What reviewers are saying about Cherise Sinclair…
This author should be at the top of every reader's favorite list!
~ Shannon The Romance Studio
If you haven't read a Cherise Sinclair book, you should certainly pick one up. Apparently, no matter the genre, you just can't go wrong.
~ Jae Dark Diva Reviews
If you’ve not experienced the fantastic work of Cherise Sinclair, now’s a good time to start.
~ Fern Whipped Cream Reviews
Hour of the Lion — Erotic paranormal ménage romance
A dedicated covert ops agent, Victoria Morgan follows two rules: do your duty, and protect the innocent. When she gets bitten by a werecat—yeah, that was a sucky day—she must investigate beings that shouldn't even exist. Just how is she supposed to tell if a person is human…or an animal-shifter who eats raw meat for breakfast?
During her investigation, she finds a real home and friends for the first time. Now, scientists are waiting for her to turn into something four-legged with a tail, the shifters suspect her of spying, and she has fallen in love with two werecat brothers. Should she do her duty and expose their existence? Or should she follow her heart and protect them with all of her deadly skills.
Hour of the Lion
By
Cherise Sinclair
VanScoy Publishing Group
* * * * *
Smashwords Edition Copyright June 2011 by Cherise Sinclair
ISBN: 978-0-9837063-0-4
Published by VanScoy Publishing Group
Cover Artist: For The Muse Design
This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer's imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved. This copy is intended for the purchaser of this eBook only. No part of this eBook may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any manner whatsoever without prior written permission from the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
Warning: This book contains sexually explicit scenes and adult language and may be considered offensive to some readers. This book is for sale to adults only, as defined by the laws of the country in which you made your purchase.
Chapter One
That was a really bad dream, Vic thought, though it had started well enough. Looking up at her father, trying not to fidget, she’d recited the marketplace gossip, and she’d remembered every detail too. He’d actually smiled and said he couldn’t do without her. But somehow twenty years had passed, her boss stood over her hospital bed and was saying a disabled soldier wasn’t any good to him. He’d walked away, leaving her there. Alone.
Even now, wide awake, she felt the aching loss in her chest.
Only…the ache was real. Her ribs really did hurt. This was more than a nightmare residue. Her sniper-damaged knee ached like a pulled tooth, and her skull throbbed like hell. Couldn’t be a hangover. She hadn’t tied one on since Wells recruited her into his estrogen-heavy, covert ops unit.
When she opened her eyes, light blasted through them like a frag grenade, and she barely managed to muffle the moan. Just the thought of turning her head had bile flooding her mouth. Then don’t move, Sergeant. Just assess. She was curled up with her cheek resting on cold cement. An ugly feeling crept up her spine when she realized her hands were tied in front of her. Narrowing her eyes to slits, she took stock of the room. Exposed beams, cinder-block walls, and tiny rectangular windows near the ceiling. The stench of feces and sickness mingled with a musty smell like mildewing socks. Basement.
A gray-haired woman lay nearby, her back to Vic. Familiar-looking. That was it. Her memory engaged.
Rescuing a woman who was trying to escape from a man. Check.
Didn’t win. Check.
Now, tied up in a basement. Check.
Probably concussed, too, considering the speed of her thinking. Her day had definitely gone to hell. I might as well be working. Why the hell had she risked her life when a phone call to the police would have worked?
The answer to that really sucked. She’d acted all macho—and stupid—to prove she still had it. That she wasn’t irreparably damaged. But she was. In the hospital, Mr. Show-no-emotions Spymaster had looked at her with pity; he didn’t think she’d heal enough to return to duty. So she’d jumped right into the first fight she could find. Act any dumber and I might as well be a guy.
Well, with luck, her inept rescue could be salvaged. The idiots hadn’t tied her legs.
Hearing footsteps, Vic froze, watching through dark eyelashes as the guy she’d fought appeared. Shaved head, built like a linebacker, all muscle. Ripped off sleeves showed tattoos: eagle, globe, and anchor; bulldog; skull and crossed rifles.
“Hey, BeastieBoy.” The man walked to a metal kennel near the stairs. A naked teenager with shaggy blond hair huddled in the far corner of the cage. Shivering. Scared half to death. Eyes sunken, he was skinny, as if he hadn’t eaten in weeks. Bruises and abrasions—even burns—marred his fair skin.
Vic’s breath hitched. Tortured?
Baldy slapped the top of the cage with his fist, making the kid jump. “You ready for another session, pussy cat? Just tell me how to make new beasts, and I won’t hurt you anymore.”
“I won’t tell you anything.” The boy’s voice cracked on the last word.
Brave kid. Vic cheered silently even as her stomach tightened in fear for him. And what did the asshole mean by making new beasts?
“Dumb fuck.” Baldy raised a long rod—a cattle prod. The kid was as far back as he could get, but it wasn’t far enough. He jerked at the shock of the prod, and the bastard didn’t stop, kept jamming with the prod until the boy screamed.
Teeth grinding together, Vic yanked at her ropes.
And then the kid...blurred.
A huge tawny cougar stood where the boy had been. A chilling snarl ripped through the room, echoing off the concrete walls. The hair on Vic’s arms rose.
What the hell? Kid one moment, the next, a...a mountain lion. She sucked in a hard breath, tried blinking her eyes. The big cat still paced the cage. Am I drugged? Like when Private Renner had a bad reaction to morphine and spent hours screaming about ghouls eating his heart. Or maybe she had a concussion. Yeah, this wasn’t happening. She didn’t believe in ghosts, ghouls, or people changing into mountain lions. Woo-woo stuff was for flakes and druggies.
“Cut the crap, Swane.” A man said from the stairs. White, average height, heavy build. Older, in his sixties. Wearing a suit. Scarred knuckles matched his battered face, nose busted in the past, thin lips and dead-cold eyes. Might be in nice clothes, but the body inside said thug. “He can’t talk in cat form.”
“Not my fucking fault. I only tapped it,” Swane said. When the cat swiped at the cattle-prod with three-inch claws, he used the prod until the cat shrieked in pain. “It’s not gonna talk anyway.” Swane tossed the device onto a table. “Fucking thing would rather starve. Look at it—it’s dying.”
“Dammit.” The suit crossed the room to the cage where the cat paced back and forth. “It’s amazing he’s still alive. He should have died the first week with what you did to him. The creatures are fucking strong.”
