Werewolf Forbidden
By
Christina E. Rundle
Kindle Edition
February 2015
Copyright © 2015 by Christina E. Rundle
Kindle Edition, License Notes
All rights reserved: no part of this book may be reproduced without written permission from author. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
Visit Christina E. Rundle at
www.cerundle.com
This book is a work of fiction. The characters, places, incidents and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be mistaken as real. Any similarities to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Cover Art provided by maeidesign.com
ISBN: 978-1-939631-08-4
Special Thanks to Teri, Pam and Emory.
ONE
Mercer startled awake when his phone rattled the bedside table. It was the warm body spooned within his arms that fully lifted the sleep derived fog. The chemical components of paint that accosted his sensitive nose pieced together the night. The desire to have a warm body tucked under his arm was almost worth the consequences of breaking his first personal rule about sleeping over.
His mobile phone vibrated again. This time, he immediately answered, surprised that the young painter didn’t stir.
“We need to talk,” Hota stated. It wasn’t a request. Hota didn’t make requests. It was a demand.
Mercer glanced at the view screen on his phone. The number came up unknown. If he’d known it was Hota calling, he never would’ve answered. This was obviously the reason for the new number. He leaned back against the headboard and ran his hand through his hair, pushing the long strands from his face. His skin was saturated with the painter’s scent.
It was barely midnight, according to the glaring red numbers on the alarm clock. Pack issues had been quiet the last couple of weeks, giving him freedom to sleep at night. “Would lunch fit into your schedule?”
“We will meet in twenty minutes,” Hota said.
Phantom pain tingled along Mercer’s jaw line and through his neck to his right shoulder. It was the ghost of an injury from his childhood, but one that always throbbed when Hota was on the line. He wouldn’t put it past the Native American Skin Walker to know exactly where he was and what he was doing. He slowly let his breathe out. He wasn’t a child. It didn’t matter if Hota knew what he was doing.
“Where do you want to meet?” Mercer asked, throwing his legs over the side of the bed. The sudden stiffness in his muscles had nothing to do with the way he slept. Hota’s voice filled him with tension.
“Message your location.” The line dropped, cutting the connection.
He fought the desire to let Hota drive around for another ten minutes before he followed through with the order. Logic won out. Hota would show up on Val’s doorstep, which was the last thing he needed.
Val shifted to face him. His eyes were barely open. “Who’s in trouble now?”
Mercer stood and stretched. The open window permitted moonlight into the room, but the breeze couldn’t make it past the screen. The ceiling fan barely moved the humidity that clung in the air. Even nude, it was too hot.
“No one, yet.”
The artist sat up. “You’re upset. Who called?”
Val was an omega, a werewolf low on the pecking order. His occasional involvement with Val was undemanding. He visited the painter when he wanted discrete company. Hota showing up would change the dynamics.
It wasn’t the omega’s business, yet, it wasn’t exactly a secret when a Mission Leader was in town. "Hota wants to speak with me in person, tonight.”
Val shot from the bed in panic. “Jesus, Mercer, Hota’s in town? You need to shower before you see him. He’s going to… he’ll know.” The artist stopped moving and turned his full attention to him. “Does Hota know about your preferences?”
This conversation was dangerously personal. He could read the real question in Val’s eyes; the shut-in artist wanted permanent company. “Hota’s issue is with me. No one else is going to get involved.”
Nothing would detour Mercer from his convictions, though the Mission Leader had tried. Hota’s attempt at bullying him into obedience failed.
Val hissed with disapproval as he fell back onto the bed. "Why am I a sucker for alphas with dissociation issues? You're never going to settle down. I should know better than to pick up the phone when you call."
Mercer crossed his arms, waiting for the painter’s tantrum to settle. The younger man met his gaze briefly before his attention trailed down Mercer’s body and settled on his hips.
Val’s pupils dilated with intent. “Right, you’re a regular tomcat in a werewolf body. One day, someone is going to settle you down, but it won’t be me.”
Val’s complaint signaled a warning. These nightly visits ran their course. If they continued, Val could start making demands.
He left the artist alone in bed. He had a shower to take before meeting with the Skin Walker.
oOo
Hota opened his date book and looked at the two meetings he crossed off in order to fly to Texas. “This is a waste of time. He won’t be there.”
There were new policies to review, board meetings and pressing matters that required physical attendance. Yet, he was in Texas to meet with one of the youngest alphas in the states to have his own pack. At thirty-one, Mercer was still a child in their culture, but he already accomplished a reputation. He was raw potential waiting for guidance and the next step.
“He will be there,” Tristen said.
He stared at Tristen’s refection in the rearview mirror, trying to detect something more from his statement. Tristen’s attention never left the road. Tonight, his general served as a chauffeur. A man of his status rarely traveled with just one guard, but Tristen was fierce and tactical.
Hota closed his date book and placed it on the empty seat beside him. “You still speak with him.”
Tristen’s silence weighed heavily. He was a cautious man, in battle and in conference. He chose his words carefully, measuring the damage. “I call on his birthday.”
