Roan sat back on his haunches and waited for the lead cougar to settle down. He didn’t know how he was going to explain this to Gordo and the rest of the guys outside, but he figured he’d worry about that later.

The common denominator between these cats, what presumably brought them together, was illness. What he didn’t understand was where they’d found each other, and why they hadn’t torn each other apart.

****

Diego wondered belatedly if he should have brought his EMT jacket along, to give him some implication of authority. Not that it would mean much here, but maybe they’d be more willing to answer his questions.

Or not. The jacket didn’t always work – it depended on the situation and the people involved, and he knew no one at this medical center, which wasn’t a proper hospital anyways, just a research center. He knew they were doing some studies on the virus that caused cat mutations, but he had no idea they’d advanced so far as Human trials. He was glad if Roan and Paris could get in, but what if it was too late for Paris?

Poor Paris. And poor Roan, come to think of it, although he’d never say that to his face. He was nothing if not a prickly, butch bastard. He supposed he had a reason to be that way – several good ones, actually – but still, it was the principal of the thing. He basically dumped him. Okay, it was a mutual thing, clearly it wasn’t going to work, but Roan was the one who laid it out on the table. They were in the living room, both having after work beers, Roan scanning the newspaper while he was playing Halo (playing video games relaxed him), when suddenly Ro just put down the paper, stared at nothing for a moment, then said, “You know what? This isn’t working. Why are we doing this?”

That was a damn good question, and beyond the obvious answer (sex), he had nothing. He was a decent guy, smarter than you ‘d suspect, good looking, good in bed, which is all he pretty much asked from a guy. (Although smart was negotiable.) But Ro could be a bit of a know it all, annoying, and he always interrupted his games, which was a cardinal sin. After a night dealing with bleeding, agitated, and sometimes dying people, all he wanted to do was get out of his own head with a little digital carnage, which was nothing like the real thing and meant absolutely nothing; that was all. Roan had his books and his personal “mysteries” for escape; he had the games. And if Ro couldn’t see that, he had his head up his ass.

So yeah, their split up was inevitable, and they both knew it. But since Ro was the first one to bring it up, he felt he had the right to be bitchy.

As he walked the cold, sterile halls of the center, finding his way to the Kesselman Wing, he wondered if he was also just a bit jealous. Maybe? He couldn’t have a relationship with a guy to save his life. Most of his so called “relationships” were basically one night stands that extended up to a month, and while that had been good with him for a long time, he was getting older, and he realized, to some personal horror, that maybe it would be nice to put up with one guy for a while, as opposed to a series of flakes. And it seemed that flakes were all he ended up with, besides Roan and Ethan. But Ethan wouldn’t give up his wife, and he was just not going to be some closet case’s boy on the side. (And what made it worse was Ethan was a surgeon at Saint Joe’s, so he saw him every now and again on the job. He just pretended he didn’t know him, although every now and then Ethan threw a wounded puppy dog look his way. Jerk.)

Roan and Paris seemed to be really good together; they seemed to be happy too, and they’d been together for what, about three years now? Maybe a bit more. How could you not be jealous? Especially since Paris was an absolute sex bomb, which just made it that much more painful. Roan couldn’t have split up with him and taken up with a dumpy guy with no hair and a small penis who would use him shamelessly? Was that so much to ask?

He found the Kesselman Wing finally, after two false starts, and found a reasonably attractive sister behind a semi-circular walnut finished desk. He told her who he was and who he was here to pick up, and she started to tell him that Mr. Lehane wasn’t out yet when a familiar voice asked, “Roan got called away again?”

Paris just emerged from a narrow corridor to the left of the receptionist’s desk, looking pale and thin in a bulky sweater that hung off him like a flour sack, with Roan’s fleece lined bomber jacket thrown over his shoulder . He had his sleeves rolled up, though, and Diego could see the piece of medical tape holding a cotton ball on his arm. It was either covering up an injection site or an IV site, but either way it probably wasn’t good. He couldn’t help but size him up visually in paramedic mode, and from the way he looked so tired, pale, and cold, that work side of his brain assessed him as probably being in shock. He needed to keep him warm and conscious, hydrated, see if he could answer some simple questions, ascertain his level of functional awareness. “Afraid so. Gordon needed him for some reason.”

