Rogue Breed (Rogue Huntress Chronicles Book 2)

by Thea Atkinson

  I watched as he shook his head. "That wasn't us."

  "If not you, then who?"

  He jerked his chin at the trailer behind the four wheeler.

  "Them."

  My eyes sought Jeb's. Without having to ask, he knew exactly what I wanted. Without lowering his pistol, he trotted forward far enough to snag the man by his elbow. He made sure his hands were still in the air as he ran his hands down the man's sides and up his legs. Then he looked back at me.

  "I think you better see something," he said.

  He snagged the man by his elbow and tugged him forward to face me. From three feet away, I could tell that the markings on his face were nothing like those of the huntsman. The symbols were black, yes, but they looked like hieroglyphs, not fleur-di-lis. A language of sorts. Or spells. Some sort of ancient magic.

  "Who are you?" I demanded.

  "Someone who can help."

  "And how would you do that?"

  "We know what's going on here," he said, looking back over his shoulder. "In fact, we know more about what's going on than you do."

  "Who do you mean by we?"

  He waved ahead the RV and it roared to life. Jeb snapped his pistol to the man's temple, preparing to fire should things go south. The vehicle rumbled through the gates with a burping movement as though it was on its last bit of gasoline and came to rest at the apex of the driveway just five feet from where I stood.

  "Tell them to come out," I said. "Slowly."

  I didn't but have the words out of my mouth when I watched the door of the RV fling open and the long leg of a woman poke out through it. She climbed down the three stairs and then stood facing me, hands on her hips and feet planted hip width apart. She was beautiful and exotic looking. Her platinum hair was plaited down one side and was long enough to reach her waist. I had the vague thought that she hadn't cut it since I'd seen her last. The eyes that bored into me were almond shaped and blue and no less piercing than they'd been decades earlier. Very much like my own.

  "Hello Artemis," I said and could hear the flat tone in my voice.

  "Don't you mean, mother?" she said.

  WHAT HISTORY DOESN'T BEAR REPEATING

  I stared at the woman standing before me, trying very hard to keep every emotion I felt for her from my face. Inside, I was seething and grief stricken all at once. She had left me all those years ago after at least a decade of torture under the guise of training. Before Galen had taken over my tutelage, this woman had given me training of a different sort. She was the reason I could withstand the pain of silver, but that skill didn't come at a small price.

  "You're not my mother," I said, thinking of the woman that Caleb had murdered during his coup. The sweet gentle she-wolf who had been Lynden's mother. That woman had been more a mother to me than her, even if she was only mere decades older than me.

  "Of course I'm your mother," the woman stepped forward, extending her hand. The nails were painted with gold polish and a sparkle embedded in the tip glinted at me. "You know that as well as I do."

  I felt Lynden's hand spasm into mine. I'd not been aware he'd even come back out of the house or that he'd stolen close enough to me that he could grab hold of me. He squeezed very hard and I looked down at him. He looked stricken. He had no idea that I wasn't his full-blooded sister. A fact I never told him and never planned to until this moment.

  "Our mother is dead," he said in a monotone, looking ashen as he fixed his gaze on Artemis. "You're not our mother."

  My mother's gaze swung to his and her face lit with a peculiar sort of compassion. I wasn't fooled.

  "You're right," Lynden," I said to him. "This is not your mother. She's the most dangerous goddamn woman in the whole world."

  I spun on my heel, scanning the area for guards. From the corner of my eye, I could see Gerald frozen like a pillar of salt as he took in the shifter he hadn't laid eyes on in decades standing in front of him. He too looked stricken. He appeared to be working through some of his own shit as I floundered to find a suitable sentry to take the pair out of my sight. I needed a rough one, someone who would do my bidding without question and without remorse. Someone who didn't know my mother from centuries of pack community. My gaze fell on the young shifter from earlier. His face was a hard rock of etched focus.

  "Arrest them," I said to him and he snapped to action. "Both of them. Hell," I said. "Every goddamn one of them."

