by KH LeMoyne
Before she had time to recover, he hauled her up. His fingers gripped the front of her shirt as he lowered his face beside hers. She worked not to flinch as his nose rubbed against her cheek and he inhaled deeply. “Look what you’ve made me do. I don’t want to hurt you, Rayven.”
Sucking in a breath, she glared at him. “Don’t you think the tribunal will wonder why the accused murderer is beaten to a pulp?”
As quickly as he’d grabbed her, he let her go. With a grunt, she landed and slid into an awkward pile, jarring her shoulder again.
“Our beloved alpha has been murdered.” The solemnity coloring his tone didn’t match the quick rise and fall of his brows or his increased heartbeat. “By his own daughter no less. I imagine the alpha tribunal will expect nothing less than outrage from a loyal clan.”
“There isn’t a loyal bone in any of your team.”
Not so much as a muscle twitched on his face, and his expression turned oddly still. “I gave you a choice. I’ve given you far too many. However, I will regret losing you to the final alpha death challenges.”
Rayven ground her teeth. As much as she hated to admit it, he was right. She doubted she’d survive the tribunal if Jacob and the other enforcers had fabricated charges against her.
He turned away and spoke over his shoulder. “One other thing. I received a text. The Ghost is coming to retrieve you for his alpha. We all know what happens to his victims.” Jacob stopped at the door and motioned to someone down the hallway. Her throat tightened as Sam appeared. “Stay outside her cell and make sure she doesn’t try anything. She needs to be alive when the envoy comes.”
Sam nodded but remained at the open door, his eyes hazed with red.
Rayven tensed, waiting. She still had some fight left in her. Granted, a pitiful amount, but the ground beneath her delivered a powerful ripple that oddly eased the constriction in her chest. Where had that come from?
From the unsavory smirk on Sam’s face, she guessed he intended to use the fact she was still conscious as an excuse to dole out yet more of his sadistic punishment.
4
Perimeter
Karndottir Stronghold
Breslin rubbed at the stubble on his chin. He’d kept his eyes on the horizon filled with endless mountains. The farther he traveled, the more he begrudgingly allowed the beauty of Douglas fir, ponderosa pine, and wheatgrass to soothe his beast. The occasional glimpse of bighorn sheep sent him back in time. Decades peeled away as if it were yesterday, to a time when he answered to no one.
Nature had been his one solace in life. Orphaned and later embracing a destiny of darkness and death hadn’t left him with companions. The sky, the endless forest, an open prairie—even the stark beauty of the desert were the only things that offered him peace.
Peace that eluded him now, but his anger still gripped him. Especially when, sometime near dawn, he’d realized that even if Deacon hadn’t known of Rayven Karndottir’s existence, Callum probably had. He’d been born in this territory, had friends he’d helped rescue from Gauthier.
That betrayal hurt more than it should.
Shut out your thoughts. Keep your mind on the task. Stay in the moment. Vendrick’s words repeated in Breslin’s mind. Reverberating like a metronome, those words normally reset him and arrowed him back on focus, intensifying his training with hard-edged precision. But for some reason, today his conditioning failed.
Outrage gnawed at him that this was the heartland of Gauthier’s stronghold. The evil bastard didn’t deserve such beauty. But here it was, persisting with or without the alpha. Breslin took small satisfaction in that.
Tapping his fingers on the steering wheel, he flicked a gaze around him. After too much time on the road for his peace of mind, he’d finally reached the edge of the Karndottir stronghold. He slowed down and pulled over to the side of the road, waiting.
Where is the pushback? What of the grinding pain that assaulted a shifter not bound by oath to enter this sacred land? The elemental tug that should restrict his forward motion didn’t so much as prickle along his skin.
He inched the SUV forward, aware with each yard he traveled that no powerful barriers surrounded the Karndottir stronghold. The power sharing between alpha and the mantle granted by Mother Earth demanded reciprocity. An alpha able to contain enough power in their body received the gift of a special parcel of land to replenish, rejuvenate, and, depending on the alpha, share with their clan. Voids didn’t exist in nature. Without an alpha, the sanctuary’s power still existed—somewhere. Why did it seem nonexistent?
