Creature Comforts
By
Buffi BeCraft-Woodall
(c) copyright by Buffi BeCraft-Woodall, October 2009
Cover Art by Alex DeShanks, October 2009
Published by New Concepts Publishing
Smashwords Edition
ISBN 978-1-60394-363-3
New Concepts Publishing
Lake Park, GA 31636
www.newconceptspublishing.com
This is a work of fiction. All characters, events, and places are of the author’s imagination and not to be confused with fact. Any resemblance to living persons or events is merely coincidence.
Dedication
I would like to thank all those who kept me going this last year.
Lee for the many phone calls to finish the d*** book.
Debrah S for the unexpected treasure of your friendship in the epic adventure we call life.
John Randall for listening to my evil plots and half-baked plans at five thirty in the morning.
Shae: OMGeez! ;-P
My parents for taking up the slack in the chaos of my single-parent life.
Jason for the quiet respite from said chaos.
Pennie for believing in happy endings.
Index of Terms
Alpha Canis/Pater Canis - Male leader of a wolven (shapeshifting wolf) pack
Alpha Matra/Matra Canis - Female leader of a wolven (shapeshifting wolf) pack
Change - Act of shifting forms from human to animal.
Beta - Alpha Canis's second in command. Often the pack teacher/caretaker
Bitten - Became a wolven/werewolf from a wolven/werewolf bite.
Challenge - Contest or fight for a higher rank in the pack.
Dragonkind - Dragons.
Dueling Form - The half wolf/half man (traditional werewolf) form used mainly for fighting.
Elder - Psychics whose job it is to protect and police the members of a particular psychic community.
Fairy/Fairykind - Any of the species of elves, dryads, pixies, sprites, brownies, and so on, who are vulnerable to iron.
Hell Hounds - Stray wolven running together without a territory of their own. Drifter werewolves.
Hive- A community of pixies.
Hunter- A psychic whose job it is to hunt supernatural creatures or monsters. They consider themselves above normal human law. All carry the last name Hunter.
Kit- A baby/child from the cheetah Were group. Werecheetahs are matriarchal. The female claims a territory to raise her young. Her daughters may stay in the same territory offering a loose type of pack structure. Male werecheetahs often strike out on their own shortly after full puberty occurs and they can defend themselves. Male werecheetahs are consistently nomadic and do not settle with one mate.
Pack - The wolven family unit. The family unit is made up of a male and female alpha leader pair and lesser members in a definite rank hierarchy.
Packbond- The magical/psychic link that connects every member of a pack to its Alphas and to one another.
Packhome - The main residence for a wolven pack. Often the Alpha pair’s home is large enough for a large extended family. Packmembers are not required to live with their Alpha’s residence, but many choose to do so.
Palestine - (pronounced Pal-e-steen) The County Seat for Anderson County, Texas.
Matebond - The magical/psychic marriage of a wolven or wolven/psychic couple. Only the female of the pair can perform this bonding.
Metaphysics/metaphysical - Supernatural or magical in nature.
Normals - Term for normal humans with no supernatural or psychic gifts.
Null - Less polite term for normal humans with no supernatural or psychic gifts.
Omega - The lowest ranking in a wolven pack.
Psychic - A type of magic user who does not need spells to perform their special magic.
Most psychics wrongly believe that their gifts are well developed mental abilities.
Psychic Community - A unified group of psychics living in an area. Usually psychic communities are bound together through strong church ties that regulate their lifestyle and rabid anti-supernatural beliefs.
Supernaturals - Inclusive term for all the magical species, such as fairies, dragons, goblins, shapeshifters, witches, and so on.
Swarm- A group of warrior class pixies. Swarms both defend existing hives and search for new territory to establish new hives when the old one becomes too crowded.
Territory - Wolven packs residing in the U.S. define their boundaries by county or the same equivalent.
Warden - Protector of the Pack. Members of a pack whose job it is to protect and police the members.
Weres - Crude term used by the wolven (shapeshifting wolves) for all other animal species who can change forms.
Wereboar - Shapeshifting boar/wild pig
Werecheetah - Shapeshifting cheetah.
Werepanther - Shapeshifting panther
Wereraccoon - Shapeshifting raccoon
Werewolf - An outlaw shapeshifting wolf. A derogatory term for a shapeshifting wolf.
Wolven - The proper term for a shapeshifting wolf
Wolven Council - Managing body of wolven (shapeshifting wolves) who make sure that no pack, individual wolven, or outsider, endangers their species.
Chapter One
Chase urged the sexy redhead in his arms closer, reveling in the press of her full breasts against his body. A couple of agile two-steps took them around another, less coordinated couple. Half drunk, the dancers’ enthusiasm far outweighed any real progress around the small dancing area. So different than his eager dance partner who followed his lead in her mouth-watering be-donkey-donk jeans and fresh perfume. Her willing arousal pushed the mingled scent of alcohol and stale cigarettes to the back of his mind. Country music wasn’t his thing, but her body against his, moving to the music and the small hands that just cupped his butt were enough to convert him for the night. Burying his nose in Texas-high teased curls, Chase grinned. He was gonna get lucky tonight.
The song ended and the red head clung tighter. Her hands tangled in the end of the long dark blond ponytail that hung down the back of his black leather vest. Easing back, he untangled from her grasp and allowed himself to caress the sweet milkiness of one bared arm. Country chic in her sleeveless peek-a-boo top with its teeny red checkerboard and formfitting jeans, she was hot and ripe for the picking.
“What would you say to some fresh air, Shortcake?” Chase rumbled the question against the sensitive outside of the redhead’s ear. The rasp of his whiskers sent a shiver down her spine. Small goose bumps raised under his hands. The musk of her desire mixed with the strawberry scent of her shampoo steeped in his super sensitive nose. Man-o-man, sex with a hint of his favorite dessert. He shifted, bringing all the important contact points together, letting her feel his interest. No pressure, just a little ‘see what ya do to me, baby’.
She flipped her hair back over one shoulder and flashed a prize-winning smile back at him. Her pose pressed the nubs of her breasts against him. Chase had to admit, he liked his females sassy. “I’ve been called everything from Red to Carrot Top, cowboy. Never Shortcake.”
