He looked up, an insightful gleam in his honey-brown eyes, and stared straight through her. "An urgent matter has come to my attention."
"Urgent? Is something wrong with the army?" Freya demanded.
The disposition of the army was always her greatest priority because it constituted the true basis of her power. Centuries ago, Freya, and her brother, Freyr, had been mere war hostages—exchanged following the Aesir-Vanir War. A conflict Odin had started because he coveted seidr, an old and powerful type of sorcery, developed and practiced exclusively by the Vanir up until then. Knowledge, particularly knowledge beyond his tenure, had always been Odin's greatest weakness. He pursued the acquisition of such at any cost and valued it more than anything else, including objects and power. When the war ended, Asgard's walls lay in ruin but the All Father had been none the closer to acquiring the mystical arts that elven kind had fought and died in legions to protect.
In the aftermath, Freya had gone to Odin and offered to teach him seidr even though her own brother urged her not to, and her father forbade it. Thanks to her shrewd negotiations, Freya elevated her status in Asgard from prisoner to commander of the Valkyries and one-half the military forces. Additionally, she acquired her own hall, but far more importantly, she gained freedom for herself and Freyr.
Her father cursed her but it mattered not. She was autonomous.
"No, the troops are fine," Arik said.
"Good." She exhaled in relief. "What is it then?"
Sierra Pines, California, on the western shore of Echo Lake
Time dilated and everything slowed. Her awareness narrowed to a specific focal point—the fight in the kitchen. Victoria ran, but pregnancy made her heavy and slow. Before she made it, loud cracks sounded in rapid succession—a .45 unloading on full auto.
Victoria burst into the house. Sawyer had his back to her, facing into the kitchen, but his stance told her at a glance that he was the gunman. He clicked empty on the ninth shot and ejected the clip, already reaching for another. She launched airborne and landed square on the hunter's back, her knees dug into his sides.
The impact knocked the hunter down, giving her a clear view of Logan. He rested slumped against the wall, upright in spite of the enormous bloody splotch on the front of his shirt. He was already halfway into the classic wolfman form often depicted in horror movies. It looked like he'd been shot mid-change; his injuries had interrupted his transformation. He'd taken a massive amount of damage, enough to keep him down and out for a while until his regeneration kicked in.
Sawyer grunted as he collided with the ground. Clinging to him, Victoria fell, too, but his powerful body cushioned the force of her landing.
"Victoria! What the hell?" He lifted his head, expression thunderstruck when he saw it was she who had tackled him. His gaze slid past her. Twisting, she spotted the .45 beneath a kitchen chair. He reached for it.
"I can't let you kill Logan." Victoria slithered off his back and lunged. She knocked the handle beyond his fingers and then snatched it up. The weapon's smoky discharge smelled only of gunpowder. Not silver—which was lethal to werewolves.
"He attacked me." The hunter threw in a curse for good measure. The dagger tattoo on his upper arm glowed white-hot, just like hers.
"I'm sure he started it, too." She shot upright and craned her head, scanning the room to mark everyone's locations. Thankfully, Sylvie had already driven the gray wolves out onto the patio. Cali Kinkaid crouched near the gas range, but she didn't see DNR anywhere.
"Over here! I'm clear." Morena jumped up and down on the far side of kitchen, waving her arms. Victoria lobbed the gun to the teenager who caught it out of midair. Snatching open the freezer, the girl tossed the firearm inside and slammed the door shut.
"It's on ice!" Morena flashed two thumbs up.
"Good job!" Victoria laughed despite everything else going on.
Problem number one dealt with, she whirled to confront the next. A maelstrom of masculine anger assailed her through the pack bond. Sawyer tore at her from one side, Logan the other, forcing her to maintain a death grip on her own explosive temper. A thick fog of fear, adrenaline, and rage clogged the air.
A thunk from behind alerted her that Sawyer had regained his feet. She offered up a silent, fervent prayer to whatever god was listening that the hunter would hold back and allow her to manage the situation.
"That's enough. No more violence. We're all friends here." Employing an Alpha's trick, Victoria infused her voice with raw power, creating resonance as she attempted to impose order on chaos. For a second, she got on top of the storm. Logan hadn't recovered from his injuries yet; the others were suspended in an amber moment in time.