  Rifles from all around me clicked. It was a satisfying, soul-buoying sound. The man on the lawn got yanked to a tottering stand and had his hands thrust behind his back so sharply, he cried out. The drummer made a soft sound as someone clubbed him unconscious. I hoped my mother's fate was the same, but I didn't plan to stick around to find out.

  "Put them in the panic room," I said as I lurched away from them, my bare heel scraping on a pebble. I would have rather jammed her in some sort of dank cell, but since the posh panic suite was the only one in the mansion with a cell door, it would have to do. It was unfortunate she would no doubt find that comforting and familiar.

  "Put a guard on them twenty-four seven."

  "Shana," Artemis said from behind me. "Is this any way to greet the mother you haven't seen for nearly a century?"

  I spun about and drilled her with a hard glare. "Welcome home, mother."

  Without another word, I pulled at Lynden's arm and strode back to the house with him in tow. I could hear a scuffle behind me as the guards took all three into custody and two others trooped through the gates to gather the stragglers. Finally. At least that incessant drumming would end.

  I expected to hear some argument from behind me, but there was nothing but silent acquiesce. Whatever reason had set them upon my doorstep, I didn't trust Artemis one bit. And those three dead huntsman's bodies she delivered so auspiciously did nothing to increase that inclination. Rather, it made me suspect her more. What made her think I wanted to see these men? What made her think she would be welcome at this doorstep with such trophies in the first place. It occurred to me that she hadn't even asked me about my father. She had accepted my presence as alpha as easily as if it were my father himself who stood before her.

  I knew Jeb was beside me from the strong smell of licorice that wafted toward me as I headed for the house. Wanting privacy, I veered to the left out toward the woods rather than entering the foyer and having to face questions from anyone, including Lynden. I wasn't ready for that, and I certainly wasn't ready to face my mother. The woods seemed the best bet. I was already pulling off the maxi dress, mumbling my gratitude that I hadn't got dressed long before I reached the tree line. I heard him curse from beside me as I dropped it and noticed he was bending over to scoop up my dress.

  "Leave it," I said when I heard him mutter that damn werewolves never bothered to prepare. I would never pull that hateful thing on again. Let it sit out in the rain and weather for all eternity.

  I knew he would follow me without hesitation, but it would take him a while to catch me if I ran. I wanted him to catch me, but I also needed the time to think. On all fours, I loped for the treeline and our special spot. I felt the incredible need to be nestled into the Moss, enveloped by the smell of woods and pine. As I loped into the underbrush, heavy with the fragrance of pine and wildflowers, I gave no thought to the human man behind me and how he might have to struggle to keep up. I just wanted to go. Needed to flush the anger and sense of betrayal from my veins and flood them with the joy of running, the glee of having heightened animal senses wriggling through my skin.

  I was still in my lupine state when he found me. He didn't break stride as he saw me crouching beneath the roots of the old tree, cowering deep in the depths of the hollow, but I could tell he was exhausted from the way his shoulders sagged.

  "You can stay like that all day if you want, Shana," he said. "But it's not going change what's happening."

  I ran my tongue over my jowls. He had run hard enough that his chest heaved with exertion. He must've had a devil of a time keeping up. Even from
this distance I could see that his hair was soaked with sweat and that he had discarded his shirt somewhere along the way. Rivulets of perspiration ran between the muscles of his pectorals. I had the sudden desire to lick it off him. Drown myself in that sweat. Pretend nothing else existed but the two of us.

  While he had flung off his shirt, he still held my dress clutched in his fist. He tossed it over the overhanging root above us, then he stooped over to avoid those same roots as he pushed in beside me. He rolled the green apples I'd left him yesterday aside to make room. He wrapped one arm around my back and let his hand hang over the other side of my rib cage. I felt his fingers tickling my fur.

  "It's true then," he murmured. "That was your mother."

  I looked away off into the bushes. A squirrel stared back at me with a nut clutched between its little paws. I watched it for a long moment, my thoughts swirling with emotion I couldn't contain or describe. I didn't realize he had spoken until he nudged me.

  I swung my gaze back to his.

