The Summoning

His back arched, arms stretched out, pale fingers digging into the soil. A low moan, cut short by a grunt.

"You found me. Now go."

"Do you really think I'd leave you like this?" I took another step forward. The stink of vomit made me clap my hand to my nose. I switched to breathing through my mouth. "If you're throwing up, that's more than a fever. You need —"

"Go!" The word was a snarl and I staggered back.

His head dropped. Another moan, this one ending in a high-pitched sound, almost like a whimper. He wore a T-shirt, bare muscles bunching as he gripped the ground again. His arms darkened, as if a shadow passed over them, then reappeared, pale against the surrounding shadow.

"Derek, I —"

His back arched, stretching so high I could see the rigid line of his spine, T-shirt pulled tight, muscles writhing and rippling. Then he sagged, his panting breaths as ragged as the rustling leaves.

"Please. Go." The words were a deep mumble, like he wasn't opening his mouth.

"You need help —"

"No!"

"Simon, then. I'm getting Simon. I'll be right —"

"No!"

He twisted and I caught a glimpse of his face, contorted, misshapen . . . wrong. He whipped his head down before I could process what I'd seen.

He gagged, the sound horrible and raw, like he was coughing up his insides. His back shot up again, limbs stretching to the very limits, bones crackling. His arms went dark, then lightened, the muscles and tendons rippling. The moon chose that moment to peek from the cloud and when his arms darkened, I could see it was hair sprouting, just enough to break the surface, then sliding back under his skin. And his hands . . . His fingers were long and twisted like talons, digging into the earth as his back arched.

In my mind, I heard Simon again. "Guys like Derek have . . . physical enhancements, you might say. Extra strong, as you saw. Better senses, too. That kind of thing."

That kind of thing.

Then my own voice asking lightly, "I'm not going to run into any werewolves or vampires, am I?"

And Simon's answer, coupled with a laugh. "That'd be cool."

Not an answer at all. Avoiding a reply he couldn't give.

Derek convulsed, his head flying back, jaw clenched, an awful moaning howl hissing through his teeth. Then his head whipped down and he gagged, strings of saliva dripping.

"Derek?"

He retched, his whole body racked with heaves. When they subsided, I inched forward. He tilted his head away.

"Is there anything I can do?"

A voice inside my head said, "Sure. Run for your life!" But it was a small warning, not even serious, really, because there was no question of ru

"Is there anything I can do?"

A ridiculous question. I could imagine the response he'd make any other time —the curl of his lip, the roll of his eyes.

But after one halfhearted "go away," he crouched there, head turned, body trembling, each breath a rasp ending in a quaver.

"Don't." His fingers dug into the ground, arms stiffening, then relaxing. "Go."

"I can't leave you here. If there's anything I can do . . ."

"Don't." A sharp intake of breath, then he expelled the words. "Don't go."

His head lifted my way, just enough for me to see one green eye, wide with terror.

His arms and legs went rigid, back shooting up as he heaved. Vomit sprayed the grass, a fresh wave with every spasm. The sickly smell filled the air.

And I sat there, doing nothing, because there was nothing I could do. My brain raced through ideas, discarding each as fast as it came. I inched over and put my hand on his arm, feeling the coarse hair push through red-hot skin that writhed and pulsed. That was all I could do —stay and tell him I was there.

Finally, with one last heave, one last spray of vomit dappling the fence three feet away, it stopped. Just stopped.

The muscles under my hand went still, the coarse hair receded. Slowly, he relaxed, his back dropping, hands releasing their grip on the earth. He crouched there, panting, hair hanging around his face.

Then he slumped onto his side, hands going over his face, fingers still long, misshapen, the nails thick, like claws. He curled up on his side, knees drawn in, and moaned.

"Should I —? Simon. Should I get Simon? Will he know what to—?"

"No." The word was hoarse, guttural, as if his vocal cords weren't quite human.

"It's over," he said after a minute. "I think. Pretty sure." He rubbed his face, still shielded behind his hands. "Shouldn't have happened. Not yet. Not for years."

In other words, he knew perfectly well what he was, he just hadn't expected the . . . transformation until he was older. I felt a spark of anger that he'd misled me, made Simon lie to me, but I couldn't sustain it, not after what I'd seen, not sitting there, watching him, shirt soaked with sweat as he struggled to breathe, his body shaking with exhaustion and pain.

"Go," he whispered. "I'll be fine now."

"I'm not —"

"Chloe" he snapped, the old Derek back in his voice. "Go. Help Simon. Tell him I'm fine."

"No."

"Chloe . . ." He drew my name out in a low growl.

"Five minutes. I want to make sure you're okay."

He grunted, but settled into silence, relaxing onto the grass.

"See you did rip out of your clothes," I said, trying to

keep my tone light. "Hope you didn't like that shirt, 'cause it's toast."

It was a weak joke, but he said, "Least I didn't turn green."

"No, just. . ." I was going to say "hairy," but I couldn't get the word out, couldn't wrap my head around what I'd seen.

The back door banged. Derek shot up, his hands falling from his face. His nose looked crushed, wide and flat, cheekbones jutting as if rising to meet it, his brows thick and heavy. Not monstrous, more like an artist's reconstruction of Neanderthal man.

I tore my gaze away and crawled toward the corner of the shed. He caught my leg.

"I'll be careful," I whispered. "I'm just getting a look."

I slid on my belly, creeping to the corner and peeking around it. A flashlight beam swept the yard.

"A woman," I whispered, as low as I could. "I think it's Rae —no, too ski

He tugged my ankle. My jeans had hiked up, and his hand was wrapped around bare skin above my sock. I could feel his palm, rough, like the pads on a dog's feet.

"Go," he whispered. "I'll boost you over the fence. Climb the next one and —"

The flashlight beam cut a swath across the back of the yard.

"Who's out there?" The voice was high, sharp, with a faint accent.

"Dr. Gill," I whispered to Derek. "What's she —?"

"Never mind. Go!"

"I know someone's out here," she said. "I heard you."

I glanced at Derek, his face still deformed. Dr. Gill couldn't find him like this.

I grabbed the shoe of his that I'd dropped, and kicked off one of my own, and that confused him enough for me to wrench from his grasp and dart to the side fence, squeezing between it and the shed. At the last second, he scrambled up and lunged at me, but I was wedged in too far to reach, and he couldn't follow.

"Chloe! Get back here! Don't you dare —"

I kept going.