“An’ you really want to turn into that?” Swane spit on the floor.
Vic stared. The suit wanted to become an animal? Was he insane?
His face turned ugly. Brutal enough that Swane took a step back. “I’m not paying you to think. Just to get answers.” He glanced over his shoulder. “What happened with the old bitch?”
Swane walked over and, with his foot, he shoved the woman onto her back. Hands and feet tied, she blinked blankly as froth trickled from her toothless mouth. “Another goner.” Swane nudged her with his boot.
“Get rid of her.”
“Will do.” Swane’s mouth pulled into a twisted smile as he set his boot on the woman’s throat.
Before Vic could move, she heard the crunch of breaking cartilage, and then it was too late. Sucking air through her teeth, she tried to stay motionless against the fury rising inside.
Expressionless, Swane watched the old woman’s strangling efforts to breathe, her death spasms. When her body finally stilled, pleasure shone in his eyes, and his filthy jeans showed his erection.
Sick bastard. Vic clenched her jaw. She should have done something, created a diversion. I didn’t save a helpless woman. Her war-torn past stretched out behind her, littered with bodies—testaments to the times she hadn’t moved fast enough, discovered enough information, or pushed herself hard enough. The ones she’d failed.
“You were clever to test this first, boss.” Swane glanced at the body. “You could have ended up like her.”
“Why are they dying, dammit? Why the fuck don’t they change?” The suit hit the table with his fist, then stared at the dead woman. “They’ve all been druggies, alcoholics. Maybe they’re too unhealthy to survive being bit.” When his gaze lit on Vic, he walked toward her.
She closed her eyes completely.
“Didn’t kill her, Swane?” His voice held a thinly concealed taunt. “The bitch looks healthy enough. Let’s give her a try.”
“No. She’s mine. I kept this piece of ass for me, not you.”
Vic’s skin crawled at the thick lust in his voice. Icy fear punched past the tight grip she’d maintained on her emotions.
“You can fuck her all you want…after.” The man slapped her hard. “Still out. Toss her in the cage while I tranq the cat.”
A second later, Vic heard the whap of a tranquilizer gun. Fuck, what were they planning? Can’t afford fear—push it aside. When Swane grabbed under her arms, Vic made her move. Clamping her elbows to her sides, she pinned his hands and swung her legs up toward his head. She opened her eyes in time to ensure that her feet hit him in the face. The crack of impact felt infinitely satisfying.
Baldy toppled backward, releasing her.
Jaw set tight, she rolled up and onto her feet.
He rose, shaking his head, looking like he’d been raised on steroids instead of candy. Considering the Marine tattoos covering his neck and arms, his fighting skills might be as good as hers.
Vic took a step back, feeling cartilage grate. That kick hadn’t done her knee any favors. She back-pedaled toward the stairs, trying to disguise her limp. As Swane advanced, she dropped into cat stance, the foot in front tapping the floor lightly, ready to kick him into never-neverland.
“Don’t move, cunt.”
Vic froze. The suit had the tranq gun in his hand, dart already loaded, aimed right at her chest. He motioned to the panther’s cage. “Crawl in or Swane will stuff you in there unconscious.”
She took a step back. In with the mountain lion? The rush of terror made her head spin. “No way.”
“Open it,” the suit said to Swane.
Scowling, Swane worked the combination padlock and half opened the door. “Stop dicking around and just shoot her. Better yet, give her to me for a while. When I get through, she’ll beg for the cage.”
If he tranked her, she wouldn’t have a chance of escaping. Eyeing the groggy cat warily, she bent and entered the cage, feeling Swane’s anger like a wave of heat as she crawled past.
The cat was on its side, head nodding, eyes glazed.
“Do it before he changes back.” The suit slammed the cage door shut.
She turned, “Do what—” and the psycho shoved the cattle-prod into her stomach. Fiery pain blistered across her skin, and with a yell, she staggered backward. Right into the snarling cat.
She landed hard, tangled in its legs, scrambling to get away. Paws seized her. Its claws ripped into her back, and the mountain lion sank its teeth into her shoulder.
“God!” Agony tore through her. She kicked, nailing it in the stomach. The animal snarled viciously. She shoved herself free, its claws tearing her skin. Rolling away, she scrambled into the corner farthest from both the cat and the cattle-prod.
“That’ll do.” The suit picked her wallet up from the table and tossed it to Swane. “I gotta leave. Give your buddies on the force some green in case anybody asks about her.”
“Got it.”
The suit scowled at the lion. “Go ahead and do whatever you want to get answers out of the kid. He’s dying anyway.”
Swane’s eyes lit and he smiled. “I need to pick up a few things to use, then I’ll start. You’ll have your answers.”
Torture? Vic’s stomach turned over. As they walked up the stairs, she realized they intended to leave her caged with the cougar. Vic pushed her face into the wire. “Let me out of here!”
The basement door closed, and the overhead bulb snapped off. The only illumination came from the tiny windows near the ceiling. Bad light for her, good light for a mountain lion. Her shoulder hurt like hell, and blood soaked her shirt sleeve, running down her back and sides. Blood? Just what she needed, a way to smell like a cat’s supper. She turned her head slowly.
The cougar watched her, eyes slitted, ears back. The one cat in the world that didn’t think she was its best friend. Even worse, it looked as emaciated as the kid had been. Its fur was dull and patchy and the golden eyes were sunken.
It looked really, really hungry.
“Nice, kitty,” she murmured in a low voice. “We’re stuck here together, so let’s just be mellow about it, okay? My name’s Victoria, but my friends call me Vicki.” Her ops team had called her Vic, and right now, that was short for victim.
The cat watched as she sidled sideways toward the cage door. She knelt, checked the lock. Generic combination padlock. She could do this if her hands were free. And if the cat didn’t decide it was hungry for human tartare.
To her relief, the cat’s ears tilted forward and its eyes rounded. A second later, the cougar blurred.
Thinking her vision was screwing-up, Vic rubbed her face against her jean-covered knee, then raised her head.
The young man lay sprawled across the wire floor.
“Jesus-fuck!” She jerked back, falling against the wire. That was no drug-induced hallucination. Eyes narrowed, she studied the cage. There was no hidden door to pull a panther out and shove in a boy. Gritting her teeth, she stayed wedged in place. People didn’t just turn into animals, and animals didn’t turn into people. No fucking way.