Par just nodded, and the receptionist got out from behind her desk and gave him a note that Diego assumed was from Roan – he did love his notes. Par looked at it, read it quickly, then folded it up and shoved it in the front pocket of his jeans. “Yeah, apparently so. Makes you wonder why the police didn’t keep him in the first place.”

“’Cause he was a pain in the ass, remember? I’m parked out front.” Diego had to fight the urge to touch Paris’s arm, gently but firmly support him on the walk back to the car. He had to snap out of diagnostic mode; it wasn’t fair to Paris. And in spite of looking sickly, he was still hot, which was a credit to his supernatural sex appeal. Needing something to talk about, he asked simply, “How was it?”

“The exam?” Paris shrugged. “It was an exam. They don’t change much.” As soon as they walked outside, into the biting air, Paris shivered and shrugged on his coat, burying himself deep in it. He still looked cold.

As soon as they were in his car – a sky blue Volkswagen bug that Roan liked to occasionally tease him about – he couldn’t help but ask, “How’s your blood pressure?”

Paris looked at him with a small, sly smile , his lips so bloodless they were barely pink. “You can just tell it’s bad by looking at me, huh?”

‘Well, I am the world’s best paramedic.”

He seemed to appreciate his attempt at a joke, but Par looked away, out the windshield. “It’s low. They wanted to hospitalize me, but I told them that wasn’t happening. So they hooked me up to an IV, got me on a fluid drip with some meds, until the numbers hit a point they were happy with. I still feel a little out of it.”

“It wasn’t just your blood pressure, was it?”

Paris shrugged, still looking away from him as he pulled out into traffic. It wasn’t too bad this time of day, as most people were still at work. “I really don’t want to talk about it,” he finally said, leaning his head against the passenger window. “My metabolism is going haywire, and there doesn’t seem to be a way to stabilize it. We all know how this is going to end – I just don’t want it to end in a hospital.”

He nodded in understanding. Considering how much time he spent in hospitals, getting patients there or transferring them from one place to another, you’d have probably thought he would have liked them better than he did. He liked the people there – with some exceptions – but he still didn’t care much for the places themselves. “I’m hungry,” Diego announced, aware that it was a terribly obvious segue, but there was nothing to be done about it now. “I haven’t had lunch. You want something?”

Par glanced at him with that small, slightly patronizing smile. Of course he knew what he was doing. “A coffee would be good.” He paused briefly, long enough to signal a subject change. “I was wondering if I could talk you into doing something for me.”

“Anything.” He was kind of hoping it was something salacious, but he doubted it considering Paris’s physical state.

“I’m recruiting people to make sure Roan doesn’t retreat from the world after I’m gone. I’ve got Randi so far, and I’m trying to figure out who might be good at annoying the shit out of him. You can do that, can’t you?”

“In my sleep.”

“That’s what I thought. Exes are great at that, aren’t they? I’d consider it a personal favor if you didn’t let him slip away after I’m dead, because I know he’ll try. He’s already starting to neglect work because of me.” He sighed heavily, dry washing his face with his hands. “I hate the feeling that I’m going to hurt him so much. “

Wow. He knew Paris loved Roan enough that it made him just want to explode with envy – why didn’t anyone love him that much? He was prettier than Roan, damn it! – but this was almost too much. “Why the hell are you worried about him? You’re the one who’s …” Dying. He couldn’t quite finish the sentence, but he didn’t really need to. No one was more acutely aware of their own mortality than Paris.

He flashed him another smile, this one heartbreakingly sad. “I should have been dead years ago, Diego. All this time has been a gift. I have no right to complain.”

Diego snorted derisively. “You sure as hell do. You’re not even thirty.”

“Yeah, but I think I’ve had all the life I can stand as a tiger strain. I was never even curious what it might feel like to have all the bones in my body broken, yet I know it pretty well now. I don’t really think anyone should know that if they can at all avoid it.”

What could he say to that? He could only grimace at the thought, “You know, if you guys need meds …”

He shook his head. “Thanks, but no, we’re good. In fact, I’m not sure Roan needs them so much anymore. He’s adapting.”