  "Whatever it is, you need to face it," he said. "And if it's that bad, you probably shouldn't leave Lynden there by himself."

  The wolf in me let go a shuddering sigh. I relinquished its form reluctantly. The human half of me would have to rationalize all of this, and it was far easier to feel the primal response and go to the primitive state of hate and killing. I wanted to kill her. I tasted the need.

  Naked, I shivered and burrowed beneath his arm.

  "Tell me," he said.

  "It's nasty business," I said.

  I felt him reaching with his other arm up over our heads to snag my dress. He pulled it down and worked it over my head.

  "Arm," he said. I pushed my fist through the sleeve hole. I didn't want to wear it but I was strangely cold.

  "Good," he said. "If it's nasty business, I'd rather you look a little more normal when you tell me."

  "Meaning you can't stand to see me naked."

  "Exactly," he said. "Too distracting." He smiled.

  I worked at the material of the dress with my fingers, bunching it up into a dozen folds as I tried to wade through the murk of memories and find the right ones to describe. "What she did to me –" I swallowed down convulsively, trying to find the words to explain what my life had been like with my mother, how my emotions had been mixed between a sense of abandonment and elation when she had left .

  "Yes?" he prompted gently.

  "What she did..."

  At that I broke down. I didn't have the words to tell him. He gathered me closer and rocked me.

  "Hush, now," he said. "She's your mother, surely it can't be that bad."

  I shuddered. "Imagine your stint in Guantanamo Bay," was what I said because I couldn't think of any words that could encapsulate the whole of it. Instead, a list of her crimes came to mind, and I knew many of the worst ones still bobbed about in the murk at the very back of my psyche, ripe for plucking but so vile I didn't want to wade in to get them.

  "She tortured me," I whispered. The hoarseness of the word made me clutch at his back and he squeezed me tighter. That somehow gave me the courage to ease away from him and swipe my eyes with the heel of my hand. I pulled in a deep breath.

  "You don't have to say more," he said. Those crystalline eyes met mine and I noticed his too were shining with moisture.

  "I need to," I said. "I think I need to."

  "Okay," he said, but I noticed his face gained that implacable expression he wore like armour. I cleared my throat, hesitant to start, not knowing what thing to say first.

  "She used to brush my hair for me," I said, wading into the closest memory. "It was always long and tangled because I was always running around."

  "I love your hair," he murmured.

  "It's similar to hers, you see," I said, and he nodded. "Well, she couldn't stand it looking messy. She kept complaining I was too wild, too unkempt, and yet she spent long hours brushing it out for me. I loved it. Everything was alright when she did that." I sighed, thinking about the moments of acceptance I had felt beneath her gentle brushing.

  "It sounds nice," he said, more to prompt me out of my silent brooding, I thought, as I ran through each moment of the memory.

  I looked at him. "It was," I admitted. "Then it wasn't. One afternoon she called me over and bade me sit, which I did. I can't tell you how excited I was. I squirmed way back into the chair, kept my back nice and straight like she liked. I sat very still.

  "She brushed it out nice and shining. Tucked a few stray locks into a pin curl around my face and then let it make a ringlet down my temple. I looked beautiful. Even I knew it. She asked me if I liked it, and I said, yes. I could barely breathe for how stunning I looked in the mirror. She kept cooing over how beautiful I was, how mesmerizing the way my hair sat on my shoulders. At twelve, we're so awkward and self-conscious." I sighed. "She said she could spray it for me. Keep it nice and neat for the whole day and maybe the next if I was careful."

  "So you let her."

  I nodded. "I did. I wanted to look beautiful. It was the first time I felt so, you see. And she sprayed it in place. All day after that, everywhere my hair touched my neck felt like a curling iron was too close. It never truly burned but by the end of the day I had red weals all over my neck and my scalp felt too tight. She wouldn't let me wash my hair. By midnight the weals had begun to seep. Later I found out she had added a very weak dose of colloidal silver to the spray."

  I caught his eye but couldn't read his expression. The only thing that revealed his shock was the way his jaw clenched at the corner.

