Wolf Undaunted

by Shannon Curtis

  He dug inside his jacket pocket and pulled out a phone. “This is for you. My number is the first preset. Call me if you need me, or if you just want to talk,” he told her quietly, battling his own hurt. She was willing to turn against him, against the werewolves, all for a man who didn’t deserve her loyalty. “Your father can’t trace it.”

  He let himself out of her apartment, bitter disappointment scarring his heart.

  * * *

  Vivianne stared out of the window as Harris drove her up to her father’s site. The irony didn’t escape her. Her father had managed to sneakily purchase a parcel of land she’d earmarked for the Kingfisher Dam project. Son of a—No, wait. Nonna Marchetta wasn’t the bitch here.

  She saw her reflection in the tempered glass. The sky showed the pale purple of a sleepy sunrise, but it was still relatively dark, and she could easily see her troubled expression. No, Nonna Marchetta wasn’t the bitch, here.

  She’d sensed Zane’s disappointment, his hurt, his sense of betrayal, and it had nearly crushed her. Was it a mate thing? Did your mate’s emotions and well-being really weigh that heavily on you? Did you swing from wanting to ease their pain or discomfort—as she’d sensed from Zane when he’d first arrived and they’d...helped each other out, to feeling their hurt, their pain, and the consequential guilt that followed knowing you’d caused it. Hell. When was the last time she’d actually felt guilt? She was a vampire prime, and had made difficult decisions in the past, but with each of those she’d had the confidence and commitment knowing she was doing the best for her colony. With Zane, she’d been truly stuck, and it had been easier to revert to being the Nightwing vampire prime than to deal with an angry and hurt mate.

  There had been one moment in her life, when she made her first kill after turning, when she hadn’t known what to do. When she’d been torn between contacting the family and offering apology and reparation, or her father’s instructions to dispose of the body. He’d told her it would get easier—but it hadn’t. She’d hovered on that pointy precipice, and in either direction was a painful, rocky fall.

  She felt like she was back up on that pointy precipice, and faced once more with disappointing her father, of abandoning the established “standard” behavior of a vampire, of possibly turning her back on her family, on her kind, or losing a man who understood her, who respected her, and who was willing to give her the space and distance she needed to make her own decision, but who wanted—No, demanded, she give more of herself, and required more of her.

  Zane’s phone felt heavy in her jeans pocket. She’d changed into the dark denim and teamed it with shin-high black boots that would be more suitable to tramping through the Vale. She was going to thoroughly check out this site. She would wait until she could see what her father was really up to, before she made her final decision on the clinic.

  Then, maybe, she could figure out what to do about this mating bond thing.

  * * *

  Zane sipped from his coffee mug as he watched the Jeep bounce along the track toward the cabin. Shortly after he’d left Alpine, Nate had called him to advise Matthias had a cabin he could use, far enough away from Woodland pack that he’d be of no danger to them. Zane glanced around the meadow. It was ringed by mountains, with a waterfall filling a natural pool at the base of the western cliff. There was a stunning beauty about the soft grass and wildflowers, the gently lapping pool that flowed into a meandering river, and the harsh, craggy bluffs. Right now, the sky was getting the first fiery blasts of orange as the sun began its climb over the peak of the eastern wall. Matthias’s wife, Trinity, though, didn’t like to come here, the waterfall where her father was murdered. It didn’t bother Zane, though, and he was damned appreciative of having somewhere to stay.

  He’d been working on his control, using some of Vivianne’s meditation exercises. He’d fed, but he was anything but relaxed. His mind kept going back to his conversation with Vivianne. She knew what her father was doing—they both knew what he’d done when his first clinic was in operation, and that he hadn’t stopped of his own volition when he’d kidnapped Lucien’s wife and tried to syphon her blood. Natalie Segova’s blood had held the key for preventing the lycan poison from spreading through Vivianne and killing her, but after saving Vivianne, Natalie had tainted herself by drinking null blood, so that Vincent couldn’t keep her as his own personal blood bag. It had been a ballsy move, he had to admit. There had been others in the clinic at the time, though, people he’d never met but had heard their screams, and he wasn’t sure if they were all werewolves, or if there had been a mixture of werewolves, vampires and humans. If he’d heard them, Vivianne had heard them. She knew what her father was capable of.

