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A witch and a werewolf. A pack of two.
Master Sergeant Breanna Welker loves hockey games, cheesy fries, and being second in command of the U.S. Army's Bravo Company. The fact that her commanding officer is a vampire and most of her fellow soldiers are werewolves doesn't slow her down a bit. Her colorful vocabulary and uncompromising loyalty have endeared her to her unit, who don't give a damn she's a shape-shifting witch.
Lucas Benelli can't boast the same loyalty from the people close to him. His father is the Alpha of the largest known werewolf pack in the world–a pack Lucas is expected to be the leader of. But Lucas has spent most of his life avoiding contact with his father's pack and they don't seem to like him much either.
Together, they forge a connection not even Lucas's dysfunctional pack or Breanna's meddling unit can break–and come face-to-face with the hardest choice either of them has ever had to make.
CONTENT WARNING: Includes a horde of evil witches, and one deliciously wicked witch with Mother Nature at her beck and call.
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Lucas blinked and for a fleeting second he reminded me of a scared little boy. Yeah, a scared little boy who could rip my throat out if his wolf surged at the wrong time. Of course Ordy and the others would immediately kill him, but that would be a waste.
We got him loaded onto the chopper and I sent the boys back to the Humvee. They argued, saying Simon told them to ride with the injured werewolf. I wasn’t about to leave him–not that Ordy or the others would hurt him, but Lucas wasn’t comfortable around them.
“Breanna?”
I looked down into his handsome face. “Uh huh?”
“Are you an angel? I mean, I must be dead or something, right?”
Being a witch and a woman in the military, I'd been called many things, but never an angel. “I’m not an angel and you most certainly are not dead.”
His face softened. “I think you’re an angel.”
He thinks I’m an angel? Damn, how hard did he hit his head?
A Pack of Two
By Jacky Russell
Dedication
For Corey.
Acknowledgements
My sincerest gratitude to the people who helped more than they know. To my husband for his unshakable faith in me, especially on the days when things weren’t going so well and to Wendy G for always listening and being brave enough to read it first. You guys rock. Couldn’t have done it without you!
Many thanks to Lyrical Press and most especially Dianne B for patience, diligence, and belief in this novel and me.
And a special thanks to dogs for understanding when I had the computer on my lap instead of them.
Chapter 1
Breanna
Spend five minutes in the woods and it’s easy to understand why rabbits are on the bottom of the food chain. Reconnaissance duty meant lots of down time and with no activity on my assigned stretch of road, the rabbit had become my target. It really should have noticed my owl form perched in the tree less than fifteen feet above its fuzzy brown head. That grass must have been good.
The distant roar of a motorcycle meant Flopsy wouldn’t be dinner. Damn.
The headlight of a Ducati sliced through the fog, the rider hunching forward to guide it along the winding mountain road. As he approached a turn, the rider reined in his bike, man and machine in perfect harmony. The moon glinted off his black helmet. The black-and-red leather riding suit contoured to his body. The bike roared as he released it into the curve.
I’d returned to my musings of Flopsy with a dollop of mustard when more headlights appeared. Through the fog I could barely make out a sedan rushing forward, tagging the back wheel of the Ducati.
How the hell had I missed that car?
The rider fought to remain upright but the bike skidded on its side before careening off the road. The rider disappeared over the edge, his bike crying out for pavement.
So much for a quiet night of recon.
A fireball blinded me as the Ducati exploded into a fountain of flames, the remnants of the motorcycle consumed.
Precious seconds ticked away while the flames died and my eyesight returned. The rabbit dashed into the leaves. The sounds of raspy breathing drifted from the brush, the gurgle of blood-drenched lungs struggling for air. The rider, thrown clear of the explosion, lay deathly still within the thick undergrowth.
The clipped voice of my commanding officer, Major Simon DuChard, resounded clearly in my head. Do not engage anyone or anything. Recon only. Call if you have something to report but do not, I repeat, do not engage.