The kid blinked at her blearily, ran a tongue over cracked lips, and said in a hoarse voice, “Nice to meet you, Vicki. Sorry about the clawing and uh, tooth-marks.”
Vic’s hands closed into fists. He was definitely no longer a mountain lion. “What are you?” she whispered.
He struggled to raise his head and gave her a pitiful smile. “Some people call us Daonain or shifters. Me, I prefer werecats.” He glanced toward the stairs, and she could see him trying to hide his terror.
“A shifter,” Vic said, staring at the battered young man. Up close, the poor kid appeared in even worse shape, she thought with a welling of pity. “Oh, sure—like in some Ann Rice novel or something?”
“She does vampires, not shifters, thank you very much,” he said stiffly.
“Oh, yeah. I knew that.” Vic pulled at her wrists. Swane had done a good job on the knots—there was no give there to exploit.
Suddenly, the kid’s words registered—people call us shifters. “Us? Us? Like, there’s more of you?”
“Well, duh.”
“Jesus, take a nice, simple walk and blunder into the Twilight Zone. So what’s with getting you to bite me?”
“Don’t you watch TV? It’s supposed to turn you into a werecat.”
“You aren’t fucking serious—turn me into a werecat?” Vic’s breathing stopped. She turned her fear into a glare at the kid.
“I told them biting wouldn’t work.” His voice carried anger and guilt as he whispered, “I tried and tried to tell them.” His gaze avoided the dead woman. “We’re born as Daonain.”
Her breath eased out. “There’s a relief.”
“Yeah, I bet.”
Vic yanked at her bindings again, hissed as the skin on her wrists tore. “Look, cat-person or whatever, do you think you can untie me without...um—”
A trace of humor appeared in his light green eyes. “Without having you for supper? Not a problem.” He tried to rise and failed, his chest heaving as if he’d just jogged a mile. Looking even paler, if possible, he motioned her to him instead. “I only lose control when I’m drugged. Or suddenly hurt.”
Bending to walk under the low top, Vic crossed the cage, her knee grinding with each step.
“Or, uh, scared.”
She froze a few feet from him. “You turn into a cougar when you’re scared?” The way her voice rose higher at the end was purely humiliating. She cleared her throat. “Yeah, well, you’re not afraid of me, right? And not really scared this minute...right?”
He snorted. “I’ve been terrified since they caught me a month ago.”
She didn’t move. Cats can’t see you if you don’t move—she’d heard that somewhere. But probably, being only two feet away might ruin that effect.
His sigh was almost a laugh. “Get over here. I won’t trawsfur—uh, change into cat form—unless they come back. Cross my heart.”
The childish phrase pulled at her emotions; really, he couldn’t be more than seventeen or so. Just a baby. And a very sick baby to boot. Where he wasn’t bruised, sliced, or burned, his skin was an unhealthy yellowish-white. No wonder she’d managed to get away from him despite being tied.
It still took a fair amount of courage for her to turn her back on him so he could work on the rope.
A couple of extremely long minutes later, she was free. She hunched over her hands, trying not to scream as the blood began to circulate. It felt like she’d plunged her hands into a barrel of shattered glass. Shit, shit, shit. She sucked in air, breathing hard against the pain, while she opened and closed her fingers.
“Untying you won’t do any good,” the boy said. “We’re still locked in.”
“Not for long, buddy,” she muttered. “What’s your fucking name, anyway?”
“It’s Lachlan—and you sure swear a lot.”
“I’m planning to stop.” She winced at his disbelieving look. “Really.” And the assholes who grabbed her should get totally fucked for messing up her fucking good intentions.
“Gramps always says people only swear because their vocabulary is limited.”
“‘In certain trying circumstances, urgent circumstances, desperate circumstances, profanity furnishes a relief denied even to prayer,’” she said absently.
“What?”
“Mark Twain.” Now, had they taken everything from her pockets or just her wallet? “Of course, compared to Kipling, he’s a wussy.”
He smiled. “Ya know, I think my grandpa would like you. I like you too.” He looked shy as a little kid, and her heart ached. How could he endure all this and still show such sweetness?
She cleared her throat. “Well, uh, good.” Card...card. She patted her back pockets, felt something stiff in one, and elation bubbled through her. “Look.” She pulled the city transit ticket out of her pocket.
Lachlan craned his neck to frown at the little brown card. “Vicki? City transit is good, but I don’t think the bus stops at this cage.”
She laughed. “Watch and learn, young Skywalker.” Carefully, she tore the card into a narrow strip, then ripped some more and folded it into an “M” shape.
“Origami?” Lachlan said doubtfully, “My grandfather might enjoy it. He likes weird stuff.” The, “I miss him” was so soft, she almost didn’t hear it.
“How does Gramps feel about lock-picking?” She wrapped the heavy paper around one arm of the combination lock, wiggling and shoving the bottom of the “M” into the crevice until she felt the click.
“The Force is with us.” She yanked the padlock open.
“Fucking A!”
“Don’t swear,” she said primly and shoved the cage door open. “Let’s go.”
When he tried to stand, his legs buckled, dropping him back on the floor. He kept trying anyway, struggling for air like a landed fish. Hell, the boy was so thin, she could see his ribcage jerk with each heartbeat. The bastards had almost killed him.
“Kid. Quit. You’ll give yourself a heart attack.”
“I won’t stay here,” he gritted out. Shoving his fingers into the wire, he pulled himself a foot toward her. His determination was appalling, yet awe-inspiring. “Even if Swane doesn’t do it, I’m dead anyway.”
“What the hell does that mean? No, don’t tell me. Just shut up.” She grabbed his arms and dragged him out, wincing at how the wire floor abraded his fragile skin. With awkward maneuvering, she got him into a fireman’s carry. Skinny, yes, but he weighed a ton as she straightened. Pain stabbed into her knee and her head pounded hard enough to blow her skull apart.
The kid didn’t move. Had she killed him? No, as the ringing in her ears died down, she heard him wheeze for air. He sounded like hell.
But hey, she wouldn’t want to die in a cage either.
The stairs were a nightmare, even when she risked an arm to lean on the rail to keep her knee from buckling. “For someone so skinny, you sure are heavy.”
“Sorry. And here I’ve been trying to lose weight for you.”
She grinned. Wise-ass baby—reminded her of herself, cracking jokes when scared spitless. She glanced at the back door, then limped out the front. Her knee wouldn’t put up with this abuse long.
