Dark Wolf Adrift

by Aimee Easterling

  But before I could make good on my plan, things went bat-shit crazy. That cute lady bartender? She apparently thought it was her job to protect the furniture because she came barreling between us like a freight train. “Break it up,” she demanded, planting a hand on each of our chests and straight-arming us apart.

  The female was charming enough that most humans would have backed down in the face of her scrunched-up lips and crinkled nose. And at the same time she was tough enough that she probably could have held her own among the more ornery two-legger set.

  But faced with werewolves, she didn’t stand a chance.

  “Move, woman,” the blackmailer ordered. Before I was able to interpose myself between shifter and bartender, the latter was flipping head over heels and landing hard against the nearest wall. A moan promised she was still alive. Whether or not she’d broken her back was still up for debate.

  Which is when my vision clouded into a haze of blood. It was one thing to blackmail me then to threaten my human counterparts. We were all big guys able and willing to take care of ourselves. But to smack around a female who possessed half of my opponent’s bulk? This time, the shifter had gone too far.

  Only I didn’t actually think those words. Instead, I’d regressed to the realm of flashing images and lupine rage. I pounced upon the blackmailer in human form but with animal intent, bearing him to the ground by sheer force of fury alone.

  His struggles meant nothing as I dislocated limb after limb, deftly snapping bones out of their sockets. Left arm—pop. Right arm—pop.

  By now my opponent was screaming shrilly, his initial roars of anger having turned into the puny whining of an injured pup. Ignoring the sound, I twisted one meaty thigh to the side....

  And then human hands were pushing me backwards. “Dude. Dude. Hunter.”

  I snarled, wanting to bite and tear at the person who dared to interpose himself between me and my prey. There was one more leg to go. After that, the blackmailer’s neck beckoned to teeth that were already beginning to lengthen into lupine fangs.

  “Someone called the cops,” Stooge said, slow and calm and directly into my left ear. “We need to get out of here, Hunter, or we’ll all end up in the brig.”

  The brig. For a moment, my lupine brain couldn’t even understand the word. Then reality returned with a jolt.

  I was a Special Ops sailor, responsible for upholding the honor of the U.S. Navy. On top of that, I was trying to act like a normal human being...not like a wild beast who tore apart the first enemy who dared to lay claim to my base-side neighborhood.

  Not doing a very good job of either, now am I?

  Panting, I forced myself to back away from the blackmailer before catching the eye of one of his lackeys. This particular male had been smugly sure of himself a few moments earlier, but now he cringed and dropped his gaze to the ground in instant submission.

  “Take your leader out of here,” I commanded.

  “We need to go,” Stooge countered, pulling on my arm. “They can take care of themselves.”

  By human standards, my wingman was right. But this blackmailer wouldn’t press charges as long as he was safely back among his own kind. And none of us could risk a shifter ending up in a human hospital.

  So I swept my gaze across the rest of my opponent’s proto-pack and added them to the compulsion. “Pick him up and carry him out of here. Now.”

  They obeyed as timidly as field mice. One bent to grab the blackmailer’s left foot, only to jerk backwards as if he’d stuck his finger into a live electrical socket when his sleeve brushed up against my bare arm.

  Wincing, I had to admit that the male’s caution was well-founded. I hadn’t exactly acted with restraint earlier, so why should my opponents expect me to play nice now?

  When I didn’t punish the trespass, though, the first shifter’s friends seemed to gain a little courage. Between them, they soon had their leader’s unconscious body hefted into the air, then they mimicked an emperor’s kowtowing subjects as they backed toward the nearest exit.

  “You’ll never see us again,” one was brave enough to murmur. Then they whirled and ran even as I heard the first sirens advancing upon our location.

  The shrill alarm proved that Stooge was right—it was time to make tracks. But I wasted another long moment swiveling to check on the bartender. To my surprise, I found her upright and none the worse for wear, busy tapping her number into Ian’s phone.

