The Wild Rites Saga Omnibus 01 to 04

by Anna McIlwraith

  annamc.com/news

  (No spam, just cool stuff.)

  Copyright © 2015 Anna McIlwraith. All rights reserved.

  www.annamcilwraith.com

  Book Two

  The Jackal Prince

  1

  “Come on, Emma, you can do it. Come at me.” Anton spread his hands, cocking an expectant eyebrow at her.

  She stood there, panting, gave him a withering look. “I think we’ve established that I cannot, in fact, do it.”

  “Just once more.” Anton widened his stance, bare feet digging into the dirt. He brought his arms up into a loose blocking position and put his head down, dark curls falling into his eyes. Ready for her to try again. So patient. So goddamn persistent.

  Lifting her braid, Emma palmed sweat off the back of her neck, rolled her shoulders and winced at the meaty popping sounds her spine made in protest. “Liar.” He’d fooled her too many times; she’d learned not to trust the words “just one more.”

  Anton shrugged, all grace and muscle, bare chest hairless and dusky brown. Distracting. No wonder she was sucking at this.

  “I promise,” he said. “Sun’s almost up, then you can go in and shower, and eat.” He straightened a little, eyes softening, the color of them dark and mossy in the predawn gloom. He looked like he was about to say something dumb — something pitying — so Emma didn’t give him the chance. She rushed him.

  He stepped to the side, anticipating her feint; she took a risk and tried to go under him instead, dropping in the dirt and sliding knifing up toward his side with her right hand, aiming for a body hit, hand fisted around the red rag she gripped in place of a weapon. Anton was faster and followed the movement, body out of reach by the time she lost her momentum, but she was on her feet and coming at him again.

  “You’re already dead,” Anton said, dancing backwards.

  “I know,” she said through grit teeth, advancing.

  “You need to gain the advantage on the first attack or you’re dead, no second chance in hand to hand with a shapechanger, you know that —”

  “I know!” Emma yelled and instantly regretted it; now everybody on the ranch would be awake. She stopped and Anton mirrored her.

  “I know it’s tough, but you’re doing great. It’s only been a few weeks.”

  Emma narrowed her eyes at him. “Pity. Real nice.”

  He looked alarmed. “No, I didn’t mean —”

  “I know what you meant, it’s how you said it that sucked.” Anton looked confused, and Emma shook her head. “I know, I know, I’m doing great — for a human.” She turned away in disgust, looked out past the fences and over the expanse of fields, pastures dim and blue in the halflight. The forest to their left was a dense, dark wall. If you stared at it too long, you saw things moving that didn’t belong there. Or she did, anyway.

  The ranch was a refuge, but it was starting to feel a little like a prison, too.

  Anton’s warmth at her back made her jump. They could be so quiet.

  “You’re tired,” he said.

  Emma turned to him, arched an eyebrow. “No shit, Sherlock. We’ve been training since five, and I’ve got weightlifting after breakfast.”

  Anton touched her arm. “I don’t just mean the training.”

  She looked up, met his eyes. Close, they were emerald — she would always think of them as tree-frog green, those eyes. As usual, she had to look away.

  He took his hand off her arm, but stayed close, his body a warm solid line against hers. Too close. “If you want to talk about it — Emma —” he cleared his throat. “If you want to talk about the dreams, if you think it would help…”

  She turned, stepping away from him, voice dropping. “What dreams, Anton?”

  He gave her a look. Wouldn’t look away. “Fern told me. The way you guys are connected, he’s been, uh…”

  “What?” Emma crossed her arms.

  Anton looked tired, but not sorry. “He gets some of them. Your dreams. Our rooms are next to each other, he woke me up once.” A pause. “A couple of times.”

  “Shit.” One more illusion of privacy shattered. She glanced away toward the line of trees to the left. A minute ago they’d seemed menacing. Now she wished she could run into them and disappear.

  Why hadn’t Fern said anything to her about the dreams?

  Because you need privacy.

  “Shit!” Emma’s heart flipped over. She couldn’t help it, happened every time Fern’s voice burst into her mind when she wasn’t expecting it. Especially when she thought he was asleep. She should have felt him wake.

