Shadow Wolf: A Shifter Romance (Arctic Brotherhood, Book 2)

by Jane Godman

  Samson wanted her to come with him. Of course he did. But he still found her response weird. It was obvious she didn’t want to be left alone with two mangled bodies. He got that. So, to get away from them, she was choosing to put her trust in the guy who did the mangling. No matter how long he lived—and Samson had already lived for a hell of a long time—he would never understand humans.

  Samson got onto the bike and Cindy hopped up behind him, placing her arms around his waist. The bike started like a dream, roaring into life, and, once out on the open road, ate up the miles. It was summer here in Alaska and that meant almost perpetual daylight. Although things had changed six months ago and Samson no longer needed the midnight sun to shift, he still craved it. Still loved its unique light warming his face, still sought the mystic quality that called to the Arctic werewolf within him.

  Leaving the run-down area behind and skirting the city, he took a winding route toward the exclusive properties known as the Heights. Eventually, he brought the bike to a halt outside the imposing walls of the largest, most luxurious mansion. Samson knew Hendrik would be at home, probably pacing the floor as he waited impatiently for news. He was aware of Cindy’s eyes taking in the grandeur of the house as he pressed the buzzer and waited for a response.

  “Samson Lee to see Mr. Rickard.”

  “Come in.” The disembodied voice belonging to Hendrik’s security guard crackled before the gate slid back to allow him entry.

  He took the bike through the gates, pulling in between Hendrik’s sleek black Jaguar and Valetta’s serviceable SUV. Dismounting, he signaled for Cindy to follow him.

  “What is this place?” Her voice was a scared whisper.

  “A friend’s house.” As he spoke, the front door opened and Hendrik came out onto the porch.

  “Have you found her?” He didn’t seem to register Cindy’s presence as Samson strode into the house with the girl cowering in his wake.

  “Not yet.”

  “So why have you come back?” They went into the den.

  “Because Cindy here is going to help me, and we need somewhere safe to talk. She could do with something to eat.” Samson gave a jerk of his head toward the direction of the kitchen.

  Hendrik dug his heels in. “Are you mad? If she has information about my daughter’s whereabouts, I want to hear it.”

  “Hendrik”—Samson’s voice was weary; it had been a long, frustrating few days—“you asked for my help on this. You can’t bring the police into this because we’re Arctic werewolves. None of us want the authorities prying into our lives.” It had always been the same story. Living in the human world meant staying under the radar. Police, doctors, legal representation . . . all the protective services humans took for granted were denied to werewolves because they had to preserve their anonymity. “You can’t go around Alaska searching for Valetta yourself because you are too well known. So even if Cindy tells us her exact location, you still have to leave this to me. Just trust me, okay?”

  Hendrik sighed, running a hand through his hair. “I’m going half-crazy with worry, but you’re right. You’re one of my oldest friends. Of course I trust you.”

  “Then give us ten minutes. Get Cindy a sandwich and a soda.” Samson grinned. “And I’ll have a raw steak.”

  When Hendrik had gone, Samson turned back to Cindy. She had taken a seat on a huge squishy sofa and seemed to be trying to blend into the expensive fabric. “Spill.”

  He was pleased when she abandoned any attempt at defiance. “There are always fights between rival gangs, but Rick was afraid of the Guardians.”

  “Rewind a bit. Rick?”

  “Our leader. You . . .” She made a clamping motion on her wrist with her other hand and her already pale complexion took on a greenish tinge.

  “Oh, him. I preferred Ponytail. Carry on. Who are the Guardians? What are they guarding?”

  “They call themselves the Guardians of Hati.” Interesting. Hati was the wolf god of the Arctic werewolves, famous in legend for riding his chariot across the sky in pursuit of the moon. One day he would catch it and cause perpetual daylight, the holy grail of every Arctic werewolf. “A few days ago, there was a fight. Some of the Guardians came onto our turf. There was a girl with them.”

  Samson sat up a bit straighter. “What did she look like?”

  He must have spoken sharply, because Cindy shrank farther back into her seat, twisting her hands together nervously. “She looked like you.”