  He struggled with respect and admiration for her loyalty, and frustration and hurt for her lack of action. Anyone would be impressed with how far she was willing to go to support her family, her colony. But this particular situation—he couldn’t reconcile that his own mate was prepared to turn a blind eye on the torture of her kind—and they were her kind, whether she realized it or not. He’d seen her changes. She was part-werewolf. He hoped, prayed, that she’d accept that. But he couldn’t force her to that decision. She was her own woman, she was a prime, and she had the power and control to do as she saw fit. He would never intrude on that. He just hoped that if he gave her enough time, that she’d come to the same conclusion he had about Vincent Marchetta. The man had to be stopped.

  The waiting, though, was killing him. Patience was not his strong suit, but he knew Vivianne well enough that if you tried to push her in one direction, she’d push back twice as hard. His lips tightened. It was probably the first time he’d really taken a step back, to let time work itself out, instead of trying to force the matter to his own end. He eyed the phone on the porch railing.

  It remained silent.

  Matthias pulled up in front of the cabin, and stepped out of the jeep. The tall, blond werewolf stayed at the jeep, leaving the door open. “You need to come with me,” the alpha prime stated succinctly. Zane could see someone else in the car, and the witch, Dave Carter, wound down the window to look at him. Despite the inky gloom here in the valley, where the sun’s light hadn’t yet pierced, the man still wore sunglasses. His face was grim, unreadable.

  “Are you sure you trust me?” If the lycan would only remain with one foot in the vehicle, it didn’t really give Zane confidence that Matthias was comfortable, which hurt him more than anything Nate had said to him.

  Matthias’s face softened. “I don’t know what’s going on with you, Zane, but you jumped in front of a vampire for me. I would trust you with my life, and that of my wife and son. No, I’m here on business.”

  Zane straightened, relieved by his friend’s words, and also that at last, he was being given the chance to serve a pack, even if it was an ally pack, and not his own.

  “What’s going on? Why is the witch here?”

  “I have a vested interest,” Dave replied, his words clipped, inviting no further conversation on the matter.

  “Samantha called. Nate’s missing,” Matthias told him.

  Zane swore, then tipped the rest of the coffee out onto the grass and placed the mug on the porch railing, then picked up his phone. He swept up his jacket from where it lay over a rocking chair—it was a lot warmer down here in Woodland than in Alpine territory, and he’d hadn’t worn it since he arrived.

  “How can I help?” Whatever they needed, he’d give.

  “Zane—” Matthias hesitated, then grimaced. “Zane, Nate had J.J. with him.”

  Zane was inside the jeep in seconds. “Let’s go.”

  Chapter 19

  Vivianne strode down the hall behind her father’s clinic manager, Jerry O’Hanlon. Harris trailed behind her. O’Hanlon was not one of the Nightwing vampires. He was almost as petite as she was, but without the curves. Kind of reminded her of a leprechaun, all ruddy cheeks and sparkling
eyes as he spoke enthusiastically of the wonderful gains they’d already had with the program, how they were very close to a solution, seeing as they had managed to salvage some abbreviated notes from the head doctor of the former clinic. With every step the man took, the large ring of keys attached to the belt loop at his hips jingled.

  So far he’d shown her the staff quarters, the cafeteria, a state-of-the-art operating theatre that told her her father had been working on this for some time already. She’d even walked through rooms where vampires lay, hooked up to drips as they read from books or watched big screen movies. A couple were even playing chess by the tempered bay window.

  She kept her features impassive. Apart from one wing that she was told was still under construction, her father seemed to have made great gains in a short period of time.

