Alpha vs Alpha

by Channing Sheffield

  So why was he able to single out one voice among many?

  Matt set the stack of contracts aside and looked over at the double-barrel shotgun leaning against the doorframe, loaded. Four spare boxes of shells waited on the small table within reach of the weapon. He’d fired it on hyenas several years back when they attempted to commandeer the cabin he’d purchased when his New Orleans condo renovations bordered on completion. The scavengers were the variety of devious creature looking to retaliate. Fortunately, and for good reason, Colorado’s Wolf Council, their coalition packs, and other indignant shifters had run the Purcell clan out of their territories.

  Snarling grew closer. They were headed this way.

  “Christ.”

  Caving in to an inherent need to protect the weak, the assaulted and, in addition, himself and all he owned, as the clash broke out near the front porch, Matt lurched off his bedding nest and lunged for the shotgun. Screams, growls, and barks echoed throughout the valley nestled beneath the majestic Rocky Mountains.

  No choice now, Matt grabbed a box of shells and dumped them on the floor beside him.

  He dragged in a stabilizing breath, held it, and swung the heavy front door open. Dim light from the corner fireplace illuminated darkness and near-blizzard conditions as frigid air coming strong out of the north sucked oxygen from his lungs. Legs braced apart, Matt fired aimlessly once, recoil hammering his shoulder, sending smoke meandering around him, then he dropped to one knee, fired the second round, the stink of gun powder battering his nostrils and concealing all other scents.

  Both deafening blasts sent animals scattering. Or survival instincts kicked in. They—he had no idea how many, what breed they were, whether shifter or not—sought refuge in the dense forest beyond the immediate clearing. Within seconds, the smoky residue dissipated. He ejected the shell casings, reloaded, scanning the grounds, and zeroed in on one brave target. Taking aim at a pair of glowing sun-yellow eyes warily peering through the copse of tall, blue spruce, Matt pulled the trigger.

  “Gotcha,” he mumbled. The remaining bastards would surely hightail off his land if they had any damn sense.

  In Louisiana, he’d tested sharpshooter with handguns and rifles. Annual hunts with human buddies, and sometimes accompanied by trained dogs, brought down pesky raccoons, tender pheasant, feral hogs, and wild boar. Tonight’s trespassers were obviously larger, louder, and more ferocious than his usual quarry.

  Too dark and too damn risky, he’d check tracks and carcass during daylight. That is, if snow hadn’t completely covered their escape route. Or the group, if they were shifters, hadn’t carted away their deceased. Most handled their dead with care and dignity.

  Tomorrow, he’d renew his domain’s scent mark.

  Matt started to shove the door closed and batten down the hatch when he heard sickly moans. Raising his weapon again, he sniffed…no doubt a wolf was nearby. He peeked outside to his left, followed an overpowering scent raising his awareness. And a blood trail.

  “Dammit.” If the animal, a shifter, had been beneficiary of his shotgun blast, it would never survive a direct hit.

  Hesitancy was a good thing in case his scenting ability was mistaken after living in New Orleans for so damned long. Matt inched onto the porch.

  Wedged between stacked, sawn logs and lounge chair the biggest, blackest wolf he’d ever seen was stretched out on its side, pants shallow and harsh, rivulets of blood pooling beneath its body and spreading thickly across the wooden deck before halting and freezing. Maybe a clean shot through and through.

  “Fuck,” Matt muttered.

  He’d taken a vacation to Colorado for peace and quiet, solitude far away from the hustle and bustle of city life, his job, and away from Fallon—southern-belle socialite, daughter of Louisiana’s prominent governor—for two weeks. Not for this kind of shit. The last thing he needed was a wounded or dying wolf on his doorstep, one he’d shot. Colorado’s wolf council would have Matt’s head mounted and on display after he suffered pack punishment…a violent mauling.

  At least the downed wolf was male, not female. Fallon would have a fit otherwise. Luckily, she was going toe-to-toe with some notable wedding planner her mother had chosen, finalizing preliminaries to the rest of Matt’s and her life together, and Fallon didn’t expect a call from her fiancé for several more days. He would be ecstatic when their big day came and went.

  “What the hell are you doing on my property?” he asked into the darkness, his drawl thick with agitation. “I should leave you where you lay.”

  He knew better. Knew because, other than the usual thump-thump of his heart, which was now pounding like hell against his ribcage, something altogether different issued a call to the surface of his being. Something odd he couldn’t quite pinpoint, something strangely memorable but elusive for now.

  Damn, he thought with disgust, scratching stubble on his chin and neck. This trip afforded time to bachelor life, no holding back any guy shit. The itch was bad, irritating. Okay, he’d shave sooner rather than later. After he got this frigging wolf inside, treated and, hopefully, back on the trail to his pack in quick time. And goddamn his inner wolf for howling like an idiot. Must be the distant threats making him wild and unruly. Or something about this particular wolf had his beast’s hackles bristling.

  “Get up. There’s a good fire burning. You can patch yourself up then make tracks home.” It was best to let the animal know not to get comfortable.

  Several sputtering heartbeats and a few puffs of heated breath later, he said, “Hey! I said get inside or you’ll freeze your ass off out here.”

  Snow was piling up quickly into drifts, but when the wind died down, eerie quiet filtered through his valley. Matt glanced out toward the forest, squinting, his heightened senses picking up on movement. On intruders.

  “Son of a—” He took aim at an imaginary target, fired once. Maybe this time, they’d know not to fuck with him or risk another killing.

  Thirty seconds ticked by without a peep or crunch of snow.

  Copyright © 2013 by Channing Sheffield. All rights reserved.

  In accordance with the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, the scanning, uploading, or electronic sharing of any part of this book without the author’s written permission constitutes unlawful piracy and theft of the author’s intellectual property.

  ALPHA vs ALPHA is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.