  That sounded hopeful. Valetta had the distinctive coloring of the true Arctic werewolf. “How did she seem?” Cindy looked bewildered. “Was she scared? Hurt? Crying? Drugged?”

  “Pissed.”

  “Pardon?” Samson wasn’t sure he had heard her right.

  “She was pissed. Really, seriously mad.”

  Okay. That was not the answer he’d been expecting. Samson hadn’t seen Valetta Rickard since she was eighteen years old. He conjured up an image of the shy, awkward female Arctic werewolf he had known throughout her teenage years. For much of that time, she had still been growing accustomed to the slender, sinewy body that was to fill out and become graceful. I suppose if I’d been abducted by a gang of rogue biker werewolves I might be pissed, but I’m not a frightened young woman.

  “Back in the warehouse, when I said the name Valetta, you recognized it. How?”

  “One of the Guardians said her name. The girl who looked like you. He called her Valetta.” Having decided to tell him what she knew, she was clearly going to tell it all. “She wasn’t the only one who looked like you. All of the Guardians who came along that day, they all had the same coloring.”

  That was all the proof Samson needed. “Do you know where I can find these Guardians?”

  “Rick found out they had a place out near Crystal Falls. He was planning to go up there and issue a challenge. I didn’t want that. The Guardians . . . they scared me, you know? I got a bad feeling from them.” Cindy glanced up nervously as Hendrik came back into the room carrying a tray of food. Her eyes grew rounder as she watched Samson devour a raw steak, washing the chunks of bloody meat down with gulps of water.

  Having finished his snack, he rose to his feet. “She needs a hot bath, some clean clothes, and a bed,” he told Hendrik, pointing to Cindy.

  “Hold on a minute. She can’t stay here.”

  Samson moved toward the door. “She doesn’t have anywhere else to go.”

  Hendrik looked at the pitiful figure on his sofa. Cindy was nibbling at her ham sandwich with her eyes half closed, like it was the most delicious thing she had ever tasted. “Samson, I’m a respectable politician. I live here alone. Can you imagine what people would think if word leaked out that I had a young woman staying in my house?”

  “Say she’s the housekeeper.”

  Hendrik snorted. “She doesn’t look like a housekeeper.”

  “Buy her a uniform.” Giving Hendrik a friendly pat on the shoulder that nearly brought him to his knees, Samson left.

  Chapter Two

  The road to Crystal Falls was narrow, winding, and climbed slowly upward. The strange neon light caused by the sun sitting on the horizon as it refused to surrender its place to the night sent its unique eerie glow filtering through the trees. If the Guardians did have their headquarters up here in this lonely woodland, Samson didn’t believe they’d be foolish enough not to post lookouts. As the road shrank further and became a track, he decided to leave Ponytail’s bike in the undergrowth and cover the ground on foot.

  He could hear the distant roar of Crystal Falls and the closer rush of the river as he made his way through the dense spruce trees. Samson didn’t know this terrain well, but he wasn’t aware of any properties in the area. There were campsites on the level ground a few miles away used by hikers and hunters, but this rocky landscape was inhospitable.

  Samson had always been the best tracker in the brotherhood. His senses were finely tuned, even for an Arctic, with an added intuition that enabled him to sense the mood and fee
lings of his quarry. It was an inherited skill, one that had been passed down through the generations of his ancient bloodline. Stronger in Samson than in any of his siblings, it could be a blessing and a curse. Being able to sense the emotion in any given situation could be useful. Sometimes it could be overwhelming. The fact that his appearance and his perceptions were at odds—no one expected the burly strongman to have hidden insights—often worked in his favor.

  As he drew closer to the waterfall, he picked up a scent. There were werewolves close by. And, from the quivering anticipation he was getting from them, they knew he was coming. Just before he was seized and forced facedown onto the ground, he got to feel their overpowering rage and excitement. The werewolves who had grabbed him wanted to kill him; he could feel the suppressed violence coming off them in waves.

