Touched By The Moon Pt 07

07.

The Sanctuary

The man with the rifle fired two quick shots in succession, flicking the lever down each time, but he shot right over where Sam was sprawled in the grass rather than at her.

Instinctively, she covered her head with both hands. "Shit!" Sam flinched at the loud

pkow-pkow!

One shot hit Tenn in the shoulder; he snarled in pain. But he was fast enough to jump back and avoid the second shot as it went wide, tearing out a thick chunk of a nearby pine tree.

"Ya'll gon' get outta heah now!" the armed man shouted, pumping the rifle's lever each time before firing a third, fourth and even a fifth shot. The brass cartridges flicked through the air and landed in the grass with a faint hint of smoke that stung in Sam's nostrils. "Don't you come back again!" The man's aim was good, but Tennessee was too quick--each time, he evaded the shot or slipped back into the shelter of the trees, resulting in little more than a hail of wood chips.

Sam sat up. For a moment she and Tenn stared at one another, and she could see how angry he was at her evading him. The look on that snarling face didn't need a translation: if he

ever

got the chance, he'd make her regret getting away. The thought of just what sort of wicked punishment he had in mind made her want to shudder. Whatever the case, Tenn didn't seem to want to pick a fight with the armed man--he turned away and ran deeper into the trees, vanishing from sight in moments.

It was with a mix of relief and dread that Sam turned and finally pushed to her feet, still trembling with exhaustion. Ignoring her own nakedness--it wouldn't have made any difference to try and cover up now--she turned to face the armed stranger. "Th-thank you," she said, trembling from the chill and the fading adrenaline. "Wh-who are you?"

The man pulled off his sunglasses and started to answer, but an unexpected voice stopped him. "Sam!" From around the house, a familiar figure ran into view.

"Cowboy?" Sam could hardly believe it. "What are

you

doing here?"

"I--" Wren was out of his coveralls that morning, dressed in a pair of jeans, his cowboy boots. a plain white t-shirt and a thick camouflage jacket that matched the trucker-style cap he was wearing. His eyes went a little wide at her nakedness, and he cast a quick look at the man with the gun. "Here," he said, taking off his jacket and quickly wrapping it around her.

Sam was touched by the gesture, even if it surprised her. The jacket was thick and warm, perfect for a near-winter morning. It was also broken in and it fairly reeked of Wren's scent, but in a good way--she turned her face into the collar and breathed it in, soaking in his smell. Sam could almost

feel

her pupils dilate, and the moon's shrieking had definitely changed its tune once again. "What are you doing here?" she asked again, clearing her throat.

"Who's 'is, Wren?" the man in the leather jacket asked. The cigarette in his mouth gave the man's voice a slur, but it was thickened by his hillbilly accent.

"This's Sam, Dad," Wren said. "Phil's daughter, the one I told you about."

Sam raised her eyebrows at Wren. "You did what now?"

"Sam, you alright?" Wren grabbed her by the shoulders, staring down into her eyes; he seemed very intent, very focused and serious. "What happened?"

Shifting from one foot to the other, Sam was very aware of just how hard they were looking at her in that moment. "I'm fine," she said. "I went out running, and Tennessee found me--I came back here for help, and..." Her voice faded as she cast a look at the man, still holding his rifle in the crook of his arm.

"Rhett," the man said. He took hold of his cigarette in a delicate fashion between the tip of his thumb and forefinger while inhaling, then curled his lip to blow a long line of smoke over their heads.

"Rhett scared him off," Sam finished. She looked at both men's faces. "I...ah...notice he wasn't surprised by...well..."

Wren shook his head, cutting off her awkwardness: "Sam, Dad knows good and well 'bout you, me, Phil and Tennessee and the pack--all of it."

"You mean...

all-

all of it?"

Wren nodded. "He ain't wolf himself, but he knows, trust me."

"Oh, thank God."

"Sam, you need to stay calm now--"

"Calm about what?" Sam leaned back, looking up at the mechanic with a frown; he was leaning over her, coming in so close it almost felt like smothering. When she took a step back out of his grasp, Sam noticed that the back door was open, and more than that--it was hanging off of one hinge, as if someone had tried ripping it off of the frame. "Oh God. Dad? Dad!" Hugging Wren's jacket tight around herself, Sam pushed past him and stepped up to the door, pulling it open to look inside, ignoring Wren calling after her.

