by Anne Marsh
“I have a good feelin’ about tonight’s hunt.” Crouched beside him, Dag tipped his own head back and eyed the sky. Water lapped against the bank where they’d tied up, lending the boat a seductive rock as the hull rolled with the unseen current. The swamp was a dark shadow surrounding them, the water beneath them hiding secrets. The night world here was one of power, where all of the bayou came out to play. To hunt.
Rafer tore his gaze away from the blue moon. The whole “admire nature” thing was foreign to him, but the unexpectedly vivid blue shadows playing out over the surface of the full moon demanded his attention. His brother stood next to him, looking up at the blue moon, stroking his thumb over the edge of his hunting knife. Maybe he felt that sensual pull, too. Dag didn’t look any different. He sported his usual military-style cargo pants, a worn T-shirt stretched over his broad shoulders and a pair of shit-kicker boots. Standard dating wear for the Pack.
Hell, Rafer didn’t look any different himself. He ran a hand over his short hair. Wondered what the woman they hunted tonight would think. There was a reason he almost never left the bayou. He and his brothers were big, mean, dark-haired brutes. On the outside, there was nothing pretty about them. Or gentle. He didn’t know what was on the inside, man or animal or some combination of the two. That blue moonlight had all his senses coming alive, however, and he wanted desperately to know if she was the bride the moon had picked out. Lark Andrews.
Moon or no moon, he’d want to go back to her farm. He’d want to taste her. Eat her up and make her holler from the pleasure.
“You think we’ll find her tonight?” Rafer voiced the question they all were thinking. Part of his concern was purely selfish. He wanted Lark Andrews, but even if she turned out not to be the woman chosen by the moon tonight, he needed to find this blue-moon bride because he knew—they all knew—Dag was running out of time. This was the first time Dag had shifted back from his wolf form in weeks. Soon, he wouldn’t shift at all.
Unless Dag found his mate.
Rafer was a bastard to even dream of the bride choosing him.
“Yeah.” Male satisfaction filled Dag’s voice, which was hoarse from disuse. “That’s how the blue moon works, right? At least one of us finds his mate tonight. Maybe more. Maybe she’s the kind who likes to share.”
The blue-moon brides always had strong connections to the bayou’s black magic. Those women were the predestined mates for the Pack and the only ones capable of mating and breeding with the wolves. Although the Pack sometimes found a hint of a bride’s scent, that scent could only be tracked on a night with a blue moon. Over the centuries, fate had sent the Packs very few mates and even fewer blue moons. Maybe that was why, if the woman was willing, she might take two mates. Might allow the other Pack members to touch, as if nature wanted to compensate for the rarity of their women.
A man could dream.
The woman they tracked now smelled sweet and soft. The man in him had tried to warn Lark Andrews yesterday that the Pack wanted her. He’d wanted her to have that choice. Yes or no. Stay inside tonight and stay safe—or come outside to play with them. Play deeply sensual games with six wolvenkind who’d be happy to sleep with her singly or in a group, with sex or without it, because the Pack, his famille, was slowly dying without females. They needed to find their mates, and each day that slipped away was a ticking time bomb, counting down the hours to the Pack’s ultimate end. A mate grounded her chosen wolf. She was the spiritual and moral anchor that completed him. The missing half they all needed to find because they were unrepentant, soulless bastards who knew how to kill and how to fuck but not much more.
Eventually, an unmated wolf stopped shifting back, got lost in his beast form and stayed there because he was all animal and no heart, and nature had clearly figured that out. Dag was close to losing what humanity he had left. Hell, they all were.
So tonight Rafer hunted down this mate, and one of his brothers found a chance to be more than merely his wolf. Whoever this woman was, she was far more than a one-night stand or even a lover.
She was special.
And damned if he wasn’t still hoping she was Lark Andrews.
Time to get the party started, because Luc was headed back their way. He’d slipped out of the boat a half hour ago to do a final recon. The moon had drawn them here, but he wanted to be damned sure it hadn’t lured the Pack’s enemies also. Luc, as their oldest brother and Alpha, pulled his T-shirt over his head first, closing the distance in an obvious all-clear. They’d strip and stash their clothes here, in the boat. Easier to come back since the shift shredded anything they wore.