  And she hadn’t known. She took a moment to send her brother a text. She’d spoken to him briefly during the car ride, and he hadn’t known anything about it either, and was absolutely furious—with their father, and with her. Lucien had been stunned when she’d shown him the shadow trail her father had left when he’d withdrawn their funds—a trail he was still unaware existed. It seemed the funds weren’t just used for the real estate purchase, and she was now looking at the proof of it. She’d found invoices and contracts in a file her father thought he’d hidden behind an impenetrable firewall. She smiled grimly. Harris wasn’t just a driver, he was also a damn good forensic hacker when she needed one.

  “And if you come this way, I’ll show you the rehabilitation area. We have a gym, a pool...”

  Vivianne tuned out O’Hanlon as she turned down the hall in the opposite direction.

  “Miss? Oh, Miss! We need to go this way,” O’Hanlon called, hurrying along behind her.

  She arched her eyebrow. “I’m not a miss. I’m the Nightwing Vampire Prime. My money bought this place, I’ll go wherever I please.”

  The door at the end of the hallway bore the sign “private.” “What’s behind here?”

  O’Hanlon smiled. “Oh, that’s just a maintenance storage area. You know, mops, brooms, that sort of thing.” He indicated over his shoulder. “But if you’d like to follow me—”

  “Open it,” Vivianne said, eyeing the door.

  “Uh, Miss—”

  She caught the man by his throat and walked him back against a wall, slowly raising him up until his feet were dangling two inches off the floor. “For the last time, I’m not your miss. I’m a nine-hundred-year-old prime who is fast losing her patience.”

  “Your father—” the vampire croaked.

  She smiled. “My father isn’t here. Now, open. The. Door.”

  She let him fall to floor, and the man held his throat, coughing. He took his time gaining his feet, and she recognized it for the stalling tactic it was.

  “Uh, Prime Marchetta,” O’Hanlon said as he turned to look at her. “Your father instructed me to show you all common areas. His name is on the property certificate, and my employment contract, and I take my orders from him.” The tiny man drew himself up to his full height—which was only an inch or so taller than Vivianne. “This is still a secure site. I won’t take you any farther without your father’s—”

  Harris stepped forward, and yanked the man’s neck at such a speed that even Vivianne flinched when she heard the crack of bone breaking. She raised her eyebrows as Harris let the man fall.

  “Harris...?”

  Harris shrugged his broad shoulders. “This place gives me the creeps, and this guy was beginning to annoy me.” He frowned. “Sooner or later you’re going to trust me with whatever the hell’s going on.” He held up a finger. “And if that boyfriend of yours tries to snap my neck once more, I’m not going to be responsible for my actions.”

  He rolled O’Hanlon to his side and yanked at the ring of keys, ripping the belt loop off the man’s pants. He held up the keys. “Seriously? Keys?” The man shook his head as he stepped toward the door. “Security in this place is circa 1950s, for Pete’s sake. There are so many things that could make this place more secure—lasers, encryptions...”

  “At the moment, 1950s security is working for us,” Vivianne commented as the door swung open. She started to walk through, then paused, turning to look at her bodyguard. “Boyfriend?”

  Harris tilted his head. “It’s kind of obvious, Vivianne. For God’s sake, just go out with the wolf. You guys don’t need to break my neck every time you’re hooking up.”

  She gaped, her cheeks heating with embarrassment. “We’re not—” She paused. Actually, she and Zane had pretty much ‘hooked up’ each time Harris’s neck had been broken. “Uh, it wasn’t like—”

  Harris held up his hand, closing his eyes briefly. “Please, no details.”

  She walked into the “private area,” and Harris dragged O’Hanlon in by the heel of one boot, smiling at the thump the man’s head made as it hit the doorjamb on the way through. “That’s for calling you Miss the second time,” he said, and she smiled. He dropped the vamp in the corner, and closed the door behind them.

  This side of the door, the laminated flooring gave way to concrete, and the temperature was significantly cooler. The hall turned to the right, and they paused in front of another locked door.

