Touch the Sky

by Kari Cole

  “The Thunder Moon always brings out the crowds,” Vaughn said. And the drunks, the troublemakers, and the testosterone-fueled just-looking-to-get-laid-and-I-don’t-care-how morons. To Izzy, he said, “We’ll quadruple the county’s population this month.”

  “In weres?” Izzy asked. Though it was hard to pick out specifics, he thought he detected a touch of fear in her scent. In deference to the crowd and July heat, his mother and aunt had turned on the ceiling fans. It wreaked havoc on were senses, but kept the air conditioners from overheating.

  Luke stroked Izzy’s cheek. “No, sugar. This is prime hiking, fishing, and camping time for the humans, too.”

  “Tourists,” she sniffed.

  “Invaders,” he agreed with a teasing grin.

  Izzy rolled her eyes. “What exactly is the Thunder Moon?” She threw Vaughn a sheepish look. “I’m still learning about lycanthrope culture. There’s a lot to take in.”

  Right. He couldn’t fathom growing up as a human like she had. His own childhood hadn’t been all puppies and rainbows, but suppressing her true nature must have been torture. At least Vaughn had been able to let his beast out to play. Well, one of them.

  “Each month’s full moon has a different name,” Luke said. “July is the Thunder Moon. For us lycanthropes, it’s the time of the year when we like to gather together to see old friends, meet new ones, and...um...well, uh...”

  “Mate,” Vaughn said, enjoying the blush overtaking his Alpha’s ears.

  Izzy choked on a sip of beer. “Wh-what?”

  Luke shot him a look. “It’s a celebration of life. A time for us to thank the goddess for the moon and Earth, and all her blessings.”

  Izzy studied his painfully sincere face then looked at Vaughn. “So basically you all are twitterpated from the warm weather and full moon, and throw a giant Tinder party.”

  Vaughn nearly choked on a laugh as Luke sputtered. They were both saved from responding by someone shouting his name.

  Carrying a huge tray of food, Vaughn’s mother emerged through the kitchen doors. She set the tray down on the bar and slid under the pass-through, her long, dark ponytail swinging. She grabbed him in a tight hug. “So glad you’re back. Your aunt Veronica’s on cooking duty today. Go on and let her know you’ve made it home okay. We’re swamped and she may not climb out from the mountain of fries she’s cut until Halloween.”

  She slid plates of double cheeseburgers and fries in front of Izzy and Luke, pecked Vaughn on the cheek, and hefted up her enormous tray. “Gotta go.” Then she bustled off to deliver other orders.

  He smiled at her back. Mom always got a little manic when they had a crowd.

  Izzy rubbed her hands together. “That smells fantastic.”

  “You’d better eat the whole thing, too, Captain,” Luke said.

  She tossed him a crisp salute and dove in.

  “All right, Vaughn,” Luke said. “We’d better hurry—”

  “Yeah, before the fawners and butt-kissers swarm him again,” Izzy said around a mouthful of burger.

  Luke tapped the end of her nose with a finger and continued, “What’d you find, Vaughn?”

  Four months ago, they’d learned a company named Apex was behind a land grab in the pack’s territory. Apex had brought in soldiers and incited a group of traitors within the pack. Among the many crimes that could be laid at their feet, the traitors had murdered Luke’s father and Vaughn’s uncle, the previous Alpha and Beta.

  Since then, Vaughn had been trying to track down the werewolf who’d led the rogues and anyone connected with the company. His most recent trip had lasted more than three weeks.

  The scar on his throat throbbed. “We’re not the only territory that’s been hit,” he growled. “Packs and clans in Oklahoma, Indiana, New York, and Georgia have all experienced murders or attacks. There are even more reports of missing weres from territories all over the country, Canada, and Mexico.”

  “Shit,” Luke said. “How come I haven’t heard about most of those?”

  “Probably because the Interclan Authority has a muzzle on the reports and anyone who wants to share them.” Vaughn still couldn’t believe it. The whole purpose of the Authority was to share information and enforce the law across territories. How the hell were they supposed to protect themselves if they didn’t know they were in danger?

