I stood by the bed, my hands hovering over Guilermo’s chest. He was unconscious, his breathing shallow and ragged. The antidote had neutralized the active poison in his blood, but the trauma to his system was severe. His body was fighting a war on two fronts: healing the massive tissue damage from the silver burn, and rebooting his paralyzed immune system.
"His temperature is spiking," Thelma whispered from the doorway. She was holding a basin of cool water, her face pale.
"It’s the fever," I said, not looking up. "His wolf is burning through his reserves trying to knit the muscle back together. If he gets too hot, he’ll cook his own brain."
I placed my palm on his forehead. He was burning up. His skin was dry, radiating a heat that was almost painful to touch.
"I need to cool him down
