Grimm Wolf by Julie Steimle (well read books TXT) 📕

Tom nodded, flinching at the word monster. His eyes raked over Rhett’s and Emory’s wounds. “You both got bit?”

“Is that going to make us one of them?” Emory asked, wide-eyed.

Tom smirked. “Nope. But it does cause an infection, which we can treat later. Do you have a first aid kit in the car? Camping stuff?”

Emory nodded.

“Did Rick bring plenty of epinephrine on this trip?” Tom’s eyes settled on Rhett especially.

“I dunno.” Emory shrugged. He looked back to where Rick-the-wolf had been fighting with the owner of the place, but they were no longer there. It wasn’t clear where they had gone. They could still hear their snarls and yelps though. “I doubt he has any on him right now.”

Tom rose to his full height, nodding. “I’m sure it is his bag. Is it in the car?”

Emory nodded. “The trunk.”

Nodding again, Tom peered down with the impression he was going to jump from the tree.

“The keys are in the ignition!” Emory called to him. 

Tom twisted around and dropped off his branch with a flip, floating down slowly like a soap bubble. When he became level with Emory, he smile wide and said, “Oh, I don’t need keys.”

He then dropped more heavily to the ground, as if he could control the force of gravity upon himself.

That was when Emory saw his wings.

They were tiny, like large hands, but bat-shaped with nearly translucent pink flesh and veins. The wings were not so much holding him up as steering him in the air when he landed amongst the wolves below.

“Hi!” Tom said brightly to the naked wolf-man he had dropped in front of. He then sent a roundhouse kick in to the side of the wolf-man’s head.

The wolves around him backed up, teeth barred. They immediately pounced on him.

Tom reacted like an acrobat. It was beautiful and freaky all at the same time. Emory watched as the man dodged like he was Neo in the Matrix, practically able to see which way his opponent was moving. And he was mind-blowingly fast. Even when a wolf’s teeth grabbed the hem of his suit, Tom whipped around and used his momentum to throw that wolf off and into a tree. He stomped into the stomach of one, flipped another and kicked it out of his way, and then with a running leap he sprang out of the fray, zipping across the forest floor over to the car, almost like lightning.

“What is he?” Rhett murmured weakly.

Emory shook his head. “I don’t know. CIA agent…?”

Rhett stared at him. “I don’t think everyone in the CIA can do that.”

They watched Tom stick his arm straight through the metal of the closed trunk and lift through it and out (as if the metal was not solid) the bags within. He searched for the one that belonged to Rick, heaving it onto his shoulder. Then, with a flying leap over the heads of the wolves after him, Tom entirely disappeared along with Rick’s backpack. 

“Where’d he go?” Rhett rubbed his eyes.

“No clue,” Emory murmured, searching the dimming forest.

“I’m back,” Tom announced, landing on the tree branch next to them.

Both Emory and Rhett jumped.

“Relax,” Tom said, detaching the clip to the top of the hiking bag. And lifting it open. “Jeeze. I’m here to help.”

They stared as Tom divested the tent from the pack, eying it before hanging it on a tree branch. Then he pulled out the first aid kit, opening it. Inside was nearly everything. But they knew there would be. Rick was always prepared for emergencies. He knew exactly how to handle cuts and scrapes… and as they looked at the contents of the kit then back at the castle, they comprehended that he had a good reason why.

Tom extracted one of Rick’s many epinephrine syringes. He beckoned to Rhett. “You. Come here.”

“What?” Rhett stared weakly at him.

“This will help,” Tom said, gesturing to the syringe.

Emory glanced to Rhett and then Tom who apparently knew more about this kind of thing than they did.

“We don’t have time for a blood transfusion, so this will have to do,” Tom said, he then stabbed the tip of the epinephrine shot into Rhett’s non-wounded thigh.

“Ow!” Rhett shouted out.

“Sorry,” Tom said, making sure the contents went in well.

There was a cold feeling that ran up Rhett’s thigh, and then his mind quickened, waking him up to the world again. In fact, he felt like he could win a race.

“Ok,” Tom said, chucking the syringe over his shoulder, “Here’s the deal. You, what’s-your-face,” he pointed to Emory. “You string that tent in between those branches using the ropes in here. And…” he looked around at the empty air near him, “I’m sorry about this, but this needs to happen…” he then said, “Coat them in honey.”

“What?” Emory rose, mouth open to protest. But the jar of honey from Rick’s stash suddenly whipped into the air as if by a ghost and emptied out on both him and Rhett.

“Hey!” Rhett protested, yet stopped from rising to prevent the sticky fall of sweet ooze covering his and Rhett’s faces.

“The wolves can’t touch you if you are covered in honey,” Tom said, hopping up to a higher branch. “They won’t even bite you. Now I need to go help out Rick. You two stay here.”

As he sprang out of the tree like a freaky Peter Pan, even more jars and packages of honey appeared out of nowhere, dousing them in it.

The honey oozed, dripping down from the tree branches where they were sequestered, falling like rain over the prowling wolves below. The beasts yowled and darted, getting away from the stuff.

