The strangest thing about waking up on a bed that is not yours after you were almost certain you’ve been fighting vampires in Boston just a second ago was not trying to figure out where you were, but how long have you been there.
Malia hadn’t opened her eyes yet, but she was a coyote and her instinct told her that she was in an unfamiliar place. Her fingers felt the soft sheets of the hard bed and she breathed in a little deeper just to get started. A good breath could help her solve most of the mystery and gather all the information she needed before bolting up and getting to the action.
She wasn’t in any hospital-like facility or anything like that, she could tell. This place was old and dusty, maybe a bunker of sorts? She could smell the canned food, the wood, and the gunpowder. And even though she was hurting all over, her hearing settled and all the muffled sounds started to make sense – the static of a low-frequency radio, the soft whispers in a commanding, rapid voice, the fact that she didn’t feel like fleeing.
The lack of her number one response to everything was what made her blink and open her eyes, trying to shield the dim light with her lids. She tentatively moved her arm to rub the slumber out of her face and realized she wasn’t restrained or anything, and because of that, she tried to remember what the hell had happened to her.
Vampires in Boston. She was fighting vampires in Boston because they were sneaky motherfuckers trying to unbalance the carefully knitted web the supernatural had so tired put together in that God forsaken country. They were many, they were violent, and they were thirsty. Her group of agents was quickly being taken down and she didn’t know if back up would come in time.
Yet, she continued. She remembered being cut with a silver knife and her hand immediately went to her stomach. Silver and wood were bullshit weapons imagined by those who passed along mythos of the supernatural, but mistletoe and mountain ash… those could damage and a lot.
She touched her stomach carefully and felt the gauze that was draped around her carefully, figuring that it was the source of her soreness. The injury was irradiating some sort of poison that reached her extremities and limited her movements, and when she coughed, dark saliva dripping from the corner of her mouth, the pain only increased.
The person who’d been talking on the radio suddenly stopped and Malia’s fear response kicked in, finally making an appearance. She tried to summon her coyote, but couldn’t, and in a panicked moment, she looked around searching for a weapon, any weapon she could use.
“Malia,” he called, and her heart skipped a beat before she looked at him. Stiles. He had a black eye and his hand was draped in bloody gauze; the gun visible on his shoulder holster, white shirt partially torn, but overall he looked fine. “You’re awake.”
“Stiles,” she whispered, her voice husky. She half-remembered dialing his number before going in battle, leaving him on hold in case her squad couldn’t handle the vampires. “You came.”
“There’s no way in hell you’d think I would miss it,” he said sitting on a chair by the bed. “Who gets to see a werewolf versus vampires brawl on a Tuesday?”
She rolled her eyes and tried to sit up, but his hands were quickly on her shoulders, making her lay back down, and she didn’t protest.
“Ata, girl, you’re sick and you need to rest.”
“What had in that fucking knife?”
“Mountain ash,” Stiles told her casually. “But don’t worry, it’s wearing off. You’ll live.”
Malia took another deep breath, relying on the familiar scent of her best friend, her first love. It was good to be his partner in the field, good to know that he had her back. She had a lot of questions for him yet about that fight, but she was tired and getting kind of nauseous. Damn, she hated mountain ash, it made you feel like shit for weeks. Not looking forward to that.
“I’ll get you some water,” he said getting up and she nodded.
“Hey, Stiles,” she called grabbing his left hand, the one that wasn’t hurt, and he looked at her. “Thanks for the save.”
“Any time,” he replied smiling. “Agent Tate.”