The streetlights were coming on, circles of light spilling onto the dark, wet street. The drizzling autumn rain felt wonderful as it washed the sweat from her face. Now what? Steal a car? But there wasn’t a vehicle on the street in this damned ritzy neighborhood. All locked away in their fancy two-car garages.
“Time to call the cops,” she said, half to herself.
Lachlan jerked, almost knocking himself off her shoulders.
“Don’t do that!” She rebalanced him, biting down the groan when his hip dug into her ripped-up shoulder.
“I can’t go to a hospital,” Lachlan said frantically. “Not me—I can’t. I shift if I’m hurt. I’m such a loser,” he whispered, the self-disgust pulling sympathy from her. Yeah, she’d felt that way as a kid, always doing something stupid, like when she used her left hand to pass food to an Iranian minister. Father had turned purple.
“Please, Vicki. No cops, no doctors.”
“You’re awful fussy,” she muttered. She picked a direction and started to walk. Jesus, they were screwed.
But she was free. And hey, she’d experienced lots of situations, as Wells liked to call them. Trapped in a house about to be blown up, caught snooping by her Iraqi neighbor... “Hang in there, kid.” Squeezed the emaciated leg hanging over her shoulder.
Worry bit into her guts as she realized his body had gone truly limp. He needed a hospital and to hell with his shifter paranoia crap. She’d bust him out later if she had to. She headed straight for the nearest house.
With no hands free, she kicked the door in lieu of ringing a doorbell. Politeness was over-rated anyway.
An outside light flipped on, and a man’s face appeared in the small viewing window. “Who is it?”
“We were attacked,” she returned. “Call an ambulance. Fast. This boy needs help.”
After a long minute, the door swung open. “I don’t think a robber would be bleeding so enthusiastically,” the white-haired man said in a dry voice. “Let’s get you out of the rain.”
Legs shaking with exhaustion, she staggered after the man, and the room’s warmth wrapped around her like a cocoon.
“Sit down, child.” He waited until Vic dropped onto the sofa, then laid the kid down next to her.
As he disappeared, Vic slid her legs under Lachlan’s shoulders so she could hold him. “Hey, kid.”
His eyes blinked open, the unfocused gaze slowly clearing. He stared around the living room. “We got out,” he whispered.
“Yeah.” Vic couldn’t manage more; her throat had tightened to the point of choking. Even awake, he looked bad. Really bad. “We’re safe here. He’s a nice old man.”
“A human? Vicki—promise you won’t tell him—tell anyone—about me. Or about shifters. Ever.” He clutched her hand, the veins in his neck stood out as he tried to sit up.
“Okay, fine, I promise. No one would believe me anyway.”
“Thanks. That’s good. This is good.” His voice was so soft she had to lean down to hear him. “I really, really wanted to die free—not in a cage.”
“I’d rather you lived, damn it,” she gritted out as she brushed the drenched hair out of his face.
“I wish.” His eyes were very green as he looked up at her. “My body pretty much shut down yesterday. It’s a shifter thing; metal’s bad for us, and that cage...” His mouth twisted in remembered pain.
“The docs will start IV’s, give you blood, fluid, food—you’ll be fine.”
“No. But it’s okay. I knew it was gonna happen.” Regret filled his eyes, and he blinked back tears. “My grandfather—he’ll be all alone now. He doesn’t have anybody but me.”
“Live for him,” she urged. So many people had died in her arms, she couldn’t face another. Not this boy—he wasn’t old enough to die. Her chest felt raw and open.
“Not an option.” His lips were blue, the color of death. “You got nobody either?”
She shook her head. “No.” A couple friends on the other side of the planet. And Wells—could a spymaster be considered family?
“Now you will.” He gasped in a breath. “Go to my grandpa, Vicki. In Cold Creek. Tell him what happened to me. Promise?”
“Promise. I’ll bring him to you in the hospital.” Yeah, she’d find the old man wherever he was. “But you will be there, you hear me?”
His forehead wrinkled. “How does it go?”
“What?”
He rubbed the scrapes on his shoulder. His fingers came away blood-streaked. “Fire in blood.”
Raising his hand, he wiped his tear-streaked cheek. “Water.”
“Lachlan?”
He pursed his lips, puffed on his wet, bloody fingers. “Air.”
“What are you doing? Lachlan?” He didn’t seem to hear her. Delusional? She’d seen it before with blood loss.
He touched her filthy face and smiled at the dirt. “Earth.”
“Honey, I want you to rest,” she urged. Please don’t do this to me—live! For a second, his face blurred into her teammate, gasping her life away, and Vic’s arms tightened. Oh, please, not again. “Just concentrate on breathing and—”
“And finally my spirit—that’s the gift. I remembered it,” he told her, pride in his young, young voice. “C’mere.” He lifted his arm for a hug. She leaned forward and winced as his dirty fingers dug into her mangled, bleeding shoulder.
A second later, he slid his arm down for a true hug and pulled her close. “Tell Grandpa I gifted you...and you’re my gift,” he breathed in her ear.
Her arms closed around him. “Dammit, you’ll tell him, Lachlan. You’ll tell him.”
But only silence answered her.
Gone. He was gone.
Vic slumped back on the couch. Her cheeks were wet. Even as she scrubbed her face with her hands, she felt more tears spill from her eyes. What was wrong with her? She never cried.
People died. All the fucking time. She hadn’t even known this kid. Tears ran down her cheeks, falling like little explosions of her grief onto Lachlan’s empty face.
Footsteps heralded the return of the old man. “I’ve got—” The rest of his sentence was cut short by the wailing of multiple sirens, approaching rapidly. “I’ll go wave them in.”
Vic could see the emergency vehicle lights through the thin front window drapes. She slipped out from under Lachlan’s body, hesitated long enough to touch his cheek in farewell. His skin was already cooling.
She took a shaky breath and moved away.
At the window, she pushed open a crack in the drapes. Ambulance in front and a cop car across the street. What would law enforcement do with her story? Uncertainty churned inside her. Were Swane’s police buddies out there?
Paramedics jumped out of the ambulance and were met by the old man. Over at the police car, a uniformed cop was talking with someone. The lights, still flashing, illuminated his grim face and that of...Swane. As the kidnapper talked, the cop nodded and turned toward the house, hand on his pistol.
