Enchanted Hunt

by L. L. Raand

  As must Zora, for as she led, so would they follow—unto death.

  And so she stalked the night to put distance between her wolf and the tantalizing pull of sex and power radiating from the Timberwolves gathered in the rooms below her own. The pulse of random pheromones made her restless nights even more unsettled, but worse, her wolf continued to alert to the call of one particular black-haired lieutenant more powerfully than she’d responded to any other wolf, ever, with a tingling rush of excitement that danced over her skin and teased her wolf to come out and play.

  She recognized the invitation and ignored it, just as she had since the first moment she’d seen Trent Maran on the training field in the Timberwolf Compound. That morning, as she’d watched Trent disarm a young trainee with lethal swiftness and then demonstrate to the awestruck cadet just how the move was done, her blood had heated and her sex tightened. She was an alpha, a dominant among dominants, and Trent was no match for her in pure power, but it wasn’t power alone that had her wolf bristling with a painful cascade of hormones and erotostimulants. The unique mix of Trent’s pheromones blended perfectly with her own. Their chemistries, their innate biological signatures, effortlessly connected. That involuntary pull of wolf to wolf was as natural as breathing, and just as hard to stop, but she was not just any wolf. She would not—could not—risk a bonding with any Were while her Pack was in danger. And Trent Maran was not just any Were—she was a Timberwolf warrior, an elite soldier from a larger, stronger Pack, and despite their temporary alliance, a potential threat to Snowcrest sovereignty.

  Some of her wolves would answer the call of the Timberwolves to tangle, as was their right. She did not intend to be one of them. What her wolves needed now was a strong, unassailable Snowcrest Alpha whose only priority was their security. They needed her, all of her.

  * * *

  Trent shifted restlessly on the narrow cot, drawn from sleep as the moon waned. Her wolf prowled close to the surface most of the night, alert and wary. Her skin tingled with the surge of pelt just below the surface, a sure sign of the need for release. She needed to run or hunt or tangle. If she’d been two hundred miles south in the Timberwolf Compound, she would have slipped out into the night and spent her lust with a Were who responded to her call, but here she was surrounded by Weres who were as likely to challenge her as tangle with her.

  Agitated and edgy, she sat up in the unfamiliar cubicle adjoining the larger group dormitory room where her warriors were quartered. She led a cadre of midlevel soldiers, out of adolescence only a short time but all battle hardened in a recent confrontation between the Timberwolf Pack and the renegade Blackpaw Pack. None were truly veterans, which was just as well given the tension of so many dominant out-Pack Weres suddenly thrust into the midst of the Snowcrest Clan home. She’d assigned each of her wolves two or three of the Snowcrest soldiers to train, taking care to minimize the age difference and dominance levels between them. But nothing would stop the dominance conflicts that were sure to come with so many foreign unmated Weres challenging the Snowcrest Weres on their home territory.

  Her opposite number in the Snowcrest ranks, Ash Cronin, was of centuri level, outranking her in the hierarchy, but their equal responsibilities had placed them on a more level stance. Considering that Ash’s mate Jace was a Timberwolf and in ultimate command of Trent’s temporary posting, she expected most of the skirmishes would be mild. But they would come. Besides, challenges would be welcome. Good grounds for lessons. Maybe a brisk challenge was what she needed, since tangling with any of the Snowcrest Weres or the less dominant Timberwolves under her command was out of the question. She needed something to settle the slow-building heat seething in her loins. She could find some unattached Were who wasn’t part of the training group to blunt the edge of her need, but the call that kept her wolf prowling with agitation wouldn’t be satisfied by a casual coupling with a willing stranger. She recognized the sharp bite of power that set her blood racing and knew she couldn’t answer. Not unless invited, and she wouldn’t be.

  Not by the Alpha. Not when even a casual tangle could ignite an inter-Pack war.

