The One We Answer To: A Shifter MC Novel (Pureblood Predator MC Book 3)

by Daniels, May Ellis

  I shake my head, trying to clear the ringing from my ears.

  Nash is screaming something at me, but I can’t hear him.

  I want one thing and one thing only.

  I want that motherfucking liar Connor Lerrick dead.

  It figures Lerrick’s crew would be paramilitary.

  Rich pricks and fascist assholes have always been tight.

  Money and the law.

  Fuck ‘em both, I say.

  Give me freedom.

  But guys like Connor? They can’t stand another man living free.

  It means they got no control over him.

  No say in how he lives his life.

  The greedy, power-hungry pricks.

  I scan through the smoke, searching for Lerrick.

  The giant Kodiak bear was no hallucination. It’s Blue. The bear raises the dead crocodile over his head while Connor’s helicopters swing low, pumping cannon-fire into him, then hurls the crocodile corpse at one of the choppers. It smashes through the front window. The chopper, hovering only ten feet above the ground, nose-dives right into the cement, then spins and explodes right in front of the Kodiak giant.

  My three shadow-wolves are back.

  I’m healing, and right fucking quick if I do say so myself. My wounded hip is nearly sealed over. I send each shadow-wolf leaping into a different chopper. Every chopper is packed with Stricken motherfuckers, all dressed in military gear, half-men half-animal, readying to leap out at us. The shadow-wolves smash through them, aiming for the pilots. Another chopper goes down, then another whips over our heads and collides into stack of shipping containers.

  Plumes of black smoke roll into the night sky.

  The entire shipyard’s lit bright by the explosions.

  It’s a fucking war zone. A bloodbath of the best kind, and it’s far too early in the night to declare victory or defeat.

  I raise my clawed fists and howl. Take a step forward. Then another. Then another. The fucking crocodile didn’t kill me. My pack stepped in. They got my back.

  That’s what packs do.

  Look out for one another.

  There’s no weakness in that, only strength and survival, and then I’m roaring, sprinting full speed at one of the choppers. My MC’s with me, a pack of mean, wild sons-of-bitches, and I leap into the air and grab one of the chopper’s landing rails and claw my way inside.

  A slime-snouted donkey creature brays in shock when he sees me, then lifts his machine gun. Too slow. I tear the gun from his hands and part his neck with a single swipe. The pilot turns, blasts a few Glock rounds at me. I reach over the seat and rip his head from his neck. The chopper shudders, then plummets to the side.

  I leap out as it hits the concrete.

  My MC are everywhere, each taking down a Stricken or three. Carrying their own weight. There’s no room for cowards or freeloaders in the End Days Chapter of the Pureblood Predators, and every one of them knows it.

  The chopper explodes, sending me sailing through the air.

  I hit the ground hard, and when I look up I see Connor in wolf form, ripping open the chest of one of my MC. My guy’s on the ground, a lynx from the look of him, screeching, smashing at the wolf as the animal tries to tear out his heart.

  I stagger to my feet and snarl.

  The wolf lifts its head. Our eyes meet.

  The wolf howls, tears my guy’s heart out, swallows it in a single bite, then bares his bloodstained fangs.

  I hold my ground. Flash him a toothy smile.

  “What you gunna do now, rich boy?” I yell. “You gunna run? Always took you for a pussy, Lerrick. You gunna prove me wrong?”

  The wolf leaps off his kill and charges me.

  That’a boy.

  Connor closes the gap between us quick, and when he’s close enough I reach down, pick up a razor-sharp chunk of shrapnel and hurl it at him. He ducks, then steps to the side. The metal buzzes over his head, clattering harmlessly onto the concrete.

  But that’s all I need. I threw the wolf off his stride. Now I step left as he thunders toward me, snarling and spitting, his crystalline claws punching into the cement.

  Connor’s cocky. Soft. Coddled.

  Been at the top looking down for too long.

  Never had to learn what a street fight’s really all about.

