Wild Things (Shifters Unbound #7.75)

by Jennifer Ashley

  Mason didn’t answer. He fell silent as Jazz touched each stone, imbibing its strength. He went so still that she barely noted him breathing, and when he spoke again, she jumped.

  “You were almost mated?” he asked. “You mentioned that you were addressing wedding invitations.”

  Jazz flushed as she moved her fingers to the Apache tear—the obsidian that was translucent black glass. She remembered babbling to him last night about her bad choices. “Yep. I was twenty. I’d met a guy when I was going to college in New Orleans and fell madly in lust with him. I thought it was true love. He was a biker, and I knew he had the reputation of being a bad boy, but that only made me want him more. I couldn’t believe my luck when he asked me to marry him. He said he’d leave all the arrangements to me—whatever I wanted—and then show up at the church and we’d be together forever. Just the right thing to touch my romantic soul.”

  Mason’s fingers had gone tight, his eyes lighter gray. “So, what happened? You finally saw through his bullshit?”

  “I did. I was doing a mirror divination about our life together, and there he was. With one of my bridesmaids, both of them naked in her bed. He was saying how much fun they’d have when he got his hands on my grandmother’s house and money.” Jazz touched an amethyst, soothing the sting the memory brought. “I think the house helped me figure that out. I was using an antique mirror in my grandmother’s boudoir—I’d never seen anything that clearly in a mirror divination before.” She broke off with a little laugh, but that vision had hurt. Damn, had it hurt.

  “Dick-wad,” Mason growled. “When a man claims a mate, he doesn’t betray that mate. Doesn’t matter how many females wag their tails at him. And mating for treasure, that’s just … stupid. You were wise to dump him.”

  Jazz started to warm at his indignation but stopped herself. “You’re sweet to say so, but don’t tell me Shifters don’t cheat.” Another sting filled her heart, and she picked up the amethyst and squeezed it. “I dated a Shifter for a while. I know what happens.”

  Mason didn’t move, didn’t even stiffen, but Jazz sensed him come alert. “What Shifter? What are you talking about?”

  “A Feline.” More hurt welled up from Jazz’s past to nestle in her heart. Dale had not been as muscular as Mason, but just as lithe—a mountain lion Shifter with tawny eyes. “He was from the New Orleans Shiftertown. I thought I’d give my friend Bree’s suggestion a try and hang out at a Shifter bar. He was great, I thought.” Dale had been a little bit wild, unpredictable, protective, like Mason. “But it turns out he was just another bad boy. I must have the gift for finding them. We were having a wonderful time, when one day he comes to me and says he’s formed a mate bond—whatever that means—and he can’t see me anymore. That’s it. Done. Out of the blue. Next thing I know, he’s mated with this Feline woman he’d sworn to me he didn’t even like. He’s been with her about seven years now, and they have kids. Cubs, I guess you’d say.”

  Jazz slammed down the amethyst as she finished then silently apologized to it. It wasn’t the amethyst’s fault. In fact, it was doing its best to make her feel better.

  Mason didn’t look as angry at this story. “When the mate bond forms, there’s nothing a Shifter can do about it.” He sounded less condemning, almost understanding. “It’s a mystical bond that binds one Shifter with another. You have to be with that person, no matter what. It’s physical pain if you’re not.”

  Jazz tried to calm her temper. “How do you know? Have you formed this mate bond?” That would be just Jazz’s luck—no, her skill at hungering after the wrong guy every time.

  “My parents had the mate bond,” Mason said quietly. “When my father was shot …” He trailed off, his voice cracking. He cleared his throat. “My mother died that day. Not in body—she lived another twenty years. But there was nothing inside her. No hope, no joy, no life. Some Shifters can recover from a severed mate bond and form it again with another. But it’s hard. The grief runs deep.”

  “Oh.” Now Jazz felt like a fool. She’d banged on about how Dale had personally offended her, while Mason had watched his mother suffer because of this mate bond. “Damn. Mason, I’m so sorry.” She reached across the table to his hand. “I bury myself in the metaphysical so much that I sometimes forget about real people and real life. But that’s no excuse for me being stupid.”

