Free Cat Scratch Fever; Blue-Collar Werewolves V by Buffi BeCraft

The needle rammed home
too close to his heart for Matthew’s comfort.
    The next time, the jab hit his abdomen with
a sharp bite, the liquid warming as it dispersed into his body. He
couldn’t stop the small helpless sound he made as Sanderson gave
him injection after injection, pausing only when he needed more for
the syringe. He grunted as spasms of fire heated up from the
injections. The heat began to travel outward; he could feel the
lines of toxin flooding his bloodstream. Sweat beaded on his skin,
doing nothing to cool his rising temperature.
    “You idiot.” The husky bedroom voice of the
woman in the cage beside him drew Matthew’s attention like a
lodestone. Sparks seemed to fly from her pale green eyes. Her
ultra-short honey colored hair stood in random wisps around her
head. It was a whimsical contrast to the regal edge of her
cheekbones and the lush mouth that he couldn’t stop staring at.
Some inner instinct told him that he knew her. “If you create a
virus to kill everyone with supernatural blood, you’ll kill out
yourselves too.”
    “Shut up! We are gifted, not tainted.”
    Matthew groaned, not from the next dose, but
from raging fire that had become his body. He wanted to curl up,
but was trapped by something. His breath was hard to catch. There
it was. He listened hard for the woman’s voice, needing a lifeline.
Instead, a man answered, not as interesting to him as the woman.
But still there was connection. He focused on them, desperate for
anything to help.
    “What’s the matter Sanderson? Afraid that
being psychic isn’t all in your mind?” The same man laughed from
his cage. Matthew strained toward the sound that could help put the
pain out. It wasn’t far. Only two cages away. “It isn’t. You’re
just the next step in evolution. The missing link. Ha, ha,” the man
laughed. No one else did.
    Matthew groaned, trying to catch a breath as
his heart stuttered in his chest. He thrashed against the
restraints, working with the horrible spasms in his muscles. If he
could just get free, then they could help him. He knew without a doubt . It was as if the burning was seeking
something inside him. Burrowing through tissue and bone.
    He was going to die. Damn. Calm acceptance
seeped into him as he struggled for air. Or maybe it was just the
first step in dying. And dying would make the pain stop. He
screamed, arching against the restraints as he rode the wave of
pain. He coasted over the burning wave as it found the innermost
part of him, the power he kept hidden. He pushed the energy into
the snarling pain, fed it until the monster eating him could take
no more. If he could have given it his soul, he would have. The
pain was that fucking bad. Then he just let go.

Chapter Six
    Naomi’s eyes were glued to the poor man
writhing on the gurney. The straps snapped from their moorings as
Sanderson backpedalled to avoid Ridley crashing to the floor. He
curled into a fetal position, his moans turning to screams of agony
that made her want to cover her ears and close her eyes. The other
supernaturals huddled in their cages, as far away from the torture
as possible. Sanderson stood still, his weak mouth lax; the syringe
dangled from his fingers while he watched the show.
    Finally, Ridley uncurled his body. Sweat
drenched his clothing remnants as he climbed to his hands and
knees. His dark head hung while he gasped for breath, eyes tight
against an internal struggle.
    “He should be dead already.” Sanderson
stared at the suffering man. “What’s happening?”
    “I’ll tell you.” Calm, silent, and deadly,
the wolven spoke for the first time. “He’s Changing.”
    Naomi felt the collective attention shift to
opposite side of the room to another dark haired and lanky man clad
in a pair of ragged jeans. Half-dressed, slouching, hair hanging in
his eyes—the wolven should have looked defeated. He didn’t. Behind
him, the door to the silver cage stood open.
    In one leap, the wolven cleared the