doohickeys would have made certain there were enough infected mice not showing symptoms to infect the gorgons without signs of rabies taking hold until it was far too late to save them.
The wolf, which neither man noticed, continued his slow march to the road. Once on the snow-covered asphalt, his stride smoothed out, his ears pricked forward, and he walked better, as though somehow the infection killing him eased its relentless hold on his worn body.
He dropped the bone near my husband’s foot.
So focused on each other, the men still failed to notice the rabid animal.
Idiots, both of them. My idiot gorgon-incubus doohickey would pay for his idiocy through chores and intensive corrective therapy. I hoped the other idiot learned the hard way why it was a terrible idea to ignore his surroundings.
If Morrison even looked at my new wolf wrong, nothing more than a smear would remain when I finished with him.
I wiggled out of my snowbank and wormed to the shadows behind the abandoned tackle shop. I poked my head around the corner to keep an eye on my husband, the wolf, and Morrison.
“How are you hoping for rabies to control the population? I mean, it’s definitely an efficient killer.” Quinn once again gestured to the dead animals along the side of the road.
Now that I looked for them, there were a disturbing number of lumps under the snow that could easily be dead animals.
What an asshole.
“Oh, yes. You wouldn’t know. That’s simple. The filthy non-humans, with their disgusting habits, interact with even rodents. Those who act like wild animals and feed off wild animals deserve to die like wild animals.”
Marriage to my gorgon-incubus doohickey had taught me when he wanted to, he could beat any mere human to the draw, and in the blink of an eye, Quinn socked the asshole in the nose and dropped him to the road with a single hit. Bright red blood splashed onto the snow.
The wolf recognized prey when he saw it, and before my husband could even kick the downed asshole, the rabid animal lunged for the fallen man, froth flying from his mouth while he bared and snapped his teeth. The first bite missed with an audible clack. The second landed in the tender flesh of Morrison’s throat.
In the prime of health, wolves weighed over eighty pounds, although the rabid animal was more skin and bones than anything else. His scrawny build and poor health did little to hamper his ability to kill his prey.
Several shakes and hard bites later, and Morrison’s body twitched on the ground.
Quinn reached down, picked up the wolf’s bone, secured his hold on the leash, and lured the animal away from the corpse. I galloped over, skidding to a halt and snorting flames.
The wolf accepted Quinn’s praise and offering of the bone, lying down and gnawing on his treat rather than on Morrison’s body.
“Wolf steal kill?” I blurted. “Wolf!”
The wolf continued to chew on his bone, and my husband bent over and scratched the animal behind his ears. “Good boy. Relax, Bailey. Wolves are smart, and he knew we were helping him. That, plus we just fed him. We’re acting like a pack for him, and he’s by himself and hungry.”
“No save you from wolf. Wolf eat you? Give rabies.”
“I can defend myself from a wolf, I’m sure.”
“He could, too.”
My husband regarded Morrison’s body with a frown. “Huh. You’re right. I’m being stupid, aren’t I?”
“Wolf sad and cute, easy to fall prey to. Poor hus-band. We teach wolf no eat us. No lie to help wolf? CDC get mad about wolf killings.”
“Shit. Right. I’ll make sure the wolf isn’t put down for killing him. I was about to, anyway.”
“With what? Fist?”
“No. My gun. At point blank range. I punched him because I wanted to. He pissed me off.”
“Okay.” I approached and sniffed the wolf, who was in a dire need of a bath. “Call. Request tanker. Much napalm. This area? This area bad.”
“I’m not sure how burning it to the ground will help.”
“Much rot, no scav-en-gers. Frozen until spring. More infection.”
My husband retrieved his phone and called someone, explaining how Morrison had somehow located them and had attempted to recruit him. With a smug smile in place, he reported that the local wildlife, quite rabid, had taken offense to Morrison.
“No hurt my puppy,” I warned, flattening my ears.
“My wife, apparently, is very fond of the rabid wolf and wishes to rehabilitate him. I’m not brave enough to tell the cranky and pregnant cindercorn she