  Mason jerked his brows together, his fingers clamping down on hers. “And if you rag on yourself one more time, I’m going to …”

  Jazz stopped. His grip was powerful, the bite of his fingers warm. “You’re going to what?” she asked, pulse speeding, the space between her legs warming.

  “I don’t know,” Mason said softly. “But it’s going to be rough.”

  Jazz almost said, Promise? But she forced her mouth closed. Her attraction to dangerous men would get her into serious trouble one day. Look at her now, far from home, in a seedy motel with Mason, a Shifter who was barely tame. Did Jazz feel worry, fear, like a rational person should?

  No, what coursed through her veins at the moment was pure excitement.

  She yanked her hand from Mason’s and started fumbling with the stones again, trying to steady herself.

  “What about Lucas?” Mason asked. “Why him?”

  “Lucas? I don’t know, actually.” The obsidian Jazz straightened was smooth, cool, absorbing her agitation. “He was good-looking, I was lonely … I just kind of went along with it without thinking. That’s easy to do, suddenly be in a relationship without bothering to stop and decide what you’re doing. Then you realize he’s mean and petty and your friends think you’re a fool. The house didn’t like him, which should have alerted me right away.” Jazz sighed, wondering why she was babbling all this. But it was easy to talk to Mason’s silence, his watchful stare.

  Mason frowned. “Don’t go out with anyone again who doesn’t take care of you, Jasmine. You need someone who values you for who you are.”

  Right, as though guys like that were thick on the ground. “Easy for you to say,” Jazz said irritably. All these healing stones around her, and she was tense and snappish. “You’re gorgeous. I bet women fall all over themselves trying to be with you.”

  Mason’s eyes flickered. “Only because they want to sleep with a Shifter.”

  Jazz heard the bitterness in his voice. He didn’t continue, didn’t elaborate. Enough said.

  “Well, they don’t know what they’re missing,” Jazz said hotly. “Any woman would be lucky to have you.”

  Another flicker. Jazz wondered how many women had told him that, right before they ran back home to their safe, non-Shifter parts of town. For them, being with Mason was a walk on the wild side, a taste of danger. Not a permanent thing. Jazz had heard plenty of women at Shifter bars express this sentiment. After all, he was a Shifter.

  “I’m sorry,” Jazz said, softening her tone. “I’m not mouthing words to make you feel better, I promise. Whoever you have the mate bond with will be truly lucky. I believe that.”

  A wordless growl came from Mason’s throat. “If I don’t find the healer, I might not live to form a mate bond.”

  Jazz lifted her hands. “I know. I know. I’m trying. Locating isn’t an instant thing, especially when the person doesn’t want to be found.”

  “You’ve found people before,” Mason pointed out. “How did you do it then?”

  Jazz stopped fussing with the stones and removed a small bronze bowl from her bag along with a sage smudge stick. “When I search for someone, I ask for an item special to them that I can hold to get a feel for their aura. In the case of the little girl, it was a stuffed dog she loved. I went to the top of my house and used that to track her aura, with the help of a lot of candles and crystals. Like tracing a radio signal back to its source. I found her fairly quickly. Turned out her oldest stepbrother had kidnapped her to ransom her off to her mother. He was a piece of work.” She grimaced, remembering the young man’s dark aura, his arrogance.

  “She was found hidde
n at her stepbrother’s apartment,” Jazz went on. “Her stepbrother was arrested, and the little girl went home to her mom. For the man I looked for, it wasn’t such a happy ending. He’d already been killed before the police even started the search. I at least could tell them where his body was.” Jazz sighed. “Then the cops suspected me of having something to do with his death, because I found him when no one else could. Fortunately, I was able to prove I’d never heard of the guy before, never seen him, never been near him. But that’s what happens. People don’t believe in my gift. They think it’s a trick.”

  Mason said nothing. He’d more or less accused her of the same thing, but he only acknowledged her jab with a level stare.

