while I’m rubbing Loch, digging into his cold, clammy flesh.
I fight it. Search within for warmth, energy, magic — anything. I can’t change, not until Dervish comes, not until Loch’s in an ambulance, on his way to the hospital, safe.
“Won’t turn,” I snarl, slapping my cheeks one after the other. “I’m not a wolf. I can control myself. Won’t let the moon. . . ”
Loch shudders. His breath stops. I thump his chest hard, then remember first aid classes at school. Opening his mouth, I press firmly down on his chest, then release him and count. One, two, three, four. Press and count again. A third time. I place my lips over Loch’s. Breathe out, so that his cheeks puff up. Withdraw. Press — two, three, four. Press — two, three, four. Press — two, three, four. Mouth-to-mouth.
Trying to remember if I’m doing it right. Was it three presses on the chest, or four, or five? Should I blow air firmly down Loch’s throat or —
Loch coughs and breathes again.
I sink back, whining with relief and fear. That was too close. This can’t be happening. We were looking for treasure. Messing around. Loch was teasing Bill-E. Everything was normal. You can’t suddenly go from that to a life-or-death situation like this.
Except I know from past experience that you most certainly
can.
Besides, things weren’t normal — the face, the whispers, the throbbing, the sense that we were in danger. I should have been more forceful. Made them leave. Insisted they go home.
The sickness within me grows.
The noise of the whispers increases.
Loch’s blood continues to flow.
Still talking. Telling Loch he’s got to stay alive for Reni’s sake. “She’ll be a mess for years if you die,” I sob. “Trust me, I know what losing a sister does to your head. You can’t leave her, Loch. She needs you.”
It feels like hours since Bill-E left. Loch stopped breathing again a few minutes ago. I resuscitated him, but it took longer than the first time. I was in floods of tears by the end of it, sure I’d lost him.
What’s keeping them? Damn it, they should be here by now. Don’t they know how perilous this is, how much danger Loch’s in? I can’t keep him alive forever, not by myself. If they don’t —
Loch’s breath stops again. Cursing, I start with the chest pressing and mouth-to-mouth. The beast within me wants to suck in air, not breathe it out. It wants to draw the life from Loch, feed on all that blood around his head and shoulders, sip from that terrible pool, dark in the dim light of the flash-light. If I drop my guard, just for a few seconds, there’s no telling what it —
I
— would do.
The whispers increase. It’s like I’m being shouted at now. I want to roar back at them, but I need all my breath for Loch. Press — two, three, four. Press — two, three, four. Mouth-to-mouth.
Nothing’s happening. I don’t panic. It was like this last time. I just have to keep going, stay calm, stick with it. He’ll revive eventually.
Press — two, three, four. Press — two, three, four. Press. . .
It doesn’t work. No matter how much I press and breathe, Loch doesn’t respond. His face has shut down. His lungs don’t move. His heart is still.
Third time unlucky.
“No,” I whisper. “I don’t accept this. He can’t be. . .
No!
”
I bring my hands up, meaning to press again, harder than before, wildly. But something about Loch’s expression stops me. It’s peaceful, calmer than it ever was in life. Staring at him, I know with total, awful certainty — he’s lost. I could press and breathe from here till doomsday and it wouldn’t make the slightest bit of difference.
Loch Gossel is dead.
Stumbling around the cave. The whispers deafening. Tears streaming down my cheeks. The wolf within me howling to be set free. Loch dead. Muttering, “This can’t be happening. This can’t be happening. This. . . ”
My right foot hits either a large stone or small stalagmite. I fall flat. As I’m
I fight it. Search within for warmth, energy, magic — anything. I can’t change, not until Dervish comes, not until Loch’s in an ambulance, on his way to the hospital, safe.
“Won’t turn,” I snarl, slapping my cheeks one after the other. “I’m not a wolf. I can control myself. Won’t let the moon. . . ”
Loch shudders. His breath stops. I thump his chest hard, then remember first aid classes at school. Opening his mouth, I press firmly down on his chest, then release him and count. One, two, three, four. Press and count again. A third time. I place my lips over Loch’s. Breathe out, so that his cheeks puff up. Withdraw. Press — two, three, four. Press — two, three, four. Press — two, three, four. Mouth-to-mouth.
Trying to remember if I’m doing it right. Was it three presses on the chest, or four, or five? Should I blow air firmly down Loch’s throat or —
Loch coughs and breathes again.
I sink back, whining with relief and fear. That was too close. This can’t be happening. We were looking for treasure. Messing around. Loch was teasing Bill-E. Everything was normal. You can’t suddenly go from that to a life-or-death situation like this.
Except I know from past experience that you most certainly
can.
Besides, things weren’t normal — the face, the whispers, the throbbing, the sense that we were in danger. I should have been more forceful. Made them leave. Insisted they go home.
The sickness within me grows.
The noise of the whispers increases.
Loch’s blood continues to flow.
Still talking. Telling Loch he’s got to stay alive for Reni’s sake. “She’ll be a mess for years if you die,” I sob. “Trust me, I know what losing a sister does to your head. You can’t leave her, Loch. She needs you.”
It feels like hours since Bill-E left. Loch stopped breathing again a few minutes ago. I resuscitated him, but it took longer than the first time. I was in floods of tears by the end of it, sure I’d lost him.
What’s keeping them? Damn it, they should be here by now. Don’t they know how perilous this is, how much danger Loch’s in? I can’t keep him alive forever, not by myself. If they don’t —
Loch’s breath stops again. Cursing, I start with the chest pressing and mouth-to-mouth. The beast within me wants to suck in air, not breathe it out. It wants to draw the life from Loch, feed on all that blood around his head and shoulders, sip from that terrible pool, dark in the dim light of the flash-light. If I drop my guard, just for a few seconds, there’s no telling what it —
I
— would do.
The whispers increase. It’s like I’m being shouted at now. I want to roar back at them, but I need all my breath for Loch. Press — two, three, four. Press — two, three, four. Mouth-to-mouth.
Nothing’s happening. I don’t panic. It was like this last time. I just have to keep going, stay calm, stick with it. He’ll revive eventually.
Press — two, three, four. Press — two, three, four. Press. . .
It doesn’t work. No matter how much I press and breathe, Loch doesn’t respond. His face has shut down. His lungs don’t move. His heart is still.
Third time unlucky.
“No,” I whisper. “I don’t accept this. He can’t be. . .
No!
”
I bring my hands up, meaning to press again, harder than before, wildly. But something about Loch’s expression stops me. It’s peaceful, calmer than it ever was in life. Staring at him, I know with total, awful certainty — he’s lost. I could press and breathe from here till doomsday and it wouldn’t make the slightest bit of difference.
Loch Gossel is dead.
Stumbling around the cave. The whispers deafening. Tears streaming down my cheeks. The wolf within me howling to be set free. Loch dead. Muttering, “This can’t be happening. This can’t be happening. This. . . ”
My right foot hits either a large stone or small stalagmite. I fall flat. As I’m
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