  It’s about the first strike. Nine times out of ten that first strike decides who lives or dies. Doesn’t matter much who’s bigger or stronger if that first strike hits home. That crocodile cocksucker’s first strike just about ended me, even though if we went toe-to-toe I could’ve crushed him.

  He had the advantage.

  But I had my crew.

  I’m gunna make my first strike against Connor Lerrick count.

  The wolf slows his charge, realizing his mistake, then tries to change direction. I clasp my fists over my head, summon every scrap of rage and strength I can muster, then bring my clasped fists down right at the base of the wolf’s neck. There’s a crunching sound, then the wolf howls and hits the pavement.

  He’s twitching. Trying to stand.

  But that’s hard with a set of snapped vertebrae.

  Somewhere in the back of my mind I’m conscious of things beginning to quiet. The choppers are gone. The paramilitary Stricken pricks either dead or run off. My guys are enjoying a solid and well deserved feed.

  I take a step at the dying wolf.

  He’s flopping back and forth, his tongue hanging out his mouth, his head cocked at an odd angle.

  I take another slow step, eyeing him, wary of a trap.

  The wolf vanishes and there’s Connor Lerrick, handsome billionaire heir, lying naked in a pool of his own piss.

  “Sad, how the body betrays us when we die,” I say, kneeling down beside him. Without the fur I can see just how badly Connor’s neck’s broken. His head’s twisted sideways, the skin stretched tight around the grim, swollen lump on his spine.

  “It’s easy, when we’re alive and well, to forget what we are,” I say. “Mansions and choppers and Armani suits. They don’t count for fuck all now, do they? You’re just another half-dead animal pissing himself in the muck.”

  I reach out, place my index finger gently against Connor’s shoulder.

  Drag my claw into him.

  Cut him a bit.

  Mr. Big Shot quivers and flinches.

  “Shh,” I say. “I’m not gunna hurt you as much as I should. Not my style. But only if you cooperate, understand? If you don’t cooperate…well. I promise your death will last days.”

  I grip Connor’s shoulder and roll him on his back. His mouth opens in a silent, pain-wracked scream as the bones in his shattered neck shift against one another.

  I run my claw over Connor’s chest.

  Feel his heart beating too fast behind his ribcage.

  “You want me to make this quick, right, Connor?”

  Connor gives me a look so full of hatred my animal howls to kill him instantly.

  But I don’t.

  I need something from him.

  “Where is she, rich boy?” I ask. “Tell me where my bloodmate is and it’ll be quick. I promise you.”

  Black blood spews from Connor’s lips.

  Fucking hell. Might be too late.

  I glance up to see my MC gathered around.

  They’re bloodied but mostly whole.

  “Where is she, Connor?”

  Connor moans. He’s trying to speak.

  I lean very close to his face, listening, then say, “Try again, Connor. One more time. That’s all I need. Tell me once more.”

  Connor’s eyes close, and for a moment I think the bastard’s died on me. Then his lips tremble, and with his eyes still closed he mutters, “…f-f-f-f…”

  “Fallen?” I ask. “The First Fallen has her?”

  Connor shakes his head no.

  His breathing quick and ragged.

  Not long now.

  “Fa…fath…”

  “Father?”

  Co
nnor opens his eyes. “Fath…father…father…”

  “Her father? Lily went to see her father?”

  Connor lets out a long sigh.

  “Where? Where the fuck is Lily’s father?”

  Connor spits a mouthful of black blood. “Monroe. Crazy old man…Monroe Correctional…”

  Got it. The Monroe Correctional Complex. A fucking nuthouse.

  I lift my hand over Connor’s chest. Drop my claws.

  Take a long breath. Sometimes you just gotta slow down, you know? Really make an effort to appreciate the moment of a kill. Life zooms by.

  You gotta hold on to the things that matter.

  Like cold-blooded revenge. Like murder.

  Connor’s looks up at me. His eyes narrow as he realizes I’m not going to make it quite as quick as he might have hoped.

  I flash him a grin.

  Connor shakes his head from side to side. Fucker’s terrified. He should be.

  Then he does something weird.