  “Are you kidding?”

  “I wish. Since no one would answer my questions over the phone, I thought that if I showed up on their doorsteps I’d get some cooperation.” He huffed a bitter laugh. “I was stonewalled everywhere I went. Finally, I went to Chicago to snoop around.”

  Izzy and Luke both stiffened at the mention of her hometown; a huge city, full of lycanthropes who’d ignored her existence.

  “They’re the territory with the newest leaders, and I was curious.”

  “What’d you find?” Luke asked, rubbing Izzy’s back.

  “A really young Alpha and a mean-ass Beta who were more than willing to give me an earful. Their Beta is a Kodiak bear shifter and they’ve integrated the various animal packs across the city.”

  “I’d heard that Cameron Beck had gotten himself an enforcer for a Beta, but I’d thought all the rest was rumors and bullshit.”

  Vaughn shook his head. “No. I think the whole reason they were willing to talk to me is they knew we’d been hit.” He rubbed the bullet wound scar hidden beneath his T-shirt. “I’m not the only one looking for a connection between Apex and a vicious werewolf who likes to start insurrections.”

  Gold flared in Luke’s eyes. “Go on.”

  Vaughn’s voice rumbled with a growl. “I’ve got a name.” The sick bastard who orchestrated his uncle’s murder. “Caine.”

  * * *

  “This was such a bad idea,” Hannah muttered under her breath.

  The “service dog” at her side gave her a look that she interpreted as, You think?

  “You could get off the chair,” she told him. The other pub patrons kept looking at them. “Service dogs aren’t supposed to sit like people.”

  Frost hmphed.

  He was right, of course. The obligatory red vest didn’t do much to conceal what he really was. The black studded collar looked ridiculous on him, too, but she had to do something. People tended to get nervous when you walked around town with a full-grown timber wolf at your side.

  Well, maybe not in a town as overrun as this one was with shifters. Dear goddess above, a week out from the most important full moon of the lycanthrope year, there were a lot of them. Still, neither she nor Frost exactly blended in with the happy, loud, carefree revelers.

  Even though Hannah had managed to find a table in the back of the pub, she and Frost were completely exposed. There were no shadows for them to slink into, or columns to hide behind. How she longed for a good, solid wall at her back and an exit nearby.

  Hannah hadn’t picked the place—had argued against it, in fact—but as the saying goes, “Beggars can’t be choosers.” And she was totally prepared to beg.

  Frost leaned into her, his warm, comforting bulk propping her up. For a second, she rested her head against his.

  “Thanks,” she murmured.

  A dark-haired avian shifter—eagle, by the scent of her—set a burger and fries and a Coke in front of Hannah, and another plate with three juicy hamburger patties and a bowl of water in front of Frost. As if the waitress could tell Hannah’s baggy jean pockets were lined with nothing more than lint, she said, “On the house,” and zipped off to deliver a pitcher of beer to another table, her long ponytail swinging.

  Tears filled Hannah’s eyes, but she refused to let them fall. “Guess we look hungry.”

  Frost dipped his head in answer and ate a burger with more delicacy and manners than some of her dates had exhibited.

  She picked up her utensils and cut into the burger like a
dork. It was either that or pick it up and risk dripping grease all over her leather gloves. She liked these gloves. They were thick enough to be useful, and supple enough not to sacrifice much in the way of dexterity. It would be hard to find another pair like these to steal.

  As they ate, she relaxed enough to appreciate the atmosphere. People milled around them, laughing, calling hellos to friends, walking back and forth between the bathrooms or dartboards and the bar. The music wasn’t too loud to talk over, though that would probably change as the night wore on and the dance floor filled.

  Just a few months ago, Hannah would have eagerly joined the fun. She would have danced through the pub like she owned the place, wearing something bright and tight, with her strawberry blond hair loose and free.

  Looking down at her threadbare, faded T-shirt, thrift store jeans, and grimy canvas tennies, she grimaced and slouched in her chair. She looked hideous.

  “Yes, sir. A really bad idea,” she muttered.