  “So, you know he’s a wolf, huh?” she asked casually as Harris started trying the keys one by one. He slid her a sideways glance and grunted, then tried the next key. “And what do you think about me dating a werewolf?” She tried to keep her tone casual, but knew she’d failed.

  Harris smirked. “You guys aren’t dating. Dating is dinner. Maybe a movie. The occasional flower or chocolate delivery. Maybe a football game if you’re lucky. What you guys are doing—hell, I don’t know what you’re doing, but it’s not dating.”

  “But—he’s a werewolf. What do you think of that? Your prime, having a relationship with a werewolf.”

  Harris slid another key into the lock, and this time there was an audible click. “Vivianne, I’ve worked for you for three hundred and seventy-two years. In all that time, this is the first guy you’ve seen more than twice. It’s going to be a hard sell to the rest of the colony, granted, but as far as I’m concerned, as long as he treats you well, and respects your vampires—and doesn’t break my neck ever again—I’m fine.”

  Vivianne gaped as he pushed the door open a crack. “But that’s just me,” he whispered as he peered around the door. “You have to sell it to the colony.”

  He took a moment to check beyond the door, then nodded, beckoning her through. She stepped quietly through, not quite closing the door. “Just in case we need to leave in a hurry,” he whispered.

  She nodded. They stood in a hallway, and along the cold, concrete corridor, the doors were closed, with what looked like grates that had a slider, as though you could open them to peer inside. Soft moans filled the hallway, interrupted by the occasional cry of pain. Her lips tightened, and she walked quietly up to the first door. She reached up to quietly push the slider across, and Harris had to lift her so she could see through the opening.

  A man lay on the concrete floor, his eyes so bruised and puffy he couldn’t open them, although he lifted his head at the sound of the grate. His naked body was red, black and blue, bearing the signs of abuse. He wore a silver collar, the metal singeing his skin. He snarled in her direction.

  “You can take your damn needles and stick them up your—”

  Harris slid the grate closed, muffling the rest of the lycan’s comments.

  Vivianne’s mouth turned down, a disappointment so hot, so painful, it brought tears to her eyes. She indicated a door across the hall. “That one,” she whispered to Harris.

  He walked across and opened the grate, then lifted her again so she could see inside. She covered her mouth when she saw the young girl inside. Her hair hung in oily hanks, the color a dark copper, and she was cuffed, naked to the wall, t
he silver chains rubbing her wrists raw. Her body bore what looked like burns, small round blisters that looked incredibly painful.

  She lifted her head, her teeth bared. “Let me go,” she growled in a low voice.

  Vivianne nodded at Harris, and he lowered her to her feet. This time the tears ran down her face, and her beast howled in distress to see a breed sister treated so poorly. She had to be the scion Zane had mentioned. The young woman still had some spark, some fire, despite all that had been done to her. Her alpha prime father would be proud.

  “How many do you think there are?” she asked Harris. She pulled out Zane’s phone. She needed to let him know. He was right, about everything, and she needed him. Now. She texted a message, then frowned. Damn it. All the concrete that surrounded them prevented the message from transmitting.

  Harris’s face was grim. “I count twelve doors here. I don’t know if there are more...”

  Vivianne brushed the tears from her cheeks. “We have to free them. We can’t leave them—”

  A baby’s wail echoed along the hall, followed closely by the deep roar of an adult male. Vivianne frowned. “A—a baby?” She turned and trotted down the hall, following the noise.

  As she went, the captured werewolves yelled and roared from within their cells. Harris passed her, and held up his hand as he sidled up to the door at the end of the corridor. There was a glass panel, and he peered through.

  She hurried to him, keeping to the side to prevent from being seen from the other side. “What’s going on?” she whispered.

  Harris winced. “You’re not going to like it.” He moved so that she could peer through the glass. Her jaw dropped, and her inner beast roared in rage.

  She didn’t wait for Harris to find the right key. She grasped the doorknob, her knuckles white, and she used the combined anger of her and her beast to lend her strength. Her eyes heating, muscles bunching, she growled as she jerked on the door.