  The kid met my eye and smirked. Yes, he was quite capable of capturing the attention of even the recently comatose. No wonder his call sign was Romeo while we were out in the field.

  “Now we can go,” I agreed, giving in at last to Stooge’s increasingly annoyed tugging on my sleeve. If we slipped down the back alley, we would all be long gone before the cops arrived.

  Too bad I couldn’t leave behind the sinking sensation in the pit of my stomach that erupted every time I thought about my recent actions. Like I said, it wasn’t my heritage or my profession that made me a monster.

  No, my freakish nature went deeper than that. When I released my iron grip on my urges, monster was simply what I became.

  Chapter 6

  Twelve hours later, my team and I dove into a choppy ocean, the rotating blades of our support helicopter creating waves where none should have existed. The water was chilly at first as it leaked down between wet suit and skin. But the liquid warmed even before we slipped regulators into mouths and slid beneath the surface.

  Stooge and I had drawn the lucky short straws, so we left the other sailors behind as we kicked our way ever deeper. The feigned stillness of the marine environment enfolded us, the sound of our own breathing loud in our ears.

  And as I swam, my chest expanded with joy. Sure, we were embarking on a top-secret, high-risk operation as we sought enemy explosives reputed to have been attached to this experimental deep-sea electricity-generating station. Plus, the extreme depth of the dive alone meant we were risking arterial gas embolism, nitrogen narcosis, and pulmonary barotrauma.

  Yawn.

  Risk or no risk, I wanted to howl at the freedom of finally being let off my leash. Sticking to my human skin for so long had been a stretch. And even though I couldn’t shift underwater any more than I could have on land without revealing my werewolf nature, at least here I could flex my muscles and act alive.

  Not that I planned to be stupid about it or anything. Once the rest of the crew had faded into indistinct shadows above our heads, I paused and allowed Stooge to surge deeper without me. Then I took advantage of the opportunity to slip the regulator out of my mouth without being laughed at.

  This was my primary advantage as a diver—my ability to almost scent the water, letting salt sate my taste buds until the subtler aromas of the underwater world seeped through. The humans I worked with teased me relentlessly for rolling filthy marine sediments around in my mouth like I was imbibing fancy wine. But I’d saved all of our skins more than once with the trick and I didn’t plan to stop tasting the ocean anytime soon.

  Fishy, my lupine senses informed me now. Relaxing my wolf’s restraints, I allowed my virtual ears to prick up as the flavors of seawater morphed from salt overload into a symphony of cascading information.

  The massive turbines I could barely make out through the murky water below imparted a subtle tang of steel and oil to our surroundings. But I noticed nothing else that might indicate this mission was anything other than a wild-goose chase, a search for explosives where none were likely to be found.

  It wouldn’t be the first time that a tip about a potential terrorist target turned out to be nothing more than smoke and mirrors. Either way, Stooge and I would be taking home danger pay due to our helicopter entrance into the ocean. And we’d also be spending time doing what we enjoyed the most.

  Diving. You really couldn’t beat it.

  Beneath my feet, my partner spun in a triple somersault, proving that he was nearly as high as I was on our oceanic exploration. Then, as his revolution
s slowed to a halt, he smirked at the tardiness of my approach.

  Everything was a contest for Stooge, and I could tell he was giving himself a pat on the back at outpacing me so easily. How could I tell? Because he was literally patting himself on the back, his chin jerking in and out as he wriggled through an underwater victory dance.

  In good-humored retaliation, I shoved the one-body hard enough to send him spinning once more...and to give myself another moment to test the waters. Because something didn’t feel quite right.

  The hairs on the back of my neck had lifted in a puny mimicry of the aggressive posture I would have taken as a wolf faced with danger. I swiveled in response, straining to peer through the dim aquatic environment. Straining to taste anything other than turbines and the usual oceanic life. Straining to pick up a single unexpected sound beneath the muffling blanket of saltwater that lay all around us.

  Nothing.

