Chase straightened at the soft words. He felt like a world’s class ass, but couldn’t help the anger and resentment being near her brought. She’d tricked him, bound him in some way as her mate and didn’t even acknowledge what she’d done. He had a perfectly good Sleep Number bed at home, adjusted to perfection, and he was going to sleep on Brandon’s damn too short couch. He had a job to do, that she was distracting him from.
Using his grievances to keep his emotional distance, he turned around, stalking to the cabin door. Luckily, Brandon’s spare key was in the same place as he kept the one at his Packhome residence. In the porch light fixture.
“Stupid kid’s going to electrocute the hell out of someone one day like that.” Chase opened the door, thinking that was probably Brandon’s idea. There was no doubt another key hidden in a safer place in case Karen happened to need their old cabin. Brandon wouldn’t risk his mate for anyone, pack included.
“What happened to your fairy friend?”
Chase walked inside, the set of his shoulders hard as he turned on the lights. “Ember goes her own way. She’ll turn up.”
“Like a bad penny, I’m sure.” India had no desire to see the pint-sized female again. Except as maybe a meal.
The ‘cabin’ turned out to be an oversized converted storage building. A big bed dominated the back of the room. One wall held a tiny kitchenette. A loveseat separated the sleeping area from the living area. A tiny television sat in the middle of a wooden coffee table. Looking around, India noted a door that could easily be either a bathroom or closet. She hoped it was the former.
Taking a deep breath, she pushed aside the uncertainty of the moment. A small flicker of excitement quivered inside her at the prospect. Live or die, she was going to have to deal with Charles Weston Redding, aka the warden Chase, before she high-tailed it out of Anderson County once and for all. And next time, she’d find a computer and check the wolven website to make sure she stayed well away from others like him.
* * * *
Carter’s arms bulged with the effort of holding the wriggling whimpering creature while it fought out its last death throes biting on the Kevlar and silver reinforced armor plating sewn into his Hunter’s shirt. The shapeshifter’s whipcord lean body held far more strength than suggested. Silver poisoning rather than a punctured heart made the creature spasm one more time before the body relaxed into death. Pulling his silver hunting knife free of the creature’s ribs, he let the creature fall to the ground beside the ineffectual tranq gun. Or rather, the useless tranqs, as he pulled the two used darts from the corpse he hadn’t originally intended to kill and placed them in a secure container to check into later.
Even in death, the filthy naked thing looked like nothing more than a pathetic excuse for a human. Blood as red as any animal’s soaked into the thick pad of dead pine straw. Stringy black, gray, and white hair caught in the stubble of its gaunt cheek. Permanent shadows marred the skin around eyes that had burned with bright energy. Innocents would never know that he’d saved them from a monster that looked more bum than hideous. Still, evil lurked in many guises.
He sent his senses in a wide net, taking a fast look for anymore of its kind. While he was sure that it wasn’t a werewolf, Carter wasn’t schooled in all the subclassifications of werecreatures. He really didn’t care. Psychically, it tasted shapeshifter and had been tracking him. Those were two mistakes that the thing wouldn’t make again.
Mechanically, he set about cleaning up the ‘scene’. Carter took a deep calming breath before throwing his psychic senses into a wide net covering the area of the struggle. For Carter, the process was similar to zooming in on a microscope. Or at least that was how he related the talent as a teenager when it manifested. Every biological thing broke down into smaller and smaller pieces that he didn’t care to find out the names for. He just knew instinctively which biological parts of the puzzle originated from him and which originated from the shapeshifter.
Finite traces of stray skin cells, sweat, hair, even the wash of shapeshifter blood that soaked into the leaves and ground, separated and floated upward, hovering at the force of Carter’s will. He took another steadying breath as the task became more difficult. Stars lit behind the Hunter’s eyes as he directed only the biological material belonging to the shapeshifter to return to its original host. Tiny adjustments allowed for the redistribution of blood to settle so that there would be no problem fitting the returning blood to the body. His own biological material hovered invisible to the naked eye, away from the dead shapeshifter. When through, there would be no physical proof to connect him to this death at all.