Phil's house was a wreck--the couches had been knocked over, and one of them was physically thrown into the kitchen area where it sat, flipped on one side. The dining table was snapped in two, and one of the legs was broken off; as for where it'd gone, Sam hadn't a clue. The front door was ripped right off its hinges--she could spot it lying in the empty flower bed, next to the garden gnome. Several of the living room windows were broken, and the cold sunlight glittered across the carpeted floor, shimmering like a mirage.

The room stank of blood. It was thrown across the wall and floor, even the ceiling; a wide swath of it was smeared across the TV hanging on the wall. A wide pool of it was staining the carpet, as if something had been butchered and torn to pieces. Some small, rational part of Sam's brain realized that walking barefoot across a carpet studded with broken glass was a bad idea, but she couldn't move.

"Dad!" Sam shouted for Phil; her heart was pounding again, and a very different kind of fear had hold of her. "Dad!!"

"Sam!" Wren grabbed her, turned her around. "He's not here."

"Where is he? Where's Phil?"

"Sam--"

"

Where

?!" Sam shouted it, suddenly so angry she almost took a swing at him.

"Ain't here." Rhett said it from where he stood outside the back door, his rifle still resting in one arm. "Your Daddy called me," he continued, his voice dark; he took off his glasses and such an anger was in his glare that Sam could almost feel it like he was any other wolf. "Tennessee's boys was here. Got him bad,

real

bad, honey. Pro'lly a good thing you wasn't here or they'd've got you, too."

"But... But I was

just

here! Is he--?"

"Yer Daddy's alive," Rhett said. "He ain't here, but he's alive."

Sam swayed on her feet and might've fallen if not for Wren. When she fell against him, she closed her eyes for a moment. Her life had turned into a bad dream in the course of a couple of hours. "Did..." She licked her lips and opened her eyes, looking up at Wren. "Did you see what happened?"

He nodded. "It was Jeff and Dez again--we saw 'em on the road driving away from here." As if reading her face, Wren continued: "I spotted Rebecca, too."

"

Bitch!

" Sam shouted the word, stomping her bare foot on the floor--it didn't accomplish anything, but it made her feel better, at least. "Should've

known

she'd be involved somehow. Did you call the cops? 911? Anything?"

"No ma'am," Rhett said; that proved who Wren got his manners from, Sam guessed. "Phil's made his feelings on the matter

quite

plain in the past: ain't no sense in callin' the authorities in when you furry folk start fightin' and carryin' on this way." Rhett didn't sound like he agreed with that, and Sam most

definitely

concurred. "He's somewhere safe. Wren insisted we come try to find you next."

Sam gave Wren a surprised look. "You did?"

"'Course I did!" Wren seemed almost offended she would ask at all. "It's the

least

I could do after..." He faltered, cleared his throat. "But, ah, Phil's alive," he added, holding Sam's stare. "He's hurt bad, but he's alive."

For now

seemed to be the unspoken caveat, but Wren didn't speak it and Sam didn't want to think it. "Get dressed, and we can take ya to 'im."

"Where? Where is he?"

Father and son looked at one another before Wren turned back. "Sanctuary."

--

Sam gave Wren back his jacket and ran to her room, dressing in a flurry and finding her phone; Phil hadn't left her any messages, but for all she knew, he didn't even have it with him.

Maybe he couldn't message her.

Maybe he wasn't conscious.

Maybe he was dead.

Time became a blur. They piled into a black pickup truck that belonged to Rhett, an oversized monstrosity with exhaust pipes sticking up at the back of the cab that spat out

almost

as many fumes as Wren's old beater, but the cab's interior was much nicer and didn't have a floor covered in old trash. The truck went speeding through more back roads and down the same highway she'd gone with Phil the day before, only now Rhett drove in the opposite direction--at least, Sam

thought

it was the same highway; she wasn't paying any attention to the road from where she sat in the back seat.

It looked like Wren wanted to say something--some hollow words of comfort, or maybe to just ask how she was doing--but his father grabbed the younger man's arm and gave one short, almost-imperceptible shake of his head. After casting one last, worried look at Sam, Wren turned back around and the interior of the cab went silent, save for the roar of the engine.

Sam stared out the window, trying to figure out what to think and what to feel. The thought of losing Phil so soon after finally finding him left Sam with a feeling of dread, one that she wasn't quite sure how to deal with. She'd just met her Dad, and Sam liked him, or thought she did--sure, his sense of humor needed a little work, but otherwise he seemed nice, patient, and was someone she wanted to get to know better.