  A compact blonde in a pale blue tank top peered around the corner of the bar. She scanned the booths and tables, her gaze sliding right over Hannah and Frost. Then it jerked back. The woman’s mouth dropped open and she mouthed, No way.

  When she reached their table, Hannah said, “Hello, Jessie.”

  Her mother’s cousin sat down, eyes narrowed. “Are you kidding me?” Jessie said, looking at Frost. “Is he a—”

  “Service dog? Sure.”

  “He’s no dog.”

  Frost sat a little taller and gave Hannah a superior look. She dabbed at her lips with a paper napkin. “He is what he is.”

  “And what’s that?”

  “Complicated.”

  The foursome at the booth next to them were openly staring. Hannah looked at the hardwood floor. “Frost, could you? Please, darlin’.”

  The gray-and-white wolf looked around her and glowered at the gawkers. Still, he did as she asked and stepped down to the floor. With a sigh, he settled into a casual pose that conjured images of a sphinx awaiting his worshippers.

  Hannah shook her head. Seriously, the weirdness of her life.

  Jessie leaned back in her chair, and studied Hannah. “You’re not what I expected.”

  “It’s been twelve years since you saw me last. People change.”

  “Not this much. They don’t transform from a frilly, pink debutante into”—she waved a hand at Hannah—“whatever the hell this look is. Schlubby-chic? What the hell happened to your hair? Dishwater brown is not a good color on you. Your mother would drop dead if she saw you—”

  “Can you forget my fashion choices, please? I need your help,” Hannah blurted, breathing hard, a hairbreadth away from grabbing onto Jessie’s arm. She laid her hands—the stupendously awful, malfunctioning things—on her lap, fingers curled into the palms. No touching, Hannah Jane. No touching anything.

  Employing the old adage about attracting more flies with honey than vinegar, she put some extra Georgia sugar into her voice. “I need to learn how to control my abilities.”

  Jessie snorted. “Oh, so now you want my help.”

  “I’ve always wanted it.”

  “Please.”

  Frost sat up on his haunches. In her head, Hannah’s own beast growled and bared sharp fangs. She prayed her face didn’t betray her feelings. “Look, do we have to do this here? Can’t we go to your house? I don’t like to air our family business in public.” Not only was it crass, it was exceedingly dangerous. She had enough on her conscience, thank you very much.

  “No,” Jessie said with a sniff. “Here is just fine.”

  Peachy. “I was twelve years old, and you left me. Not the other way around.”

  “Your mother practically threw me out when she realized I was teaching you to control your psychometry. Just because she’s a pathetically weak witch—”

  The roar of her pulse pounded in her ears, and Hannah slammed her fist on the table. Coke sloshed and fries leapt into the air. Frost growled.

  Heat burned her cheeks. Stupid. Stupid to attract more attention. Hannah ducked her head and dug her fingers into Frost’s thick ruff. When she had her temper under control again, she said in a quiet, precise voice, “Can you please leave Mama out of this? As I said, I was twelve. I had no control over what she did. As far as I was concerned, you left without a word. I wouldn’t even have known you were alive if it wasn’t for Gran.” Jessie flinched, but Hannah carried on like she hadn’t seen. “She left me a letter when she passed. It contained your address and phone number.”

  After a minute, Jessie’s lips turned up in a sad smile. “Yes, well, your mama and I never did get along. Oil and water, Gran used to say. Lord, I miss her. That old woman knew a thing or two.”

  Hannah nodded, her emotions too close to the surface to say any more. If she started crying over her losses, she may never stop.

  Mimicking Gran’s tone and slow drawl perfectly, Jessie said, “All right, girl, now that we’ve both got our dander up and shook out, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be hashing out old grievances with you.” She fixed Hannah’s gloved hands with a pointed look. Pity crossed her face. “It can’t be that bad.”

  “It’s that and more. It’s a disaster.” Again, Hannah bowed her head—this time to hide the tears burning her eyes. “I can’t live like this,” she whispered.

  “Aw, don’t say things like that.” Jessie reached out like she might stroke Hannah’s hair, but she, too, pulled away at the last second. “I don’t suppose your mother could have helped with this, even if she wanted to. Psychometry was never one of her gifts.”