Partially shielded by the bushes, the rider’s battered body looked human, but he wasn’t. A human would have been dead.
The slam of a car door broke the stillness, followed by a flashlight beam sweeping across the burning remains of the Ducati. A muted groan escaped the rider’s lips and the beam turned urgently in his direction. Gravel rolled freely as a cloaked figure slid down the incline and landed with inhuman grace in the clearing. The air in the clearing vibrated with a chaotic evil. Suffering and death surrounded the cloaked figures.
Had to love being able to read auras. Hooray. One for the witch.
“He’s breathing,” the cloaked freak yelled to his counterpart at the top of the hill.
A cloak? Really? Who the hell wore a cloak? That was wrong on so many levels.
A second cloaked figure leaped gracefully into the clearing and sneered. “Good. The others would be disappointed if he was already dead.”
The rider grunted when jerked onto his back. He couldn’t fight them even if he tried. He was badly injured and at their mercy.
Recon only, Welker. Do not to engage.
Sitting by, pruning my feathers, was not an option. I needed to protect him. He was helpless. Vulnerable.
And I was under orders, but oh well.
I needed a plan. If I flew out of hearing range and called for backup, the cloak brothers would be gone. If I flew along behind the car, I’d lose them. There was only one choice. My beak chattered as my plan began to take shape. I would engage.
Plan? This wasn’t a plan. This was crazy female witch insanity.
Tendrils of black magic surged around my body as I screeched and dove. My chest constricted, the magic choking air from my lungs. My owl form was not nearly as resistant to the power of dark witchcraft as my human form, but for now dive-bombing was the best plan of attack I had.
Dive-bombing? Really, Welker? That was the best a seventeen-year veteran of the US Army Bravo Company could come up with? Bird brain.
The first figure slapped at me like I was a giant mosquito. The second chanted in a language I didn’t understand. Definitely not an invitation to a Tupperware party. The magnitude of the situation hit me as I circled for a second approach. These were Malandanti, powerful Italian witches known for ritual killings. Great, these guys were so old they were around when Hell formed. Unless I stopped them, the groaning rider would be their next sacrifice to who only knew what. I would be dinner.
Simon was gonna kill me.
Magic crackled in the air as I landed in a pile of leaves. The two Malandanti chanted in unison. I summoned my own magic and shifted seamlessly to human form.
The black magic surrounded me like a smothering blanket of evil. Without opening my eyes, I repeated the protection spell my grandmother had taught me. As the last words left my mouth, the cool sensation of my own protective magic enveloped me.
Now whatcha gonna do, Welker? Exchange recipes? Brilliant plan, Sergeant.
The Malandanti stood between me and the rider. If I could breach their magic, I could take them down. The Malandanti had powerful magic, but their hand-to-hand skills sucked. Mine, however, did not.
“H
ave some of this, boys.”
Wave after wave of spells slammed into me as I dashed kamikaze-style through the moonlit clearing. My protective cast was holding, though it felt more and more tattered as the Malandanti increased their fervor. With one great lunge, I knocked both witches to the ground, their hoods falling away from their faces. Their inky black eyes glistened as I glided over their heads. My loud whoops made me sound a bit on the crazy side. That was fine. Whatever worked.
Landing on my feet, I peeked at the downed rider. Life slowly drained from his body with each labored breath. I should have helped him, but healing spells were not my forte. Hell, I’d probably turn him into a frog. The cloak-wearing scary-faced uglies in front of me climbed to their feet.
“You guys have serious fashion issues.”
The Malandanti hissed as I took a step toward them. Together, with enough effort, they could overwhelm my arcane protective spells, but maybe they didn’t know that. Earth witches weren’t common and hopefully these guys wouldn’t know the limits of my magic.
Great. I had hope. They had skills.
I traced a sign of protection in the air and stepped around it. The blue-gray glow increased until it bathed the dying rider. The Malandanti snarled, their black teeth obviously never having seen fluoride. Their pasty faces had a greenish, rather ghoulish glow. Damn, they were some kind of ugly.
