Born Wild

by Nikki Jefford

  Didn’t matter. Nothing did. Life was pain, and every breath in this forsaken city was torture beyond compare. Wolfrik would take a whipping over the shredding of his soul any day.

  His teeth clenched.

  Where was the spirited voice of his past lover when he really needed her?

  “You wanted me to live, so I killed a wolf. I lived only to die inside. Why the silent treatment all these years only to torment me now?”

  Perhaps Sasha had spoken to him because death approached. He thought he could hear it in the form of footsteps dragging their way down the corridor toward his cage.

  Maybe she’d died after he’d left her and was coming for him now.

  “Do you forgive me then? Have you come to lead me back to the Forest of the Ancestors, or are you here to torture my soul? You’re too late, Sash. Too damn late.”

  “Wolfrik,” she whispered.

  Through the gloom, Sparrow’s face materialized like a ghost’s. Her skin looked pale, and her eyes were hollow. Wolfrik stood, lips drawing back in a silent snarl. The other wolves began pacing their cages but made no sound other than the pattering of paw pads and nails clicking against the cracked concrete floor.

  Sparrow stood at the bars of Wolfrik’s cage, facing him, but registering nothing. Her eyes were red and raw from crying, her gaze unfocused and far away. As Wolfrik approached, he smelled Eric all over her and wanted to howl in sorrow.

  Sparrow shoved a key inside the lock and turned. She pushed open the door.

  “Go,” she said. “Return to your hollow and never leave home again.”

  Wolfrik’s nails scraped the concrete as he slunk out—a wild beast released from his cage. Deep wrinkles rippled over his nose, and saliva coated his throat in a warm, thick froth. He should kill her. She was one of them. It didn’t matter that she’d been kind to him or set him free. They all deserved to die.

  Either Sparrow didn’t notice him prowling toward her or didn’t care. Her body projected no trace of fear, only severe heartache, anguish, and despair.

  Wolfrik’s steps slowed. She smelled too much like Eric. His friend. He’d killed his friend. He couldn’t kill him again.

  He turned away from her and trotted down the empty corridor. Seeing him free of his cage, running loose, the other wolves began to howl. Their cries were like wind against Wolfrik’s tail, urging him on even though he recognized their desperate pleas.

  Would Sparrow free the rest? Why had she picked Wolfrik first?

  He slowed and stopped. No wolf should be left caged.

  Wolfrik’s body shivered, preparing to shift when human voices echoed down the corridor. Two torches appeared, throwing light against row after row of bars. The dark metal stretched from the ceiling to floor. Thick, cold metal bars—a wolf’s worst enemy.

  Wolfrik’s growls resounded down the hallway, sounding monstrous in the caged gloom.

  “One of the wolves is loose!”

  Not just any wolf. Cujo: The Killer.

  Wolfrik’s lips rose in a snarling smile before he ran for the closest human and jumped, taking him down in a glorious clash of screams and sparks as the torch smashed over the ground. The screaming stopped after Wolfrik tore out the human’s jugular. Blood coated his tongue and dripped from his lips.

  More. He wanted more. More blood. More screams. More humans killed by his fangs.

  The second human thrust his torch at Wolfrik and shook it in his face.

  “Back! Stay back, wolf!”

  Wolfrik could taste the fear and desperation in his tone. The human’s words were like bits of flesh for him to chew on before the main course.

  He darted around the man’s legs, and the human wheeled with him, creating a smoke trail that circled and squeezed them in like thick, suffocating rope. Wolfrik lunged, only to feel the lick of flames singe the ends of his facial fur. He jumped back with a snarl. The torch followed him.

  “Get back!” The human handled the torch like a spear, jabbing it in Wolfrik’s direction.

  Growling, he took a step back and another, taking the human with him as though a leash tethered them. When the man took a wide step toward him, Wolfrik dove between his legs, flipped around, and jumped onto his back, knocking him face-first onto the ground.