Or they tried to. Tom called to his invisible forces for a honey bottle, and they obliged him. A collection of bear-shaped squeeze bottles landed out of nowhere and Tom caught them, squirting the contents in the faces of the wolves with almost savage giggling glee.

It was like magic.

Not just the appearing honey onslaught which continued to fall on Rhett and Emory until they were truly coated, but also how the wolves fled from one man armed with squeeze bottles. They fled like the stuff was acid, sneezing and yowling in horror.

The rain of honey bottles and packets eventually stopped, once Tom had chased the wolves toward the castle. He was faster than those beasts, but he was also cackling as he did it. The wolves were screaming in German for him to stop.

“Aufhören! Ich bitte dich.”

Two dead wolves remained on the ground below.

Squelching in the honey ooze, dripping with the honey, Rhett and Emory struggled to breathe. It was difficult to hold onto the tree, though they strained to as a fall from that height would be terrible. With one hand, wiping the honey from his eyes and shaking it off, Rhett blew out his nose so he could take in a blind breath. “What was that?”

Emory struggled to get honey away from stinging his eyes. It wasn’t working until he stuck his fingers into his mouth to suck off the stickiness. It took a bit to get the ooze to stop from dripping from his forehead and hair into his vision, but when he finally managed to thin out the honey layer on his face, he muttered, “No idea. But man… Rick did not lie about his friend Tom. Even when he helps he is trouble.”

Rhett nodded, fighting the honey that was dripping down to blind him again. He used both hands to smear away the honey in his hair to that it gathered and fell more toward the back of his neck. He only hoped ants would not find them.

“I think we got to see exactly how,” Emory added, spitting out more honey which had dripped into his mouth.

As he could get his hands less sticky and Rhett started to get sleepy again, Emory hurried to hang up the tent. It was difficult with honey hands, but he dug out the ropes from the back pack and unrolled the tent itself. Honey ended up on everything he touched, which he knew would upset Rick… if they ever survived this thing. But knowing Tom was right about making a hammock for Rhett, he strung the ropes and tent between the two strong branches, looping between the tent loops and under the actual nylon and canvas. He shifted Rhett into the hammock as soon as he was sure it was secure, allowing him to safely rest in the tree. Emory kept watch while Rhett slept.

“They’re here,” a voice from below woke them, speaking American English.

Emory had no idea he had fallen asleep until that second. He jumped up, pawing for his silver knife as strings of congealed honey pulled between him and the tree branch he had been lying against.

“Oh, my gosh… Look at all this honey,” one of the voices below murmured. It was a strong, deep voice of a young man near their age, also an American.

Rhett was still asleep. Groping over Rhett’s honey-coated body, Emory felt in front of Rhett’s mouth to see if he was still breathing. In the darkness he could see very little. However, he could see Rhett’s chest heaving softly, and he could hear a slight rasp in his friend’s throat. Peering over the sticky tent hammock into the forest floor, Emory saw two men down below whom he did not recognize. But then it was dark, almost pitch black except for the light those newcomers were carrying. Both men held swords and were in partial armor over modern shirts—like LARPers. One man was holding a light in his palm…

No. His palm was glowing with light licking up his fingers like a flame.

“You awake?” that one called up in a loud voice. His silhouette was tall and lanky. “Are you all right?”

“Are you a wolf?” Emory called down, staring at the flaming light in his hand and that strange armor.

The man below emitted a pained laugh and said, “Not at all.”

“Good job with the honey,” the other, beefier, man said, gesturing at it with his sword. The sword looked real—not one of those flimsy decorative things one saw in old swashbuckling movies.

“Are you all right?” the first man said, concerned.

“Who are you?” Emory called down, trembling.

“We’re friends of Howie… um, Rick Deacon’s.”

The name Howie sent a wash of calm through Emory. He had heard Rick’s childhood friends from Massachusetts called him Howie. And blast it, they had come.

“We’ve both been bit,” Emory said, climbing down the tree a little. “Rhett’s leg was mauled.”

The two men below exchanged looks.

“That guy Tom Brown said we might be infected,” Emory climbed a little lower. “Is that true?”

The lankier guy in armor who was holding up the flame in his bare palm walked to the base of the tree to help Emory down. He had a solid gaze in his brown eyes—his face now illuminated—one that said he had seen a lot in his lifetime and he knew the answers to unspeakable things. For a second, Emory felt like he was staring into the face of one of his most admired professors, and yet also like someone who had been through battle in the Middle East. He had a scruffy goatee which made him look the part. The man said, “It is true. But it is easily treatable.” He then tugged at the garlic rope that was still around Emory’s neck. “Did Tom Brown bring this for you?”

Emory shook his head. “No. Rick…” He shook his head. The events playing out again with painful clarity. “Rick got an emergency bag made for us. We wouldn’t listen. He—”

“Nobody would have believed him. Don’t kick yourself over it.” The guy put a hand on Emory’s sticky shoulder to calm him. But when he felt the honey, he peeled it off to stare at it. Honey drew strings between them. Finally, the guy sighed and rested the hand on Emory’s