“Darlin’ do I look like a cowboy to you?”
“Nah. You’re more motorcycle than cowboy.” Running one manicured hand down the front of his tee shirt to the snap holding in his straining leather pants, she boldly cupped him. Every nerve ending from his navel to his knees sat up and sang halleluiahs. Hell, his boys were weeping in anticipation of worshipping at her shrine. The silver studs and buckles on his laced up black boots winked in the mirror ball light from black leather framed her designer stitched boots. Strawberry red to match her bold and bright personality. “Your place or mine?”
“Yours, Shortcake.” He never brought any of the human females he passed the time with to Packhome, sweet and luscious as they were. Fragile humans had no place right smack in the middle of a den of shapeshifting wolves. Besides, he shared a room with his bud, Tank who was more than a tad OCD. A woman would only nose around in their stuff, driving his roommate insane with the obsessive-compulsive need to wipe down and put every tiny thing she touched back into place. He liked to joke that they had evolved from pissing in corners to mark their territory, barely. Still true, when her scent would linger, trapping the roommates with the ghost of a stranger until the familiar and comforting pack scents soaked back in. No piece of nookie could be worth that price, strawberry scented shampoo or not.
Chase tapped her on her cute little nose. “I’ve got to say bye to my friends.”
“I need to go to the ladies room anyway. I’ll meet you outside,” she winked, flipping the fluffy red mountain of waves over her shoulder. “Then I’m going to rock your world, motorcycle man.” The outline of her heart shaped butt made it hard to turn away as she walked to the back of the bar where the restrooms were located. He was gonna get lucky, but still he wouldn’t slack off on his duties without some heads-up to his packmates. With his thumbs hooked in his belt loops and a cheerful leer, he strolled back to his packmates table and the disaster of a birthday party held there.
“You are such a dog.” Censure rolled off his little human packsister, Bailey Weis. Her smudged glasses and untamed curls looked as though she and her obnoxiously dressed mate Mark had snuck off for a few minutes alone. Not that he blamed them. The two were still in the gooey-lovey honeymoon stage and happened to be parents to an active four-footed pup with separation anxiety issues. “That kind of girl is only out for one thing.” Bailey shook a motherly finger in Chase’s direction. The entertainment value as the adorably short plump female practiced her burgeoning motherly skills on him tempted him stay for another round. Tempting, but not enough to forfeit Shortcake’s promise to rock his world.
“And thank God for that one thing.” Rick Weis took a swig of the Corona and sent his brown eyes casting around the bar. “It’s too bad pickings are so slim or I’d be having a little somethin’ somethin’ too.
Bailey leaned over the table, slapping at her brother-in-law. “Rick Weis, I cannot believe you said that.” Rick had the skin tone and dark features of the local human Latinos. Except that Rick had never been human. Wolven classified themselves by species, not race. You were either a wolf or not a wolf.
“What can I say? Woof, woof.” Unrepentant, Rick grinned. He followed up with a mock wolf howl. Mark joined him, beating out a tempo on the warped cafeteria-style table. With one or two exceptions that Chase had yet to find, bars in Palestine were unpretentious dives. Dives with interesting cover bands and cheap beer. So, the dive part could be forgiven.
Bailey readjusted her western hat and leaned into her mate just a bit tipsy. Mark rescued the beer mug full of mystery daiquiri before she swept it from the not so stable table. “You’re all dogs,” Bailey poked a finger in her mate’s arm as she cast him a goofy grin. “But you’re my dog.” Green glow-in-the-dark lizards tracked over his shirt in the tacky fashion sense that was uniquely Mark. Lately, Chase suspected Bailey was aiding and abetting her mate’s clothing choices. Mark’s tackiness had reached a new level since he and Bailey had tied the knot.
Chase strolled around his packsister to tweak her hat down over her eyes. “Bailey, darlin’. You are cute as all get out when you’re half-plastered. There is no way in hell I’m staying in this noxious sardine can.”
Across the bar, the redhead waved and slipped out the door.
“But it’s Tamara’s birthday party!” The sharp scent of Bailey’s anxiety rode over the tobacco and alcohol scented air. “You can’t leave until after the band sings her song. We’re supposed to dance the night away! Party till the cows come home.” She did a little dance in her seat before falling heavily against her mate in a fit of giggles.
The birthday girl, raised beer mug full of strawberry daiquiri. She grinned wide with a white wolfish smile. Tamara would stay sober, despite the nearly empty pitcher on the table. At times having a supernaturally high metabolism bummed a party. “I’m okay.” Tamara’s blond hair fell around a face that would make many a high fashion model green with envy. That is until those delicate models met the real predator behind Tamara’s lovely exterior. More than one human made the mistake of taking advantage of Tamara’s naturally shy reserve. “You just go and have your fun warden. We’ll see you at the hunt tomorrow night.”
Feeling protective, Chase brushed a hand over his packsister’s pale highlighted hair. She’d be fine tonight at least, surrounded by family. They all felt her loneliness through the packbond, her need for a mate. And they worried for it. Tamara had come to them years ago, looking for a fresh start after her wolven fiancé jilted her for a mate more financially lucrative for his pack. Her taste in male company hadn’t gotten any better over time. Chase and the other pack males had run off several unsuitable suitors over the years. Human and supernatural males that didn’t appreciate Tamara’s sweet nature. “Yeah.” He told himself to get moving before her blue eyes suckered him into staying and playing big brother. He’d already danced Tamara around the floor three times and warned off a couple of assholes. It was time for someone else to pony up. “Well, don’t let these guys get out of giving you a birthday dance.”
His oldest bud, Tank, stirred to life, no doubt coming out of a study of human mating customs, or whatever. “There is no need for concern. The objective is, as Bailey put it, to dance the night away.” Tank’s dry cool tone contrasted with his biker appearance. Meticulous braids pulled back into one long ponytail down the back of his black t-shirt, jeans style leather pant, and a pair of monster size fourteen jump boots. Tank could have been reciting tax law. “Bradley, Rick, and myself will keep Tamara occupied until closing. Bailey and Mark supply her with ridiculously named alcoholic beverages.”