  The human hollered in surprise. Wolfrik tore and clawed at the shirt until he got through to flesh then dug in, ripping out chunks of meat from his back. Screams blasted along the corridor and bounced off the bars. Ah, dinner music. It had been so long since he’d eaten a live meal.

  Howls chorused at Wolfrik’s back and continued even after the human’s screams went silent. There were shouts in the distance. Wolfrik’s ears perked up. Yelling. Bootsteps running.

  Time to go.

  He swallowed a thumb-sized chunk of human flesh whole and dashed toward the open door at the end of the corridor. Wolfrik ran through as a group of six men came running forward. He would have liked to kill them all, but these ones carried guns in addition to torches. However, they weren’t expecting Wolfrik to run past them in a gray blur, almost as though he’d morphed into smoke rather than a four-legged creature. Not a single shot rang out as he flew past their legs into the short, wide room with tables and chairs where handlers ate their meals and sat around scratching their balls when they weren’t busy abusing animals.

  Wolfrik had walked through here numbly after killing Eric. Now he bounded over the floor freely, nails clicking against the cracked concrete.

  The door to the field was firmly closed, but half the windows were broken out. Most of those were boarded up, but the larger gaps had frayed tarps nailed over the openings. Breaking out into a run, Wolfrik lunged at the nearest tarp-covered window, expecting to rip through. He left the ground, soaring straight for the scrap of blue and beyond it—the sky. As Wolfrik made impact the tarp held strong for one disconcerting half second, cradling him like a hammock, before the force of his weight wrenched the edges from the nails and Wolfrik glided through the opening atop the canvas as though riding a child’s sled into the night.

  As he landed, the stars burst into view overhead. The moon, nearly a week away from its zenith, stared at him like a luminous eye in the sky. Wolfrik could only gaze at it, momentarily transfixed. He blinked, and it was still there. It had always been there. Waiting.

  Wolfrik’s lips peeled back as a howl detonated from his lungs, reaching for that interstellar space with a cry as brilliant and vast as the stars. Then he shot off like a comet across the field. At the edge of the field, the chain-link fence was mangled, like the windows, but no one had ever bothered to repair the gaps. Wolfrik dove through one, much like a rabbit through a hole—shooting through to the other side where he ran and ran, howling ecstatically as he went. The thrill of freedom rushed over him. It was a moment to savor because although he escaped and ended up making it home to the hollow, his memories trailed after him as doggedly as his own tail.

  He had to believe that Sasha was still alive, waiting for him in Wolf Hollow. The demons of the past would live inside Wolfrik for the remainder of his life, but perhaps with time he would heal and become the mate Sasha deserved. He would never take her love and loyalty for granted ever again.

  As long as she lived, he’d find a way to make it up to her.

  No wolf was more dutiful than Sasha, which was why, in all his countless fantasies of returning home, he never dreamed she’d have taken up with another shifter. A half-breed, no less. Sasha and Tabor weren’t mates when Wolfrik made it home, but they might as well have been.

  He’d made it back, but he was too late.

  chapter two

  The Present

  Drumbeats and darkness descended over the forest after the last glimmer of dusk was snuffed out like a thumb smothering a single flame. Wolfrik stalked toward the glade on two legs, smoke coating his tongue. He drifted onto the scene and took a place among the t
rees, blending into the landscape rather than joining his packmates around the bonfire.

  They drank and danced. A young pack member named David had been murdered by a human ten days ago, and another member, Sydney, banished to Glenn Meadows, but the pack had still moved on to celebrate Raider and Jordan’s claiming.

  Raider sat on a stump with his long muscular legs spread wide, Jordan seated on his lap, her slender, shapely legs between his, and one arm wrapped around his thick neck and shoulder.

  Wolfrik folded his arms across his chest, noting to himself that he’d seen their claim coming from many moons away, glad the two shifters had found one another. Such an attractive, privileged pair with two living parents between them: Garrick and Palmer. The men had begged Wolfrik’s and Sasha’s parents to take them in after the fall of civilization, and now those fools were running things, placing themselves on the council and lording the title of elder over their heads.