  Also because I got the impression, Fern sent, politely ignoring her pique, that Anton thinks that if I talk to you about the dreams, the solution will somehow involve me sleeping in the same room as you.

  Anton gave her a funny look; she wiggled her index finger at her head and he nodded in understanding. Anton doesn’t care who sleeps in my room.

  Yes he does.

  Ricky sleeps in my room.

  Ricky’s his brother.

  The maidens sleep in my room.

  Fern snorted. You don’t swing that way, much to their disappointment.

  They weren’t the only ones disappointed — the guards had been dismayed to discover the maidens were pretty much all gay. Emma made a frustrated sound. The guards sometimes sleep in my room.

  Fern didn’t bother dignifying that with a reply.

  Emma narrowed her eyes at Anton, glad that he at least couldn’t read her mind.

  You should have told me. Not Anton.

  Fern’s mental reply was unapologetic. I worry. I don’t want you to know that I worry, and I don’t want you to worry that I worry.

  “Fern,” she rolled her eyes for Anton’s benefit. “This isn’t funny.”

  No, it’s not — but this is. Emma had a second to register what was about to happen; she saw Anton’s eyebrows go up in surprise, heard the whisper of bare feet on grass, but Fern was too fast. He hit her from behind in a running tackle, lifted her as she squealed and grabbed onto him and then he sent them sliding through the dirt in a landing that cushioned her body with his own.

  “Touchdown!” Fern cried. Emma swatted at him, belly painful with laughter, and finally managed to untangle herself from his long skinny limbs.

  “You people have got to stop sneaking up on me.” Emma heaved herself up to her knees and took in the sight of Fern’s pale body, clad only in the very old pair of sweatpants he used as pajamas. His black hair stuck out every which way.

  She pinned him with a dark look. “You’re getting better at that.”

  “At tackling you?”

  “At narrowing your mental projection so I don’t sense where you are or what you’re doing.”

  “Well,” he grinned. “We have been practicing.”

  Yeah, but I’m not learning as fast as you. She scowled. Aren’t you cold? Her own clammy skin was cooling in the early morning breeze.

  Fern’s black eyes crinkled with amusement. You want me to cover up?

  She punched him in the arm. You wish.

  Anton padded over and stood above them, looking disapproving, light from the rising sun turning his eyes to luminescent disks. Cat’s eyes — jaguar’s eyes.

  He sighed, holding his hand out to her. “You really are getting better.”

  Emma ignored the hand, dusted dirt off her knees and stood. “I’m too slow.”

  Anton shook his head. “You’re getting there. Fern, tell her.”

  Fern’s black eyes met Emma’s brown ones. “He’s right, you are getting better.” He smiled at her, and it made him look young. He held the smile and spoke in her mind. But you’re not getting better as fast as he’d like.

  Shit.

  Yeah.

  “Come on,” said Anton. “Let’s go get something to eat.” He snatched up an old t-shirt and pulled it on, the white fabric making his skin look an even darker olive. He looked expectantly at Emma.

  She met his eyes. “You go ahead
. We’ll be a minute.”

  He hesitated, and then nodded. “What should I tell Ricky to fix you? He’ll be up and in the kitchen by now.”

  Emma grimaced. “I’ll just have toast this morning.” Anton gave her a warning look, but she shook her head. She could not have eggs again — or bacon, or sausage, or hash. Damn shapechangers could eat like it was going out of style, but her stomach was smaller, and way more sensitive.

  “Fine.” Anton looked her up and down, arched an eyebrow at her, and headed for the house.

  She called after him. “Maybe some fruit salad!” He lifted a hand in response and kept going, long strides taking him away from the dirt yards and across the lawn to the house.

  What does he want me to do, gain another eight pounds?

  Fern made a rude noise. It was barely two, and mostly muscle. You were too light. You’re still too light.