The moon bathed them all in the blue light. A visceral need punched him in the gut, fire tearing through him, lighting up both his senses and his cock. Find.
“Time to hunt.” His wolf surged to the surface, even the brief effort to fight back the change making his voice guttural and rough. He wanted to run, nose to the ground, as his senses strengthened in that unnatural light. The blue moon’s rays were a delicious cock tease.
The question left Rafer’s mouth before he could bite back the words. “You got a definite direction?”
Beside him, Jackson perked up. Jackson was the omega, lowest man in the Pack’s hierarchy. He didn’t usually contribute to these convos, but he sure as hell listened in.
“Yeah.” Luc rattled off a list of coordinates like Rafer was going to plug the fucking numbers into a GPS, then shrugged. “But I’m thinkin’ we want Lark Andrews. Hers is the only family out that direction.” He turned to the others, his gaze inscrutable. “Rafer here knows the way just fine.”
Luc had come to the same conclusion he had. Lark Andrews was the one.
Such a pretty name. Delicate. Full of loops and curls and vowels that made her name sound like a song. The last name wouldn’t matter once she’d joined the Pack—last names were for the purely human and she’d become a Breaux like the rest of them anyhow—but he could imagine calling that name as he drove himself deep inside her. Lark.
Inexplicable happiness flooded him. She was the one.
“She picks,” Luc said, and there was no missing the warning in his voice as the Pack gathered around. All six of them, which made their Pack too damned small, but Lark Andrews would help them fix that problem. “Once we find her, you all back off and let her choose which one of us she wants to mate with.”
“The bride can pick anyone?”
Luc slid a glance towards Jackson when the younger male spoke up, and the omega quickly dropped his eyes.
“Anyone. Or no one.” His gaze shot to Dag. “That’s her right, and tonight we’re playin’ by the rules. The runnin’—that’s a real fun thing.” A wicked grin lit up his face. “But that’s the game. She don’ want to play with us, she don’ have to. You don’ chase after she says no.” Luc’s own mate had run from him. He didn’t talk about that night, but his mate had never come to live with the Pack, which was red flag number one. Mates always lived with their packs.
Always.
But choice was even more important. Like their wilder four-legged brethren, the Pack lived free. Free to go or to leave the Pack. Free to run as a lone wolf or to search out a new pack to join. As a mate, Lark would be an honorary wolf and wolf rules applied.
“Ready?” Luc made the word sound like a question, but it wasn’t. Luc was Alpha and that made his word law. Rafer might be second-in-command, but he still answered to Luc. Luc said they hunted, they hunted.
“Sure am.” Dag whistled as he stripped off, as unconcerned by his nudity as the rest of them were. The Pack was unabashedly sensual, and nudity was simply part of their life, as was the need to touch. To lie skin to skin with each other, wrapped up in the scents and textures and feel of their Pack mates.
Luc was watching Rafer, though, which meant his Alpha knew Rafer had reservations. Still, he hadn’t expressed them and he’d keep it that way. Those icy grey eyes didn’t need to be crawling up his ass, because Rafer knew precisely how important this hu
nt was.
“We’re good,” he said. He figured his Alpha didn’t need decorative words and, true enough, the other male nodded curtly and backed the fuck off from his beta.
Although not without a parting shot. “We’re goin’ to take good care of her. She won’ regret this if she chooses to come on home with us.” Luc’s words were a promise, but they all knew the truth.
The skin hunters would also be hunting for the blue-moon bride. The same moon that drew the wolves drew their enemies as well, but the vamps wouldn’t be playing an erotic game of chase-me-catch-me. The vamps would be out to kill.
Fuck. Rafer was tired of nothing but bad memories. He wanted something new. Something sweet. The promise of honey and sage teased him, followed him as he shifted with a grunt into his wolf form.