  "It's why I wear it braided now," I said with a shrug. "I learned my lesson. It was never messy again."

  "Emotional torture," he said. "It's the worst. She should be shot for what she did to a child, to you."

  "Emotional abuse is the least of it," I said. "By the time I got that hairdo, she had nearly drowned me a dozen of times, buried me in at least three shallow graves. She put colloidal silver in my orange juice in the morning for fuck's sake."

  "Shit," he said.

  I couldn't look at him because the worst of it was that I begged each day for her to tell me she loved me. I tried to be a good girl, to make her proud. It was never enough. A day or two of sweetness and then she'd decide I needed training again. I hugged myself to stop the tremors, hear the shaking of my voice when I admitted the last, most horrible thing.

  "She was able to keep all the things she did to me from my father. He never knew, and I never ever told him. Because she was my mom. I didn't want to see her hurt. I didn't want to be the reason he hated her. "

  The trembling started again, and he hugged me tighter.

  "And I didn't tell him either. I let it go on. I mean, she was my mother. She was supposed to know better. She was supposed to know what she was doing, and I trusted her. But it was so bad. If I passed whatever test she had assigned me, she'd snuggle in bed with me as though we were the most loving mother and daughter pair her ever to grace the earth. She stroked my hair and told me what a good girl I was. How proud she was of me. I lived for it. How messed up is that?"

  I stuffed my fists against my lips, determined to keep the rest of it in and terrified the details would make it past the barrier. They felt claustrophobic all stuffed into my memory in the small space that I had given it, shut away from my conscious mind until they couldn't stand being shut up anymore and came out in dreams like the ones I'd been having.

  All of those were horrible and painful tortures, but none of them even came close to the sensory deprivation she put me under. Time and time again she would lock me in a crate in a dark room for hours. Each time I was put in, the crate seemed to get smaller and smaller and I was never sure if I was growing too fast for her to replace it or if she was truly finding smaller boxes to put me in.

  Neither one of us said anything for a long moment, and then he spoke.

  "You loved her and she tortured you," he said. "There's no shame in that, Shana."

  "Now she's here, and I d
on't know how I can give her sanctuary with all the history between us."

  "So don't." His thumb roamed my chin and twisted my face so that his eyes met mine. "Send them on their way in the morning. I'll deliver the news."

  I wanted to. Oh, how I wanted to. But now that I had her, now that I was an adult with dozens of deaths on my hands, I wanted hers too.

  "I'm going to kill her," I said and was surprised to hear how flat the words sounded. I would think there'd be some sort of victory in them. "Old blood or not, I'm going to kill her."

  "What do you mean old blood?"

  "I say I'm going to murder my mother and you ask about old blood."

  He shrugged. "You are the pack's alpha. You make the decisions, but you should explain what the consequences might be if you plan to go through with it."

  "Artemis comes from very old stock. Her lineage is supposed to be from one of the first werewolf families." I wrapped my arms around my knees. "That's the complicated part of the problem. Many of the shifters in my pack know she comes from old blood and respect it. I think in part that's some of her mania. She saw her blood bred with regular werewolf blood like my father's as diluting it. She wanted to make me stronger. Harking back to the old days when her blood was pure. I think it always bothered her she had bonded beneath her station."

  I watched him try to work through the information. His head tossed as he thought it through, as if the information was marbles in his fingers, tossed up and down and mixed together.

  "It's not a lineage I'm proud of," I said. "After the things she did to me."

  "Well, you're a woman now. Full-grown. I've seen you take out threats without question or hesitation. She can't hurt you now. You're the strongest woman I know."

  "Thanks for that," I said, stretching my legs out in front of me. Talking about things made me feel a little better. The knot in my stomach loosened somewhat.

  "I mean it," he said. He pressed his thumb into the indentation of my chin and he tilted my face to his. His kiss was slow and languid. While it was meant to be comforting, the beast in me saw it as something else. It was only seconds before my arms were entwined around his neck, and I was clinging to him drenched in desire.