In the back of his mind, he could hear his father’s disapproval. A Hunter didn’t display his kills like a trophy to the enemy. A Hunter was silent death, striking when and where the enemy least expected. Yet, instead of moving aside the earth and shoving the dead shifter inside, Carter locked his jaw against the sharp pain stabbing in his temple. His knees shook with fatigue. Heat dissipated from the body at his direction, leaving the corpse cold waxy and clean of anything having to do with Carter Hunter. Opening another small plastic container, he directed his own biological material inside. If he’d had any pyro skills, he would have opted to burn the evidence. Instead, that would have to come with him.
Critically, he cast an eye over his handiwork. When finished, not enough would be left for even the most skilled CSI to uncover. The local sheriff’s department, underfunded and over worked, would rule the case a body dump. They’d stall on evidence and finally declare the case cold. A small premonition, made him pull his cell phone out before it vibrated against his leg. His precognitive gifts were almost nonexistent, but he’d trained himself to listen to infrequent ‘push’ that he received.
“Victoria,” Carter addressed his mother by way of greeting, while scanning the area for any clues he may have missed. Hunter families did not address one another by relation. Anyone named Mom, Dad, or Uncle was a prime target for supernatural retaliation. His own family knew the bitter cost of that better than anyone.
Victoria Hunter didn’t waste time with pleasantries or inquiries into his health. He was alive and therefore well enough. Her love manifested in her unswerving loyalty and duty. “Have you heard of Isaiah Gabriel?”
Despite a nagging familiarity, he drew a blank. “No. Is it part of the local supernatural community?” He avoided saying werewolf pack. By her pause, he knew she’d picked up on the omission.
“No. He is a self-proclaimed deacon trying to unite the communities under his leadership. The Church of the Clean.” Disapproval sharpened Victoria’s normally warm, cultured voice. “I wanted to be certain that his influence had not gone so far south as Texas. ‘Deacon’ Gabriel travels around the country like some kind of evangelical circus freak. He has gone so far as to gain air time for his tent revivals.” That got Carter’s attention. He stayed quiet, listening to Victoria as he packed away his gear. “True he is using infomercial time that most normal humans pay little attention to.”
“But…,” Carter prompted, feeling as if someone just walked over his grave.
“Yes, but our people are listening.” His mother sounded tired and agitated. Distracted and less like the Victoria Hunter he admired, as if she were slipping again into the past. She sighed, dismissing the image in his mind. Once again she was the one woman he would trust with his very soul. “The whole setup looks innocent enough. Yet, I can feel something building. The economy is bad. Normal humans are discontent with their powerless lives.”
She uttered a small laugh of self-depreciation as she murmured one of her quotes. “Something wicked this way comes.” The tinkling sound of ice in crystal led him to believe she was at least safe in her condo in New York. While the rampaging energy of so many people packed into one city gave Carter migraines, it seemed to provide the sanctuary his mother needed to heal after the destruction of their family. Though, destruction was too tidy a word for what the monsters had done. Victoria hesitated, as if in tune to
her remaining son’s mood. Her heart bled into her voice on the tide of old sorrow. “Do what you need to do Carter and leave that God forsaken place.” She ended the call without a goodbye.
Turning back in the direction he’d come, Carter gathered enough energy to summon the senses he’d let falter spill out again. Perhaps, he mused, when he was done with this place, he’d spend some time with Victoria. He could stand New York for a week or so. Or until he had to escape the combination of Victoria searching glances for traces of the husband and children she’d lost in her eldest and Carter’s own survivor’s guilt. With barely a thought, he flexed the ‘muscles’ in his mind, ruffling the leaves like a baker sifts flour, erasing all traces of his passage.