That was such a curious thing to say that Diego briefly took his eyes off the road to glance at Paris’s profile. He looked oddly serene, a man at peace with himself and with the end. Diego was pretty sure he wouldn’t have that much dignity if he was facing death; he’d be screaming and flailing and quite probably throwing Molotov cocktails through his enemy’s windows. “What d’ya mean?”

Paris must have known he was looking at him, but he didn’t turn his way; he kept staring out the windshield like he was the driver. “Just that. He’s finally learned how to manipulate his inner animal, and his body has changed with it. He’s a virus child – he’s always been different. I just don’t think anyone ever knew how different.”

“Uh … what are you saying exactly?” He thought he knew, but he was having a hard time accepting it. Was he saying that Roan was part virus, less than Human? (Or more than Human?)

“You’ve seen him lately, haven’t you? Haven’t you noticed how he’s changed?”

He thought about it. “He looks … good. But that’s about it.” And Roan did look good; it looked like he’d started going to the gym. He looked fitter than he ever had before, although he’d never been the dumpy sort. He thought perhaps Paris’s slow deterioration had made him worried about his own health.

Paris nodded, as if he expected that answer. “He hasn’t really been working out; he hasn’t changed his diet. He’s just learned how to control the shift of his muscles. He can trigger the change, Diego. Anytime he wants.”

For a second there, he thought he was joking. He must have been joking, right? That couldn’t happen. The infected were slaves to their viral cycles, and the change was a slow, agonizing process that killed quite a few of them. That’s why he never understood the cultists and the Goths who thought infection was something to aspire to, like this was some stupid fucking werewolf movie and being one of the “transformed” would give them special abilities or something, when all it really did was promise you agony and an early death.

But maybe that was only true for some of them. After all, Roan did have his dubious bloodhound sense of smell, and hadn’t he healed abnormally fast from his bullet wound? He never did have the surgery to repair his torn muscles, had he? Viruses adapted; they could change with their environment in some cases. Was he saying Roan was doing the same thing? “You’re serious?”

Paris nodded solemnly. “I am. And if I don’t get around to it in time, I want you to recruit Matt into this conspiracy of bugging the shit out of Ro once I’m gone.”

Now Diego was starting to feel drugged. This seemed almost too big and too strange to comprehend. Roan could become a lion any time he wanted? Why hadn’t he told him that while they were seeing each other? The secretive bastard! “Matt? Who’s Matt?”

“Skouris. Remember, the puppy?”

“Him? Why would you want him in on this?”

“Because he obviously loves Ro, and won’t stop bugging him no matter what. Also, he’s more annoying than you could ever be. I have to make sure Roan doesn’t do a Michael Henstridge.”

“Okay, now I’m lost. What?”

He smoothed his hair back with his hand, still not messing up his expensive cut, and gave him a look that made it feel like his heart had cramped in his chest. It was full of such pleading it was almost painful. “I don’t want him to retreat into the cat and never come out. Make sure that doesn’t happen. Do whatever you have to do – just promise me you won’t let him do that.”

Diego shot glances at him as he tried to concentrate on the road at the very same time, finding the latter to be even more difficult than usual.

He wasn’t sure what was more unbelievable: the thing Paris was asking, or the fact that he was asking him.

****

The cats were resuming their positions on the barn’s packed dirt floor, not so much laying down as flopping down, eying him with some wariness but generally accepting him. Now that he concentrated on the smells, he could pick up more scents of decay and failure, as well as blood from the bleeding cougar. These were dying animals; it was astounding they had the strength to maul anyone. But why were they grouping together? It didn’t make sense, not across breeds. Sick animals were generally attacked by stronger animals too.

Was that a reason? Again, safety in numbers … but that was a Human thought, evidence of reasoning. What the hell was going on here?

His ears pricked up at the same time as the rest of the cats, his nose catching the scent of gunpowder as he heard the grit of stones under boot soles. The muddy cougar raised itself back to its feet, its sides heaving, but Roan made his way to the barn door first to see a couple of SWAT members slowly approaching, their bulky body armor adding about twenty pounds to their solid frames, assault rifles raised to fire. “Get the fuck away from here,” he spat at them, only aware in retrospect that he was growling while he spoke. “I have the situation under control. Stand down.”

