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The Wild Rose Press
www.thewildrosepress.com
Copyright ©
First published in 2010
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NOTICE: This work is copyrighted. It is licensed only for use by the original purchaser. Making copies of this work or distributing it to any unauthorized person by any means, including without limit email, floppy disk, file transfer, paper print out, or any other method constitutes a violation of International copyright law and subjects the violator to severe fines or imprisonment.
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CONTENTS
Praise for Sharon Buchbinder
Dedication
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Epilogue
About the author...
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Her voice came out in a husky tone. “Guess it's just you and me. Would you like some apple pie? Or cake? I seem to have enough for two. Or two hundred."
Zack gave her a long, lazy smile that made her breath catch and said, “I was hoping for a taste of something else."
Heat raced up her neck and face, and she could barely whisper, “Applesauce?"
He put his arms around her waist, pulled her snugly against his chest and brushed her lips with his. “You,” he breathed. “I want to taste you."
She ran her tongue along his luscious lower lip. “Like that?"
He growled and pressed her up against a wall.
Deep within she felt a primal stirring, an almost animal urge to throw him down to the floor and tear at his clothes. Her rational self wondered what she-beast he had awakened, but her inner wild woman said, Shut up and enjoy the ride! Charlene pawed at his shirt, the buttons eluding her fevered grasp. Frustrated and crazed with lust, she yelped, “Take the damn shirt off!"
He stepped away from her, grinned and began to undo the buttons at a leisurely pace. “Am I going too slowly for you?"
Praise for Sharon Buchbinder
"A sexy, suspense-filled romp that will leave you howling at the moon for more!"
~Beth Werrell
"An exciting twist to werewolf legend. I can't wait to read the her next story."
~Sherrie Denora
"Sharon Buchbinder writes with heart and understanding. Her characters will enchant you and her heartwarming tales will make you a believer and a fan as they did me."
~Dara Edmondson
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Kiss
of the
Silver Wolf
by
Sharon Buchbinder
[Back to Table of Contents]
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.
Kiss of the Silver Wolf
COPYRIGHT (C) 2010 by Sharon Buchbinder
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
Contact Information: [email protected]
Cover Art by Nicola Martinez
The Wild Rose Press
PO Box 708
Adams Basin, NY 14410-0706
Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com
Publishing History
First Black Rose Edition, 2010
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Published in the United States of America
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Dedication
For my husband, Dale,
who fills my life with love and romance.
And to my wonderful editor, Amanda Barnett,
for her faith in this story.
[Back to Table of Contents]
Prologue
The Hunt
He leaned down on his front paws, relieved the kinks in his back, and shook out his thick coat. Beneath the cold air, a hint of spring tantalized his senses. Under the moist leaves, between the tree roots, alongside the chortling streams, the sleeping earth mother stretched her legs, and wiggled her toes too. He gazed at the pearl white moon as she rose on the horizon, full and iridescent in the February sky. Only a few days left to enjoy this part of his life.
Time for a run. He began to trot, then broke into a long easy gait, loping around the perimeter of his territory, through trees and winter-bare brush. He picked his way across a snow-melt-swollen stream, past massive rock formations and darkened houses, enjoying the feel of his muscles as they kept pace with his pounding heart. This was what it felt like to be alive.
Too soon he reached the asphalt and the end of his fun. Panting, he turned away from the road and walked at a slow easy pace, back to the pack's meeting place. Time to speak to the Old One about the future. Midnight runs no longer suppressed his primal feelings, the visceral urge he felt when the full moon rose.
Each month, the call to mate was stronger—irresistible as the pull of the moon on the oceans—and on him. The females in the pack were off limits, bonded forever to their soul mates. Besides, their scents didn't arouse him. No, the one he wanted was far away, almost an unattainable being. The moment he saw her smoky-eyed image, he knew she was The One. Often when he was alone at night, he gave into his dark urges and fantasized about holding her and making her his own. But in the morning, he was still alone, his dream-mate a dust mote on a sunbeam. He shook his head to clear his thoughts and stepped into the apple orchard.
Half-hidden in shadows beneath the moonlight dappled trees, the Old One nodded his head, a knowing glint in his bright orange eyes. The younger male trotted over to him and bowed his head. Half a dozen adolescents tumbled over and around the Old One, bit his gray ears, and nipped his toes. When the smaller ones looked up and saw the younger male, they yipped, hobbled over to him, and threaded between his legs. The Old One's mouth opened in a grin, and his tongue lolled.
The younger male fell to the ground, rolled on his back, and the six pups leaped on his belly. He chuffed and pawed at them, cuffing each one lightly. He enjoyed the role of honorary Uncle, but what he really wanted was his own pups to play with. After a few minutes, he gave a great sigh and flipped onto his belly. The little ones seemed to sense his change in mood and hobbled off to play with sticks.