  Emma shot Fern a dirty look and stalked over to the rail fence, leaning against it, watching the sky lighten from blue to pink. The hell I am. She hadn’t exactly been rake thin before the training. But they were shapechangers — all of them were huge. Except for Fern, who was skinny, but tall. And the ocelot maidens who formed Emma’s personal troupe of guards — but even though they were tiny, they were all ripped.

  Well, Emma herself was not tiny, and not ripped, either.

  He followed her over to the fence. His mental voice held laughter. You need to be stronger, not “ripped.” His arm brushed hers as he leaned against her. She caught the scent of cotton sheets, salt and warmth and sleep. He’d just gotten up, but Fern always smelled like that. Like something comforting and somehow edible.

  Emma shifted away from him a little. “Fern.”

  “Yes?”

  Emma looked pointedly at the worn wooden railing. A small black spider was making its way toward her hand. She let it crawl over her fingers, suppressing a shudder. Just a harmless spider.

  “If you’ve been getting my dreams… could you stop them?”

  Emma…

  He didn’t have to say no. She felt his regret cloud the bond like ink ribboning through water.

  Fern, she said sternly in his mind, enough with the pity party, it’s not the end of the world. “I just thought, I don’t know…” she sighed. “Even if you can’t stop them, there’s got to be a way to stop me projecting them to you.”

  Fern shrugged, coaxing the spider off Emma’s hand and letting it crawl away. “It doesn’t matter. We’ll just keep practicing, working at the bond.” She turned to him, and he smiled back, black eyes glittering in the growing light. In his mind there was only faith — faith in her. The blind devotion that frightened her so much.

  It’s not blindness. It’s trust.

  Emma pushed an agitated hand through her hair. You don’t know me well enough to trust me.

  An odd emotion fluoresced through the bond between them as Fern’s eyes went hooded. It took Emma a moment to realize what he was projecting.

  Condescension.

  He shook his head slowly to cut off her angry protest. With the Enam-Vesh bond, knowing is relative, he sent gently. I know how you like your coffee and how hot you run the water when you shower. I know how tight you like to lace your shoes. I know that when you laugh at Ricky and tell him he’s a major league doofus, what you’re really saying is you love him and you couldn’t do this without him. I know you’d die for him. I know being here at this ranch reminds you every day of your parents and makes your heart hurt and you haven’t said a word of that to anyone. His black gaze was so stark, Emma wanted to look away, but she couldn’t make herself. I know more than I should, he sent, remorse blooming through the bond like the ache of an old bruise. But that’s not why I trust you.

  Finally he looked away. I don’t care about the dreams, he sent. I did this to us. I didn’t give you a choice —

  Fern, we’ve been over this, it doesn’t matter —

  Just listen to me. He closed his eyes, and with the alien darkness of his eyes hidden, he looked impossibly young. I bound us together, and the fact that you don’t hate me for it only makes me more determined not to put pressure on you. You owe me nothing. Not when it comes to this.

  Emma swallowed. Fern was rarely so forceful. He caught the thought and opened his eyes to meet her gaze. Please don’t worry about this. We’ll get there, Emma.

  She shook her head. People keep saying that.

  And you don’t believe them.

  She laid her head on his shoulder, and felt him try not to flinch with surprise.

  She sighed. No.

  2

  The big old double story farmhouse was weathered and white and one of the comfiest places Emma had ever been. Outside there was a deep wraparound porch, and a short flight of steps led from the dirt yard at the back of the house where Anton and Emma and the other guards trained in the open air, to the porch and then to the big open plan kitchen accessed by the back door. At the front of the house the living and dining rooms were decked out in worn, rustic fashion, all warm timber and overstuffed chairs, with the longest damn modular L shaped sofa Emma had ever seen. It had seemed ridiculously big until they’d had their first movie night at the ranch — everyone called it the ranch — and then Emma had discovered there would never be a sofa big enough to hold everyone.

  Emma had a bedroom on the ground floor, but by far the most lived in part of the house was the sprawling kitchen. Between the kitchen and the training yard and the converted section of barn where Anton had a complete gym setup, Emma spent very little time anywhere else. Felt like the past six weeks she’d done nothing but train and eat and eat and sleep. Mostly eat.

