Read Online The Lycan Rebirth (The Flux Age Book 3) by Steven J Shelley - Free Book Online
Authors: Steven J Shelley
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progressed through the rapids it became apparent that he had no say on where his limbs would go. All he could do was clutch onto the box tightly as he was put through a crazy spin cycle of cold, bracing water and unforgiving rock.
And then suddenly his bruised and battered body was allowed to sink. Not only was he free of the rapids, but the swift current had for the moment forgotten him.
His aching body as responsive as a lead weight, Jack willed himself to the surface, saw a tussock of grass a few yards away and heaved himself over to it. He lifted himself free of the water and lay on the gentle bank. The pain in his shoulder had been sharpened by the rapids experience and Jack wondered if he was going to pass out from the pain. In all his many years of experience that had never happened before, but then again he’d never had a silver bullet lodged barely an inch from his heart. The brutal reality was that he would die in this place. It wasn’t so bad. The sun was shining through the trees, the valley seemed to be a peaceful and isolated sanctuary.
Jack tried to control his breathing and string the process out as long as he could. He was certain the effort was futile, but survival was a relentless instinct within him, as it was with all lycans.
Lying there in the mid-afternoon sun, with the cicadas’ call washing over him in waves, Jack let his eyes close shut for what he presumed would be the last time. He must’ve blacked out for a period because the next thing he knew was he was being dragged by the feet through the undergrowth. His response wasn’t anything like anger or alarm, just a quiet fascination with what was taking place. His eyes fell shut again as a second set of hands held him by the wrists.
The sound of several voices drew him from the black abyss once again. The air was cool and the day’s light was fading fast. Jack saw a brazier silhouetted against the western sky and thought it was the prettiest thing he’d ever seen. It occurred to him that he must be feverish. Death can’t be too far away, so why were people trying to help him? He was the definition of damaged goods. A few minutes passed and Jack realized he was now lying in a low cot in a small tent. Through the entrance flap he could see a roaring bonfire. It slowly became apparent that there were several people outside. Whatever they were doing, they were paying him no mind.
Jack tried to piece the fragments of his mind back together, glad that he wasn’t dead, but fully aware that whoever held him may not be friendly at all.
A tight bandage had been applied to his wound but judging from the pain it wasn’t gonna do much good. His box was gone. Stifling a wave of anger, he realized his best chance of surviving the coming night was complete rest and that meant leaving the questions till tomorrow.
As Jack pondered his strange new location, a hunched-over old man entered the tent and began stripping back Jack’s bandage. The werewolf was too tired and sick to argue. With a start he also realized he was butt naked. Probably had been since he hauled himself from the river. Oh well, at least he hadn’t soiled himself… he hoped. The old man nodded in satisfaction and dipped a brush into a bowl of white paste. Humming tunelessly, he applied the paste to Jack’s wound. The werewolf was too experienced to give voice to his ridiculous levels of pain. Instead he gripped the edges of the cot and stared daggers at the healer, who simply smiled.
“Did you get the bullet out?” Jack managed to croak.
The healer regarded Jack with twinkling eyes. “It no longer threatens you, wolf,” he said warmly.
Something about the healer made Jack relax a little, and he was content to drift away while the man applied that corrosive paste to his chest wound. Perhaps Jack would live. The prospect was eminently appealing but the werewolf couldn’t explore it further due to falling heavily asleep.
The sounds of a vibrant camp at dawn woke Jack from a
And then suddenly his bruised and battered body was allowed to sink. Not only was he free of the rapids, but the swift current had for the moment forgotten him.
His aching body as responsive as a lead weight, Jack willed himself to the surface, saw a tussock of grass a few yards away and heaved himself over to it. He lifted himself free of the water and lay on the gentle bank. The pain in his shoulder had been sharpened by the rapids experience and Jack wondered if he was going to pass out from the pain. In all his many years of experience that had never happened before, but then again he’d never had a silver bullet lodged barely an inch from his heart. The brutal reality was that he would die in this place. It wasn’t so bad. The sun was shining through the trees, the valley seemed to be a peaceful and isolated sanctuary.
Jack tried to control his breathing and string the process out as long as he could. He was certain the effort was futile, but survival was a relentless instinct within him, as it was with all lycans.
Lying there in the mid-afternoon sun, with the cicadas’ call washing over him in waves, Jack let his eyes close shut for what he presumed would be the last time. He must’ve blacked out for a period because the next thing he knew was he was being dragged by the feet through the undergrowth. His response wasn’t anything like anger or alarm, just a quiet fascination with what was taking place. His eyes fell shut again as a second set of hands held him by the wrists.
The sound of several voices drew him from the black abyss once again. The air was cool and the day’s light was fading fast. Jack saw a brazier silhouetted against the western sky and thought it was the prettiest thing he’d ever seen. It occurred to him that he must be feverish. Death can’t be too far away, so why were people trying to help him? He was the definition of damaged goods. A few minutes passed and Jack realized he was now lying in a low cot in a small tent. Through the entrance flap he could see a roaring bonfire. It slowly became apparent that there were several people outside. Whatever they were doing, they were paying him no mind.
Jack tried to piece the fragments of his mind back together, glad that he wasn’t dead, but fully aware that whoever held him may not be friendly at all.
A tight bandage had been applied to his wound but judging from the pain it wasn’t gonna do much good. His box was gone. Stifling a wave of anger, he realized his best chance of surviving the coming night was complete rest and that meant leaving the questions till tomorrow.
As Jack pondered his strange new location, a hunched-over old man entered the tent and began stripping back Jack’s bandage. The werewolf was too tired and sick to argue. With a start he also realized he was butt naked. Probably had been since he hauled himself from the river. Oh well, at least he hadn’t soiled himself… he hoped. The old man nodded in satisfaction and dipped a brush into a bowl of white paste. Humming tunelessly, he applied the paste to Jack’s wound. The werewolf was too experienced to give voice to his ridiculous levels of pain. Instead he gripped the edges of the cot and stared daggers at the healer, who simply smiled.
“Did you get the bullet out?” Jack managed to croak.
The healer regarded Jack with twinkling eyes. “It no longer threatens you, wolf,” he said warmly.
Something about the healer made Jack relax a little, and he was content to drift away while the man applied that corrosive paste to his chest wound. Perhaps Jack would live. The prospect was eminently appealing but the werewolf couldn’t explore it further due to falling heavily asleep.
The sounds of a vibrant camp at dawn woke Jack from a
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