  If only the Snowcrest Alpha didn’t lodge in the same building as her soldiers. In the much larger Timberwolf Compound, Alpha Mir and the Prima resided in their own den a distance from the main barracks, but here the Alpha—Zora—slept just one floor above her. Or rather, Zora didn’t sleep. She paced, broadcasting her call on a wave of pheromones that grew stronger with each passing hour, her power a sweet nectar on Trent’s tongue, rolling through her like the sharp edge of a claw, drawing blood.

  An hour ago, Zora had finally abandoned her restless circling and escaped into the night. Rather than being relieved by the abrupt absence of Zora’s scent, Trent was even more agitated. The moment Zora disappeared, Trent’s wolf wanted to give chase. Zora was simmering with unanswered need, and now she was somewhere any Were might give her some release, if Zora relented and let any touch her.

  With Zora’s call burning through her, Trent snarled at the image of Zora skin-to-skin with another Were, sex-sheen gleaming over her taut, sleek form as she battled for release. She had heard Zora’s call. She had felt Zora’s need pounding in her blood. She should answer. No one else.

  Limbs quivering and her wolf clawing at her insides, Trent shoved open the window above her bed, let her wolf ascend at last, and bounded out on four legs. The path Zora had taken around the Compound and out the eastern gate was as clear to her as if marked by signal flares, and she stubbornly swung westward and raced in the opposite direction. She trotted through the woodland gate, ignoring the Snowcrest sentries posted on either side, and struck off into the woods. The young guards did not offer challenge, and she gave them no more than a flicker of thought, her wolf too intent on capturing the scent of prey—any prey—to chase. Any prey to stir her blood and dispel the heat scorching her depths.

  Trent raced through the unfamiliar forest, dense with pine and fir. Coming into fall, the air was crisp and cool and, at the higher latitude along the Canadian border, more biting than she was used to farther south in the Adirondack parkland. Huge boulders protruded like teeth from rocky escarpments bordering the faint game trail, providing natural stepping-stones for her wolf to bound onto and climb. She reached a ledge high above the forest floor, nearly level with the tops of the trees, and lifted her muzzle to the sky, her heart pounding, blood beating through her veins, a strange exultation streaming through her. Not so much freedom as anticipation. Her wolf waited, refusing to be caged by the warning signals buried deep in the part of her brain guided by reason. In pelt, her instincts prevailed, and her wolf ruled.

  And her wolf knew why this path had called to her.

  She caught the scent a second later, rich and vibrant, commanding and undeniable, stirring the heat in her loins to rise into her belly. She spun away from the edge of the drop-off and faced the sable wolf who studied her from across the clearing thirty feet away. Taller than Trent by a handsbreadth, Zora’s sleek, muscular body heaved from the brisk run. Her head and muzzle jutted forward, and her ears perked upright. Gold sheeted her eyes, and a low, resonant rumble vibrated in the air.

  A greeting. Or a warning.

  Trent stood her ground but dipped her head, breathing softly. After a second, when Zora did not attack or growl a challenge, Trent yipped. Not the whine of a submissive wolf, but an offer. Her tone and posture said, Do you want to play?

  The Alpha of the Snowcrest Pack trotted toward her, set her muzzle and powerful shoulders over Trent’s, and the rumble turned into a growl.

  Are all Timberwolves so insolent?

  Trent quivered. The heat in her belly flared, scorching her every breath. She should not be able to hear the Alpha’s mellow tones in her mind—they were not Pack. Her wolf accepted the unexpected connection, reveled in it. Trent took a deep breath and remained as she had been, motionless, allowing the Alpha the dominant position. She had no choice—to resist would be a challenge, and she was in Zora’s terr
itory. She acknowledged her supremacy there. Nothing more was necessary unless Zora wished to teach her a lesson in humility.

  Trent’s wolf was never humble, and because she wished Zora to know she would only submit so far, she answered with a mental shrug. Not every Timberwolf is so bold. Only the brave ones.

  Zora made a chuffing sound that struck Trent as laughter. When Zora backed away, Trent shot upright, lifting her tail and dancing in place.

  Will you chase me, Alpha?

  Zora’s eyes flashed and power rolled over the clearing, seizing Trent’s blood and turning her sex to flame. Do you think you can run from me?

