Winter of the Wolf (Hunt 2)

by Cherise Sinclair

  “No!” With all her strength, Bree bashed the sword on its skull. The wooden blade splintered. Broke.

  Not slowing at all, the creature shouldered past, knocking her backwards. She slammed into the wall with a hard thud.

  Head spinning, she regained her feet and saw it leap at Ashley.

  The monster hit, biting Ash’s shoulder, pulling her to the ground, savaging her. Her screams almost drowned out its ghastly snarls.

  “Noooo.” Terrified, frantic, Bree flung herself across the room. “Get off her!” She spun, kicking the beast in the stomach. Pain blasted through her foot. The creature barely rocked.

  “Ash, run!”

  The monster’s massive head whipped around and gore-covered teeth snapped at Bree’s ankle, spattering her jeans with saliva and blood. Ashley’s blood.

  Bree jumped back, expecting Ash to stand. To get through the door. Why wasn’t she moving? She darted a glance behind the beast and froze. Unable to move. To think.

  Ash’s neck was ripped—ripped away. Blood everywhere. Her gray eyes were open. Blank. Oh Ash. Bree took a step forward. No no no. This can’t happen. Oh please, no. Her breath hitched.

  The monster watched her, mouth open as if laughing.

  When the creature sniffed at the pool of blood beside Ashley’s body, rage roared in Bree’s head. Kill it, kill it, kill it. Yet terror shook her bones until she couldn’t breathe.

  Lapping at the blood, it stood between her and the apartment’s front door.

  Get a knife. Her pulse pounded in her ears as she backpedaled quickly into the kitchen. But the monster followed, red-brown eyes never leaving her face. Like thick smoke, the sense of evil choked her. Clicking sounds made her look down. The beast had massive claws—each one bigger than a finger. Oh God.

  Can I kill it?

  Slimy pink drool dripped from its mouth onto her tile floor as it stopped, trapping her in the kitchen.

  Her back bumped the counter. She reached behind her, and her hand found the knife rack. Not that one. Or that. Her fingers closed on the butcher knife. With a deep breath, then another, she tried to push the fear to one side like at a martial arts tournament. Didn’t work.

  Hit it where? The wooden sword had splintered in her hand. The spiked plating on its back looked too thick. The neck?

  The monster lunged at her.

  She dodged sideways, aimed the knife toward its throat—and the blade skidded across the plates, catching in the grooves. The head whipped around. Heck!

  She yanked her hand away, and its teeth closed on emptiness with an ugly snap.

  Was she stupid? Get help. She screamed, loud and shrill, screamed again. And then the thing was on her. She slashed at its neck. The shock jarred her hand. The blade broke off at the hilt.

  “No!” She chopped at its neck with the edge of her hand. Her hand bounced off, bleeding from the sharp points of the plates. She could break concrete—but not this thing? “Why don’t you die?”

  Vaulting up and over, she cut her palms on its spiky armor, but landed behind it. She slammed a kick into its leg. A bone in her foot fractured. The sound and the pain were nauseating, and she staggered back.

  The hellish creature spun. Jaws clamped onto her arm, and it whipped her around like a land-borne shark. She hit the counter, grunted in pain, and punched at its eyes. Too protected, too recessed in the armor.

  The jaws tightened on her arm. Pain burst through her, and her knees buckled. She struggled, a helpless mouse, as it dragged her across the floor to the living room. With a jerk of its head, the monster flung her across the room.

  Free. She rolled over and sprang away, one arm limp at her side.

  With a savage growl, the animal jumped on her, driving her face into the floor. Claws dug into her back. The rotten stench closed her throat. I’m going to die. The inevitability beat at her.

  Its teeth ripped into her flesh, tearing at her shoulder.

  It hurts, oh God, it hurts. She screamed, twisting onto her back to kick at it. Her feet hit uselessly, like hammering on a tank.

  Suddenly it backed away. She tried to stand and failed. Her hand skidded in the blood soaking the carpet.My blood. She gritted her teeth, tears smearing her vision. Where was—

  The beast blurred and turned into a person. A man.