Bradley Starr startled a bit at Tank’s assessment but put his beer down and held out a surly hand to the birthday girl. “I’ll go first,” he bit out with a snarl. The gold gleam of a thick necklace shown at the open collar of his two toned western shirt. Even from across the room, Chase could practically taste the fairy magic that imbued Bradley’s necklace. Or choke chain. It all depended how you looked at it.
“Why, Bradley. Be careful. Your enthusiasm could sweep a girl right off her feet.” Tamara pulled a face at the offer while shooing Chase out with her hand. “Thanks, but no thanks. I’ve had better offers to have my teeth scraped.”
Chase didn’t stay to hear the rest of the squabble. He sauntered to the door, his eyes possessively following the red head as she made her way to him through the lonely yahoos at the bar. With the barest words, she flicked the undesirables away and sashayed on, completely unaware of the territorial beast he kept leashed inside. Shortcake may be his for tonight only, but his kind didn’t share well. An idiot dressed as George Strait followed her.
“Hey.” Shortcake paused, her full, freshly lipstick-covered lips pouted as she slid past him. “You coming?”
Chase made eye contact with the idiot as he tagged his little treat and slid an arm around her waist. Smart prey recognized a dangerous predator. The guy faltered, signaling a waitress before heading back to the bar. Giving her his full attention, he finally ushered her out the door, her arousal a heady perfume in his nose. “Not yet, babe. But we’ve got the whole night ahead of us and I plan to make it last.”
Chapter Two
India Demos, the self-appointed wolf of the survivors of the Orangeburg, South Carolina pack scrambled precariously with all four feet, trying to find purchase in the loose rock shelf. She had no idea where they were anymore. She didn’t care as long as they escaped the Hunter. The endless running and hiding had taken them from their beautiful rural home with the scents of forest and water. Here the earth turned dry with rock and hardscrabble shrubs with few places to hide. They were too busy trying to survive to hate their surroundings. Scrambling up and over onto the upper ledge, she huffed without pausing to catch her breath. Another shot rang out, the bullet pinging as it ricocheted off the rock. Screw caution, the Hunter was getting closer!
India barked at her little pack. Hurry up. Move it. She barked again and leaned down to grab Reggie by the scruff to pull the wolf up. He was so light that she hardly exerted any effort to move him. Tail tucked tight against his boney rump, the wolf quivered from exhaustion. He was so thin and weak from his illness, that he was a liability. A normal wolf pack may have left him behind to die. They were wolven. Not animals. Not yet, they weren’t. She’d keep pushing Reggie until he could not be pushed, tugged, or carried to safety.
She was no Alpha. But, she was the most dominant of them left. Hopefully, Alpha enough to keep them alive. If she failed to shake the Hunter from their tails, Reggie may die yet. Because, the psychic’s version of the Terminator wouldn’t give up until he finished the job of annihilating her pack, or he died. God, her friends. Her father. Hard to accept even now that Gin Demos was dead. The Alpha had been larger than life. India pushed back the sudden wave of grief. There would be time for wallowing later.
Reggie whimpered. She shoved at him to move. A desperate, last ditch plan flashed through her brain. India barked at Darrell and Gail to keep running, knowing the sharp sound gave their position away. Her three packmembers ran ahead, dodging through the crevices of the rocky terrain, dodging the Hunter’s scattered shots. Not deadly silver, but a lucky shot and enough lead would slow them down. Then he could put silver in their hides at close range without wasting precious ammunition.
Behind a rock big enough to hide her, India crouched down low. How big did a rock have to be to be called a boulder? Dismissing the random thought, she pressed herself against the ground. It felt wrong using her pack as a decoy, but she was out of ideas. Her black fur would be easier to spot against the unchanging tan terrain than the other three’s variegated brown coats. She waited, every sense straining to find the Hunter’s presence.
There it was. Elusive. Spicy. Dangerous. The psychic Hunter’s magic scent as he used his gifts to find his quarry. India stayed very still while the faint tingle of magic teased her skin and the psychic’s own healthy male scent filled her nose. As silent as possible, she climbed to the top of the boulder.
Overconfident, the muscular man passed blindly below her. Why didn’t his infamous Hunter’s senses find her out? Was it a trick? She found herself both impressed and repulsed. This man, the murderer of her people made her instincts scream predator. His clothes blended well with the terrain. Her senses to track him wanted to skitter away and focus on some other random sound.
Poised, she focused on the spot where neck meets shoulder. She pounced, suppressing her growl of fury. Her feet landed square on his back, propelling the Hunter face first into the ground. Arms flailed, the weapon had landed out of reach in the sandy gravel. His hand groped at his belt. He grunted in pain, trying to twist around to face her. Fairness or mercy had no place in her heart. This man had hunted down and killed twenty of her packmembers. Her father, the Canis Pater, her stepmother the Matra, the wardens. Pups and breeding females received no quarter. This monster had shot with silver, gutted, and poisoned India’s people as he found them. She lived on barely suppressed fury.
She sank teeth into the hunter’s exposed neck and bit down. Weeks of hiding and running ran through her mind and snagged on the memory of very pregnant Clara’s mutilated body. She bit down harder, not feeling the crunch of spine beneath her powerful jaws. The warm rich flavor of blood filled her mouth, feeding the grief. Tearing away, she spat out the chunk and backed away, watching as the body twitched and bled out. There would be no second chance for this psychic. Her saliva, which would heal and Change one of his kind to one of hers, could not compete with a missing neck.
A numb calm descended over her as she barked at her pack to return to her. The three of them slunk in on low bellies. Fear had their tails tucked between their back legs. Weeks of running had left them thin and hungry. Too bad, India couldn’t allow them to touch any of the Hunter’s possessions. Not the food. Not the weapons. She couldn’t chance that when the other Hunter’s found them that they’d be able to use their gifts to discover more about his death. Then another would take his place. Despite being the product of a wolven/psychic mating, she knew almost nothing of what psychics could do. The less she gave her enemies to work with, the better.