Gauthier may have ruled by brute force instead of building a collective clan knowledge base for all, but being an asshole alpha didn’t mean the mantle and Mother Earth retracted their agreement.
The physical shield of the sacred grounds kept humans from viewing the parts of the world that didn’t belong to them. It kept shifters pledged to other alphas from encroaching. Nestled in a bowl between the Height of the Rockies Provincial Park and Kootenay National Park, the risk for exposure of his people to humans was as great in Karndottir’s territory as it was in Deacon’s.
The prime alpha real estate should be refusing his entry, especially if the heir had claimed the mantle after killing her father. Instead, he felt nothing. Several miles back, he’d felt a dim pulse of alpha power along his skin as he cleared the last small town, although now that too was gone.
He shook his head. What did it matter? He was here for one reason. To get the conniving she-bear killer and drag her sorry ass back to his alpha.
Or he could take matters into his own hands. He knew how to push buttons. If she attacked him, he’d have just cause to take her out. Clean. Simple. Justifiable. Technically within the law, but morally, he’d be breaking his word to Deacon.
Following the instructions, Breslin turned off on a winding side road that followed along a bleak stretch of land. He stopped before ghostly spindles of burned trees failing to camouflage the unpaved and deeply rutted trail. He bounced in his seat, and the farther he drove, the more the surrounding countryside changed. Rich, diverse vegetation turned to briars and weeds. A weak pulse of magic thrummed against him. Where he expected leaves falling off the trees and the onset of winter, the air was unusually dry and the land parched.
He continued on the back road, passing through an illusion of tree trunks before exiting on the other side to an even more devastated area of the Karndottir stronghold. The barren shells of a few dilapidated and abandoned homes were scattered along the roadside, but this section of the sanctuary didn’t shelter man and beast. Unlike Black Haven, no businesses existed. No cozy homes with children playing without fear in their front yards or communal areas for clan members to celebrate and share announcements. Instead, several lone pines punctuated the horizon, along with a sea of rock, stinging nettle, and dried grasses despite heavy rains.
Breslin’s chest tightened. There should be greenery as far as he could see. To his knowledge, no alpha abused their sanctuary in this fashion. Alpha power supported nature. Whether in the dead of winter or the height of a summer heat wave, nature delivered magic exponentially—at least for those alphas born to handle the load.
Reminding himself that such a neglected area likely hid danger, he let his gaze rove from side to side, with an occasional glance in the rearview mirror.
At the end of the potholed lane, blocked by a twelve-foot-tall stockade fence, he stopped. The wooden fence extended a mile in each direction, blocking the view of the mountains and almost blocking the sun. The gates suddenly swung open only wide enough to allow his vehicle entry.
Evidently, they’d seen him coming, though he’d noticed no guards around the stronghold’s perimeter. Inhaling, he analyzed scents while he scanned and listened.
Wolf, badger, and human stink correlated with the dozen or so heartbeats he registered. But, aside from the gaunt young man with straggly hair and dirty jeans who held the gate open, Breslin saw no one else.
Unbelievable. The team o
f shifters within this makeshift fort had no one assigned to security.
Guards greeted strangers miles before they reached Deacon’s Black Haven sanctuary. Polite guards who accompanied visitors or redirected them away.
What was left of Gauthier’s team didn’t bother with their own safety, much less anyone else’s.
He drove along the narrow lane, now flanked by waist-high weeds on either side, until it spilled into a circular dirt driveway. A one-story ranch house sporting plywood patching on the roof and a wide sagging porch sat as the solitary clan building. It matched the rusted pickup trucks parked in front, and a barn that sported more holes than solid roof and walls.
He pulled up next to them. Waiting for an emissary, he kept his sunglasses on and stayed inside his vehicle. Six shifters eyed him from the porch—from what he could smell, all wolves. Five more lurked in the tall weeds and the shadows of the few pine trees: a mix of wolf, badger, and black bear. Instinct warned him more were inside the house, with a small contingent hidden in the trees behind the house.