  With his nose pressed into the dirt, it was difficult to tell how many assailants there were. He guessed four. As they hauled him to his feet, he was surprised to see there were only two. All Arctic werewolves were strong, but this pair must be very sure of themselves to take on an alpha, particularly one as big as Samson.

  “You just made a big mistake, my friend. This is Guardian turf.”

  “I know.” Samson kept his voice calm, maintaining eye contact. What the hell was going on here? These two were barely out of their teens, they should be making signs of subservience to him, whether this was their territory or not. They must know he could rip them apart without breaking a sweat. Instead, their attitude was cocky, confident, celebratory. Way too sure of themselves. He reined in the anger he felt, keeping his wolf instincts in check. He had a job to do. These two would keep.

  “We know how to deal with intruders.” The young Arctic werewolf bared his teeth in a snarl.

  Samson’s own inner wolf wanted to respond to the insult with teeth and claws, and it took everything he had to keep it under control. Show your fangs to an alpha, would you? How would you like to lose those pretty white teeth, one by fucking one?

  “I’ve been hearing good things about your pack. I wanted to see if I could get in on the action.” Samson had been around werewolves from different species and different packs throughout all the many centuries of his life, but there was something off here. It wasn’t just the lack of traditional wolf behavior. The eyes that should have been lowered deferentially before him were devoid of all life.

  He saw a glimmer of hesitation in the youth’s expression and relished it. Gotcha. “We don’t need new members.”

  The second Arctic werewolf drew the first to one side. Although they spoke in whispers, Samson’s supercharged hearing picked up on what was being said. “Pavel, take a look at the muscles on this guy. Maybe we should ask the leader about whether we need new members before we turn him away.”

  Samson waited. Taking him to the boss was fine. Anything that would get him into their headquarters and closer to finding out where they were holding Valetta sounded good to him. When Hendrik had asked for his help, Samson had made his friend a promise. He would do whatever it took to get his daughter back. That was the reason he was here, ready to go undercover and infiltrate the Guardians. It was also the reason he was prepared to wait before he paid Pavel back for his arrogance.

  After debating the matter for a minute or two, Pavel turned back to Samson. “You’re coming with us.”

  Producing a length of plaited leather from his pocket, he proceeded to loop it around Samson’s neck. Jerking it tight, he twisted it around his hand so that he could lead Samson like a dog. Samson felt his lips draw back in preparation for a snarl. With an effort, he kept his expression neutral.

  It will keep. Just one more thing this cub will pay for—and pay good for—when the time comes.

  “Follow me.”

  For the first time in his life, Samson kept his head down and did as he was told by someone else. Someone other than the only person he was prepared to answer to . . . the leader of the Brotherhood of the Midnight Sun.

  It was no wonder the Guardians’ compound wasn’t on any maps. Built into the side of the cliff face adjacent to the waterfall, most of the accommodations were part of a network of caves. Even so, this was a sophisticated operation. As his captors led him through a series of tunnels, Samson observed that electric lighting had been rigged up along the rocky wall. It looked as if the Guardians intended their occupancy of this place to be long-term.

  Pavel led him into a small cave. “Watch him.” He handed Samson’s leash to the other Arctic.

  Samson observed his departure before speaking. “Your friend takes himself very seriously.”

  Although there was no response, he got the distinct impression Pavel’s companion did not like having orders barked at him. It was a valuable piece of information. One he would store up and use to his advantage later.

  He debated asking the young werewolf his name, and decided he wasn’t interested. Instead, he summed up the situation: There was an Arctic werewolf pack that didn’t belong here posing as a motorcycle gang. Someone had a grudge against Hendrik that his friend claimed not to understand and was issuing death threats to an unknown being called the Shadow Born, culminating in the disappearance of Valetta . . .

  Pavel’s return interrupted his musings. “We’re to take him through to the chamber.”