No, she wasn’t an Alpha. But she was Alpha enough for today.
* * * *
Chase slid out of the high end SUV, every sense on alert despite having to sneak out of Shortcake’s apartment at Oh-God-thirty this morning. He didn’t like these trips, but gave up trying to argue his bud out of making rounds of the surrounding counties’ shapeshifter population. Tank excused doctoring the Weres by claiming he was furthering research on the other supernatural species. Chase knew better, but wouldn’t bust his bud’s balls over being a softie. Just as he suspected their Alpha turned a blind eye to Tank’s ‘research’.
The driver’s side door slammed shut on his thought while he waited for the bigger wolven. Tank, old-fashioned doctor’s bag in hand, paused and raised one arched eyebrow. He looked every bit the high dollar doc he’d been raised to be. Both of them had come a long way from the roots. For better or worse, Chase had no idea. A little of both, he conceded. “This pro bono shit is a load of crap.” His snarl encompassed the entire run down trailer park. “How many times have we had to fight our way out?”
“Unknown. I have not kept a tally.” Tank’s gaze took in their surroundings, no doubt noticing details that even the most wary warden would miss. “However, territory disputes would not be an issue if pack membership were based more on loyalty than on species.”
Chase snorted his feelings on that topic. That particular conversation would not be initiated by him. He’d leave all the thinking up to Tank. Chase liked his life nice and simple. Politics, religion, none of it mattered much to him. He prized loyalty, knew his job, and did it well. When his bud said they had rounds, Chase bitched and moaned all the way to the Weres’ lair. Then, he did his part by keeping his mouth shut and watched Tank’s back in case the ungrateful wretches turned on them. Again.
The stink of Were and cat burned his nose. Great. Just great. The hair on the back of his neck crawled. In the half-and-half classic movie monster dueling form or full wolf, he’d have his back up and hackles rose as instincts older than time warned him off. Now, wasn’t he the smart one?
Chase followed Tank up the walk to the long metal rectangle of faded blue mobile home. Neat trimmed grass and tire turned flowerbeds told the same making-the-best-of-it story as so many others the two of them visited. Framing the door, a tidy little porch enclosed with durable vinyl lattice. Above, tacked to the cross beam, were gold address numbers. Chase kept his lips zipped and his eyes open while Tank knocked. Still, he wondered how in the hell you got trailer one hundred and twelve out of about fifty some-odd lots.
A small, exotic female opened the door. Not young. Not aged and stooped either. Her dark skin and features revealed ancestry rooted in places where jungle cats originated. Almond eyes and lush lips graced a striking high-cheeked face and soft cocoa skin. If the place didn’t stink so much of cat, he might have thought her attractive. Her eyes narrowed to yellow green slits that passed over the bigger wolven to focus on Chase. He tried giving a reassuring smile that he imagined Tank would use.
“Kasi said one doctor. Don’t need the likes of you messing wit’ the kits. We doan need you.” Eyeing Chase, she glared as if he would eat her babies. No fool, she knew where the real threat crouched today. If the Were tried harming Tank then damn skippy, Chase would become one hell of a threat.
“You must be Sheeva Stevens, Kasi’s mother.” Chase could feel the smile in his bud’s words. Comfort and trust practically oozed from his aura, a leftover from the old days, before they’d been bitten. Tank was a doctor to the core, had always been. He had a supernatural bedside manner even if following him in a conversation required a PHD.
Chase figured his presence kept the werecheetah guarding the door. “Yeah. Kasi’s at work. And we still doan need you.” Tough. He wasn’t leaving Tank’s back unprotected.
Tank’s multitude of beaded braids clicked as he dipped his head in very real compassion. “I understand you have taken care of generations of cheetah kits, Sheeva. Childhood diseases rarely affect the supernatural.” He dared touch Sheeva. She stiffened, then relaxed as Tank’s own brand of magic soothed her. “Your input would be greatly appreciated. Especially, as the kits in question are your grandchildren.”
The hot werecheetah was a grandmother? That cooled his jets.
Sheeva sniffed and leaned against the door, guarding the entrance to her lair. Her antagonistic scent shifted to curiosity. “Them’s my great-grandkits. Lena, Kasi’s kit, dropped ‘em and took off quick as you please. Girl has the morals of a tom-cattin’ male. Ain’t seen her since.” She opened the door, allowing Tank access before stepping in Chase’s way. She did the two-fingered point at her eyes, then with a graceful wrist twist, pointed at his chest. “I got my eye on you, boy.”
Chase bobbed his chin once in acknowledgement. He forced himself not to meet the female’s eyes, but darn, he wanted to. Dominant in his pack, it galled him to give over. This was her territory, her lair, and respect for her position won out. Grinding his teeth, Chase trailed behind to a small room at the end of the shotgun hallway. The sour scent of sickness and sweat overlaid by disinfectant pervaded the small mobile home.
Both children, dark skinned girls who favored their great-grandmother Sheeva, lay listless while Tank prodded and poked at them as gently as possible. In the end, no amount of supernatural doctoring would be able to help the wheezing, feverish kits. Chase saw sad defeat in Tank’s eyes. Felt emotion in the heaviness of his friend’s heart. To accept this felt too much like quitting. Tank’s helpless anger licked between him and Chase. Like many others they’d visited, the fever burning up the little ones would to win. While Tank took bottles of stuff out of his bag that might allow the children to keep some fluid down, Chase took Sheeva Stevens, the werecheetah aside.
“They’s not goin’ to make it.” Painful acceptance etched deep lines in the females face. Premature grief stooped her shoulders. “Tell it to me true, wolf.”
“Tank will do everything he can.” Chase hedged. If there was life, there was hope. Wasn’t there? If not, then they were all doomed before the fight began. “He’s the best doctor any supernatural has.”
“But he cain’t fix this, can he?” she whispered. The tears swimming in the female’s eyes ripped at his guts. Instead of answering her question, he turned away.
