Three and a half weeks later, Jordan placed a plate with a thick slab of prime rib on the raised desk in front of Carl as Carl stared at his computer screen in the lab. Carl grabbed the fork and knife he offered, and dug into it, chewing rapidly. “God, but I hope this hunger dies down before long. I feel like I hardly have time to get anything done before I’m ravenous again.”
“It’s doing you good. You’ve gained twenty pounds already. How are you feeling today? Any change?”
Carl shook his head quickly as he chewed another bite, then swallowed and answered. “I feel great, aside from this pain in the ass appetite.”
Jordan grinned. “Don’t knock it, you’re putting muscle on. The treadmill and pulleys are really helping.”
Carl looked at the treadmill that they had positioned under the hanging desk holding the computer keyboard, and the pulleys above it, attached to a second set of pulleys and weights behind him. “Yeah, that was brilliant. I can work out right here, while I’m doing my number crunching. Speaking of which,” He cut off another bite from the steak, then handed the fork and knife to Jordan as he chewed, using the mouse to highlight a range of data on the screen and convert it to a graph. Jordan chopped the steak into several large bites, stuck the fork into one, and handed it to Carl as he looked over Carl’s shoulder. Carl ate the steak and dropped the fork on the plate, still looking at the screen. It showed his weight gain gradually increasing, starting the day after the procedure.
Jordan nodded. “It all looks good. You’re gaining the weight you need, it’s going back on as muscle mass, but what about your blood type? How long before you know if it really worked?”
Carl’s eyebrows rose. “Let’s go ahead and check. It’s far too early, from the studies I’ve read, but I’m no ordinary patient.” He took another bite of steak before going to the sink to wash his hands, then he pulled a packet out of a drawer next to the sink and tore it open. He started placing items from the packet on the counter with one hand while holding a finger under the running water. He turned to Jordan and opened his mouth for another bite of steak.
“Seriously?” Jordan said.
“I’m hungry, dammit,” Carl replied, and opened his mouth again. Jordan grabbed another piece of steak on the fork and held it out toward Carl, who grabbed it and chewed, as he continued to perform the steps on the little instruction sheet, placing a drop of water on the card, then breaking the lancet open, spiking his wet finger, and dropping blood in the circles on the card.
Jordan watched him, bemused, as Carl moved the card back and forth, tilting it one direction, then another, then finally setting it down.
“Is that it?” Jordan asked. “What does it say?”
Carl cut another piece of meat and popped it in his mouth, answering around it as he chewed, “Don’t know until it dries. Why are you so anxious? I’m gaining weight, I’m feeling good, and it’s too early to know about the blood type. Why have you got a death grip on your arms?”
Jordan’s hands had such a tight grip on his arms he realized he was probably bruising himself. “I just want to know, that’s all,” he said, lamely. He’d been feeling strange all day. Sounds seemed louder, and he could swear he smelled Carl’s sweat over the smell of the steak, and the scent of the blood Carl had just dripped onto the card was intense, along with the chemicals from the test strips. “Maybe I’m coming down with something.”
Carl walked over quickly. “Jordan, you’re really pale – I mean, for you. Are you sure you’re okay?”
Jordan shook Carl’s hand away. “I’m fine. Leave me alone. I need to get back upstairs, I left the stove on.” Jordan walked out the door and launched himself up the stairs. He didn’t want to talk about his growing suspicions. Maybe it was just recovery from the marrow donation drugs, but he’d been fine for several weeks, and just now he was feeling very strange. The acuteness of his senses, particularly smell and hearing, bothered him the most. Those were the same things Carl had said grew more intense after he’d become a werewolf. Had there been a mistake? Had Jordan somehow become infected with Carl’s blood during the procedure? He’d watched the nurse very carefully, and insisted she put on fresh gloves every time she walked in the room. If he’d been infected, it couldn’t have been her. And Carl had strictly been a patient. What about Dwayne… or Luke?
