this time of war was treason. Crystal might not be a vampire, but under a vamp’s persuasion she’d tell. Her father’s minions checked up on Vee on a regular basis. They mind-wiped whomever they spoke with, but he’d find out about this.
Crystal sucked in a loud breath, clearly astonished at her rude reluctance.
Crap.