“But weren’t all the Erasers wiped out?” I asked Jeb. Of anyone, Jeb would be in the know about the wolf boys.

Jeb nodded slowly. “The entire original production lines, as well as the next four generations, were all … retired,” he said. “But I wonder. After the School closed, the scientists, what was left of them, scattered. It’s possible — even likely — that one or more of them have set up shop somewhere else.”

“Where are the Erasers now? Do you know?” Fang asked the kids.

“Dumped ’em in the canyon,” Angel said, rubbing her hand.

“Good job, guys,” I said. “That was the way to go.” I tried a grin. “But I bet we’ll be smelling them for days, until the vultures finish them off.”

Fang strode back out to the deck, hopped up on the railing, and jumped off to investigate the remains. I saw envy and admiration war on Dylan’s face.

“So, Dylan, your first Eraser fight,” I commented, wondering how he had done.

“He did great,” said Total. “He’s a machine. Dylan’s like the top-of-the-line Cuisinart to Gazzy’s hand mixer.” Total was a bit of a gourmet, and his point was all but lost on me.

Dylan shrugged as if he’d done nothing at all, even though one arm had ugly gashes on it. His long-sleeved plaid shirt was in tatters.

“Um, we should probably be treating those wounds,” I said, sounding a little more concerned than I wanted to. That mother hen thing is a hard habit to break.

“Don’t worry, Max. I’ll be fine,” he said, taking his shirt off so he could check out the damage. I tried to avert my eyes from his muscular torso. But even more distracting was seeing just how shredded his arm really was under that shirt.

“Jeepers!” I couldn’t understand how Dylan could be so unflinching with that kind of damage. “Jeb, make yourself useful for once! You’ve got a medical background, don’t you?”

“I think I can fix it, Max,” Dylan said, as he pulled together ragged bits of skin and held them firmly in place.

The flock heals faster than normal humans, but what Dylan did next I’d never seen another bird kid even attempt: He raised his wounded arm to his mouth and used his own spit to wet the damaged areas. WTH?

“Eew!” Nudge said, and turned away. I, however, was fascinated. And terrified.

“Just a little trick Dr. Gunther-Hagen taught me,” Dylan said, as we watched his skin scab up and heal right before our very eyes.

Chapter 45

45

I DIDN’T HAVE TIME to grill Dylan about just how much he’d been subjected to Dr. G.’s experimentation before Fang landed lightly on the deck and came in.

“There’s nothing down there,” he reported.

“What?” Nudge sounded stunned.

“Some blood. Bits of fur. Iggy’s mixer,” Fang clarified. “No bodies.”