“Bathe in straight bleach to try and kill any contaminants,” he answered. “Don’t save any keepsakes. Burn everything in this place. Even your clothes.” Pulling a thick envelope wrapped in a plastic bag out of his jacket, he passed it over. “Open this inside out after everything is gone. Then burn the bag.”
Sheeva clutched the envelope. The pride in her face said that she’d rather throw it in his face. Instead, he turned to watch Tank from a safe distance in the doorway. Very soon, her pride, and maybe her granddaughter Kasi would be all the werecheetah would have left. The paper mask over his bud’s worried Chase more than a little.
* * * *
“Here.” Chase stuffed the last used wipe in the biohazard bag and waited for Tank to close it properly. Just looking at the sealed bag gave Chase the willies. “You don’t think any of our pack is going to come down with that, do you?”
“Unlikely.” Tank’s answer didn’t give him the sense of safety he was looking for. His expression must have conveyed that, because his friend dropped an arm across Chase’s shoulders after sealing that damned biohazard bag away in a special coated disposal box. The innocent package gave him the heebie-jeebies too. Chase was cool with not knowing how Tank got rid of the thing. “Take your vitamins. The formula is specialized for our species needs.” Tank advised. His white teeth shone in the dark chocolate of his face as he took pleasure in Chase’s grimace. “Take them and be healthy. Or I may be forced to mention your dietary needs to the Canis Matra.”
“That’s low, man. Real low.” Chase pulled away. “We’re supposed to have each other’s backs when it comes to food.”
“Vitamins are not classified as a food source.”
“Yeah? Well, my classification of food includes anything edible,” Chase grumbled. “And chalky vitamins, mushy tofu, and whatever the hell soy is, doesn’t make that list.”
Commandeering the driver’s seat, Tank fell silent, lost in his own complicated thoughts. This suited Chase fine as he struggled with the image of Sheeva Stevens in the side mirror. She picked up the sealed care package they’d left in the driveway, clutching it to her chest. Inside, she’d find everything she’d need to purge the mobile home after the kits passed plus bleach and clean clothing to walk away in afterwards. Her head bent over her burden, prayer style with her eyes closed. She turned, one foot in front of the other as she slowly trudged back to the mobile home.
Claustrophobia rode Chase hard. He’d rather be riding his bike, feeling the wind in his face, the hum of the machine under him vibrating through his body cleansing him on the inside. They may have traded the freedom of riding with the Hell Hounds for the security of a pack, but he still had his bike.
Chase closed his eyes drifting, lulled by the steady sound of the engine and tires. Tank’s silent presence was his real security. The Alphas, Adam and Diana, were secondary but still necessary. At least she was. Behind his eyes, Chase saw her again for the first time. Not Diana Weis, Matra Canis of the Texas, Anderson County wolven pack. Behind his eyelids, time rolled backwards. Diana, a sweet lush goddess in a short shimmery black dress. Her psychic scent perfumed the air, calling to them. Her woman’s scent raised a beast’s lust in them all.
Whether or not Diana's parents intentionally named her for the goddess of the hunt, she’d done her namesake proud. He and Tank had been lost the second they pulled their bikes into the deadly circle where Diana stood proud and tall, trying to bravado her way out. She had been gorgeous, fucking amazing, as she held the Hell Hound’s leader, Dog, off with her own awakening gifts and a single high-heeled shoe. Her aim and the shoe had been the more powerful. They’d killed Dog and the rest of that group of the outlaw werewolves, hiding what was left of the fight before she woke up.
And for the second time in his life, the woman who held Chase’s heart chose another. Again, because Tank wanted him too, he hung around. Chase didn’t have anything better to do at the time. Parting ways with his best friend was a no-go. In his mind, Adam Weis ranked higher than just being the lucky SOB who got the girl. Turned out, the Alpha was a damned good leader, mate, and father. A lucky break, since Chase had no aspirations of becoming Canis. Yeah, they could have done a hell of a lot worse than hooking up with the Anderson County pack.
His thoughts slipped into sleep. For a change, he dreamed. He wasn’t the badass warden anymore. No pack of wolven, humans, and pups to protect. He was nineteen and his parents were out of the country again, leaving him alone with the servants. The huge monstrosity of a house echoed with the telephone ringing. In real life, his father’s secretary had always answered before he could.
“Redding residence.”
“Charles, this is Theodore.”
Chase snickered over the phone. “Man, only chipmunks call themselves Theodore.”
“Be that as it may,” Tank’s parents didn’t mind a lonely white kid hanging with their brilliant progeny. Then again, with the connections Chase’s parents had, the Knights would be stupid to mind. Young Tank’s nerdspeak turned breathless. “Your grades are terrible…. I have a new National Geographic.”
Naked women. Chase grinned. He loved National Geographic. The only thing he liked better than National Geographic and raiding the wine cellar was….
“Is your cousin Lissie still there?”
Tank went silent on the other end. Chase felt his palm go sweaty around the big plastic handle. He had a pretty good picture of the expression behind his friend’s thick-lensed glasses. Cautious.
“Charles. You know that my uncle does not approve of your interest in Lissie. My aunt ….”
“Had a fit when I asked Lissie if she would come to dinner and theater. Besides, they’re not your real aunt and uncle. Just your parents’ friends.”
“It was not appropriate.”
“For who?”
Tank didn’t answer.
Reality shifted. No longer was he Charles Weston Redding IV, nineteen and hurt because a pretty girl with dusky skin and almond eyes wouldn’t give him the time of day. He was a wolf running in the Green Wood. Everyone had his or her own description for the metaphysical forest that all his kind were tied to.
For a species of autocratic territorial assholes, the Green Wood was the one neutral place they didn’t try to claim. To the point of not actually giving the magical place an official name. No other place like it existed, so no confusion tripped up those talking about it. And why should there be? The never-ending forest belonged to everyone who showed up. The place and the sentiments it evoked from him were profound for a guy that steered away from religion. Any religion.
Here, unless you were aware of some cool magic trick, you arrived with or at least near your pack, no matter how many miles separated in the real world. Chase’s magic was limited to getting fanged, furry, and running in the forest.