  Still, I felt my brain narrow down into the laser focus of the hunt. And before Stooge could goof off any further, I sped into the lead, rushing directly toward the hulking behemoth that rose out of the ocean bed before our eyes.

  Even though my partner still thought we were enjoying a well-deserved lark, I was now intent upon getting in and out as quickly and safely as possible. And that meant facing the threat head on since I, more than Stooge, was best equipped to deal with the dangers of the deep.

  WE EXPLORED EVERY CENTIMETER of that blasted generator, running gloved fingertips and light-assisted eyes across barnacle-encrusted metal in search of a bump or lump that didn’t belong. Stooge was a good sailor even if he was a goof-off in his downtime, so he helped me search with an intensity that nearly matched that of my own inner wolf.

  Neither of us found anything amiss, though, and not for lack of trying either. Still, when we met in the middle, we switched places and went over the entire hulking structure one more time. There was no point in diving so deep without fully completing the mission. Neither of us wanted there to be a shadow of a doubt in our voices when we reported to our CO that the station was A-OK.

  Despite the intensity of our task, I knew my face sported the same blissed-out expression as I’d recently caught on Stooge’s ugly mug as he picked his way down the left side of the generator. The force of the current being captured by massive spinning blades now wafted me to and fro while fingerling fishes flickered past in front of my swim mask, their school splitting to glide around the obstacle in their path.

  One minuscule minnow dove into the space between thumb and forefinger in the process, and it was all I could do not to snap my fist closed and pull the tasty morsel into my mouth. I could use a snack, but I’d never hear the end of it if I was caught nibbling on ocean critters...again.

  Then, abruptly, the hairs on the back of my neck stood at full attention. I grabbed hold of a protrusion on the generator’s flank, pulling myself into complete stillness as a dark shadow drifted through the water above my head.

  Sleek triangular body, pointed fins, and a creamy white underbelly would have made the beast’s identity clear even if my nape hadn’t given early warning. We were swimming with a great white shark, king of the ocean.

  I relaxed. Sure, a great white boasts three thousand serrated teeth, each of which was approximately the length of my thumb (and considerably sharper). The critter in question would have no problem tearing me and Stooge to shreds before chowing down on our arms and legs as an appetizer for his afternoon repast.

  But wild predators didn’t scare me in the least. I’d faced sharks dozens of times while diving and none had so much as given me the time of day. If this was the sole reason why my lupine senses were humming, we’d be back on the surface way too soon and with way too little excitement to share with the rest of the crew.

  Which is when I caught the flicker of Stooge’s dive light out of the corner of one eye. I couldn’t actually see the guy since he was clear on the far side of the generator where the turbines were busy spinning water currents into power. But the quick burst of illumination was evident even from this distance.

  One flash to catch my attention, then a pause followed by five short bursts.

  In dive speak, the number five was one you never wanted to see. Five meant an emergency.

  Chapter 7

  A dye-like eddy of darker water entered my field of view before I’d even swum around the side of the generator. I couldn’t make out the color due to the paucity of light so far beneath the surface, but I could taste the hue when I took out my mouthpiece and opened my lips to roll saltwater up against my tongue.

  Blood. And so much of it that I’d be licking the fluid out of my fur for hours on end if I hadn’t been located so far beneath the ocean’s surface that personal grooming became redundant.

  In response, all I could think was: Bad news, bad news, bad news. Such a quantity of blood so far from the source meant that Stooge must already be close to bleeding out.

  I half expected to find that oh-so-interested shark attacking my dive mate as I rounded the bend. But, no, Stooge had managed to injure himself all on his lonesome. The dunce had gotten his arm caught up in the turbine and the inexorable flow of water now crushed his bicep as the tremendous metal blades turned ever onward, round and round.

  Mental note: harass my partner about his ineptitude relentlessly...just as soon as we both hit the surface alive.