His wolf was large and grey, the dark fur almost black. Larger than natural wolves, with a hundred-plus pounds of pure muscle, he knew precisely where he stood in his Pack. Second only to his Alpha, and only that because neither of them knew who would win if he challenged. Rafer didn’t want that role.
Didn’t want to hold all their lives in his hands.
Baring his canines, he inhaled sharply. The night air smelled good, clear and crisp this far from the human cities. He scented other wolves, smaller animals. Prey. In his wolf form he was pure predator, but he forced himself to ignore the delicious tendrils of fear and panic from the smaller creatures he ran past. Those playthings were safe tonight.
He was after other prey.
Human prey.
Nose to the ground, he picked up the trail easily and broadcast his discovery to his brothers in a low, long howl. She’d hear, too. He knew that. And, if she was as smart as he suspected, she’d know he was coming for her.
And she’d run or she’d stay.
It was time to hunt. Time to hope that Lark Andrews was ready to choose.
~~~~
Oh God, God. God. She chanted the name like a litany. The wolf pack surrounded her, backing her up against the bottom of the cliff as the ocean crashed and shouted, teasing her with the promise of temporary safety a mere twenty yards away. No way she could cover the sand between here and the water. Not before the wolves took her down. Plus, once she hit the water, what then? The night air was cool enough that she could see her breath hanging in front of her in a white cloud. If she got in that water, she’d have to swim out and pray the wolves couldn’t follow. Maybe she’d buy herself a handful of too-short minutes before the hypothermia kicked in—and that was only if the waves didn’t drive her onto the rocks.
Drowning might be an easier death.
Fingers trembling, she fumbled in her backpack for a lighter. Found matches. God, she shouldn’t have quit smoking. Jamming the handheld torch between her arm and her side, she ripped a match off the crumpled book. The head snapped off. No. The circle of wolves tightened, drawing closer. She’d swear they were stalking her. Maybe they were. Wolves hunted in packs, didn’t they? Still, there was no mistaking the shadows of the large, powerful bodies moving closer as those golden eyes watched her.
Fear surged through her, no match for the adrenaline that had sent her running. She was going to die out here, and it wasn’t going to be pretty.
The match blazed to life—right before the ocean breeze knocked her flame flat on its ass. The spark died abruptly. Well, shit. The largest wolf stepped towards her, and he was a big, big motherfucker. He had to outweigh her by maybe fifty pounds.
“I’m not going to taste good,” she growled. “So you all should back off now.”
No surprise—the wolf kept on coming. She’d swear the beast was laughing at her. She slid the hunting knife from its place on the side of her pack. One blade wouldn’t be enough. Plus, she’d never stabbed a living creature before. There had to be a first time for everything, though, and this was a do-or-die moment if she’d ever seen one. She got the blade up and kept her eyes on the wolf’s face.
The wolf lunged.
Lark shot upright in her bed, legs tangled in the cotton sheet. The room was quiet, filled with the soft shush of the fan overhead, but fear plastered her chemise to her soaked skin. Wolves. She’d had too many dreams about wolves lately. Mama Jolie’s words haunting her perhaps. You beware the wolves, sha. They gon’ eat you up.
The digital clock beside the bed blinked midnight, and she needed to go back to sleep, but the dreams were too vivid. Instead, standing up, she headed for the window, fanning herself against the sultry nighttime heat. The world outside was as unfamiliar as the dreams, the yard bathed in an otherworldly blue light that cast sensual shadows.
Unfamiliar but strangely beautiful.
She pressed her fingers against the window screen. She wanted to go out there, bask in the light. Mama Jolie had promised the blue moon was coming—and come it had. If she stepped out of her house, what would happen next? Her bare feet slapped against the floor, and she was moving before she realized it. A handful of seconds later, she’d opened the front door and slipped onto the porch where the heat gathered, thick and wet, full of night scents.
The creamy-white magnolias filled the air with a lush fragrance. Fallen flowers covered the ground with a carpet of soft petals, and a doe lifted her head from her midnight snack when she sensed Lark’s presence. The sensuality of the night was like a lover stroking her. Preparing her. Opening her up for his touch.