He didn’t mind that the dream was gone. The reality of the Wood was as solid as the vehicle his body rode in. To bad Tank was still driving the SUV or they could race. For now, away from the stink of the werecheetahs and his own thoughts, he was happy to play.
He raced anyway. His wolf’s body was a running machine. Designed for power and speed. Chase let his feet fly over the leaf-carpeted floor of the forest, feeling the same peace creep over him that he only found on the back of a bike in his human body.
Scents of magic and life filled his nose, wiping away the loneliness of the dream. Another scent, musky and seductive stopped Chase in his tracks. He skidded to a halt and lifted his nose, inhaling the perfume of a female in heat. Hel-lllo. Not just love potion number nine. It was love potion number nine hundred ninety-nine times a million more. His body reacted, instantly on the alert.
Where was she? He lifted his head and howled.
She didn’t answer. Frustrating, but not deterred, he put his nose to work. Minutes that felt like hours later, he poked his muzzle through the underbrush. Excitement tingled through him, nose to tail. Here she was. Madonna in moonlight.
Okay, not Madonna. Perhaps, Cleopatra the exotic goddess queen of the Nile. On thing he knew for certain, his Cleo was hot. The shiny dark fur of her back faced him as she watched the bushes before her. The silky flag of her tail lay on the ground. Cleo’s ears swiveled this way and that, monitoring her surroundings, but not alarmed. Unaware.
Chase had been sure to be quiet. Only now, he wanted her attention. He wuffed softly. She whirled in a flash. Her teeth shown white and sharp under eyes outlined in white. Not a bandit mask, but like a woman’s makeup. Yeah, he agreed with that first assessment. Very hot wolf chick. The rich scent of her musk drove him nuts. He ducked his head a bit, ears forward as he gave a tentative tail wag. He used body language to show how little a threat his was to her. Hey, sweet thing. Want to play tag?
She startled at his question. Her ears pricked forward. She stared at him out of those amazing black outlined by white eyes. Encouraged, he took a couple of steps closer. Without warning, Cleo blinked out of existence, leaving him alone.
Well, damn. Chase flopped to the ground, put out. That line about playing tag had to be the worst he’d ever come up with. Then again, he’d been distracted by the pull of her scent. More than one male had fallen hard for a female in season, then regretted it once the air cleared.
Telling himself that it was good, she’d up and left, he huffed out a sullen breath. Chase had sworn off wolven and psychic females a long time ago. He made himself scarce when the females showed any signs of heat and stayed away for a couple of weeks. Sniffing along the forest floor, he caught the faintest whiff of her scent. Chase growled, realizing that he was now lying on top of the place she’d been sitting. Now he was more irritated than before. Not only had he had a rotten dream, now he was horny on top of it all. He might as well wake up and take his turn driving the damned car.
Chapter Three
India jerked awake, disoriented by the dream. No, not a dream. She hadn’t allowed any of them to Change since the killing the Hunter. Obviously, she was having trouble separating realities. That in itself said that she’d been wolf too long. She was in danger of going feral and leaving all traces of humanity behind. A sneaky voice she suppressed whispered wild thoughts through her tumbled feelings. Would that be such a bad thing? To run free without the restrictions of humanity?
She shook her head hard enough to make her ears flop. Digging her paws in the dirt in front of her, she stretched. The movement did nothing to quell the feeling of restlessness that was a live thing inside her. Nature wanted her to run and find a mate. She was in heat. The drive thrummed inside her veins. The smell of it put her and her pack more on edge. Thankfully, her sense of survival was stronger. That need told her to run far away. To find a place the Hunter would never think to look for her little pack. Between the two instincts, she was surprised her feet didn’t take off on their own to run straight off the nearest cliff.
India needed distance between them and the new Hunter that had picked up their trail couple of weeks ago. Sometimes their scent paths crossed, telling her how close her enemy trailed her. He was wary and unhurried, close at her heels. This one was too smart to make the same mistakes as the other one. Or, he had a set of abilities far beyond the dead Hunter. She kept moving, keeping her pack just ahead of him, giving Reggie too little rest to recover and too little red meat for them to maintain their wolven strength.
As she nosed her little pack awake, the call of a normal wolf distracted her. His lonely call for a mate touched a chord inside her. Like the mundane wolf, her kind thrived on a sense of security and stability. Wolven were a bunch of homebodies who claimed a territory and rarely left its borders. There were exceptions. Bitten wolven tended to roam until they regained their sense of self. Packs did not tolerate strays and werewolf in their territory. Strangers were encouraged to move on.
India’s lack of hearth and home was a painful wound. Memories of being part of a larger whole teased her. What if she answered the wolf’s call? It wasn’t unheard of to run with the lesser wild wolves. She turned the idea over in her head until Reggie’s nose bumped into her hindquarters. An accident for sure, but he was too close to where he had no business. Irritated, India growled, baring her teeth as she turned on the lesser wolf. Her weight barreled him over. Sharp teeth pinned his neck to the ground. Reggie whined and went limp in submission. He twisted, showing his vulnerable underbelly. Appeased, she wouldn’t hurt him for the indiscretion. This time.
Reggie could never be a suitable mate for her. He was too far down the pecking order. He needed protecting. India needed a protector. Like the male in her dream. Healthy, strong. His intense gaze had unsettled her, waking her from her dream. Tag, she dubbed him, like the game he wanted to play. A lesser wolf would not do.
Letting go of Reggie, India raked her gaze over the other two wolves in her care. Darrell was neither young nor strong. Gail was too young. Barely in her twenties, Gail shared a similar temperament as Reggie. She stayed glued to her Uncle Darrell’s side. Her gaze sought his approval on every step and set India’s teeth on edge with the urge forcibly prove her right to lead.
No, India decided as she met Darrell’s hazel wolf eyes. The tenuous threads of the packbond revealed the older wolf’s doubt in her ability to lead. Darrell’s eyes dropped, the certainty that India could not keep them safe tangled between them. He wanted a real Alpha, a male to hold the pack together and strengthen the fading packbond. The wild wolf’s call danced through the air again. Lonely. Longing. Needing others of his kind.