Oookay. That answered that.
A minute later, as Vic eased over the back fence, she heard Swane yell, “Where’s the girl?”
The thwarted anger in his voice awarded her a moment of pleasure before she landed painfully on the other side of the fence.
Chapter Two
The next afternoon, Vic steered the decrepit Jeep around a curve and entered Cold Creek. She sighed wearily. Between the slashes on her back and ribs, the bite on her shoulder, her aching knee, and the various blows she’d taken from Swane...well, maybe she’d felt worse the day the house in Baghdad was bombed with her in it, but not by much. God, she hurt.
She hadn’t even gotten to beat the hell out of the assholes—that really burned.
Her head felt hot and gritty, like it was filled with desert sand. She probably should have tried to get more sleep, but Seattle didn’t feel safe. Not with who-knows-who looking for her. Hopefully they’d stay too busy for a while to focus on her. After her anonymous phone call to the police, the bad guys should be scrambling to cover their tracks. And wasn’t that hopeful thinking—they’d probably just abandon the place and the dead woman.
Oh shit. Was she brain-dead or what? That woman and others had died because Lachlan bit them.
Lachlan bit me. The good news: with him gone, no more victims would die. At least until they caught another cat-thing.
Bad news: I might die too. Her chest felt hollow. Dying for something so stupid wasn’t how she’d planned to go. If she had to check out, it was supposed to be in a blaze of glory, saving her buddies or a bunch of civilians. Not shivering and puking from being used as a feline chew-toy.
Go to a hospital? She shook her head. Swane would watch for someone admitted with an animal bite. She might call Wells for help, but he’d expect the whole story. Yeah, see, I got bitten by some shapeshifter thing? She herself barely believed people could turn into animals, and she’d seen Lachlan do it. The old man dealt in cold, hard, provable facts. He’d figure she’d gone bonkers and put her in a padded cell. So, no hospital.
The suit had thought the bitees died because they were in poor health to begin with. I’m not weak, not poorly nourished. And fuck this shit, I’m not gonna die.
She gripped the wheel tighter and concentrated on driving. Already the sun was setting, sending its fading rays across the valley and turning the snow-capped mountains a bloody red. The traffic had dissipated after leaving Seattle. Not much going on in Cold Creek, according to the realtor. The town ordinances kept it from growing or even having a McDonald’s. The realtor had sounded positively disgruntled.
Vic’s smile grew as she drove through the downtown, maybe four blocks long with nary a stoplight in sight. Apparently, the residents had spent their money on the trees and plants in the center island and on antique street lights. People were strolling into the stores, sitting on wrought-iron benches in the shade.
“Toto, I think we’re back in Kansas,” Vic murmured, unsure if she was pleased or appalled. The peacefulness increased when she turned onto a small street with arching maple and spruce trees, brightly colored flower gardens, white picket fences, and wide front porches.
It was all very civilized until she looked upward to the dense green of an untamed forest. One mountain, then more and more, piling up on each other like blocks scattered by a child. Made sense that werethingies would hang out close to big forests and mountains, right? The thought sent icy fingers up her spine.
She pulled her gaze away and concentrated on following the realtor’s directions. A block from Main Street, the sidewalks disappeared. There—House for Rent, Cold Creek Realty, See Amanda Golden. The sign was stuck next to a distinctive mailbox in the shape of an outhouse. Outhouse...she could definitely use one of those. That swing through Starbucks had been a poor tactical decision.
The rental was a small brown house with white trim and a wide porch. Unlike the other houses on the street, this place boasted no flowers. Instead, short bushes marked the property lines, and a widely branching oak tree dominated the small, well-trimmed lawn. Looked peaceful enough.
A hotel would have been easier, but who knew how long this might take. She should have asked the kid his last name.
And she’d have to be really discreet. Did the bad guys know Lachlan came from Cold Creek? Would the cops be alerted to watch for her? She wouldn’t survive long if they found her. The suit had shown no remorse over what he’d done to the kid, and Swane had reveled in it.
She turned off the ancient Jeep—the only decent car in the cheapo car lot—and the engine died with an ominous sputter. A short, limping walk to the house left Vic out of breath, her legs quivering…and fear creeping into her gut. She’d lost too much blood, taken too much damage. Look at the way her hands were shaking. She couldn’t defend herself against a five-year-old child, let alone someone like Swane.
Come to think of it, she wouldn’t know who to defend against. She closed her eyes and shook her aching head. Coming here without knowing the score was like walking blindfolded into a fire zone. Even so, she wasn’t going to leave. Lachlan had trusted her to tell his grandfather what happened.
God, she’d rather face a Bradley tank with a twenty-two pistol than notify someone their kid was dead. Would the old man break down and yell at her like O’Flannagan’s parents had? Or be like Shanna’s. Her best friend’s mother had deflated as if her soul had shriveled away with Vic’s words.
Why did people have to die?
At the memory of Lachlan and his courage, his humor, she had to brush the mist from her eyes. Dammit, stop. She could almost hear the drill sergeant’s cutting voice, “You gonna break down and bawl, Morgan? Pick up your weapon and act like a marine!” She sucked in a breath, and straightened her shoulders.
On the white-railed porch, she glanced longingly at the cushioned wicker chair before rapping on the door. No response. She frowned at her watch. Five-thirty. Right on time. The blasted realtor better hurry, cuz, God, she really, really had to pee. Scowling, she looked around for a secluded nook that would serve for a latrine. Nothing.
Trying not to cross her legs, she studied the house. A screenless front window near the end of the porch was half-open—just calling to her. Really.
She shoved the window open all the way, wishing it was either set lower in the wall or her legs were longer. Dammit, haven’t I done enough calisthenics in the past twenty-four hours?
Grabbing the window frame with one hand, she jumped up far enough to swing a foot over and grimaced when the movement painfully jostled every fucking owie she had. She tried to pull the other leg over and—dammit—her jeans caught on something sharp. A nail. Stuck. Fucking-A. She tugged, feeling the nail dig into her inner thigh.
Why does this stuff only happen when I need to pee?
Ignoring the wood pixie chittering angrily in the oak tree, Sheriff Alec McGregor silently stepped onto the porch, coming up behind the burglar. He tried not to laugh as the criminal squirmed like a paw-pinned mouse.
It’d been a boring week so far. The last excitement was a good four days ago when old Peterson, having indulged in rotgut tequila, tried to demonstrate how to tap-dance on top of Calum’s bar...which he did about once a month.