“Guess you guys don’t floss, huh?”
“Strega,” the taller Malandanti snarled, his eyes wide as he stared at my protection symbol.
Hmm, strega? That was much cooler than witch. I liked it. Breanna Welker, Earth Strega.
For now, the Malandanti magic fell from me as if I were Teflon-coated, but one more step away from the glow and my Teflon would be gone.
This was not looking good for the home team. Oh well, game on.
“Leave or die,” I demanded, smiling in satisfaction at using one of my favorite movie lines. With a flick of my finger, a blue-green fireball landed at the feet of the closest Malandanti. He yelped and jumped sideways to avoid the bouncing flame.
“Simon is so gonna kill me.”
I ducked as the remaining Malandanti hurled a bolt of lightning in my direction. The bolt whizzed past my head and embedded in a tree. The ground shook with the force of the impact, the tree shuddering before thudding to the ground. Guess my fireballs weren’t all that intimidating.
“Damn,” I grumbled, diving toward the rider. The protection sign faded. I needed a diversion.
“Hey, look over there,” I yelled, pointing to the top of the cliff. The idiots fell for it.
I straddled the rider and called upon the ancient magic of my people. My mind reached out to the forest, beckoning an ally from its depths. The connection clicked into the place as the protection symbol flickered its last moments of life. The Malandanti, no longer staring into the wild blue yonder, advanced.
“We do not wish to kill you, strega. We only seek the werewolf.”
“Uh huh, whatever.”
The Malandanti danced as my curtain of flames touched off tiny fires within the hems of their robes. Their predicament gave me just enough time to cast another protection spell over the rider. The acidic smell of black magic tormented my nose and brought tears to my eyes. My magic tank was almost empty. The ugliest Malandanti sputtered a mean-sounding curse and the ground began to shake.
“Yeah, not happening, Dumb and Dumber. You can’t sic the earth on an earth witch.”
My final vapors of magic quieted Mother Earth. The Malandanti screamed and threw another energy bolt. I tucked and rolled but not quickly enough. The voltage sizzled along my nerves, searing my insides to a charcoal-y well-done.
The second Malandanti attacked my protection spell, shredding the rider’s only defense. I tried to cast another spell, but with no magic and burned-out circuits, all I managed were a few tough-sounding words that held no power.
Muttering a string of profanity my fellow soldiers would have been proud of, I clambered to my feet. The Malandanti ignored me. That was insulting.
“Yoohoo!”
Both witches glared at me.
“I wasn’t done yet. Why don’t you guys go make some brew or something? Or, I’ve got it–go fly a kite in a thunderstorm. A visit to the spa could really help with those wrinkles.”
Their lips moved but I couldn’t hear the words. They were casting and I was receiving, or something like that. Earth witches have the ability to absorb black magic and if I didn’t deflect their magic, my internal organs would cease to exist. No magic in my tanks meant no deflector shields. This was gonna hurt.
The slashing of my guts increased as the Malandanti chanted louder. I pulled a knife from my boot and side-armed it, but the freak ducked before the blade reached its target. My liver bubbled and my spleen baked as the magic swirled inside me. I was almost witch fricassee when a bellowing bear burst from the forest. The Malandanti screamed and ran from the clearing with the bear in hot pursuit.
“Damn well took you long enough.”
Bears didn’t get in a hurry to answer a summons from an earth witch. He was probably on his nightly constitutional when I called and a wild bear in the woods would not rush.
The bear roared as tires squealed from the cliff above. The Malandanti were so busy trying to run away they hadn’t bothered to cast any spells. That was good. If the bear had been hurt, Mother Earth would not have been pleased with me and I didn’t want the big bad Mama angry.
I pulled my radio from my pocket and made a note to thank the manufacturer since the thing worked even through my shape-changes and the Malandanti fireworks.
“Ordy, this is Welker. You out there?”
The radio crackled to life. “Gotcha loud and clear, Bre. What’s up?” Theodore Ordison answered in his slow Louisiana drawl.