Her mind made up, India lifted her nose to the sky and poured her soul into the Call. If the Hunter found them, she’d kill him too. India needed a mate to Alpha her pack. He didn’t have to be able to Change. Her little pack joined into the Call. She didn’t know if they realized that she was throwing away their humanity. For the moment, they were a good little pack, following their leader. The song ended. The forest fell silent, a tribute to the predators in their midst. Finally, the lone wolf answered. The song changed tone. No longer lonesome, it welcomed. He demanded her presence.
India focused on the direction and set off at a trot to meet her suitor. She was in heat. Unless mated, the wild wolf wouldn’t turn her down, or the chance to Alpha a pack. Instinct was predictable that way. Unless, he turned out too easily dominated, she'd take him. Her hope was that with the pack under the leadership of the normal mundane wolf, the Hunter might become confused at their shift in patterns. Maybe he’d go away. She had no other choice anymore.
In the back of her mind, India envisioned that she answered the big wolven male from her dreams. Her fantasy wolven male wanted to play tag. The thought brought a sad smile to her heart for all she was about to give up. No, the Hunters took that away when they killed Gin and the rest of her pack. The safety of her pack was her priority. When she mated with the animal wolf, it would be a real mate-bond to ensure that his instincts focused on hers and her pack’s survival. She wasn’t taking any chances.
Knowing the Hunter would hear, she wuffed and urged her group into a run. She only hoped the lone wolf was wily enough to outwit the new Hunter on their trail.
* * * *
Carter Hunter jerked awake at the howl. His tracker’s senses hummed as he threw his consciousness out like a big spider web. He was the big nasty spider waiting in the middle. When a supernatural stumbled into his threads, then, bam, he knew which way to go. He could only use the ability sparingly, like glancing at a compass, or he’d drain his energy. The big gifts were like that. If he touched the ability too often, a migraine could knock him on his ass. Carter would be useless to attack or defend if the monsters came knocking at his door. Carter did not intend to share his colleague, Pete’s, fate half eaten in the desert.
Scratching at the three-day beard that itched at his cheeks, Carter ignored the throb in his temples as he mulled over what his psychic net told him. His quarry had veered from its Western path to a Southern heading. Until now, Carter thought he was going to run her to the California coastline.
He checked the time on his watch, grimacing when the instrument confirmed the god-awful hour of ten a.m. Around four hours ago, he’d pulled into a rest stop in the hopes of catching some shuteye while his quarry slept. With a curse, he slammed out of the vehicle to use the neglected roadside utilities before scrounging up another protein bar and bottled water meal.
The bitch was running by day and night now. No rest for the weary, he told himself, but the joke held little amusement. He needed to focus. Mistakes like that are what had gotten Pete Hunter and too many other Hunters killed. Messing around and not paying attention to the whys of the quarry’s movement patterns got you dead in a hurry. What had Pete been thinking to take on an established werewolf pack? Carter shook his head at the stupidity.
His colleague’s actions had taken balls the size of boulders. The idiot had gone against every rule, stirring up supernatural and psychic communities all along the Eastern coastal states and into the South. It was like the cold war all over again, with once quiet, unobtrusive psychic communities like the one in Georgia trying to play goddamned James Bond games. Fairies were pissed enough to make sure campers stayed home with reports of high pollen counts, killer bee scares, and a few missing tourists. Rumor had it that a dragon, normally agoraphobic creatures that avoided all contact with the outside, was gunning for both groups, fairy and psychic.
Carter had his hands full on the monster end. Pacifying the deacons out for supernatural blood taxed his mother’s diplomatic skills to the limit. Through the ages, psychic communities’ leaders’ reactions had nothing in common with generosity or tolerance. As the daughter, mother, and widow of Hunters, his mother, Victoria was a dangerous power in her own right. She’d do her part.
Carter cranked the Hummer. And he’d do his. Once he neutralized Pete’s mess, there would be four less werewolves to terrorize the innocent.
Chapter Four
Days later, Chase bumped into the Packhome kitchen, clean and mostly Were-scent free, thanks to Tank’s decontamination, a shower with industrial deodorizer, and a change to clean clothes in the pool house. His absolutions might be overkill, but he was getting phobic about bringing the disease home. Chase even went so far as to make use of the thermometer hidden in the bathroom to make sure his temp stayed at its usual range.
Chase jumped at the solid ahh-choo that echoed through the house. The pathetic hacking of Sheeva Stephens kits sounded in his subconscious.
“Mo-om! Sammy sprayed me with baby powder!”
“Did not!”
“Did too!”
“Enough.” Karen’s exasperated mothering as she tended to her little ones went a long ways in easing the tightness in his chest. Man-o-man, he was dog-tired.
Since the werecheetah household, Tank had been out every few days driving as far as Waco to check on sick supernaturals. The driving had blurred so that Chase couldn’t remember the towns or counties they visited. Mostly the poor and out of the way Weres had fallen ill. No wolven. Yet. Not anything normally life threatening, he supposed. Just the flu. Humans caught and survived the virus every day. The normals suffered for a couple of weeks, then bounced back to normal.
Still, Chase was uneasy. Tank was being more close-mouthed than usual. The doc had upped the dosage of the vitamin concoction he insisted everyone take. He checked the pups’ vitals every time they came within reach. The rest of the pack may think Tank was being his usual pain-in-the-ass self, but Chase knew better. They hadn’t heard the Stephens kits weak raspy coughs or seen their great-grandmother’s premature grief.
Just the flu. Influenza. They were supposed to be immune to both the bug and the medications prescribed. Which was weird, because as supernaturals, they just didn’t get sick. Their immune systems were hyper-efficient.
A shapeshifter lived twice to three times as long as a human. And this flu bug was killing them. Weres, dead from something as mundane as the flu. The thought chilled him. Thank God, the pack kept the Weres at a distance, outside of Anderson County. The quarantine of sorts might keep his pack safe.
“Hey, you okay?” made Chase jump and whirl, ready to attack the voice. His thoughts scattered as he focused on the Latino young man staring across a table full of papers. A laptop, open and in use, sat at Rick Weis’s elbow.