  Let’s find out. Trent shot a wolfie grin and yipped again. As she spun to bound down the far slope, a sharp bark followed by an ominous growl emanated from the dense cover on the far side of the clearing.

  Snowcrest wolves.

  Zora alerted, and Trent instantly bristled. Perhaps she would have a tussle yet. If she could not tangle, she could at least vent her disquiet with her canines and her claws.

  Two large wolves bounded into the clearing, fur bristling and lips drawn back to show teeth. They circled Trent, flanking her even as they edged in front of Zora, shielding her. Trent recognized them—two of Zora’s personal guards, Cybil and Ryan. Of course they would not let their Alpha run alone, even if Zora did not request—or welcome—the protection. Trent held her ground but offered no challenge. If they fought, she might lose—but worse, Zora would be duty bound to exile her if she attacked a Snowcrest Were. Or execute her.

  Stand down, Zora commanded of her guards. Snarling, Cybil and Ryan backed away a few feet but never took their eyes off Trent.

  Zora stepped into Trent’s line of sight, drawing her attention as inexorably as the moon called to her blood. Impossible to resist.

  Run with me.

  Not an invitation. An order.

  The answer was never in question.

  As you will.

  Trent barked sharply, eager and wild, as the Alpha spun and streaked away. Trent raced after her, aware of the guards falling in, just off her rear. Zora careened down the steep embankment, catapulting from one boulder to the next, her paws barely touching ground before she was airborne again. Trent was used to seeing Alpha Mir unleash her power with an unmatchable explosion of sheer strength and overwhelming force. Zora was no less powerful for her lithe, graceful agility and speed. Trent’s wolf spirit soared with joy as she raced to keep pace.

  Zora dodged into the dense forest, onto a narrow deer trail that threaded through pine-covered ground, and leapt into an icy stream, splashing through and up the other side without pausing. Sun shafted through the green canopy as dawn broke in a cloudless sky. Zora lifted her muzzle and howled, and Trent echoed her greeting. Ignoring the scent of rabbit and deer crossing their path, Trent streaked at Zora’s side, unchallenged by the other Snowcrest wolves. Every scent, every sense, every beat of her heart sharp and swift and achingly perfect.

  A herd of deer broke from the brush. The does and yearlings bounced away, their white tails upright, their lithe limbs clearing low shrubs and berry bushes with delicate grace. Zora howled again, and the Pack closed in behind her. They reached an upland meadow scattered with yellow and white fall blossoms where the tall grasses reached chest high on the deer. Zora slowed and the deer raced on, reaching the sanctuary of forest on the far side and disappearing into the undergrowth.

  Today the wolves ran for the joy of the chase, not the thrill of a hunt. Trent slowed, her chest heaving, and drew alongside Zora until her shoulder nearly touched the Alpha’s. Her body felt strong and vital, as if she could have run forever at Zora’s side. She shouldered her lightly.

  You let me catch you, Trent signaled. Thank you.

  Zora swung her head to face her. Her eyes still blazed wolf-gold. Not caught. Only joined on the run.

  Some other time then. Meeting Zora’s gaze for the briefest of seconds, Trent trembled, aching to rub against her again, to feel Zora’s heart beating against her chest.

  Go back, Zora signaled. There is work to be done.

  Zora spun away, barked sharply in the direction of her guards, and loped off, leaving Trent shivering and alone in the silent meadow.

  Chapter Two

  In the Lost Realm

  Francesca tapped her long, blood-red nails on the arms of the heartwood throne, eyeing the tall, ornately filigreed doors at the far end of the audience hall and waiting impatiently for them to open. Like the stained, dull wood of her throne, the gold panels on the doors—easily twice the height of the Elven sentinels who’d once stood guard eons before when this knowe had been an active part of Faerie—were tarnished and marred from neglect. No liveried soldiers or fawning servants graced the ancient halls now, and every day the remnants of the abandoned Faerie Mound seemed to shrink around her. Whatever spell had kept this knowe from disappearing altogether when its former inhabitants abandoned it, by choice or otherwise, was rapidly fading. Neither her Mage nor Fae allies could tell her why. Soon she would lose this last refuge, such as it was, and be forced once more into the human world or to make an entrance into greater Faerie itself. Either choice left her at the mercy of enemies who would see her true-dead unless her new allies were able to provide her with an army. An invincible army capable of defeating humans, Weres, and Fae.