It didn't last.
"Victoria. Get behind me before he hurts you." Sawyer seized her upper arm and yanked her out of the way. A yelp of indignation escaped her, but before she mustered a protest, the hunter had gotten in front of her again.
"He'd never hurt me." She snarled in frustration, certain her assurance would fall on deaf ears. She had a clean shot at Sawyer's back. For a split second, she contemplated crippling the hunter to express her displeasure, but he only wanted to keep her from danger.
Clearly, Sawyer would've preferred she’d obediently stepped aside like a good damsel-in-distress. Too bad for him, she considered herself a self-rescuing princess. But no matter how annoying and overbearing his attitude, his protectiveness pleased her. She detested his machoism and reveled in it all at once.
Sawyer's raw determination poured over her. Drawing his bayonet, he settled into a wide stance, arms and legs spread, shielding her with his body. He advanced toward Logan, clearly intending to decapitate the felled werewolf.
"No!" Terror jolted her back into action. Victoria dodged to the side and took advantage of her short height to pass beneath his guard. She seized hold of his elbow and jerked his sword arm down.
"Fuck. Damn it, Victoria. What the fuck are you doing?" Face contorted, he rounded on her, catching hold of her arm with his strong hand. He checked himself, hampered by his unwillingness to harm her, just as she was reluctant to hurt him.
"Is it such a mystery? I'm stopping you." They jostled for the upper hand, a back and forth exchange not at full strength or ability, but it was definitely a real competition.
"Why?" Incredulity spiked Sawyer's voice.
"Because—" Victoria sputtered. Her agitation defied a composed and articulate explanation. On a primal level, her she-wolf harbored the answers. Logan—friend. Logan—pack. Logan—her dead mate's misguided, rebellious, socially-inept son whom she was obligated to protect… even from himself.
On a primal level, instinct urged her to step aside and let them have at one another. Neither was directly challenging her authority as Alpha. Wolf etiquette dictated that competing males should settle their differences with fangs and claws. The most dominant male would emerge victorious—the loser would roll over—and the pack would be stronger for it.
Sawyer wasn't a wolf, though, and therein was the crux. The hunter didn't know the rules, wasn't equipped for a proper fight, and had no concern for pack status. So far, Sawyer had retained control, but his explosive temper was a wild card. He killed as easily as he breathed. It hadn't been so long since they'd been at each other's throats that she'd forgotten.
The hunter scowled. His regard locked on her; he searched her face, seeking answers. A frozen moment but they achieved connection. The pack bond resonated with a glimmer of concord which slowly crystalized—
The snarl of an injured, angry werewolf shattered their unity—Logan awakening.
The hunter's head jerked toward the threat.
In grim desperation, she tightened her grip on his sword arm. She would prevent Sawyer from attacking Logan but she wasn't prepared to hamper him if he needed to defend himself. Her loyalties were wretchedly, painfully divided. Should her effort to prevent a fight fail, she didn't know what she would do.
Sawyer's eyes betrayed his decision to act in the
split second before he moved. The blasted man claimed to be left handed but the reality was closer to ambidexterity. As nimble as a baton twirler, he set the knife to spinning and flipped it neatly from one hand to the other.
Victoria made a blind grab for his wrist, expecting him to be one place, but she miscalculated, and her hand closed on the blade of the knife instead. The edge sliced clean through her palm, and her sharp hurt lanced through the pack bond. Gasping, she opened her hand. Hot blood gushed from the wound.
Sawyer met her gaze—surprise lit his eyes and dismay parted his lips.
Giving a violent shake of his head, Logan rose onto his hind legs. The visage of a wolf stared at her—ears thrust to high points atop his head and jaws that formed a bold muzzle. His mouth hung open, revealing dagger-sharp teeth that glistened with strands of saliva. He swayed on his feet. Blood dripped from the wound on his chest and then smeared across the tile. As he healed, bullets popped from the injury. When he stepped toward her, iron-hard muscles rippled beneath plush black fur, and a visceral thrill of feminine admiration shot through her. His change occurred as swift and smooth as a riptide; his body poured itself into the mold of an enormous black wolf. Most wolf shifters required a minute or more; Logan took seconds. As his mass doubled, black fur burst through rent seams and the claws on his feet ripped through his shoes.