Whatever happened, Sam wasn't ready to be an orphan at eighteen. That was

not

an outcome she was ready to accept.

The four-lane highway led into a little town whose name she didn't catch, and Sam was reminded just how close to Christmas it actually was: banners wrapped in tinsel and twinkling lights were strung along the darkened light poles, announcing the coming holiday. The clear blue sky and lack of snow made it hard to believe Christmas was almost there, but then, the only snow Sam had ever seen before was on a screen.

They passed a large elementary school, a bank branch with a name Sam didn't recognize, a worn-down post office, as well as a couple of Mexican grocery stores and a small church with a huge cemetery. A long set of train tracks stretched alongside the highway.

The truck turned at the solitary red light and Sam saw a theater marquee sign; it was stained with years of grime and filth, and the old neon had been stripped or torn down years ago, so that it was impossible to tell what the name of the place was. In small black, tilted letters that were far too small for the large sign, the name

SANCTUARY

could be read. An old black Hearse with tinted windows was parked just down the street from the front entrance--not exactly the most auspicious sign, Sam thought.

"We're here," Rhett said, parking across the street. He shut off his truck and climbed out, with Wren and Sam following behind. "That's the car what brought yer Daddy here," he explained, nodding at the long, black car.

Sam hugged her arms right around herself as she followed the men across the narrow street. "What kind of place is this?"

"Used to be a theater," Rhett said--he pronounced it

thee-yay-ter.

"Owner was some Yankee, perky sorta fella. Heard he got in trouble with the cops and skipped town."

"Now it's a clinic," Wren added. "Neutral ground for types like us."

"What 'types?'" Sam frowned. "You mean...wolves?"

Father and son looked at each other again. "For starters," Wren said, giving Sam a strange look.

"What does

that

mean?"

"Means hold onto yer butt, Dorothy," Rhett said, tossing the stub of his latest cigarette into the gutter before leading the way to the front doors. They were Art Deco-style, fancily decorated with long brass curves and half-crescent windows that someone had sprayed over in black paint. A dog-eared, half-torn paper had been stapled to one of them, a notice that the building had been condemned--Rhett pulled the door open and went inside without hesitation, so the others followed him.

The foyer of the building was all black: black walls, black tile floor, black carpet. A solitary fluorescent light was on overhead, shining directly in their faces. The room had a faint medicinal smell, and under that, a hint of old blood that made Sam's nose turn up, but otherwise the place was empty. An old ticket booth was across from the front door, but the cage had been lowered; next to it, a pair of doors that led into the old theater were closed tight. In the corner, a solitary security camera was mounted, but it was impossible to see whether it was on or not.

"What are we doing?" Sam said. "Where's my Dad?"

"Now cool yer jets, darlin'," Rhett said, "just let 'em see you first." He nodded to the camera in the corner, even giving a little wave.

As if on cue, the cage behind the ticket window slid up. The room inside was painted a pale, sickly green. A thin, gaunt-faced man with a pale face, limp black hair hanging down the side of his head and the blackest eyes Sam had ever seen was sitting on the other side. "You haf 'pointment?" he said in a harsh whisper. His voice had the thickest accent Sam had ever heard; she would've guessed it as Eastern European

Something

, but hadn't a clue beyond that.

"Afternoon, Warden," Rhett said to the man. "We're here to see Phil Johnson, a new arrival; called for help just a couple hours ago. This is Samantha, his youngin'," he added, motioning with a thumb to Sam.

"

You

can't go een," Warden--or

the

Warden, for all Sam knew--rasped at Rhett. His black eyes and flat, unfriendly look almost made it seem like a threat, but with a face like that, Sam supposed the man probably looked that way at everyone.

"S'alright," Rhett said with a shrug. "Wren, take the girl in. I'll go wait in m'truck." He slipped another cigarette from a pack out of his jacket pocket and turned to go.

"Thank you," Sam said to him. "For saving me earlier, and for bringing us here."

"Don't think nothin' of it," Rhett said, smiling around his cigarette. "Ya'll say hi to yer Daddy for me now." He gave Warden a little salute of farewell, two fingers to his temple, and left.

"Why can't your Dad go in?" Sam said.

Wren pursed his lips. "Dad has somethin' of a

reputation

with types like us, ya might say. He's the one that helped Phil kick Tennessee out of the pack the first time; your Daddy went to go see mine after the Meet yesterday. There's others who might not care for him to come onto neutral ground like Sanctuary."

The gaunt man closed the cage.