“Yeah. I’m fine. What’s up with the paper trail? Writing a term paper or something?”
Rick laughed and grimaced. The sound was strained. “No, grading papers. This time of year I always wonder why I wanted to teach English Lit.”
Chase grabbed a water bottle out of the fridge and ambled over to look at the mess. He shook his head. “I don’t know what possessed you to become a teacher. We had enough trouble getting you to graduate and escape school. And you went back? Voluntarily?” He gave a mock shudder, then opened the bottle to take a swig.
Rick shrugged, shuffling papers. “I like teaching. I like the kids.” His scent was a little nervy, but that could be explained by having to decipher and grade some kid’s scribble. An envelope addressed to Ricardo Reys slid out from the pile. The Lufkin return address listed the law firm of Raymond Reys.
Chase slapped a hand on the envelope as the kid froze. In his eyes, Rick and the others would always be kids. He’d watched them grow up, loved, and nurtured by their adoptive parents. As the pack had grown, the boys had learned what being a part of a family unit meant. Chase learned the meaning of madhouse. With that many kids going through different stages of puberty at the same time, he had been cured of any desire he might have had to propagate.
Their eyes met. Rick broke away first, his fingers pressed against edge of the envelope. “That belongs to me.”
“Yeah? Seems it’s addressed to someone else, not Rick Weis.” The boy, no man, raised his chin and met Chase’s eyes again. For the first time, the warden really noticed how much Rick had grown up. Gone was the scared pup with the punk ass attitude, ratty clothes, and affected accent. Here was a man in his twenties, an educator, a molder of young minds. Rick Weis sat straight in his chair, one finger on the corner of the envelope and met the challenge. Chase nodded. Let his hand up. He gave himself a mental pat on the back for not smirking at the kid’s scent of sheer relief. “You want to talk about it?”
Rick picked up the letter and stared at it. “No. They’re nothing to me.” He shook his head. Dark reddish brown hair, the same color as his wolf fur, fell over his forehead. “No. You’re right. There is no Ricardo Reys. I became Rick Weis when Mom and Dad adopted me.”
“So what are you going to do about it?”
Rick stood up and walked to the sink, envelope in hand. Lifting the lever for water, he reached and flipped on the disposal switch.
Chase waited, unsure if he should stop him. But then, this was Rick’s problem, not his. Chase had already butted in too far already. The disposal’s grinding deepened as it chewed the letter into bits, the water washing away the evidence. Silence descended.
Rick turned and met his eyes before calmly sitting back down to his papers. He picked up his pen, bending over the papers with determined effort. The house phone rang. Rick scowled at the paper in front of him. He snatched up a red pen and began marking, ignoring the insistent ring.
Being tired, Chase was tempted to let someone else tend to the phone. After the tenth ring and Rick’s growl of irritation, Chase gave in and walked to the wall unit. In Packhome there were very few cordless phones. The things had a habit of disappearing if they weren’t on a leash. Out of habit, he glanced at the digital Caller ID before answering.
Rick looked up. “Who is it?”
Chase’s finger hovered a moment over the answer button, then pushed it with his thumb. Before the caller could say anything, he hung up. Nothing could be done about the call list without erasing every listing. Chase replaced the handset. “Telemarketer.” Chase lied, avoiding Rick’s eyes as he slipped out of the kitchen. He paused just outside the door, just long enough to hear the younger man get up and the click of the handset as Rick checked the call listing. If he’d kept walking, he would have missed the beep of the call back or the low murmur.
“No, this is Rick Weis, Mr. Reys. I don’t want to talk.” Rick said with quiet vehemence. “I’m a wolf.” Chase held his breath as the phone hit the receiver with a solid thwack of plastic on plastic. Rick’s half whine, half growl almost made him turn back to offer comfort. “I am a wolf.” Instead, Chase waited with clenched fists, feeling impotent as the young male swept papers off the kitchen table in a fit of fury. The warden’s last glimpse was of Rick slumping down in his vacated chair. His hands tunneled into his hair, tugging in the same habit he’d picked up from his adopted father. “A wolf,” Rick whispered.
Sometimes, you had to push kids to make a decision. Then you had to let go and allow them to find their own way. Damn but the second part hurt a hell of a lot more than the first.
* * * *
Flopping down on his bed, Chase sighed. Finally. At last, he was alone in his own space. The need to stretch, to show his car-cramped body freedom overwhelmed him. Arching off the bed, it felt like every vertebra in his back, and then some, cracked and popped. Ah, sweet relief.
Nestling deeper into the blankets on his oh-so-comfy Sleep Number bed he surveyed his side of the room through drowsy eyes. Everything but the bed itself was once more neat and tidy, everything in the appointed place. Tank’s OCD reigned supreme. His bud had an instinctive dislike of disorder. He constantly picked up anything around Chase’s pride and joy.
Chase’s Sleep Number bed was as much hands-off as the simple but elegant desk that one of the boys had made for the pack doc years ago. He didn’t remember which kid. Those early days had been full of chaos and high emotions. Every day had been an exercise in frustration, trying to win the trust of five damaged teens. The adults had their work cut out, showing the kids by deed that they wouldn’t let werewolves like Garrick Moser abuse them anymore.
After all that, Chase still wouldn’t have laid money on Brandon’s return. As the pack’s Omega, the kid had suffered the brunt of Moser’s depraved attentions. It had taken leaving and maturing in the human world to give Brandon enough confidence to return to the pack and take Karen as his mate. At least that was Tank’s opinion. His bud also mentioned a bunch of forgiveness shrink mumbo-jumbo too. Chase figured that being more than able and willing to kick his packmates collective asses helped a lot too. With Diana’s daughter, Karen, as his adoring mate, the kid was doing okay now. Still kinda crazy, buy hey, alls well that ends well. It reminded Chase of one of those ditzy romance novels Tamara was always reading.
Chase’s desk consisted of a laptop stowed in its bag and stored in one of the drawers built into the bottom of his bed frame. Also one of the boys’ yesteryear projects while the Alphas and their human Beta rode herd on them to graduate high school and stay out of trouble.