With the same measure, he shifted his attention back to Victoria’s warning, moving forward with an action that he might need for the future. To stay alive and fight another day. He didn’t like filling time with television, but perhaps he needed to start taking in some late night show time. While his own precognitive abilities were minor, Victoria’s intuition was not to be dismissed. Ever. Carter’d keep an eye on this Isaiah Gabriel character and if the situation needed someone to step in…. Well, not all monsters turned furry.
Covering his tracks back to the side road where he parked, Carter stumbled as he leaned against the side of the truck. More than exhaustion pulled at him from the meticulous labor of sifting and sorting on both a molecular level and real space. He was done for, bottomed out. And for what? Carter frowned. All this running around and doing nothing was getting to him.
He didn’t regret killing the shifter, but like a green kid, he’d made a big mistake, showing off and using that much power to stage the scene. He pulled out the keys to the unassuming little twelve year old blue Ford Ranger truck he’d paid cash for and froze at the shiver of power that brushed against his skin. A faint glimmer teased the corner of one eye, disappearing when he stared straight on. He waited. Fresh sweat damped his back and armpits. If he had to fight now, he was fucked.
Nothing. Only foliage, insects, and more plant life. Still, not for the first time since he’d entered Anderson County, he felt watched. Carter frowned. Victoria’s comments must have really unsettled him. Or was it being here in this place that the most notorious werewolf Garrick Moser had claimed as his own territory?
Carter settled his mind and sought for the best way to describe what he felt, noted. Yeah. Noted. As if something powerful had taken note of Carter Hunter’s presence. Well, Carter Hunter definitely didn’t like that. His paranoia jerked up a notch.
So far his low key profile that kept him rotating through different motels in different towns in the county, the werewolf pack had been unable to locate him. He had seen several other species of supernaturals. The pathetic creature he’d dispatched had been his only casualty. Unfortunately, he’d been unable to locate his quarry as well.
Two werewolf strays. That’s all he was gunning for and you’d think he was searching for the lost city of gold. After checking to make sure Pete’s little collection of the werewolves’ personal effects was still in his duffel, Carter turned the truck to Palestine. The time had come to up the stakes. He’d use their own vicious natures against them.
* * * *
India perched on the edge of the small couch while Chase rummaged through a small cabinet and dorm sized refrigerator in the kitchenette. Rumbles of dissatisfaction emanated from him even as he pulled out various ingredients for a meal. India watched and waited. In her present condition as his prisoner, she certainly wasn’t going to offer to cook. He came up for air, the gold fall of his ponytail fanned out across his back and shoulder as he turned to look at her.
“Pork chops and mac–n-cheese about covers the menu,” he said. His amber gaze waited for her reaction. “It’s not so much a home cooked meal as filler.”
India shrugged feeling the silent demand for a response. She didn’t cook. Period. In her mother’s circles, the notion would be ridiculous. In Gin Demos’s pack, no one cared one way or the other. If they needed fancy, the event was catered. Otherwise, most of Orange County’s professional wolven knew by heart the numbers of restaurants with delivery. Eventually, he went back to the task of putting together a meal, taking his intense scrutiny with him. India relaxed a tiny bit, enough to study him while he worked in angry silence.
Her captor kept his aloof anger wrapped tight around him as he filled a large pot with water before setting it on the back of the stove to boil. He tossed in a liberal dash of oil and salt before turning to the meat. India couldn’t see the preparations, but smelled lemon and herbs.
Okay, at least he was going to eat. She had no expectations of his sharing. He wouldn’t feed her if he was just going to kill her anyway. More likely, he’d just eat in front of her. India sighed and closed her eyes. She’d been hungry before. What she really wanted was a bath. Not that she’d dare allow herself that vulnerability in present company. Her arm still ached from the Changed male’s attack and she felt every bit of the dirt and oil from the junk shop’s driveway. Drifting she could make out the glimmer of the forest behind her eyes.
The smell of food under her nose brought her back to her senses. Opening her eyes, she stared at the offered plate of food. She hesitated, her eyes darting to the belligerent set of his jaw. His other hand was empty, meaning this was the all-important first plate of the meal. He had not even fixed his own yet. India’s breath caught in her chest. She stared at the offering as if it were a poisonous snake ready to bite.