“I need the Humvee over here. Got a wolf down, civilian.”
A long pause followed before the Cajun answered. “Uh, we weren’t supposed to engage anybody. What did you do to him?”
“It wasn’t me, Ordy. The Malandanti attacked him. Now get your ass over here with the Humvee ASAP.”
“Be there in fifteen minutes.”
“Make it ten. This guy’s hurt pretty bad.”
My body trembled and my legs felt encased in concrete as I crawled toward the rider. A tiny carpenter was building cabinets in my head. Blood dripped from my nose. Damn black magic. This was supposed to be an easy recon mission, just watch the road and report anything odd. Nobody had said anything about Malandanti sightings and why was a lone werewolf out here this time of night, anyway? Werewolves were pack creatures. Hell, they didn’t even go to the bathroom by themselves.
The rider wasn’t moving but there was air whooshing into his lungs. He was alive, barely. He lay on his back, his face hidden by the dark mask of his helmet. I knelt beside him and shook off my coat. He groaned softly, his boots scratching against the dirt as I unzipped his black leather jacket and ran my hands along the hardened muscles of his chest. Gritting my teeth and trying to be gentle, I pulled the helmet from his head.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered when he moaned. Waves of chestnut curls spilled around the most handsome face I’d ever seen. Sinfully dark lashes rested against perfect olive skin. With high, chiseled cheekbones and deliciously full lips, he was traffic-stopping gorgeous. An unruly lock of hair fell across his forehead, giving him a heart-stealing mischievous look even as he lay unconscious and bleeding. The smell of musk and leather was intoxicating. A sense of coiled power and pure masculine sexuality surrounded him.
Yum.
I scooted closer, actually checking his injuries this time. He was losing blood rapidly through his leg, the jagged femur jutting through a rip in his pants. He had at least four broken ribs beneath a set of washboard abs that made me seriously want to do laundry, a nasty bump on the back of his head and a constant stream of blood flowing from his mouth. The injuries would have been enough to kill most beings but werewolves were tough.
> After pulling my radio from my fatigues, I couldn’t resist running my fingers through the rebellious chestnut hair on his forehead.
“You’re going to be all right, Wolf. Just hang on, okay?” The bristly stubble along his jaw tickled my fingers.
My radio beeped. Simon answered immediately.
“Breanna, where have you been? You were supposed to report in a half hour ago.”
“I found a couple of Malandanti.”
“Are you all right?”
“Uh, yeah, I’m fine but I’m with a werewolf who’s been hurt. He needs medical attention.”
“Which one? Aaron?”
“No, not a Bravo wolf. I think he’s one of the Italian Pack wolves.” The line buzzed long enough I thought the call had dropped. “Hey, Simon?”
“Why are you with an injured werewolf? “ He sounded calm but he was P.O.’d in a very big way. Simon’s accent was always much stronger when he was angry and right now my vampire commanding officer sounded very Frenchy.
“He was attacked by Malandanti. They wrecked his bike and he’s here beside the road with a bunch of broken bones and a hell of a lot of blood on the ground. Can you send a Medivac Transport for him?”
Simon ignored my request. “Are you sure these were Malandanti?”
“Got the sizzle marks to prove it. Now will you please send help? I tied a tourniquet on his leg but he’s losing a lot of blood.”
“He’s a civilian and since we are under orders not to engage, I can’t very well send an American military aircraft to land in the middle of the road,” Simon bellowed. He was ready to strangle me for disobeying orders.
After a French cursing tirade, Simon agreed to call for a chopper. “You need to get away from that wolf now. Injured wolves are dangerous and this one doesn’t know you.”
Simon was right but I couldn’t walk away from this wolf. His head was now on my lap and his fingers firmly clamped around my hand. He hadn’t spoken, but he knew he wasn’t alone. He might believe I was someone else, his mate or girlfriend, someone to comfort him as he lay dying. If that was what he needed from me, so be it.
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