  Looks me straight in the eye, says, “You’ve been…a good little pet. Cockbrother.” Then the prick bursts into a wheezing laugh.

  The sound freezes my blood, and in that instant I know I fucked up.

  Big time.

  “Prez look out there’s a fuc—”

  A shadow swoops low overhead, so fast I barely have time to duck.

  My MC scatter like rabbits racing for their holes.

  Death from above.

  Fucking hell. No one kept an eye out?

  I have time to realize I can see my breath. The air suddenly freezing—

  Talons slam into my sides, tear through my flesh, then a wickedly curved and razor-sharp beak snatches my shoulder and the next thing I know I’m cartwheeling through space, ass over teakettle and screaming at Connor as a giant horned and red-eyed vulture lifts the rich prick in its talons and carries my kill into the broiling black-red sky—

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  LILY

  MIA, TRISH, PIMNIQ and I make our way through the woods with six of Mia’s most trusted thugs spread in a wide semicircle around us. We’re following about half a mile behind Anik and Shiori, far enough away for my packmates to draw any potential ambushers out into the open but close enough to reach them if they’re attacked.

  Hopefully.

  Mia grabs me by the arm and leads me out of earshot, then says, “We continue north a few more miles and we’re at the Monroe Correctional Complex. It’s possible the Stricken signs lead there.”

  I don’t say anything, but Mia’s smart enough to read the look on my face. “You believe your father’s the First Fallen.”

  I nod, step of over a moss-draped log, then push through a tangle of huckleberry.

  “What if you’re right?”

  “Then I kill him.”

  A slow, skeptical breath escapes Mia’s lips. There’s a machine gun tucked under her arm. It suits her perfectly, and for the hundredth time I wonder: why me? Why Lily Thompson? Why not someone more capable? Like Mia? Or Trish? Or even Shiori? I never believed in fate. The idea that our lives are scripted before we’re born always made me feel queasy. Like we have no control.

  Now I’m not so certain we have control over anything.

  Maybe control’s an illusion. It’s odd, how the people who believe in fate are often the one’s whose lives haven’t turned out like they hoped. Like they need something bigger than themselves to blame. And the ones who believe in free will, that we control our own fates, are the one’s whose lives have turned out like they wanted them to, and they want to take credit for that.

  I don’t know what to believe.

  I only wish I could believe something.

  I envy Mia. She believes.

  You are your own keeper, the Dog God told me.

  Mia understands that. She’s loyal to herself. To her own survival. It’s a world-view likely to make a person lonely, but at least it’s a world-view.

  Mia knows where she stands.

  Connor sent me to Aaron’s biker bar because he wanted the MC Prez to mark me and wake my creature. Aaron took me as his mate. Then the creature took me.

  Where’s Lily in all this? What do I want?

  To murder the First Fallen? Why? Because of some vision in the sky? Because that’s what everyone says the so-called All Encompassing must do? Because if she doesn’t the world’s gunna end?

  I scoff. Mia shoots me a sharp glare.

  Look around, Lily. The world’s already ended. What good will murdering the First Fallen do now? You can’t put the egg back in its shattered shell. Whether I murder the First Fallen or not…the world’s changed forever.

  That’s why Mia sighed when I declared I’d kill my father if he’s the First Fallen. She doesn’t believe me. And you know what? She’s right to doubt. I don’t know what I’m going to do if Wil Thompson is what I’m beginning to think he is.

  What do you want, Lily? I ask myself as I push through the dark forest, following a series of smaller wooden pyramids.

  Signposts of death.

  I know I don’t want this. Not this killing.

  Maybe that’s enough for now.

  I want an end to this killing. I want Trish safe. I want my sons returned.

  My chest tightens when I think of my boys. Lachlan, my firstborn, the son I never knew. I want to tell him I’m sorry.

  Maybe it was the right decision at the time. Maybe not.

  But all I know is now…if I had the chance…I’d hold him. I’d hold my baby boy in my arms and hug him and never let him go.