In her brief stint as a waitress, she’d come to realize how insignificant a meal was to the common human. There was no meaning behind the sharing of a meal. You were hungry. Your companion was hungry. You ate. Possibly at the same table. Friends and family often shared. Among her mother’s society friends, meals were about maintaining an image.
For wolven, eating took on a significant social importance. Like their wolf counterparts, wolven were territorial with food. Alphas, mates, and pups ate first. India stared at the plate he offered her. In a situation like this, the offering of food ranked higher than giving a human woman flowers. Her stomach growled, telling her how much it cared about the implications of accepting food from a stranger. No, not a stranger. He was her dream wolf come to life.
When she still hesitated, Chase glanced behind him. Bending, he grabbed and pulled the coffee table until little more than a foot separated it from the couch. Straddling her knees, he sat, the offered plate still in his opposite hand. India watched as he set the fork aside, picked up one of the pork chops and tore a piece off. Her pulse sped up as the morsel bypassed his mouth to hover before her lips in the manner one would feed a pup…or a mate. Anyone else risked losing a limb by touching another wolven’s meal.
“Why?” India asked, only to have the piece pushed onto her tongue. She stilled again, as did Chase, while they both waited to see if she’d accept or reject the offering. His face, bland and controlled, did nothing to hide the scent of his worry. India’s stomach growled again, egged on by the delicious flavor of pork, lemon, and herb. She could spit the piece out, she thought, her eyes narrowing with the thought.
A small, barely audible, whine escaped Chase as if he’d caught the tail of her thought. Dipping his head, he eased in slowly, giving her plenty of time to pull away before his lips brushed the corner of her mouth.
* * * *
Chase had no idea what he was doing. The wolf inside him ruled supreme and what the wolf wanted was his mate. Nuzzling the corner of her mouth, he held his breath, waiting for either acceptance or rejection of his offering. After a painstaking eternity, her jaw moved and she chewed the piece of meat, then swallowed. A low growl warned her from touching the plate. Chase tore off another small morsel, held it up, and waited for her wide, full lips to open before placing the bit in her mouth. Something hard and tight in his chest relaxed when she swallowed that too. Courting had been a hell of a lot easier when he’d limited himself to human skirts.
Chase had
had hundreds of women, but for the life of him, he couldn’t recall one single thing about any of them. His own stomach forgotten, every bite he offered to India, felt like foreplay. Hell’s bells, he wanted to feed her, then strip her down and feast on every inch of her body. Resistance screamed a warning in the back of his mind. Right now, he didn’t care that she’d stolen a piece of his soul without his permission. Fair was fair. He wanted his own power over her. He wanted to mark her with his own brand of ownership.
Putting the empty plate aside, he filled a small bowl with warm water. Locating a washcloth in the closet sized bathroom, he returned to his seat, setting the bowl on the coffee table. Gently, he took her arm, surprised when she complied. The bleeding had long since stopped, but wolven bites healed almost human slow. While his head understood that the injury showed how much Brandon had held back, Chase’s emotions wanted rip the other warden’s throat out for marring his mate. With great care for the tender injury, he washed her arm. That done, he was out of stalling tactics.
There were questions he should be demanding of her. None of that seemed important right now. The questions themselves had vanished from his mind, leaving only what the wolf wanted. He knew what that part of him wanted. Just like in the Forest, he could smell her own interest, only thankfully, she’d run the course of her heat or he’d be in real trouble.
* * * *
Reality reared its ugly head and India stiffened as Chase leaned, seduction evident in his every move. He stopped a hairsbreadth from capturing her lips. “What’s wrong, darlin’?”
“I can’t do this.” Shaking her head, she climbed over the couch, wincing at the pull on her arm. Her action quenched the last of the spell of lust that held them in thrall. “I have to go. I have responsibilities.” She ignored the whimpering note on the last word. God, the Hunter. What if he was still out there? What if she drew the bogeyman to Chase’s doorstep?
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