  Trees were old, too; that didn’t make them leaders.

  An old woman with long tangled white hair sat on a stump beside Jager. She had insisted on joining Aden on his return trip to Wolf Hollow after dumping Sydney off with the Glenn Meadows shifters. Aden had a big bleeding heart. Always had. Go figure. Aden was the only werewolf Wolfrik had ever known, adopted into the pack after a group of elders found him in the woods with an older, dying werewolf. Aden had never been very talkative as a boy. Because of his size, no one ever tried to tease or mess with him. Presently, Aden stood watching the dancers before moving his attention to the drummers. He inched over to the log where Sasha, Tabor, and Elsie sat, nodding hello but not lingering long. The werewolf seemed incapable of remaining in one place for too long. He passed the cauldron and would have passed Wolfrik, too, if he hadn’t called out to him.

  “Why’s the old crone really here? I’m sure it’s not just to amuse the females with her so-called fortune-telling skills.” Wolfrik nodded to where a packmate named Janelle kneeled in front of the old woman, grasping her palm. A small line of females had formed, waiting their turn for a glimpse into their bright, shiny, so-called futures.

  Wolfrik rolled his eyes. “I don’t need to be eighty years old to predict fortunes. That one will probably end up with her friend’s brother, Hudson, after he finishes licking his wounds. I doubt he’ll wait too long. He’ll want to prove he’s over Jordan by claiming someone else.”

  Aden eased over to his side, following the direction of Wolfrik’s eyes with an expression that lifted and fell like a shrug.

  “Don’t want your fortune told?” Wolfrik attempted to goad him even though he knew it was futile. He’d been one of the only brave young pups who had tried teasing Aden growing up. The werewolf never took the bait. How dull.

  “I don’t put much faith in predictions,” Aden said. “I prefer to take things as they come. Day by day.”

  Rather than leave it at that, Wolfrik grinned wolfishly. “Sure you don’t want to find out who you’re destined to mate? That pretty little witch shifter perhaps?”

  Aden winced and rubbed his jaw. “She’s off-limits. Well, really it’s me who is off-limits.”

  Right, he’d heard about the council ordering Aden to remain single and on patrol for the rest of his life.

  “Do werewolves typically allow wolves to order them around?” Wolfrik flashed a taunting grin.

  Aden’s jaw tightened.

  Come on werewolf, snap back, take a swing—show some bloody backbone. Aden was probably the only pack member who could take Wolfrik on physically—him or Raider.

  Aden took a deep breath and released it. His jaw relaxed, but he couldn’t entirely mask his annoyance.

  “Flora is here to meet you and assess whether or not you would make a suitable match for Hailey,” Aden said.

  Wolfrik gave a dismissive sniff.

  Hailey was one of only two purebloods left in Glenn Meadows. While Wolfrik had been in captivity, the elders had tried, and failed, to match her brother Hector with Sasha.

  “Shouldn’t take the old crone long to figure out I’m no good for their last remaining female pureblood.”

  “I imagine not,” Aden said without pause.

  Wolfrik barked out a short laugh. Good to know Aden wasn’t entirely thickheaded.

  Wolfrik would never claim a life mate. After the torment he’d been through, he wasn’t capable of making a female happy. The only she-wolf he’d had a fighting chance with had been stolen by a shifter who wasn’t even all wolf.

  Janelle stood up and Lacy was about to come forward next when the old woman put her hand up to stop her. Her head swiveled to the side, and her gaze flew to Wolfrik with breathtaking speed. Her pupils were tiny dots, like fine arrow tips finding their mark.

  Beside the woman, Jager lifted his head to see what she was staring at.

  “Wolfrik,” he called. “Flora would like to meet you.”

  Bristling, Wolfrik’s arms stiffened around his torso. He’d like to tell Flora to mind her own damn business—to plant it where the sun don’t shine—but her gaze skewered him straight through the throat and tugged as though reeling in a trout from the river. Only one woman had ever had that effect on him before. His mother.