He locked gazes with the Old One. When will I have my own mate? It's not enough for me to watch the little ones play.
The Old One winked and nodded. My job is to preserve the pack, to keep our people alive. I have chosen your mate. You know who she is. You have my oath.
The younger male shook his head. You didn't answer my question. When? When do I get my mate and become Pack Leader?
The Old One leaped to his feet, glared at the younger one, and growled a deep throaty roar that belied his age. You dare to question me? Me? The one who saved you? Is that how you show your gratitude?
The younger male put his ears down and lowered his head, his nose touching the ground. Forgive me. I'm—I'm so lonely. My heart aches for a loving mate and my own pups. Every moon the urge gets stronger, the hunger greater.
The Old One came closer, grabbed the back of the younger male's neck with his teeth. The large signet ring on his iron necklace clanked as he gave the upstart a small shake. The time is coming near. I promise. You will—
&nb
sp; The unmistakable crack of a rifle sounded in the distance.
The Old One's mate barked out orders to the other females. Grab the pups. Get them home. Hurry, hurry.
The younger male found a straggler hobbling along as fast as his legs permitted. He lifted him by the scruff of the neck. C'mon, little one. I've got you. You're safe now.
A second shot rang out closer by.
The little one whimpered and shuddered in his grip. Please don't let the hunters kill me, Uncle Zack. Please?
"I told you to hold your fire!” Special Agent Eliana Solomon stood by the abandoned mine and drummed her fingers on the butt of her Sig Sauer.
"Sorry, sir—ma'am...I thought I saw a wolf in my night scope.” The newbie looked downward as she glared at him.
"This isn't a hunting trip with your buddies. It's an active operation and I'm in command. One more shot and I'm taking your rifle away from you. Got it?"
He gulped, clutched his weapon, and nodded. “Yes, Ma'am."
She had asked for experienced soldiers; instead they sent a bunch of green boys. She understood the Middle East took precedence, but didn't the Army get the concept of domestic terrorists?
The mission of Project Aladdin was to find jinn, the portals where they came through from a parallel dimension and to shut the gateways down. Contrary to popular TV images of a pretty girl in a bottle, the jinn, or genies, were not nice. Powerful shape shifters, they hated humans and wanted to take over the world. If a terrorist ever found a way to conjure and command even one jinni, the world would never know what hit it.
Despite her obsession and round the clock investigations, she'd been unable to make any progress. With her evaluation coming at the end of the month, she had to find something. Otherwise, she'd be exiled to a desk and spend the rest of her professional life analyzing emails. She shuddered at the thought of death by tedium and twisted the heavy signet ring on her left hand.
Strange energy signatures had been seen on satellite images of this area and identified as the type associated with jinn. The abandoned mine was the logical place for a portal—but so far the scout they'd lowered down into the shaft hadn't reported anything. She glanced at her watch. He'd been silent for twenty minutes. He was supposed to be reporting in on the quarter hour.
Mouth dry, she keyed her radio. “What's going on down there?"
Static.
"Hello. Can you read me?"
A long burst of static was followed by garbled voices. A man screamed.
She wheeled on the pale-faced young corporal holding a rope. “Get him out of there!"
He leaned back and grunted, red-faced with exertion. “Something's wrong, ma'am!"
She raced behind him, screaming at the stricken-looking young men huddling together. “Get over here. Help us get him out."
Three of them put their backs into the effort, finally bringing the scout up into view. Limp-limbed, the young man's head lolled back, his camouflage uniform covered in blood. They hauled him onto the ground and rolled him over.
A soldier held a flashlight as Eliana pulled out a handkerchief and wiped his face before dabbing at a stubborn spot on his forehead. The words burned into the man's forehead told her all she needed to know. She stood on shaky legs.
Bug eyed, the corporal turned to her. “What is it? What's it mean?"
She chose her words with care. “It's Hebrew. It says: GET OUT."
She flexed her fist and rubbed the heavy signet ring inscribed with pentacles and letters from an ancient language. She was going to need help from a source that some people said didn't even exist.
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Chapter One
Say No Eulogies
Charlene Johnson stood ramrod stiff in the over-heated, wreath-filled Serenity Parlor of Charles and Sons’ funeral home, half-numb with grief and shock from the sudden loss of her parents. She just needed to get through the next two hours without falling apart. One foot in front of the other. A melange of lilies, wet wool, body odor and a hint of alcohol pressed against her nose as if it were a hot, wet rag. Despite the March winds and bitter cold rain lashing the building, she longed to go for a long run, stretch her legs, breathe fresh air, and ease the tightness binding her chest.
What happened? What made her father drive into that concrete buttress? Was he trying to avoid something? A heart attack? Bad brakes? What? And why wouldn't the police answer her questions?
Despite making all the arrangements for the visiting hours and funeral, she still couldn't believe her parents were gone, killed in a single-car accident on a dry road by the light of the March moon.