There were no women anywhere in sight.
A stocky, brindle-haired fireplug of a man swaggered toward him. The exaggerated gait and fierce gleam in the wolf enforcer’s eyes signaled he expected respect.
Breslin slowly got out of his truck and waited, making the man come to him. He didn’t hand out respect or obedience for anyone. The people who merited such deference earned the privilege. Gauthier’s team didn’t fall into that category, and definitely not Jacob Hellman, Gauthier’s second, either.
Jacob smirked and ran an insolent gaze up and down Breslin. “Deacon’s emissary?”
“And if I’m not?” He couldn’t resist the small taunt. Jacob might have thirty pounds on him, but his excess wasn’t all muscle. Breslin could crush him with speed and agility.
“You wouldn’t leave this territory alive, cat, though I’m surprised he sent only you.”
Breslin’s cougar bristled, and while a fight here would take some edge off his anger, it would reflect poorly on his clan and achieve nothing.
“Where’s my prisoner?” He pulled the written warrant from Deacon out of his shirt pocket and extended it.
Jacob snatched it. Barely giving the contents a look, he crushed it and tossed the paper. But he motioned toward the porch. “Bring her out and get me the paperwork.”
A younger man on the porch nearly tumbled down the stairs in his rush to obey and delivered a clipboard. “It’s all here, Jacob.”
With a grunt, Jacob clicked a pen and shoved it with sheets of paper at Breslin’s chest. He caught it and held tight before the clipboard touched him. Not moving, he stared Jacob down, waiting. The wolf cursed and dropped his hand. “Name and date on every page.”
Breslin glanced at the clipboard and flipped over the first page, pretending to be absorbed in reading every damn page before signing. He noted Jacob’s not-so-subtle move to stand beside him, blocking Breslin’s view from his own vehicle as a dozen or more shifters emerged from the grasses.
Fine, so they were going to play distract the cougar. He hadn’t had a good sparring match in too many weeks, though he doubted these misfits would even get him winded. They were complacent enough about their approach, making it easy for him to track the movement of each one.
Metal on metal jangled, followed by a resounding thump of wood on concrete. Breslin turned his head and searched beyond Jacob’s shoulder, zeroing in on an open cellar door at the far side of the house. Two men hauled a figure between them, but they walked too close together for him to make out more than the profile of the person in between.
Breslin signed several pages without looking at the paper and gestured with his chin toward Jacob. “I’d prefer to secure her in the vehicle myself.”
“Not an option.” Jacob tapped the clipboard and the remaining pages. Breslin choked back the urge to swat the thick fingers with his claws elongated, because he’d have to shift. An action that would encourage reciprocal behavior and hinder his departure, and given the uneasy itch crawling along his skin, he wanted to leave with his prisoner at the first possible second.
“She’s exhibited nasty tendencies, and we’ve kept her tied up,” Jacob continued.
Not responding, Breslin signed the last page and shoved the clipboard back at Jacob. A speed-read through the document confirmed legal drivel consisting of disclaimers not to allow the prisoner out of her restraints on Karndottir territory, not to stop for more than ten minutes in Karndottir territory, not to speak or interact with any clan members on Karndottir—on and on ad nauseam.
He made a mental note to stop after he left the compound and enjoy the view for a full fifteen minutes just to see what the ones who followed him would do. Maybe he’d let his cougar out to mark a prominent tree. Even Deacon would find humor in that exercise.
Not bothering to be furtive, he stared at the men with the prisoner. They crowded her enough he couldn’t see her face or body, but shoulder-length black curls fluttered in the breeze. They hauled her higher between them until her boots barely skimmed the ground, chains dragging in the dirt.
“One more paper, Taggart.” Jacob ignored the buzz from the cell phone clipped to his belt and pounded the clipboard with the ballpoint of the pen. Again, he moved to block Breslin’s view of the rear of his vehicle. But not before Breslin noted that the prisoner’s head between her shifter guards barely reached their shoulders.