Fully transformed, Logan dropped to all fours and shook off the tattered remnants of his clothing. He stood with his head angled forward, his bristled tail flagged. His jaws parted in threat. A deep, rumbling growl reverberated in his throat.
"Stop." Victoria set down a flat command, reinforced through the empathic connection, seeking to instill obedience even though she expected to fail. She tried anyway; she was desperate. Logan had a hard head and a stubborn streak to match. At best, she hoped to distract him long enough to diffuse the situation.
Teeth bared, Logan lunged at Sawyer.
Simultaneously, Victoria's peripheral vision caught a blur from the left. With a shrill cry, Cali Kinkaid came to Sawyer's defense. The female hunter charged straight toward Logan with her arm raised.
Their combined bodies blocked Victoria's view but a horrified vision flooded her mind, so clear and real she perceived it as prophecy—a decapitated wolf shifter and a murdered hunter. Images swirled in her head, a crazy whirlwind, and a view into a brachiated future. Multiple paths led to the same awful, inevitable conclusion. The enormity of it sickened her.
The wolf-hunter war would resume.
Her stomach heaved. Helpless, Victoria doubled over, fighting the urge to puke. All she could do was watch the train wreck, unable to look away. Cringing, her frame stiffened, joints locking as she braced for the worst. Logan's momentum allowed the female hunter to blindside him.
A strangled scream caught Victoria's throat despite her best attempts to give it voice. She struggled to force her vocal cords to work, but all she could do was squeak. Then, all the sudden, a shout of warning tore from her throat—
"No!"
Both hands locked on the handle of her weapon, Kinkaid swung her arms over and down. The hot bottom of the skillet clobbered the side of Logan's head. A solid clonk and a gruesome sizzle recorded the impact. The burnt stench of seared flesh inundated the air.
Roaring, Logan wheeled on Kinkaid, his jaws parted wide to strike. At the end of her arc, Cali attempted to bring the hot pan up for another blow, but her reflexes were no match for a wolf's—and he already had the advantageous position. Her attack left her wide open.
"Logan, no!" Victoria lunged even though she would be too late.
The black wolf dove toward the hunter, his jaws bared for a throat grab. He shot straight past her clumsy guard and dove for her jugular. His teeth were ever so big and white—more than capable of biting off a grown woman's head.
"Enough. These people are our guests. You dishonor our pack." Sylvie slid into the slight gap between wolf and hunter. She blocked his bite, shoving her forearm between his jaws, and shoved the hunter aside. When Logan's teeth sank into her flesh, the Skald's pain blossomed through the pack bond.
Victoria ground to a sudden halt, and Sawyer collided with her from behind, knocking her right off her feet. His hands locked on her shoulders and stopped her from going over. Unless he'd grown a third arm, he must have sheathed or dropped the knife; she couldn't spare the attention to check. Her gaze remained locked on her pack mates. For a horrified instance, she feared Logan would turn on the Skald.
Logan opened his jaws, releasing Sylvie's arm, and his uneasy regret spread through the empathic bond. It constituted an admission of wrongdoing and an apology. He edged back a stride, his posture defensive, and his wary gaze shifted between the hunters.
"All right. That's it. I want all hunters outside. My apologies and it's nothing personal, but we need to create a cooling-off zone." Victoria raised her volume, taking control of the situation. She spread her arms wide and stepped back, bulldozing Sawyer away from Logan and toward the patio.
Victoria and Sylvie traded a silent look of understanding, and the older woman positioned herself to cover Kinkaid, edging the female hunter toward the far entrance to the kitchen. Morena hadn't moved from guard duty on the freezer. DNR emerged from behind the breakfast bar where he'd apparently been hiding.
Kinkaid and DNR remained rooted in place, looking to Sawyer for verification. Victoria couldn't see the hunter's face, but she sensed his tightly-repressed anger, a mirror to her own. At the moment, she was thoroughly pissed off, especially with the idiot males who were to blame for the current fiasco.
"DNR, head out through the patio exit and circle around. Meet me out front." Sawyer issued the order with steady confidence.
"Yes, sir. I'm already gone." DNR shot to his feet and hit the ground running, following the proscribed route.