At least a pinioned burglar had the dubious distinction of being unique.
He rubbed his chin, feeling the rasp of stubble. He’d noticed—being as how he was a guy—what was wiggling was a very fine, nicely rounded ass in tight jeans.
And being a guy, he felt the need to see the front of this dangerous perp who had one leg inside the window and the other outside. He moved silently across the porch and checked out the criminal’s front side to see what else the evening might hold.
Evening is going well. Hair, the rich color of dark walnut, rippled across her shoulders, and her purple T-shirt was tight enough to reveal amazingly lush breasts for such a compact body. Since she was too occupied to notice his arrival, he could study her assets without being considered a macho pig. Abundant. Yes, that would be the word. He’d heard the more-than-a-mouthful is wasted saying, but when it came to breasts, he was a bit of a glutton.
Concentrating on freeing her leg from something, she was oblivious to everything else.
He thought for a minute and decided to speak up. And hey, he needed to see the color of her eyes—for the report and all.
“My jail is empty today,” he remarked sociably. “In case you wondered.”
She froze like a mouse hearing a fox. When huge copper-colored eyes met his, everything inside him came to a halt, like the day he’d been chasing a rabbit and got his leg caught in a steel trap. A hard painful grip, only this time it was his chest being squeezed.
The sound of her breath whuffing out, like she’d been pounced on, cleared his mind. Cop—I’m a cop. And she was a burglar. No pouncing on this little prey allowed...and wasn’t that a damned shame?
“Oh, hell,” the lady perp said, obviously having recovered fast. She now looked more pissed-off than concerned, and that just wasn’t right. “Listen, I’m really just—”
He leaned his hip against the porch railing and crossed his arms. “It’s called breaking and entering,” he offered helpfully.
Her mouth dropped open. “No way. Hey, I talked to the realtor this morning and—.”
“Um-hmm. It’s good you’ve done your homework. Shows a certain pride in your work.”
The sparks in those big eyes almost did him in. “I am not a burglar, dammit. I’m here to rent this place. Amanda Golden is supposed to meet me.”
He studied her for a minute. She had the realtor’s name right—’course it was there plain as could be on the rental sign.
A wisp of scent drifted past him. Blood. Fresh. “You’re bleeding.”
She blinked at the change of subject and he noticed with pleasure how her thick lashes feathered down against skin tanned almost as dark as her brown eyes.
“I’m bleeding?”
Herne help him, but she really was lovely—and he shouldn’t let that pretty face suck him in. She probably wrapped every male she met around her ringless, delicate finger.
Besides, she was human. Some shifters enjoyed sampling human females, but he’d never understood the attraction.
He pointed to where a nail had snagged more than her clothing, and blood darkened the leg of her jeans. “Looks like the previous renter overlooked a few nails from last season’s Christmas lights. Let me get you down from there before I start on some serious interrogation.”
Her eyes narrowed, then she leaned forward. Reaching out, she obviously intended to steady herself on his forearms, but the opportunity was too good to ignore. With a smooth move, he dropped low enough that her hands settled on his shoulders instead, and he grasped her around the waist. His fingers curled around surprisingly hard abdominal muscles—the female must work out regularly—and he lifted her up.
She gasped as he swung her onto the porch. Her grip tightened on his shoulders, lean hands, not soft, yet they felt very, very good on his body. Her hands would probably clutch his shoulders—just like that—as he slid inside her, filled her.
He shook his head. Where the hell had that image come from?
Her eyes were huge, and she smelled of pain and fear. He released her immediately. She was frightened. And he could tell it was more than just worry about being arrested. No, she was scared of him. The idea was insulting.
“Um. Thank you.” Her voice was husky.
“My pleasure.” After all, honesty was the best policy, and he’d enjoyed the hell out of getting his hands on her. Was looking forward to enjoying more, but...she was scared of him?
On the street, a white Taurus pulled up behind the Jeep. Amanda Golden slid out, briefcase in hand, hurried up the sidewalk, and onto the porch. “Hello, Alec. Ms. Waverly? I’m sorry I’m late. I got hung up at the title company.”
“That’s all right. I’ve been kept entertained,” his ex-burglar said dryly.
“Well, damn, guess I have to let you go.” And she would have decorated his jail cell so nicely too.
She shot him a nasty look, her appealingly full lips tightly compressed.
When she started to move, Alec tucked a finger under her belt to halt her. “Let’s make sure you aren’t hurt too bad,” he said. “Nails can be nasty.”
As he leaned forward, he realized the faint scent of blood wasn’t just from the nail; it came from multiple places. She had dark red-brown spots on the back of her T-shirt. The gasp when he’d lifted her from the windowsill—had that been from surprise or pain?
He studied her closer. Meticulously applied makeup covered a bruise on the side of her face. There was maybe a lumpy dressing on her shoulder under the T-shirt, and something more than a bra wrapped around her sides.
Now, all that damage might be from a car accident. But that wouldn’t explain why she was scared of him, the most likable fellow on this planet. So. He could be wrong—frequently was—but he picked the most logical explanation.
Someone had beaten the hell out of her.
“Where else are you hurt?”
Why would the big sheriff ask that? Vic wondered, feeling a chill. She’d covered the blood and bruises adequately. Had her description and injuries been on an APB?
Dammit, he’d already given her one scare. For a nasty moment, she’d thought Swane had hired him until it became obvious he was just a small-town cop having himself a good time.
“Don’t be silly,” she said, deliberately misunderstanding. “A little nail scrape doesn’t warrant all this concern.”
Nudging his arm away, she shook hands with the realtor. “Ms. Golden, nice to meet you.”
“Just call me Amanda.” Tall, blonde, wearing silky black pants with matching jacket, she was the epitome of a refined style that Vic had never mastered. After giving Vic’s hand a firm shake, the realtor frowned at the cop. “Is there a problem?”
“You got here just in time,” Vic said. “Your policeman was about to arrest me and haul me away.”
Amanda’s snicker wasn’t at all businesslike. “Ah, yes. If his jail’s not overflowing with criminals, Alec feels he’s not doing his job.” She leaned forward and whispered loudly, “Of course, it’s only a two-cell jailhouse.”
Vic smiled and glanced over her shoulder to see how the sheriff took being taunted. With one hip propped on the railing and a lazy grin on his tanned face, he didn’t look too upset.