Then it hit him. Luke had said he’d let Jordan choose freely whether or not to work with Luke, but he hadn’t promised he wouldn’t tilt the scales. The man could wipe memories, control people’s minds. It would have been child’s play for such a man to infect Jordan with the curse, leaving no one the wiser. Jordan would have little choice between suffering the curse blindly and learning to master the skills Luke wanted him to learn. He walked into the kitchen and started scrubbing the frying pan he’d left in the sink. Of course Luke would do it. The more he thought about it, the more he realized, Luke must have always meant for Jordan to become a werewolf. He couldn’t learn how to do what Luke did otherwise, could he? Or could he? Jordan scrubbed the caramelized, encrusted juices from the skillet, cursing silently. Of course. It was what Luke intended all along. The man might not even care whether Carl survived. What the hell was this obsession about? What made Jordan so special that no one else in the world, in 2800 years, could do the job Luke wanted him to do?
Jordan turned the faucet on and rinsed the soap off the skillet, then rinsed his hands. He pulled whole grain bread from the cupboard, slicing the small chunk of meat he’d set aside into thin sections and piling them high. He reached into the refrigerator to grab the sliced tomatoes and lettuce leaves he had stacked there earlier while the steak had fried. He placed them carefully on the meat that was stacked on the bread, pulled out mustard to squeeze on top, then tossed another slice of bread and top, and looked at the window as he took a bite of the sandwich. There was another hemlock tree, across the yard, tip bent down toward the earth. He took another bite and looked around at the other trees, rising tall against the backdrop of the granite cliff face, and thought as he chewed. Yes, it played perfectly into Luke’s hand. While he didn’t know why the man was obsessed with him, it was obvious he was. Tonight was the first of the three nights of the full moon that held sway over Carl’s form now, and Jordan felt like his body was about to betray him. He put the sandwich down. The prime rib was fabulous, but he just couldn’t bring himself to eat it. Luke had motive, means, and opportunity, and Jordan had played right into it.
He went to the back door, grabbed his coat and a carrot, and headed to the stable to check on Daisy. Would she still tolerate him? Hell, how was he going to bring Carl down from the heights if they were both naked and lost? Daisy whinnied, not expecting to see him again at this hour. He’d just brought her in from the pasture and put her away for the night. The routine was steady, she probably wondered what was up. He held the carrot out for her and stroked her nose as she lipped it off his hand, just as steady as she’d been when he brought her in. He was being paranoid. Why should he expect anything to change since he last saw her?
He lifted the curry comb off its hook by the door to her stall and stepped in to start grooming her. She nosed his coat, checking for more treats, and he pushed her away with a grin. “Stop it, girl. There’s nothing there. Go back to your hay.” She’d already finished the small bag of oats he’d given her, knowing she’d be hard at work tomorrow morning, climbing the peaks as he rode to find Carl. He stopped for a moment. Or would he? She huffed at him, and he went back to his task. He’d started grooming her; he might as well brush her all the way down, and check her hooves while he was at it, as long as he was here. Clearly, she still liked him. Surely, that meant there was nothing wrong with him, didn’t it? He continued brushing her coat, moving from the neck to her back, and along the barrel. He brushed with one hand, checking her over with the other, leaning into her and lifting one foot at a time, scraping each hoof out with the hook and checking for stones that might be lodged there. He moved to her other side as she chewed the hay from the tub and continued to work on her.
Was it paranoia, or was it a really strong smelling batch of hay? And he could swear the stable needed to be mucked out again, by the smell of it, but the straw looked as clean as it had when he put it down an hour ago. He could smell the pine of the stud walls, the cedar of the shakes, and the cotton in the halter. A strong aroma of leather and oil was emanating from the tack, and the bright tang of the steel assaulted his nose, along with the sweet scent of oats leftover in the canvas nosebag. It was a cacophony of smells, and it was going to drive him insane.