“Humans have more reason to be superstitious than the lycanthropes. Celebrating something as insignificant as a birthday is feeding into Mercer’s desire to associate with his mother’s human traditions,” Hota said.
“That human tradition holds merit with Mercer,” Tristen said.
“You humor him, even now. I wanted a warrior.”
The streetlight reflected in Tristen’s yellow, dilated pupils. The full moon was near and in effect. “I raised him how you raised me.”
“I’ll make that judgment,” he said.
Tristen’s jaw tightened. “We’re here.”
Tristen pulled the car to the curb and Hota irritation grew. Jen’s Sport’s Bar was across the street from a nightclub with laser lights that spilled onto the sidewalk when the door opened. There wasn’t a park within view.
He hated the city. People didn’t sleep. He didn’t trust a society that didn’t rest. It was unnatural and far diverse from the first two centuries he lived through.
The air hummed in the silence of the car. Hota tapped his fingers on the armrest and mentally reviewed why he believed Mercer was the right choice. He rarely regretted decisions, but his gut said he was putting his money on a wild card. He didn’t gamble. He didn’t believe in it. Mercer was a gamble.
He opened the car door and Tristen did the same. “Stay with the vehicle.”
Tristen turned to look at him for the first time since they got into the rental car. “I would fail in my duties if I allowed you to go unaccompanied.”
“I need to speak with Mercer alone,” he said
.
It was going to be awkward talking to Mercer after so many years passed. He had to gauge the young man and judge if Mercer fully understood the role he was about to be offered.
“There are people in Mercer’s pack that are still trouble,” Tristen said.
“I taught you how to fight, Tristen. I will retire the day I can’t take care of myself,” he said.
Tristen lingered with his door open. After weighing the repercussions of his decision, he pulled his foot back in and shut the door. “I’ll be here, waiting.”
Hota grabbed his datebook and stepped out of the car. It was humid in Texas. Sweat dripped down his back.
The thick smell of fried food and loud percussions poured from the propped door. Wide windows spanned the entire length of the sports bar. Mercer wanted to make this visit public. Apparently his son wasn’t comfortable being alone with him.
oOo
Val sauntered into the room, his jeans riding low on his thin hips. Everything about Val was on the thin side; long narrow torso, gangly limbs, thin fingers and swan neck. He wasn’t a fighter, which threw him out of the running for a mate. His bleach blond hair stood on end and his goatee added to his shagginess. The painter was an introvert. He was one of the few people Mercer trusted to keep this thing of his quiet from the pack.
“You’re going to burn your hair if you hold that candle any closer to your head,” Val said.
Mercer twirled the scented candle. The sticker on the glass said pink rose. It missed the mark. He sat the candle down and started pacing the small room.
The living room was minimalist with a worn brown loveseat, a side table and lamp. There was no television or picture frames. The walls were white and void of art. Val said a white wall brought inspiration through the frustration of emptiness. He wished answers came to him, like they did the artist. Val saw life through an array of paint that conformed to images under his steady brush strokes. Mercer saw life through fierce challenges and the weight of hardships. What was his inspiration in the darkest hour?
Val dropped into the single chair, giving Mercer reign over the loveseat. The omega was intuitive of the situation and didn’t want to get closer to the pissed off alpha. “You’re now ten minutes late. How long will your father wait?”
Mercer shrugged. His hair was still wet and despite toweling off after his shower, his clothes clung to his body, damp from the humidity. “I’m related to the man, but I wouldn’t call him dad.”
“He’s a Mission Leader. A certain amount of respect is in order,” Val cautioned.
“That’s the extent of my respect. That man is my leader. Not my father.” His animosity was clear.
“Don’t test the water, Mercer. You have no idea what that could lead to,” Val said.
Mercer swiped his keys off the edge of the coffee table. Ten minutes was long enough to make the old man wait. He was appalled he was still playing these power games with Hota.
“Should I call you later and make sure you’re okay?” Val asked.
He was at the door before Val pulled himself from the chair. Mercer stopped in the doorway. “Go back to bed. It’s not my night to die.”
He doubted the North American Mission Leader flew from Maine to Texas to kill him. Hota was too bent on having grandchildren.
TWO
All the seats were taken except for the two person table Hota found towards the back. The sports bar was over its capacity. There were seven televisions, four played college football, one played golf and two played baseball. There was a mixture of people, not all listening to the portable radios attached to each booth so the patrons could tune into the television they were watching. The raised noise level gave him a headache.
Hota pushed his beer to the side and checked his phone. Mercer was twenty minutes late. It was time to head to the farm and wait on the young alpha’s territory. He threw bills on the table and drowned his drink.
The overhead lights flickered and the radios cut off. Light from the street didn’t penetrate through the large windows, making the darkness thick and confining. The air was electric. Magic ran wild this close to the full moon, but the new infiltrating pulse wasn’t clean like earth magic. It was sinister. It left a bitter, sulfuric tint to the atmosphere.