  She stepped through the open porch door and into the big kitchen, and was greeted by the sound of butter spitting in a fry pan, and the rich smell of buttermilk batter so thick in the air you could taste it. Bruce, the lean, shaggy dog Emma had accidentally adopted right before the jaguar kingdom found her and turned her life upside down, was lying under the kitchen table making faint, pained groaning noises like he always did when someone was cooking. His tail thumped when he saw Emma.

  “I hate you,” Emma told Ricky. She loved pancakes. She grabbed a washcloth and flung it at him, but he was totally unrepentant. Fern came in behind Emma, laughing softly.

  Ricky grinned over his shoulder at her, amber eyes peeking through chestnut curls. He and Anton weren’t twins — Anton was older by five years — but you’d be forgiven for asking. Ricky’s coloring was lighter, his face a little softer. And he was shorter. Apparently Anton looked more like their dad, whose Zapotec ethnicity gave them their wide cheekbones and almond shaped eyes, but Ricky’s height was closer to their dad’s. He’d died when Ricky was four.

  “Anton mentioned you were going on a hunger strike, so I figured I’d head it off at the pass. Ow!” He rubbed his arm where she’d punched him. “That hurt. I gotta have words with whoever’s been training you.”

  “Ha ha.” Anton called out from the hallway, on his way to the bathroom.

  “What about my shower?” Emma called after him.

  “You have to eat first,” he yelled back, command in his voice.

  “Fine.” She let Fern pull a chair out for her and fell into it, bending down to scratch Bruce between the ears. His fur was gray and wiry, like a deerhound, but his head was too boxy to be purebred.

  Damn those pancakes smelled good. “I wasn’t hungry a minute ago, I swear.”

  “Let’s face it, I am the master.” Ricky slapped down a plateful of pancakes and pushed the maple syrup toward her.

  “Of course you’re the master, you’re the only one who cooks around here. Seshua could have at least given us a guard who doubles as a chef or something,” she added.

  Ricky looked hurt, but only until Emma stuffed a forkful of pancake into her mouth and groaned. Smug, he turned back to the stove top.

  Fern folded down into the chair next to Emma and snuck a bit of pancake from her plate, handing it down to Bruce. When did you last hear fr
om him?

  The jaguar king. Emma swallowed another mouthful. He called a week ago. You don’t remember?

  Fern grunted, a response that Emma was fast getting used to, living in a house with several men. Apparently, even telepathy didn’t automatically make you more civilized.

  I resent that, Fern sent, catching her thought. Anyway, I meant when was the last time you actually talked to him. I was in town when he called last time, but you weren’t, and I know you didn’t talk to him.

  Emma kept her eyes on her plate, pushing the food around. I’ll talk to him soon , she promised reluctantly. I’ve just had one too many difficult phone calls to make lately, that’s all.

  The first week at the ranch, she’d had to resign from her job as kennel technician for the vet clinic back in L.A. She told them her Aunt Chase had a heart attack, and that she was flying out to the UK immediately to be with her. Lying to her bosses — who had become friends — felt like shit. Then she’d withdrawn from her studies indefinitely, sacrificing a semester’s worth of grades two weeks before exams — that was fun. And eventually, she’d had to call Aunt Chase, and tell her that her phone got dropped in a bowl of drinking water at the clinic and that was why she had a new number and everything was juuuuust fine.

  Having Ricky nearby made it easier to lie, easier to make things sound like nothing was wrong. They’d snapped a picture together and sent it off; Aunt Chase replied with an adorable pic of her and Tanya, on the couch and covered in dogs. Emma had gone into the bathroom, turned the shower on so no one could hear her, and ugly-cried until she could barely breathe.

  Then, like now, Fern’s mind was a warm, comforting weight in hers, but she didn’t know what to do with his sympathy, his wordless compassion. Didn’t know what to do with the bond that had tied his lifeforce to hers. Didn’t know what to do with this life she didn’t recognize.

  She met his eyes, and his were haunted. By her lost dreams, by the lies she’d told her Aunt. And by more literal dreams — dreams about the king.