The men paused, their rifles aimed at him, and finally one consulted someone on his radio. The order must have been given, because they started backing slowly away, back towards the fence, but their guns were still aimed at him. Why the fuck were they doing that?

Oh, yeah – he was still growling at them.

He turned back to the cats to find that the muddy cougar was still sitting there, and none of the other cats had gotten up. He’d been accepted as the alpha, the protector of the group. “I’m sorry, but this has to end now,” he said in a slow, quiet voice. “I drug you, or they kill you. It’s the only choice on the table.” Moving slowly but deliberately, he pulled out the drug gun and shot the muddy cougar, then the battered leopard. The drugs worked fast if you got them in the right spot, and he did – he shot them both in the neck, and they barely had time to lay down before they fell over. The other cats weren’t alarmed in any way; their “friends” weren’t dead, and he was the leader now anyways. He put the third dart in the cat that looked the most disturbed by this turn of events, and then returned to the open barn door, dropping the empty drug gun. “I need four more shots,” he shouted. The cops had retreated and seemed happy to let the SWAT team take over, although Gordo and Seb remained where they were at the split rail fence. In fact, it was Gordo and Seb that tossed him the extra drug guns so he could finish the job.

As soon as all the cats were drugged , he left the barn and returned to them, As he stepped over the fence, a SWAT guy suddenly stepped up to him. He was almost a full foot taller than him, with shoulders as broad as Par’s, but he was a Hispanic man with a round face, narrowed eyes, and a wispy hint of a moustache that looked somehow pre-pubescent pathetic. (He felt like bragging that if he really wanted to, he could have a good start on a beard tonight, but it was childish to point out a man’s inability to grow facial hair, or only grow facial hair that looked pubic.) “You do not order my men, nor do you threaten them,” the SWAT captain said, a sneer in his voice. “You’re a civilian.”

He wondered how he threatened them, then assumed he meant the growling. “I was a cop.”

“You’re a civilian now,” he insisted, his eyes like glowing embers. He hated him way out of proportion, it seemed. Did he hate cats in general, or him in particular? “Stop forgetting that.” The man spun on a heel and stalked off, showing him his back. Did he know how inflammatory that was amongst cats?

“Don’t,” Gordo warned him softly. What the hell did he think he was going to do? Even Roan wasn’t sure. He was torn between the obscene gesture and winging him with a rock. (A small one. ) Gordo then asked, in a normal tone of voice, “So what’s the deal with the cats?”

“They’re all sick and hurt, maybe dying. Call me when they’ve transformed, I need to talk to them as Humans to determine what the hell is going on.”

“Sick?” Seb repeated, so confused he almost showed an emotion. “Why would that make them group together?”

He shrugged, “That’s why I need to talk to them when they’re Human.” He had a hunch, but he wanted it confirmed before he started to wave it about. If he was wrong, he’d seem even more foolish than usual.

He left the cops to transfer the cats to the van that’d take them to the kitty holding cells back at the precinct, and walked back to his car, feeling surprisingly weary. Was everybody in the world dying? Sometimes it felt that way. Everybody but him.

He didn’t want to die, but he was slowly becoming aware that outliving everyone around you was its own special kind of pain. He felt like his own energy was being drained away just by psychic pressure, by the slowly dwindling life force of the people around him. He wished that he could contribute the energy to the others, keep them going, but it didn’t work that way.

Paris had told him often enough “You can’t save everyone.” And while he knew that logically, a part of him was just unwilling to accept it. There were some people he wanted to save no matter what, and Paris was on the top of the list. It might seem counter-protective, but he was willing to die if it would save Paris. If he could swap his life for Par’s, he would. He just didn’t know where to go to do that.

He sat in his car, resting his head on the steering wheel and willing himself not to cry or punch out the passenger window, when he felt his phone humming in his pocket again. He let it go for two rings, then figured it might be Paris or Diego, so he answered it. As it was, there was no phone number displayed – it was blocked.

“Leave town tonight or die,” a voice said, made slightly robotic by an electronic filter. “This is your only warning.”

Before he could even take a breath to say anything, they hung up. He tried to star sixty nine them, but it didn’t work.

Considering what he’d just been thinking, he wondered if this was irony or karma in action.