Her toes curled into the old, smooth wood. They gon’ eat you up. Could the stories be true? Did she want them to be? The house was at her back, waiting for her, but the bayou spread out before her. Promising something.
Something sweet and hot and raw.
She fingered the gris-gris, then dropped it over her head, between her breasts. Her hands skimmed lightly over her ribs, cupping the sleep-warmed skin. She wanted male hands on her skin. Male hands pressing her down.
But she was alone.
The dark shouldn’t have been so lonely. Not when the night-blooming flowers opened beneath the moon’s silvery-blue light. Everything was different. Her senses came alive and she could think. Breathe. The moon rose up over the Gulf, spilling its clear blue light over the bayou’s surfaces. There had already been one full moon that month, which made this one special. Unusual. The blue color could have been the result of fires or ash or a volcano erupting somewhere. Somehow, instinctively, she knew this moon was none of those. This moon was something out of the ordinary.
Beautiful.
A long, low howl filled the air.
A dog, out hunting. The feral, determined note, still several miles away, had her head jerking around instinctively, searching for the source. That cry was pure predator, hungry. Hunting. That wasn’t a dog.
The sound barreled towards her, the volume increasing, and she backed up instinctively.
Wolves.
The loup garou were a story. She’d go out there and, ten to one, she’d find animals, not men. Certainly not shape-shifting men. Yet Rafer’s dark face haunted her. That face had contained an animal hunger—and something more. He was one sexy beast, and she’d wanted him. Maybe she’d run for Rafer Breaux. Make him work for her. Make him catch her.
Ducking back inside, she grabbed her running shoes and changed quickly. There was more than enough moonlight to see to run. She’d go out. Stretch her legs.
Rafer’s voice replayed in her head. Don’ run, chère. Not unless you wan’ me to chase you. Maybe that was exactly what she wanted tonight.
Stepping off the porch, she began to run.
Chapter Four
Rafer moved swiftly upwind.
Exultation pounded through him. He’d shifted, and for the first time in centuries, the man controlled the beast. He ran on all fours, but his mind was still clear. In control. He knew that scent, knew to whom the blue moon pulled him so inexorably. Lark Andrews. He’d warned her—and she’d run. She’d chosen this path.
His Lark wasn’t making this an easy run. He’d closed the gap between them until she ran only a mile ahead of him no
w. He pushed himself faster, the ground a rocky blur beneath his paws. The deliberate, heavy rhythm of the run mimicked another, more primal act. Man on woman. In and out. Up and down.
The Pack split up, fanning out to cut off her exits as they surrounded her. Only way she could go now was forward, and then she’d hit sand. He threw back his head and howled, calling his brothers, calling the Pack together.
Lark Andrews was the one. She was strong and she was caring, both qualities his Pack needed, and her laughter lit him up inside. He liked the way she looked at the world, looked at him. She hadn’t judged him, when he’d tied up at her dock, barefoot and shirtless. Simply asked him what he needed—and given it to him. Her flowers were waiting for her, a welcome feminine note in the all-male camp. And there was no denying the heated attraction between them—his memories of that almost kiss in her greenhouse were killing him. He wanted more than that one taste.
Half a mile now. Her scent grew stronger, and the damned moonlight was one intense wave of color.
That same moonlight picked out the path she’d taken, but he wouldn’t have missed the honey-and-sage sweetness of her even without the soft blue lighting up the headlands. She smelled of growing things and earth, as if that part of the day she spent planting and digging stuck with her. The blue moon built the fragile connection between them, feeding him the emotional impressions of her earlier passage along the trail. Here, she’d stopped to touch that piece of yellow lupine, stroked the long yellow spray of flowers with her fingers before moving on. By tomorrow, when the moon had set, that tenuous connection would be gone, replaced by a more raw and primitive connection.
She’d have chosen a mate and bonded with that lucky male.
She’d be Pack.
His wolf reveled in the sensuous beat of the moonlight, the delicious scent of the female. Mine mine mine. So Rafer collected the emotional scraps, the teasing impressions of a woman who was earthy and sweet and lonely. Learning what might please her so she chose one of them instead of none of them.