  Reluctantly, Wolfrik traipsed forward, arms flopping to his sides. He stopped half a foot in front of the old woman. He’d come, but he wasn’t about to kneel.

  She looked him up and down several times, sparing no part of his body her scrutiny, including his cock, stuffed and tucked inside a pair of tight jeans. She frowned, which Wolfrik took as a good sign. Hopefully Flora wouldn’t make him spell things out for her. He wasn’t mate material. Not anymore.

  “You will not mate with another pureblood.” The old woman frowned.

  “What? Are you sure?” Jager sputtered, gaping at her. In that moment, he looked like a juvenile shifter whose mother had told him he had to chop firewood all afternoon while his friends played. “Perhaps you should look at his palms.”

  “I need only look into his eyes,” Flora said. She homed in on Wolfrik with her spear-like stare. “It is not fate but a female who will shape his future.” She leaned forward, her frown deepening. “Two females.”

  Wolfrik smirked and might have ventured a lewd comment if Flora’s eyes hadn’t narrowed as though knowing exactly the direction his thoughts had traveled.

  “One could redeem you. The other could mean your doom and that of your entire pack.”

  Jager hissed, eyes expanding inside his wrinkled face.

  Flora’s own eyes went out of focus, which turned out to be more disconcerting than the way she’d stared at Wolfrik.

  “The birds fly north,” she said ominously.

  “Don’t you mean south?” Wolfrik said.

  “The birds fly north,” she repeated. “One set you free. The other wants you caged.”

  Wolfrik’s heart slammed against his chest as though trying to break free of his rib cage. The hairs rose on the back of his neck, and he snarled. Claws punched through his fingers. Several nearby shifters looked over and sucked in their breath. Jager hurried to his feet and said Wolfrik’s name in a warning tone that he barely heard through the blood pumping in his ears.

  “You know nothing, old crone!” Wolfrik bellowed. He backed up a step, followed by another. “Go back to your own pack and leave us the hell alone!”

  Swinging around, he stormed away from the glade and ran into the dark forest.

  Bad enough that the old woman was spreading false hope to the females of Wolf Hollow. Why did she have to go and torment him? She knew nothing! Gibberish. But as he ran, he swore he heard phantom wings whooshing past the trees in pursuit. Those wings approached near enough to waft against the back of his neck, like a human breath whispering the name “Cujo.”

  The steady rhythm of drumbeats thrummed inside Kallie’s chest. She sat near the three performers: Heath, Alec, and Maureen, tra
nsfixed by the movements of their hands. With the beat inside her, she temporarily lost herself to the tempo, momentarily forgetting her mangled foot, stretched across the earth like a twisted tree root.

  Jager would never select her to perform in the mating or claiming dance again, but maybe she could learn to drum. She could do it sitting, and it would still allow her to participate in the ceremonies. But was there a place for her? There had only ever been three drummers, and unlike dance partners—and unlike mates—the drummers never changed. Alec’s head and shoulders bounced as he rapped on his drum, doing his own little dance on the ground.

  “Well? What did the old woman say?” Taryn asked.

  “Yeah, did she tell you the name of your mate and how many pups you’re going to have?”

  The drumbeats weren’t enough to drown out the voices of Taryn and Gina as they walked beside Janelle. Luckily, they moved past the drums. Kallie didn’t want to hear about their futures filled with love, happiness, and children. She didn’t want to be here at all—forced to watch Jordan and Raider making moon eyes at one another. But nor did she want to be a sourpuss like Camilla, who was pouting in the den and watching over baby Franny while her father and stepmother joined the festivities. Kallie wanted out of the den—desperately. Somehow, she had to find a way.

  The drumbeat stopped then started right back up with a different beat. When Kallie glanced over, Alec winked, bobbing his head to the tune. She forced a smile then looked across the glade to where Jager sat drinking. He’d already had at least four mugs of his brew. This was her chance.

  Pushing herself off the ground, Kallie stepped carefully toward the elder. Justin staggered by, nearly knocking into her. Kallie drew back in time, narrowing her eyes as he slurred, “S’cuse me.”