A crowd of colleagues, co-workers, and friends, waiting to pay their respects, queued out the door, but Charlene had never felt so alone. A gangly, skinny outcast in high school, she'd been best known for her speed as a long-distance runner and her preference for practice runs at night. Even now, she still felt different, separate from her peers at her metropolitan university. Although she'd dated a lot of guys, and even had a serious relationship with one for a year, her family stayed her only real source of unconditional love.
Her gaze snagged on the memory table laden with a satin stainless steel urn and photos of her parents. In one, Mom held her in the crook of her arm. Dad looked over Mom's shoulder, smiling broadly. In another, her grinning parents stood behind Joey, her older brother. Someone in the funeral home had artistically arranged candid shots of her father at work in the Johns Hopkins genetics lab and her mother in her nursing scrubs between the family portraits. A fresh wave of grief washed over her.
She had to be strong for Joey. He was all the family she had left.
A classical arrangement played in the background, not quite covering the crowd's whispers and murmurs. “Tragic!�� “So young.” “...cause of accident?"
She winced and mentally thanked her parents for their memorial service plans. Practical to the end, they had ordered cremations and no eulogies. She would have never been able to deal with a viewing. Not after what she'd seen in the morgue. She shuddered at the memory. No amount of post-mortem grooming and cosmetics would have covered—No. Don't go there. Don't think about the medical examiner's odd questions. She had to focus on the here and now.
"Thank you for coming, Dr. Hoffman.” She shook the stooped, gray-haired man's soft hand.
"Fred was a wonderful guy. I'll miss his quirky sense of humor. We'll be a boring bunch of nerds without him around."
"You believed in his research. That meant a lot to him."
Hoffman nodded and looked down at the floor. “He was passionate, obsessed with a cure for Joey."
A sudden vision of the medications, needles and syringes she found in her brother's room after the accident flashed into Charlene's mind. Did her father use experimental drugs on Joey? She opened her mouth to ask Hoffman about it, but closed it without saying a word. She hadn't been home much for the last year and a half, nor had she been Joey's caregiver. What right did she have to criticize her parents? She was always too busy with her life, her studies, her research, her career to ask how they were doing. She'd been self-centered and myopic. Now they were gone and she'd never get to talk to them again. What choice did she have but to continue to use the medicine her parents had left for her brother? Tears welled up in her eyes and she choked up.
Hoffman pressed his business card into her palm and snapped Charlene back into the present. “If there's anything I can do for you, call me."
She could only nod. Vision blurred, she searched a nearby table for a box of tissues. When she turned back to the line, an old man in a threadbare black suit, snow-white shirt, and a thin black tie shuffled up to Charlene and grasped her hand with his callus-hardened one. As she stared at geometric patterns on the large signet ring on the elder's hand, the scent of apple pie laced with cinnamon wafted over her. For a moment, her shoulders lost their tension and she smiled. Her mother loved apple pie.
Taut skin, the color of beef jerky and deep creases in his forehead
and cheeks gave the man the appearance of a puppet when he spoke. Only his ice-blue eyes and thick gray hair appeared to be human. “You don't know me, but we're kin."
Apprehension tickled the back of her neck. Kin? Charlene mentally compared his face with her mother's photo albums and came up empty. “I'm sorry, I don't recognize you. You are—?"
"Jethro Carter. This is my wife, Rebekkah."
An elderly woman with iron-gray hair pulled back into an impeccable bun stepped up to Charlene, gave her a slow once-over with piercing blue eyes, and nodded. “You're a bit taller and your hair's a little redder, but you're hers, all right. You have her eyes."
"Thank you.” When Charlene extended her hand, the old woman pulled her close and sniffed her neck.
Rebekkah stepped back. Tears shimmered in her eyes. “You even smell like her."
What was that about?
The old woman glanced at Jethro and he nodded. Rebekkah reached into her pocket and retrieved a dark metal bracelet. “This was your mother's. She would have wanted you to have it.” She slid the oddly heavy bangle onto Charlene's wrist. “Wear it always."
A fresh wave of grief hit, and Charlene could barely speak. “Thank you."
Jethro cleared his throat. “And this is Zachariah Abingdon."
Charlene expected to see someone the same age as Jethro and Rebekkah. She caught a whiff of soap and some unrecognizable musky spice and jumped, startled to find him standing at her elbow.
The younger man flipped shocks of silver hair away from his piercing blue eyes. A trail of heat blazed in her face, and ignited a fire in her core. He gazed down at her, an amused hint of a smile playing on his full, sensuous lips. “Call me Zack."
When he spoke, she felt as if he had reached out and caressed her cheek. He took her hand, and a surge of energy jolted her. Did he feel that? Dry-mouthed, she squeaked, “Are we related?"
He smiled, showing beautiful white teeth. “Not that I know of. Is that a problem?"
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