When his focus shifted from Amanda to Vic, his gaze intensified, as if he were trying to see inside her. She felt a quiver low in her belly, but from worry or attraction—she wasn’t sure. Probably worry.
Towering six feet five or so with appallingly broad shoulders that narrowed to a trim waist, the man moved like a trained fighter. Not all spit and polish like a soldier though. His golden-brown hair brushed the collar of his khaki-uniform, and he’d rolled his sleeves up, revealing corded wrists and muscular forearms. She remembered how easily he’d lifted her, how those big hands had wrapped around her. He was damned powerful, despite the easy-going manner.
Yeah, the quiver was definitely from worry.
But then he smiled at the realtor, and a dimple appeared at one corner of his mouth. The laugh lines around his eyes emphasized a thin blue-tinted scar that angled across his left cheekbone as if someone had marked him with a pen. His voice was deep and smooth and slow as warm honey, and she felt her muscles relax. “You have a mean streak, Amanda,” he was saying. “I’ll have to warn Jonah.”
“He wouldn’t believe you,” the realtor said as she worked on unlocking the front door.
The sheriff turned, letting that should-be-a-registered-weapon grin loose on Vic, and her temperature rose. “So,” he said, “Ms. Waverly, will you be staying in Cold Creek?”
He was gorgeous, and he looked at her as if she was something tasty. "Um...” she said and his smile increased a fraction, just enough that she realized what an idiot she was. You’re losing it, Sergeant. She scowled at him. “A while.”
And the sooner she left this damn town, the better.
The breeze whipped his shaggy hair “Well, while you’re here—” he started.
“I need to get my stuff,” she interrupted. Anything to escape. Odd how the scare from the sheriff’s appearance had wiped out her need to pee.
To her annoyance, he followed her down the steps. “You’re going to enjoy Cold Creek,” he said. Before she could dodge, he slung an arm around her shoulders, and she felt his fingers trace the thick gauze dressing covering the cat-bite.
“Thank you, but I can manage,” she said, smoothly enough despite the way her heart was pounding. Then she looked up.
Dark green eyes the color of the mountain forests narrowed, and he studied her like she was a puzzle to be solved. A quiver ran up her spine as she realized the laidback manner and slow voice camouflaged a razor-sharp intelligence. Knives tended to come at a person in two ways: dark and hidden, or out in the open, all bright and shiny. A bright and shiny blade could still leave you bleeding on the sands.
She pulled away. “I’ll be fine.”
“Well then, I’ll take myself off so you can get settled in.” He waved at Amanda Golden and smiled at Vic, but this time the smile didn’t touch his eyes. “I’m sure we’ll run into each other again, Ms. Waverly. Cold Creek’s a small town.”
Cordial, polite. And Vic heard the threat underneath.
* * *
Alec shoved open the heavy door to the Wild Hunt Tavern, picked his favorite table in the back corner, and settled into the chair for some serious pondering.
That had been an odd meeting and an odd woman. Over many years of law-enforcement, he’d arrested a few wife-beaters and interviewed their battered wives. Ms. Waverly’s injuries might have come from a fist, but she surely didn’t give the impression of an abused woman. That glare she’d given him, for whatever reason, was almost lethal.
Actually, the woman’s moods, within the space of ten minutes, had been as winding as a tornado. From being wary of him, to being attracted, to giving him a look like: I’ll cut your guts out with a rusty spoon. She might be a foot shorter, but he had a feeling she’d be quite a wildcat in a fight. And in bed.
Now why did he find that so arousing?
“Excuse me, Sheriff, would you care for a beer?”
He looked up into the prettiest blue eyes on the planet and grinned. “Jamie, if you fetch me a beer, I’ll have to arrest your thirteen-year-old butt and throw you into my jail.”
She wrinkled a freckle-covered nose. “I won’t bring it—Daddy will, so I guess you still won’t have anyone in your jail tonight, huh?”
“Now that was a low blow,” he conceded, winning himself a delighted smile before she trotted off to the bar, all legs and bounce like a half-grown cat.
A few minutes later, Calum set a mug of Guinness and a glass of wine on the table, then took the empty chair.
Alec tilted his head toward his niece as she danced her way between customers. “I envy you sometimes, brawd.”
His brother turned to look, and his gray eyes softened. “Indeed. She’s a blessing.” He sipped his wine, his gaze intent on his daughter. “And makes me afraid in ways I never thought I could fear.”
Alec took a drink of the rich, malty beer before commenting, “You’re not the type to shy from leaves blowing in the wind. What’s up?”
“I summoned the Daonain to meet tonight.”
Alec’s hand tightened on the mug. Shifter meetings were rarely called. He bowed his head to the God-chosen leader of the shifters in this territory and said formally, “Cosantir, I’ll be there.”
* * *
That night, Alec rested one arm on the fireplace mantle as he listened to the debate. Despite the chill of the evening, the tavern felt uncomfortably warm, and the scent of anger and sweat mixed with the wood smoke. Golden light from the brass wall sconces flickered over the people squeezed around the heavy oak tables and lining the back. Seemed like any adult shifter in the Northern Cascades territory had attended.
After Calum had told them about the outlawed steel-jawed game traps that shifters had found in the forests, and that Thorson’s grandson had been missing for a month, the mood had turned ugly. No surprise there. Daonain were predators, after all. The werecats were the worst. A wolf or bear might fight if cornered; a cat would shred an opponent to bloody ribbons just for entertainment.
After Calum shot down Grady’s proposal to attack any human entering the area—Grady was rather excitable—Angelina claimed the floor. Alec listened for a minute, grinning at his brother’s careful lack of expression. Calum had little patience for stupidity, and Angelina’s logic was as convoluted as a house-brownie’s tracks on cleaning day.
“We don’t know if the trappers are after us specifically or just poaching,” Calum said, cutting Angelina off before she could digress further. He straightened from leaning on the bar, and the power of a Cosantir shimmered around him like heat waves. “If they’re looking for us, I’ll be happy to oblige them. After that, they won’t remember why they were on the mountain at all.”