Something scratched behind the walls, barely audible against the growing murmur of voices. He tilted his head to listen. The sound stretched from the walls to the ceiling and spread, closer now as if a mass group of rodents were chewing and clawing through the wood.
“This is ridiculous,” a young man’s voice rose above the others.
Testosterone filled the air; the human men were subconsciously reacting to the new stimulus invading their space. Hota loosened his tie, ready if the energy drove the humans to physical violence. The inability to see was the only reason no one moved, including him. His eyes couldn’t adjust without a small fraction of light to reflect off objects.
A flashlight flicked on, but the owner didn’t know where to point the beam. The light danced from the ceiling to the floor and over the tables into people’s faces. That sharp, but limited glow was all his eyes needed to regulate. If the humans had better eyesight, they’d see the sheen in his irises. Not all his animal features were easy to disguise.
Anger and disgust rose in volume as people began to shout over each other. He pulled his phone from the table, but it wouldn’t come on. The power leaking into the room crawled over him like a tiny bug caught in his hair. It made the top of his nerves tickle and he jerked uncomfortably in response. There was nothing to physical slap off his skin.
He tucked his phone into his pocket and stood. Some humans had the same idea and headed towards the exit; others were starting to shove each other at the bar. Staying along the wall, he remained wary of the situation as he moved towards the exit.
Screams cut through the ruckus and he stopped, torn between breaking up the fights and knowing it was better to leave. A thin line of fire sparked along the ceiling by the bar. The room stood in stunned silence watching the fire spread quickly across the ceiling and down the wall to the liquor cabinets. Chaos erupted. People plowed through the tables and each other to get to the door.
Despite the grapple at the exit, no one was getting out. The magic was strong. It pulsed around them like a living entity. The humans couldn’t fight it. With the growing fire and the smoke consuming the oxygen, it was clear he had to break the Mission’s law on exhibiting unnatural strength. Hota grabbed a chair, braced his legs and swung it at the window.
The wood shattered on impact, leaving him with a chair leg in both hands. He threw the pieces to the side. His eyes burned from the smoke and his lungs started to squeeze. There wasn’t time to debate on witnesses. Too many people would die if he didn’t react.
He took the table cloth, wrapping it tightly around his fist and up his arm. The window was covered in a black film that made it impossible to see out. Magic filtered into their deadly prison, as thick as the smoke choking the air.
Tristen was on the other side of the window, but he had no connection to his guard or the moon. His link was severed. Hota balled his fist and swung his body into the hit. Electricity slammed through his knuckles, knocking him off his feet. The table caught him mid chest, pushing the air from his lungs. He fell flat on the debris trying to catch his breath. All he caught was the smoke and sulfur as it layered his tongue and the back of his throat.
The piercing heat tugged at his skin. The pain blurred the lines between animal and beast, making it difficult to focus. It was his werewolf spirit that kept him from bowing to the fire. It shifted under his skin, waking him when he didn’t realize he closed his eyes. His limbs were stiff and his lungs ached. The fire gave light, but he could barely see through his blurred, watery vision.
The humans were dropping like flies. Their bodies laid morbidly still on the floor as the smoke grew insidious. He raised his shirt over his nose to filter the carbon dioxide and carbon monoxide.
His werewolf spiri
t was close to the surface. It rolled through him, stretching his skin, willing to break through and temporarily heal his bubbling wounds. Forcing it back down was more painful than his skin melting from his muscle. Some Mission rules had to be followed to the death. Exposing his true spirit to the public was one of them.
Firelight bounced off gold shells scurrying through holes in the walls with roach like qualities. They were quick and no bigger than the palm of his hand. Unaffected by the smoke, they crawled over the bodies on the floor. Their sharp teeth gnashed in tiny humanlike faces with oval, human eyes, noses and mouths.
There was a loud whipping tornado-like whistle coming through the holes in the building. He clamped his hands over his ears, but the vibration threatened to make his eardrums bleed. He jerked into motion, staying lower than the clouds of deadly smoke as he stumbled to the kitchen. The bugs were under his feet, crunching between his shoe and the ground. Their bodies left a green gunk along the floor. Were they living or electronic? It was an unfamiliar element of magic that left a strong, unpleasant odor.
The fire didn’t touch the kitchen, but the smoke infiltrated everywhere within the building. He shuffled his feet, determined not to slip on a body and kept his hands close to his side to minimize the risk of touching something sharp or hot. It was a straight shot to the back door and he headed for it though his calves cramped with movement. His lungs pierced with the lack of breathable air and his head throbbed.
The first tug at the bottom of his pant legs sent his heart racing. The werewolf pushed through the shell of his skin. The bones in his fingers snapped and elongated. Bones snapped in his legs and he fell to the floor, riding out the shockwaves longer than normal. His body was ready for the transformation, but it was stunted. The magic was interfering. He wasn’t going to die like this. His animal instincts wouldn’t allow it.
The bugs’ sharp little feet pierced through his clothing as they climbed over his body. He slapped at them and crawled towards the door. It was less than twenty steps. He had to get out.
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