  Jazz cleared her throat. “My point is it would be easier to find this healer if I had something of his. But I’ll do my best.”

  Mason gave her a nod. “Thanks.”

  The flash of true gratitude heated Jazz until she flushed. The smoke from the sage she’d lit curled in her nose, and she coughed. She gave Mason a grin, waved the smoke away, and carried on.

  * * *

  Jasmine tried all day to find the healer. She stared into crystals, she waved smoke over them, she had Mason find her maps and she strewed crystal salt across them, bending down to read the swirls. She covered the table with her crystals, cards, candles, and little bells, even a bowl of water, saying she might as well throw everything together—air, earth, fire, and water. She consulted books and notes, jotted down words and runes, drew diagrams that Mason couldn’t follow.

  At one point she told him she’d do much better if he didn’t sit there and watch her perform. Mason let out an annoyed breath but heaved himself up and out of the room.

  He didn’t tell Jasmine that it was a pleasure to watch her wave her hands gracefully over the smoke and stones, the flowers and vines on her arm moving in sinuous rhythm. How he liked listening to her low voice as she chanted, studying her face as her eyes closed, her lashes curling against her skin.

  Mason could sit and watch her all day. He enjoyed remaining still and observing beauty.

  He understood that he made her nervous though, so Mason left her alone—as alone as he would leave her. He hid his Collar under his jacket and went to the front office, where he paid for the night they’d already stayed and for the next one. The manager, a small man half Mason’s size, didn’t seem worried he’d broken into the room to sleep in it, though a little surprised Mason was bothering to pay. Mason settled up then went out and bought more food.

  Jasmine ate in silence when he returned, discouraged. Mason didn’t admonish her, only let her get back to what she was doing.

  He napped later that afternoon, but Jasmine didn’t stop or take a break. She was going to wear herself out, Mason thought when he woke to see her still hunched over her table. She was exhausting herself with woo-woo metaphysical stuff Mason didn’t believe in, in an effort to help him.

  What kind of woman did that?

  Whoever you have the mate bond with will be truly lucky, Jasmine had said with that little smile on her face, her voice full of sincerity.

  Mason had wanted to say the same right back to her. At the same time his wolf goaded him to find the men who’d hurt her and rip them to pieces—including the Shifter Feline, whoever he was. He noticed she carefully hadn’t said his name.

  Dirtbag should have explained to her about the mate bond from the start. It could form from nothing, would sink its claws in and not let go. At that point a Shifter had to follow the mate bond, no matter who he had to hurt to do it. Jasmine’s Shifter should have told her of that possibility before the relationship had gone very far. Groupies knew about it, but Mason could tell that Jasmine was naive about Shifters.

  But then, the guy was a Feline. Effing cats always thought they were better than anyone else. Bastards. They washed their faces with their own spit, for crap’s sake.

  “Oh!”

  Jasmine sat up suddenly, her cry filling the room. She was staring into smoke rising from her bowl of sage, candles dancing, the light catching on the winking stones, as well as the bowl of water at her elbow.

  Mason surged off the bed and moved to stand behind her. “What?”

  “In the smoke.” Jasmine pointed. “He’s there. I see him. Right there. Look!”

  Chapter Eight

  Jasmine’s unwavering finger pointed into the thin curtain of smoke rising from the sage.

  Mason leaned over her shoulder to look. He wanted to sneeze, but he held it in as he peered where she pointed.

  He saw only sage smoke, the flickering flames of candles behind it, a glitter of quartz and colored stones, and the dark blue velvet cloth it all rested on. Mason was about to straighten up and say he didn’t see anything, when the smoke went suddenly opaque.

  The flat gray obscured what he’d spied through it a second ago, and in the middle of the smoke, Mason saw a pair of eyes. They were black and fierce, and the rage behind them penetrated all the way into the room with Mason and Jasmine.

  The eyes were set in a man’s hard face, which was framed with two thin braids of pure white hair. The man’s mouth and chin were dusted with a goatee beard as dark as his eyes. Those eyes met Mason’s, the fury in them unmistakable.