  Allies. The very word sat like acid on her tongue and burned sourly through her chest. She should be receiving this renegade Mage and outcast Fae as the servants they were while seated on her own throne, not as equals while she ruled an empty world and a handful of Vampires and blood servants. Being dependent on the skill and largesse of two lesser Praeterns for her survival filled her with a bitter taste for vengeance against all those who had betrayed her. Someone else sat on her throne now, someone she had if not precisely trusted, for she was far too experienced to trust anyone, at least relied on as her second-in-command and consort for centuries. Michel. Her senechal and lover, now ruling her domain while she was forced to scheme and scrape to reassemble her power, hiding in a lost land between the realms. Feeding her hunger with the ever-thinning blood of her human servants and the Fae prisoners who were smuggled to her all too infrequently.

  Francesca hissed, fury obliterating the taste of defeat. She had lost battles before, but never a war, and she hadn’t declared this war over yet. She would reclaim her throne, and those who had turned against her—Were and Vampire and human—would pay in blood. Still, the time for revenge had not yet come, and she could not afford to alienate her few allies, no matter how weak and inferior she might find them.

  At last, the doors to the audience hall swung wide, and a human with shoulder length black hair, deep set black eyes, and a thin mouth framed by pale, bloodless lips slithered into the room. Wraithlike in black tailcoat, maroon pants, and calf-high, dusky black boots, he wore an array of silver rings set with crystal stones on each finger. The crystals glowed with power even when the Mage was not actively spell-casting.

  “Tell me, Maester Finngar,” Francesca purred before the Mage reached the foot of her pathetic throne, “how many of your creatures did we lose in this last assault on a group of Were merchants?”

  “Not just merchants,” the Mage said as if he was informing her of something she didn’t already know or was too dense to grasp, “but a cadre of Timberwolf Were warriors and a Fae royal as well. Such a force was unanticipated.”

  “How many of our creatures remain,” she repeated. She had agreed to the attack on the Snowcrest wolves when her initial raids to capture Were sentries for the Mage’s experiments had been successful. The larger assault should have captured even more subjects that Finngar could turn into killing machines, but instead, their reanimated, magically enhanced beasts had all been destroyed, as had their portal into the Were territory. Worse, the Weres would be on guard now against further attacks.

  “My Lady,” he said, his unctuous tone just short of disdainful, “these creatures, as you call them, were fashioned for one purpos
e, and one purpose only. To do your bidding in battle.” He shrugged one cadaveric shoulder. “We expect them to be destroyed. They’re dispensable and replaceable. Happily, we have enough for another small foray.”

  “A small skirmish will not be enough,” Francesca said. “I…we…need bargaining power if we are to force Sylvan Mir to side with us in reclaiming my territory. We need…leverage.”

  “And we will have that when our army of revenants takes control of the territory along Mir’s northern border and we can unleash our combined power against any who resist.”

  The Mage seemed very sure that the renegade Fae Lords who sought to usurp the present Queen of Faerie would join Francesca’s forces, but she had yet to be convinced. The Fae were clever creatures who always had ulterior motives, and they rarely included helping any non-Fae.

  “What of Claudius?” she asked. “Has he delivered the Night Lord’s support to our cause as he promised?”

  “He assures me he has raised a sizable force of dark Fae to oppose Cecilia when the time comes to declare your return to power. Once the Night Lord deposes the Queen of Thorns, you will have all of Faerie at your back.”

  Francesca regarded him coolly. As if she would ever be fool enough to trust a Fae who turned on his Queen and conspired with a usurper. But for now, she needed Claudius to open the Gates into the human realm, and she needed his army of dark knights to defeat those who had stolen her throne.

  “How long will it take you to replace the creatures we lost?” Francesca said.

  “I will need more subjects before I can raise revenants in numbers.”