  “It doesn’t feel like a gift.” A gift was something that came in a pretty box with a bow, and could be returned.

  “Come on—”

  “Do you know how many times I’ve passed out?” How many times had she woken up with Frost or a complete stranger standing over her? She’d lost count herself. “I can’t even use a motel shower without donning disposable gloves, unless I want to drown, of course. Even then, the gloves aren’t thick enough. I get glimpses.”

  Visions of things benign and terrible: people of all ages bathing; a fat, hairy man molesting himself; a tattooed couple engaging in shower sex; a tall, thin man rinsing the blood from his clothes and body.

  “Sweet Jesus,” Jessie said. “I don’t get it. Psychically reading the history of objects can be intense—hell, it can be downright horrible, but having to wear leather gloves? Hannah, aren’t you trying to control it at all? Don’t you remember anything I taught you when you were a kid?”

  Hannah stared at her like she’d broken into tongues. “Of course I’m trying, but it suddenly became uncontrollable.” What the devil did the woman think? That she just liked to flounce around the country vomiting and passing out? If she didn’t learn to turn down the volume of her powers... Well, she had to. There was no other choice. She had to figure out that password. Everything depended on it.

  “What are you talking about, Hannah? That’s not how—”

  “Hi! Whoo, we are so packed,” the waitress said, beaming a smile their way. “Jessie, hon, Veronica and I are just thrilled with the annual pots you made up for us. The patio has never looked better.” She turned soft gray eyes toward Hannah. “So who’s your friend?”

  “This is—”

  “Cassandra,” Hannah said, giving her cousin a look, and putting on a flat, Midwest accent. “I’m a huge fan of Ms. Mills’s work, too. We met at a floral show in San Antonio.”

  “Oh,” the waitress said. “Well, hi. I’m Rose. Are you a florist?”

  Jessie opened her mouth, but Hannah continued to talk over her. “Nope. Artist. Mixed media.” Guess all her major-hopping in college could pay off. Daddy would be so proud.

  A shout rang out over all the other voices in the pub, then there was a lot of herky-jerky movement in the crowd just in front of them.

  �
�What on Earth?” the waitress said as a curvy redhead screamed and sprawled on the floor.

  There was a smack and thud like someone had been hit in the face and body. Angry shouts rose as a sweating, greasy man in dirty jeans and an even grubbier T-shirt elbowed his way through. He sniffed the air and glassy, wild eyes roamed the crowd. Ice formed in Hannah’s stomach as they settled on her.

  Oh, goddess. They’d found her.

  She jumped up as the male raised a gun.

  People screamed. Her beast growled.

  There was nowhere to run. People were everywhere.

  Goddess, please don’t let anyone else get hurt for my crimes.

  Time screeched to a crawl as she dove for the floor and the gun exploded. Pain ripped through her right side and she slammed into the ground, all the air gone from her lungs.

  Snarling, Frost launched himself from the top of the table and clamped his mighty jaws on the male’s arm.

  Someone stepped on her arm, her hair, and shin. A tennis shoe collided with the side of her head and black flowed into the edges of her vision.

  No. Stay awake. She had to get Frost and get out of there. Had to...

  The screams and snarls were deafening, and the floor shook from all the running feet. A body fell to the ground in front of her face. The male, the dirty, wild male. His torso was twisted one way, and his head too far over the other. She gagged.

  “Move!” a deep voice roared. “Move aside.”

  Frost appeared above her, growling and shaking. He crouched, ready to strike at anyone stupid enough to come near her. She tried to sit up to pat him, but damn it all, her side was on fire.

  A Native American man—no, a werewolf male—as big as a skyscraper with a scar on his cheek and glowing gray eyes stopped in front of them. Frost ceased growling as if someone had hit his off switch. Cocking his head, he studied the male. He curled his lip, which Hannah thought was madness.

  “Knock it off,” the male snapped in a voice as rough as a peach pit. And didn’t it beat all? Frost relaxed and sat down at her side. He fixed a look on the male as if to say, “Now what?”