  He was a Shifter, Mason knew even through the fog. The man had the look, the bearing, the hard-ass manner, though Mason couldn’t identify what kind of Shifter he was.

  Mason also saw that he wasn’t wearing a Collar.

  The man snarled. He reached out a huge hand and batted the smoke away.

  The smoke parted as though a puff of wind had torn it, and the image vanished. Mason and Jasmine were left staring at the remains of the sage, candlelight, and a scattering of stones.

  Jasmine sat for one stunned instant, then she grabbed a map, upended the bowl, and dumped the smoldering sage right onto it.

  Mason yelped as the map caught fire. He dove to grab it, but Jasmine threw herself into him and stopped him.

  As they watched, a trickle of fire raced across the map and off its edge, forming a line heading rapidly northwest. The flame dragged the map completely to the carpet, where it began to smolder.

  Mason shook off Jasmine’s hold, leapt to the flames, and stomped on them until they died. The smoke from the fire rose in a single black streak that split in two—one half flowed back into the bowl, and the other surrounded Jasmine as though hugging her.

  Jasmine was smiling broadly. She pressed her hands to her flushed face as the smoke dispersed. “You saw him, right?”

  Mason nodded. “Yeah, I saw him. But the map burned up before it gave us a location.”

  “Doesn’t matter.” Jasmine beamed at him. “I know a direction. He’s not in the continental United States. That line was moving northwest like a homing beacon. So he’s in northwestern Canada or Alaska.”

  She looked so happy, so pleased, so beautiful with her eyes wide with joy. Mason couldn’t stop himself going to her, catching her in his arms, and kissing her mouth.

  Jasmine kissed him back readily, celebrating their breakthrough. She wound her arms around him, pulling him closer, smiling against his mouth.

  Mason held her against him and deepened the kiss, and as he did, something changed in both of them. A spark lit Mason’s blood, and under him Jasmine’s body softened, flowing into his, need making her supple.

  Mason slid his hands around her waist and up under her loose shirt to the smooth skin of her back. The top was one of the wispy things women liked to wear—layers serving in place of a bra and ties holding everything together. Mason began unraveling the ties, the thin fabric going slack.

  Jasmine didn’t fight him. She scooped herself closer to him, her arms tightening around his neck to draw him down to her.

  Mason liked every curve of her, from the round of her hips, to her waist drawing in under the firm weight of her breasts. He caught one breast in his hand, the shirt giving enough to let him, enjoying the textures of silken smooth skin and the hard point of her n
ipple.

  Mason bit her cheek as he held her, making a little growl of pleasure. Jasmine took a sharp breath, but she moved against him, running her hands down Mason’s back to cup his backside.

  Life was fragile. Mason had learned that lesson very young. He’d learned to savor moments such as these as he came upon them—the sound of a beautifully made instrument, the light that could paint the Texas skies a brilliant shade of gold, the taste of this woman rising to desire.

  Mason flicked his thumb across her nipple, liking how it tightened still more, matching the hardening of his cock. He moved her backward to the bed, and Jasmine gave a little laugh as she reached the edge of the bed and began to fall backward.

  He lowered her gently until she was lying back on the mattress, and Mason came down over her. He pushed up her shirt, baring her breasts to him. Mason saw that, as he’d thought, one of the tattooed vines snaked down her breast and encircled her nipple, a tiny flower peeking out under the areola.

  Mason traced the end of the vine with his tongue, pressing a gentle kiss to the flower. Jasmine hummed in pleasure, and lifted her foot to caress the back of his leg, her sandal stiff on his thigh.

  A cell phone rang. The bleating buzz cut the air, and Jasmine jerked under him.

  Mason, his lips hovering above the tattooed vine, growled, “Ignore it.”

  Jasmine already had her fingers in his pocket, tugging the phone free. “It might be important,” she said breathlessly.

  Mason growled again then grabbed the flip phone from her and looked at the readout. His brother, Broderick.

  “What?” he yelled into it.