"I think the lad pissed himself." Sawyer shook his head. "And you, Kinkaid—what were you thinking, attacking a werewolf with a frying pan? That has to be the most dumbass thing I've ever seen anyone do." With a touch of offbeat humor, Sawyer deescalated the strain further. A burst of nervous laughter swept the room—even Logan huffed, sides heaving.
"Technically, it was a skillet." She paused. "Sir."
"No one's going to stop calling you 'crazy' anytime soon," Sawyer said.
The female hunter cocked her head and flashed a shit-eating grin. "I sure as hell hope not."
Nervous laughter skipped through those gathered. Victoria allowed her arms to fall to her sides, and eased toward the center to assess the female hunter's condition. She deliberately positioned herself between Logan and Sawyer as a buffer. If either tried anything, they'd have to go through her first.
Logan's gaze burned a hole in in her back; his molten anger stewed like a volcano pending eruption. In a pure fit of annoyance, Victoria grabbed raw power and whacked him through the pack bond, delivering the equivalent of a sharp smack.
The black wolf huffed, but offered no other response. Foreboding of another explosive confrontation brewed in Victoria's gut. Logan's restraint worried her, precisely because it wasn't like him at all. More than anything, he was a creature of impulse and passion. She wondered if he'd changed that much in the months since she'd last seen him, and more than anything, she hoped not. She really liked the stupid jerk as he was... sarcasm and all.
"Cali, are you injured? You have blood on your arm." Belatedly, Victoria realized Kinkaid had nowhere to retreat—she had Morena at her back, Sylvie beside her, and Logan in front of her. She lifted her hand and beckoned Morena to move aside to clear a path. The teenager hesitated, but then edged over toward the sink, placing the island between them.
"It's not mine." Kinkaid swiped her hand across her forearm, wiping off blood she then flicked to the tile. The female hunter glanced about, noting Morena's position and the open path. She hesitated as if considering her options, and then carefully set the skillet down on the stovetop.
"Thank you for defending me. I'm sorry you were hurt doing so."
Cali addressed her words to Sylvie, speaking in an apologetic tone.
"You're welcome." Sylvie offered a gracious smile. "I am already healing."
"I dented your pot. Thank you for inviting us for breakfast." The female hunter ran a hand through her hair, appearing more nervous with social pleasantries than she had going into combat armed with a skillet.
"I'm sure it'll be fine," Sylvie said. "And you're welcome. Hopefully, next time, things will go more smoothly."
"Next time." Cali tipped her chin. Head held high, shoulders square; she marched past Victoria toward the back patio exit. Maybe it was just to be contrary, or she wanted to prove her courage. Whatever the case, Victoria kept her mouth shut, especially since she landed squarely in agreement with Sawyer—Crazy Cali more than deserved her moniker. Once Kinkaid reached the courtyard, she lingered beside the patio table, keeping an eye on Sawyer.
Victoria didn't blame her in the least; she admired the woman's loyalty. Hoping to diffuse the tension further, she turned to Sawyer. She stared into his grumpy face and tried for a light, teasing tone. "Are you still here?"
"You said hunters outside, pack inside. I'm confused. Am I supposed to stand on the threshold?" Sawyer arched an ironic brow, making light of the matter though his underlying attitude conveyed skepticism and challenge.
"Sawyer, for all your faults, you've never been pissy. Don't start now."
"I'm not leaving you alone," Sawyer said, frowning.
Victoria smothered a smile, once again rather stupidly liking his assertiveness when the smart reaction dictated the opposite.
Thankfully, Sylvie stepped up to offer a neat reply. "She is not alone. I am here."
"Me too!" Morena piped up, ambling closer. True to character, the teenager refused to be left out of any important event. The girl had the enthusiasm of a hyperactive five-year-old and the energy to match.
"I'm not leaving." Sawyer crossed his arms.
Men. They were both so damn stubborn. Neither would give even an inch. She couldn't win. Victoria stretched her neck to one side, trying to alleviate cramped muscles. For a frustrating minute, the impasse appeared insurmountable. Faced with no other options, she would have to choose between Sawyer and Logan. Keep one, boot the other. Not a decision she wanted to make. Quite selfishly, she preferred to retain both of them. The pack needed strong males to aid its recovery.
Wolf's Cross: Book 4 (Loki's Wolves) Page 7