She must be a tiny woman, though he’d be the first to admit size and gender didn’t mean she wasn’t a vicious viper. But the level of protective detail seemed out of proportion unless she’d acquired deadly alpha powers upon her father’s death.
If so, this would be a fun trip.
Yet, she didn’t appear to be struggling. Had she even been walking under her own steam? If she was unconscious, why conceal it with all this fanfare? They could as easily have slung her over one shoulder with those heavy chains dragging behind her, cutting out all this red tape.
The furtive glances Jacob and his crew shared when they thought he wasn’t paying attention said they were hiding something. Breslin also detected a barely held reluctance from Jacob to finish this transfer. Yet if he wasn’t the one who had decided to turn the Karndottir offspring over for trial, who forced that call?
Then again, maybe he was her partner in the crime and this was her scheme.
Finished, he smacked the clipboard on the hood of his vehicle and headed for the driver’s door. Jacob snarled, but Breslin’s hand was already on the handle.
The guards slammed the back of his SUV and stood rooted with their arms across their chests as if to bar him from checking on the prisoner. Breslin gave them a hard, cold stare.
For a man hated as much as Gauthier was, it seemed strange anyone would revile his murderer. What did he care? She’d shift and heal from whatever injuries she’d sustained at the hands of her clan. Then be ready to meet her end.
He glanced back. Protocol stated he should check on his prisoner. They might have thrown a dead body in his trunk, intending to blame Deacon. But as he debated whether to act on that, nerves prickled down the back of his neck, an urging from his cat to flee. An instinct he’d never ignored. He climbed into the driver’s seat, determined to make it to the highway as fast as the dusty, rutted road allowed.
All of Jacob’s team watched him with eyes a shade too red for his liking. He could control himself. He didn’t want to take odds that any of them could. However, if they attacked, he’d kill them. Simple as that.
It wouldn’t be smart starting a war because he’d massacred the idiots on Gauthier’s team. Not that Deacon would leave him stranded alone in enemy territory. Breslin might still be beyond furious about how Gauthier’s death had played out, but he knew his own alpha would do anything to save him.
He shot a glance in his side-view mirror and gunned the engine, sending a spray of dirt and small rocks toward those standing behind his vehicle. Several curses and growls rang out as he watched two of the men
scamper back to the porch. He didn’t bother hiding his smile and pushed the gas pedal to the floor.
Once through the gates, he barely avoided a battered truck headed his way. He only caught a brief whiff through the open window, but it was enough to gauge the shifter’s origin and memorize the shocked expression.
Coyote? Between badgers and coyotes, Jacob had expanded on Gauthier’s old wolf-only rule for the team. He stored that information for later and concentrated on putting distance between him and the others.
He rolled up the window to stop the dust from coating the inside and looked at his odometer. When he’d cleared thirty miles, he’d stop and check on his prisoner. She was safe enough in the caged-off section in back—from him, if nothing else. Out of his sight, she wouldn’t tempt him with the overwhelming desire to kill a Karndottir.
With all those chains, he’d hear her when she tried to get loose; however, he needed another plan before he reached the border crossing. His windows were tinted, but no one was letting him drive through into the States without checking the vehicle. A woman trussed up in the back would be a problem.
Damn Jacob for forcing this situation. Breslin should have insisted on securing the prisoner himself. If she’d been in the backseat, he could claim she was his prisoner and use his false marshal badge and the paperwork Deacon’s tech guru, Brindy, had prepared.
Now he’d have to handle this somewhere on the side of the road and get her contained before they reached the border. Still, he had time to come up with a story. He’d need a great one if she was unconscious.
Finally back on the open road, he allowed his cat closer to the surface, enough for his cougar to reassure him that the woman lay unmoving in the back. Instead of being satisfied with their prey in custody, his beast clawed for release, scents from within the vehicle flooding his senses.
What the hell?
He struggled for control as the coppery tang of blood coated the back of his throat, followed by the soft, subtle aroma of sweet clover honey.