The people laughed, and the level of hostility waned. Calum reminded them, “We’ve become lazy about observing the precautions. That needs to stop. Use the tunnels below the tavern. I want no humans to find piles of clothing at the edge of the forest, let alone to see one of you shift. Also, remember—”
The bar door burst open, and Joe Thorson shoved his way through the crowd to the center of the room. Deep lines and gray bushy brows accented his leathery face. Thin white scars covered his hands and arms—souvenirs of his younger days when he’d fought to win the females at Gatherings. Tears had tracked the dirt on his face.
Dread iced Alec’s blood. What could possibly make the old werecat cry? Lachlan? He pushed his way to the maddened werecat. To serve and protect. The duty given to a sheriff by the law…and the duty given to a cahir of the clan by the God.
After giving Thorson a second to recognize his scent, Alec wrapped an arm around his shoulders. With only a token snarl, the old man allowed the familiarity, yet another sign of his distress.
“What’s wrong, Joe?” Alec kept his tone calm as the raised voices hushed.
“My grandson—Lachlan,” Thorson’s voice was hoarse. “He’s dead. Killed in the city.”
The noise rose. Males lunging to their feet. Angelina’s shrill scream. The Murphy brothers’ curses.
Calum growled low, then snapped, “Silence.” The command with a Cosantir’s power behind it quieted the room. “Tell us what happened, Joe.”
In his usual jeans and white shirt, Thorson rubbed his face, streaking the dirt. “That shifter detective in Seattle—Tynan O’Connolly—just called. Like you asked, he’d watched for Lachlan in Seattle. He said…” His voice broke. “There was a young man’s body in the morgue.”
Alec raised an eyebrow at Calum, silently requesting permission to continue. Calum nodded.
“Go on, Joe,” Alec prompted, squeezing his shoulder.
Thorson shook his head like a confused animal. “The cops haven’t identified him, but they’re trying, passing out pictures. Tynan emailed me one. It’s my Lachlan.” His words dropped like stones into the quiet room.
“Did you go to the morgue in Seattle?” Alec asked quietly despite the unease fingering the back of his neck. An autopsy wouldn’t show the magic that created a shifter, but carelessness would. If Thorson’s actions exposed the shifters, he’d be declared an enemy of the Daonain…and as a cahir, Alec would have to kill him.
“I never went near the station.”
Relief loosened Alec’s grip, and he pulled in a hard breath. “By the God, I’m sorry, Joe. Sorry for Lachlan, sorry for you, that you can never—”
“Never put claim to him or bury him. I know, dammit.” Thorson stared at the floor.
Calum said, “I’ll call Tynan for more information, but for now—has he discovered how Lachlan died?”
Thorson’s head snapped up, his eyes burning with fury. Against his fingertips, Alec felt the tingle of imminent trawsfur. He shook the old man’s arm. “Control yourself. We need answers, not claws.”
When Thorson growled, Alec tensed, preparing to fight a berserk cougar.
After a moment, Thorson sucked in a breath, and the tingling receded, disappeared. As the wildness left his body, his eyes showed his shame. The old guy probably hadn’t lost control like that since he was a cub. “Sorry, my friend,” he said softly.
“It’s all right,” Alec answered, equally softly. “Tell us what you know.”
Sorrow deepened the lines in Joe’s face, and he had to clear his throat. “He looked starved. Ribs showing. Tynan said he was jaundiced from liver shutdown.”
“Metal-induced?” Alec asked.
“Yes.” The man’s fingers curled, shaping claws.
Alec shared the need to slash and rend. The pain of that kind of death… Instead, he squeezed the tight shoulder under his hand. “Stay with me here, Joe.”
A heavy breath. “He had burn marks, cuts, bruises. He’d been beaten. Tortured. Some of the cuts were in square patterns on his skin.”
“Wire cage,” Calum growled. His pupils had turned black with a Cosantir’s rage. “That would explain the liver failure, too.”
“They kept my boy in a cage!” The words burst from Thorson. “They tortured him, starved him.” He moaned, “A cage, Cosantir, a cage …”
“They will pay,” Calum said quietly. “Was Lachlan penned up when they found him?”
Thorson shuddered, staring at the floor, and Alec knew the man couldn’t bear much more. He needed the forest, to feel the trees and grass and scent of freedom, to have the Mother’s love around him. “Tynan thinks Lachlan escaped,” Joe said. “But too late. A man found my boy and a female on his doorstep and took them in, then called 911.”
“Did—”
“When the police and ambulance arrived, Lachlan was dead. The female ran out through the back door.”
“Hell,” Alec muttered.
Finally, Thorson looked up at their leader. The old man had known Calum and Alec since they were boys sneaking reads of comic books in his store, but he showed no memory of that now. As close as he was to changing, he probably only saw the black eyes and the aura of power. “Cosantir, please. I need—”
“We can manage here, Joe,” Calum said. “Purge your grief on the mountain. Alec, go with.”
As Thorson stumbled toward the exit, hands reached out to him—carefully—to stroke in shared sorrow and friendship.
Alec led him into the cool, silent cave like a child. Without speaking, they stripped, Alec lending a hand as Thorson fumbled. Then, Alec called the magic. As the wildness enveloped him, his mind sank like a stone, deep into animal instincts. There was only now, and the sorrow at the youngster’s loss was buried under the wave of scents and sounds. And this was why Thorson needed the forest. His grief would return when he returned to human form, but...less.
As his paws hit the earth, Alec felt the touch of the Mother as Her love flowed into him. Raising his head, he sniffed the air. Already in cougar form, Thorson stood in the doorway. Alec butted his shoulder affectionately and led the way out of the tunnel.
The light of a pale, cold moon shone down outside the cave, and the scent of the pine needles under their paws rose around them. Alec looked back to see the gleam of cat eyes and then sprang forward into the dark forest. Joe followed.
* * *
Vic woke, didn’t move while she assessed her surroundings. Warm, smooth fabric over and under her, a faint lemon scent—sheets. She lay in a bed. A bed was good, much better than concrete.
Where? The new rental. Lord, her brain was moving slow. The house stood silent. No stench of gunpowder or sweat or blood. Things were looking up. She opened her eyes…and winced. The curtains glowed in the morning sun, the print a garish display of lions and tigers and bears.
“Toto, we really gotta get out of this place,” Vic muttered and slid her legs over the side of the bed with a loud indulgent groan. Jesus fuck, she hurt. She rubbed her face. Was she really planning to look for people who turn into animals? In the light of day, the idea sounded insane. She didn’t believe that shit, did she? Then again, the bite and claw marks on her body offered pretty good proof.