  I wasted a split second watching the bubbles from Stooge’s regulator ascend toward the surface while searching yet again for the great white shark. The overgrown fishie would soon be tasting the iron tang of human blood and arrowing toward us, but the ocean appeared to be predator-free for the moment. So I got down to business without further ado.

  Grabbing onto the blade with both hands, I fought vainly against the force of the current. But the power of the ocean vastly outmatched my puny wolf-assisted muscles. Instead of making headway, my arm nearly ended up wedged into the slim space between blade and wall right alongside Stooge’s. Reacting without thought, I pulled away so abruptly that I managed to bang my head against the concrete casing on the rebound.

  Ocean: 1, shifter: 0.

  Water that had cupped me in a gentle hand earlier in the dive now resembled implacable manacles restricting my efforts to assist my friend. I felt like I was slogging through wet sand, the life-giving oxygen above the ocean as distant as the surface of the moon. At the rate Stooge was losing blood, in fact, one of us had better come up with a solution fast or I’d be carting his lifeless body skyward all on my own.

  SEALs like to laugh at EOD techs, saying we’re all geek and no guts. But Stooge proved our brother service wrong. Rather than passing out due to the combination of severe blood loss and excruciating pain, my friend began to sign with the hand not currently stuck between blade and wall.

  Push, don’t pull, he commanded.

  I scrunched up my face in immediate pained sympathy. My partner’s game plan was reminiscent of the way a fox might gnaw off its own leg to escape from a trap—effective, but life altering.

  Not to mention absolutely agonizing in the moment.

  Unfortunately, I couldn’t think of a better solution given our very limited equipment and extreme distance from the rest of our crew. Never mind the shark waiting in the wings, if Stooge fainted down here, he’d drown when the regulator slipped out of his mouth and ocean water took its place.

  I wasn’t about to let Stooge perish on my watch, so I acceded to his request. Once again, I gripped the turbine with both hands, bracing my flippered feet between the rungs of a ladder that might as well have been welded to the spot for this exact purpose. Then I pushed.

  The turbine cut through Stooge’s flesh like a cold butter knife through the world’s cheapest steak. In other words, the blade sawed slowly and jaggedly against strands of muscle and tendon while a cascade of bubbles left my partner’s mouth in a near-silent underwater scream.

  I didn’t blame him for swooning at the bitter end. But I did blame him for bad timing. Didn�
�t my buddy realize I was trying to yank his body out of the cavity between turbine and casing before the next blade came around to complete his dismemberment?

  Luckily, shifters are a trifle faster than one-bodies. So I managed to slam the regulator back into my partner’s mouth at the same moment I jerked Stooge out of harm’s way.

  And my partner apparently wasn’t quite as dead to the world as I’d thought. Because his lips slowly but surely closed around the rubber mouthpiece, allowing him to inhale a jerky, pained gasp of air.

  Up, he signed without opening his eyes.

  No shit, Sherlock. Our explosives search was dead in the water. Now to make sure we didn’t end up in exactly the same way.

  MY WOLF PANTED WITHIN my skin at the first mandatory decompression station, wordlessly urging me upwards. But I held firm to rational human thought. If we arrowed directly toward the surface now rather than pausing and allowing our body pressure to equalize, then the sheer weight of ocean water would tear our insides apart.

  Stooge needs us to wait, I informed the wolf. He growled by way of response, our pack mate’s blood loss driving him into a frenzy. And before I could soothe my wolf further, the great white picked up on Stooge’s blood trail.

  The massive beast circled slowly at first, just beyond the limits of human eyesight as it kept to the dim waters near the ocean’s floor. But I could trace its path by the way the hairs stood up on the backs of my arms while my eye teeth threatened to elongate into lupine fangs.

  Not a particularly handy reaction when I was depending on a small tank of compressed gases and a flimsy rubber hose for survival. Still, instinct was instinct and I wanted nothing more than to shift and tear out the overgrown fishie’s throat...or to rip at whatever passed for a jugular on a shark, that is.