"That's the second time you've said that," Sam said.

"Said what? 'Neutral ground?'"

"No. 'Types like us.'" Sam gave the mechanic a critical look. "You gonna introduce me to a vampire next, or something?"

"Don't know any." Wren's voice was gruff and non-committal, at best.

Sam almost smiled. "Very funny."

He shrugged. "Wasn't tryin' to be."

A second later, there was a muffled buzzing noise, and the theater doors gave a loud

click

like a magnetic or mechanical lock had opened. Wren quickly moved to the nearest door and opened it, ushering Sam inside.

What Sam expected was some vast canyon of a chamber: a huge ceiling, some stage in the distance, some moth-eaten seating, a sloped path leading into the dark. What she found was a level-floored, well-lit space. Ahead of them stretched a long hallway in the style of a hospital ward: linoleum-tile floors, wide doorways into individual rooms, and bright lighting built into the walls. Medical equipment that Sam didn't recognize was stacked against the walls, looking relatively well-kept but with a worn look to them, as if they'd been procured or bought second-hand. The only reminder of the theater was in how neither the hallway nor the examination rooms had finished ceilings, so the dark, high ceiling of the original space looked dark and foreboding, with the barest hint of black rafters and burnt-out lights glittering in the gloom.

There were nine rooms in all, and a de facto nurse's station nearest to the doors they'd just entered; Sam heard the loud buzzing as the electronic locks re-engaged behind them. At the desk sat a short woman in green medical scrubs. She had red hair and freckles--Sam immediately recognized her.

"Susie?"

Susie's head shot up, her eyes widening with surprise. "Wren! And...Samantha?"

"You're a nurse?" Sam couldn't hide her disbelief--Susie didn't look much older than she was.

"I'm pre-med."

"Ah. Is my Dad here?"

At the mention of Phil, Susie's pale face went even paler, if that was possible. "I

don't

think you should see him until you've talked to Dr. Marcus."

Sam scowled. "I came here to see him, Susie. I

have

to see him. Can I see him or not?"

The two women stared one another down. Sam could sense Susie's hesitation and fear, almost like she could feel them herself; it was a strange thing, being a Dominant, but Sam had seen her father use that power to literally stop Wren from attacking someone. The other Dominant wolves had pressed the rest of the pack into joining their orgy; Sam had done something similar to Wren, she was sure of that now. Sam could make Susie do anything she wanted--somehow, she was sure of

that

, too.

Sam leaned over the desk towards the redhead, narrowing her eyes. "Susie, if something's happened to him, I

want

--"

There was the sound of a door closing, such a quiet thing, but it made them all turn. Another woman, almost as tall as Wren, with short black hair and a thin black choker about her slender neck, was watching all of them. She wore a white jacket over a set of blue scrubs, and both were streaked with an excessive amount of blood.

"Who're you?" the woman asked, narrowing her eyes at Sam.

"Sam Barrow," Samantha answered. "My Dad's Phil Johnson. Is he here?"

The bloodstained woman straightened with a hard breath. "You're a werewolf too?"

Sam didn't even have it in her to turn up her nose at the word. "I might be."

"Sam." Wren nodded at the doctor. "She's new in town, Doc. But she's legit."

Sam straightened. "Who are you? Are

you

a werewolf, too? Everybody

else

I run into seems to be."

"My name is Eleni Marcus. I'm

not

a werewolf, this is my clinic." The woman spoke in soft, measured tones as she reached down for the door handle. "Your father's alive, but he's heavily sedated because of his injuries--I had to give him a drug called xylazine; it's an animal tranquilizer."

Sam blinked. "What? Why?"

The doctor blinked as well, more in surprise at Sam's reaction. "Well, in this case, it's mostly a matter of metabolism--werewolves absorb most drugs too quickly for them to last long enough to do much good."

"Long enough for what? What happened to Phil?" When she felt Wren's hands at her shoulders, Sam shook them off and clenched her fists at her sides, resisting the urge to shout--mostly because she didn't know who else was in the clinic at that moment. "I

just...

I

need

to see him. Please."

To her credit, Eleni didn't look at Wren or Susie as if searching for some kind of permission--that would've pissed Sam off. Instead, after they stated one another down for a moment, the doctor slowly opened the door.

The space looked very similar to the interior of a hospital room: there was a small counter with a sink, and a hospital bed with a curtain that could be pulled around it for privacy. An EKG monitor beeped with the sound of a heartbeat, but it was faster than Sam expected.