  The tightness builds in my chest and the next thing I know I’m tearing up, clamping my lips closed, trying not to sob. This pain in my heart. It’s ripping me wide open. I cup my hands over my barren belly, bite my lower lip and try to breathe. I’m walking slightly ahead of Mia. She’s busy scanning the forest for whatever’s out there waiting to kill us, so I don’t think she sees me losing it.

  But I cup my belly and I think about my unborn son. The child stolen from me.

  No. That’s not exactly true. He wasn’t stolen.

  I traded him. Abandoned him.

  The Dog God will not keep him forever. I swear it.

  I’m only thankful Aaron isn’t around to discover what I did. The truth would break him. He was an outlaw, but he was fiercely loyal to friends and family.

  Two sons. Each abandoned. Left alone to fend for themselves in this wreck of a world. Tears stream down my cheeks as the guilt and self-hatred hits home. What kind of a person am I? What kind of a mother? I don’t deserve to see either of them again.

  But it’s what I want.

  Everyone has a plan for me. Connor. Mia. The First Fallen.

  Fuck them all.

  I want to see my sons. Lachlan. Child of brutality.

  And my unnamed, unborn son. Lost in the Bloodless Land.

  Aaron’s son. Child of love.

  That’s what I’m fighting for. Why I need to live. Why I need this pack. That’s why, if my father is the First Fallen…I’ll kill him. And even if he’s not, but he tries to stand in my way…I’ll kill him.

  The tears stop. My chest loosens.

  My shoulders, slumped low, begin to straighten.

  I have something worth living for. I believe in something.

  There are wrongs I have to try and right. Maybe that’s not possible. Maybe some wrongs cut too deep to heal. But I have to try.

  Aaron’s son, I think, ducking under a heavy cedar bough. And then I realize how badly I miss the outlaw.

  You fucking dog. I believe in you. Too late, I believe in you.

  And I’m sorry.

  ***

  Gunfire shatters the silence.

  Mia raises her arm, halting our advance. We stand motionless, straining to hear, the dread-filled stance of all prey.

  The forest returns to silence, then Earl’s voice drifts through the trees. Mia’s second-in-command is yelling something I can’t quite hear.

  “An attack?” Trish asks, eyei
ng the dark woods.

  “Something spooked them,” Mia says, handing Trish her Glock and giving me a questioning look.

  I shake my head no. I don’t scent anything either.

  “Let’s move,” Mia says. “They’re a little far off for my liking.”

  We push through the forest at a half-run. Branches whip against my face, stinging. I stumble several times, fall into a carpet of moss, stagger to my feet, carry on. Pimniq’s struggling to keep up. I slow down, hold her arm and lead her forward. Mia shoots me an angry glare. This is your fault, her glare says. Whatever happens now is on your head.

  So be it. I know what I want.

  There’s another burst of gunfire, then another, then a booming sound so loud it shakes the earth. The forest lights up in brilliant white flash. For an instant everything is illuminated: I see the fear in little Pimniq’s pale, thin face. The determination in Trish’s eyes. How she’s holding the Glock like they trained her to at the academy. How brave my best friend is.

  Mia’s black leather outfit gleams in the white light. Her body lithe and lean and strong, flowing effortlessly through the dense woods, like water running downhill.

  Then the forest goes black, and I’m running again, blinking, white spots dancing in my vision, holding tight to Pim, pleading with my creature to come if I call her.

  Another boom. Louder this time.

  Followed by another white flash.

  Someone’s screaming.

  One of the men guarding us, a boy really, maybe late teens, his soft, rounded face contrasted against his camouflage outfit and the grenades on his belt and the gun in his hands, scans the forest as he runs.

  A creature steps out from behind a tree. Wraps its scaled arms around the boy soldier. A Stricken. Some kind of hideous, unnatural hybrid: a rodent’s head with a rack of antlers and red-grey scales covering its body. The creature seizes the boy’s throat. It’s fingers are long and thin and end in ghost-grey claws. The boy goes limp with terror, like a bird in a hunting dog’s mouth. Like something switched off in his brain, and then I see the Stricken open a mouth lined in jagged teeth—