  Jerking hard on Samson’s leash, he led the way deeper underground until they reached a cavern that was perfectly round. Inside this vast, echoing space dozens of Arctic werewolves were gathered. Keeping his head low to signify submissiveness, Samson managed a quick glance around. This was going to be a challenge even for someone of his strength and experience. Luckily, he had one advantage over the assembled werewolves. He could shift anytime he chose, whereas they would need the light of the midnight sun. Shifting and breaking free of this mob would require all his considerable ingenuity.

  There was a curious sense of order here, a calm expectancy that made him think of a paramilitary organization. Yet reports about this group were of extreme violence, even to law-abiding citizens. Something wasn’t adding up. A trickle of something jittery, midway between unease and suspicion, tracked its way down his spine.

  Although it was clear that someone with a powerful presence was keeping order here, Samson’s brief, sweeping look didn’t pick out anyone who was obviously in charge. It was frustrating. His werewolf instincts couldn’t sense another alpha in the vicinity, but someone was calling the shots. This pack, although not wolflike, was the most well-regulated he’d seen. That wasn’t happening by accident. So why the hell couldn’t he pick out a leader among the tall blond figures? And why was his sense of dread—an itch that prickled at the base of his spine and tightened his balls—increasing with each passing second?

  A man Samson judged to be in his thirties approached, looking Samson up and down. He was older than anyone else here, but not an alpha. He nodded to Samson’s captors. “Pavel. Axel.” At least Samson now had a name for the second youngster. “Release him.”

  Those words should have inspired Samson with confidence. So why didn’t they?

  “We found him, Konrad.” Pavel’s voice deteriorated into a plaintive whine.

  “Orders.” Konrad jerked a thumb over his shoulder. Samson tried to see to whom he was gesturing, but no one stood out in the crowd. Show yourself, you devious bastard. Hiding wasn’t the act of a werewolf. We look our enemy in the eye.

  Samson was left alone in the center of the round chamber as the Guardians stood back in a circle around him. The hungry thunder of approaching motorcycle engines made him look up. Two massive customized streetfighter bikes roared into the cave and began circling him. The excitement thrumming in the air in time with the engine noise was tangible. He half expected the audience to start chanting and fist-pumping.

  I get it now. I’m the entertainment.

  This was reminiscent of the scene in the warehouse with Ponytail and his crew, but he knew immediately that he was in more danger this time. This was a full-on gladiatorial arena. If this crowd
had its way, he was going to be in a fight to the death, with no way out. His extra sense kicked in. Antagonism and expectation thrummed through the atmosphere. These guys wanted him dead, but they wanted to make him suffer first. Relaxing his stance, Samson rocked forward onto the balls of his feet, arms hanging loose at his sides, preparing for the first strike . . . whatever that might be. It happened faster than he expected. In a concerted movement, both riders slowed their bikes to a crawl, swinging bike chains over their heads like lassoes before bringing them down over Samson’s shoulders. Before he had time to take evasive action, he was brought crashing to the ground.

  Muttering a curse, he lay on his side, catching his breath. He could break free of these bonds, but, if he did that, he risked giving himself away. This pack would know they were dealing with someone out of the ordinary. It would put them on their guard. He might not get to meet their leader, might not get to discover where Valetta was being held. This opportunity to infiltrate the pack would be wasted and he’d have to come up with another way to find Valetta. The more he saw of this strange pack, the less time he wanted her to spend in their clutches.

  One of the bikers braked and released his grip on the chain around Samson while the other revved his engine. Sensing the intention of the rider, Samson sat up, grabbing hold of the chain around his upper body with both hands. It was too late. The biker set off at speed around the center of the chamber, dragging Samson behind him. Bumping wildly over the rocky surface of the cavern floor, all he could see was the booted feet of the Guardian members. All he could hear was the roar of the engine. The laughter and cheering must be in his imagination.

  Fuck this.

  Tensing his biceps and digging in his heels, he focused all his strength on breaking the chain. To his intense satisfaction, the motorcycle’s engine note changed, becoming a high-pitched whine. There was a satisfying smell of burning rubber as Samson resisted the bike. The outcome hung in the balance, the engine started to scream, sparks flew as the rider, puzzled by what was going on, struggled to keep going.