  No. She sucked in a breath, trying to get her eyes to focus.

  It was the guy from the parking lot. Naked. His thick hairless chest was streaked with gore. Blood dripped from his mouth and chin. He licked his lips. “You are like nothing I’ve ever had.” His voice was oily. “I knew I tasted something…extra in your blood. What are you? Where did you come from?”

  His head tilted, and a cruel smile grew on his face. He crooned, “Are there more like you?” Pink-tinged drool rolled down his chin as he stared down at her.

  She shuddered. Her fingers curled into the carpet, and she tried to inch away.

  “You look human.” He wiped his blood-spattered cheek, sniffed, then ran his tongue over his palm. “Mmm. You don’t smell different, but I’ve never, ever, tasted anything like this before.”

  She raised her feet to kick at him, to keep him away. One arm wouldn’t lift, and she was losing blood fast.

  He took a step forward.

  “Bastard!” She snap-kicked his knee.

  He hissed in pain and blurred into the creature. With a vicious snarl, the beast lunged at her. Teeth punched through her jeans, ripping into her thigh, and her screams echoed in the room. Oh God, why did no one come?

  Her eyes lost focus and then he was a man again, licking his lips. Laughing. “The taste of you is just—fucking great.” He loomed over her, huge and evil. “Killing you tonight would be a waste.” He glanced at Ashley’s body. “I can feed on her. But first…”

  His hand slid down his stomach to his cock—horribly erect—and wrapped around it.

  * * *

  Ailill Ridge, Rainier Territory ~ Dark of the Moon

  Only a few hours remained before dawn, and the small mountain town of Ailill Ridge was silent. Thick clouds had blotted out the stars in the moonless night, but the cold wind off Mt. Rainier brought the stench of evil—rotting flesh mixed with a nauseating tang like molding oranges. The scent came from the front of a one-story house, and Zebulon Damron paused in the shadow of an oak, searching for any movement.

  The hellhound was close. Zeb would have his fight tonight even if his patrol-partner Shay reached the demon-dog first. Not even Shay could kill a hellhound alone, though the obsessed idiot would probably try.

  He felt the touch of the God of the Hunt. Power poured into his cahir’s body like wine into a glass, gifting him with far more than a normal shifter’s strength.

  After skirting the patches of snow that might betray him, he edged around the corner of the house. Thorns from a rose bush scraped across his neck, and he froze, silently cursing all females and their vicious plants. The smell of fresh blood would alert the hellhound to his presence.

  He checked his weapons. Sheathed on his right hip: stiletto for the demon-dog’s eyes, double-edged dagger for its belly. Left hip: pistol for the eyes—although bullets were almost worthless. Be nice if cahirs had as few vulnerabilities as hellhounds.

  So where was it? He risked a quick check of the narrow side yard. Good evening, hellhound. Its front paws on the planter box, the demon scum peered through the window.

  Zeb slid his blade from the sheath strapped to his right thigh. The tiny vulnerable area of the beast’s stomach was exposed. If he could get to it before—

  With a heave of its heavily muscled hindquarters, the hellhound smashed through the glass. Fuck.

  “Shay. Inside!” Zeb roared to his partner in the front yard. After sheathing his knife, he dove through the window. The splintered glass edging the sides scraped along his leather-covered shoulders. Dammit, just once he’d like to enter a house by the door. Somersaulting to his feet, Zeb pulled his dagger and spun in a circle. Empty living room.

 
A woman shrieked, the sound so filled with horror that a chill ran up Zeb’s spine. Had my sister screamed like that? He shoved the thought away.

  Glass shattered as Shay sprang through the front window, his wolf form as hefty as his human one. His paws scrambled for purchase on the tile floor.

  His partner right behind him, Zeb sprinted down the hallway. They burst into the bedroom together, the well-practiced move possible only because Shay always fought as a wolf.

  Zeb preferred to have a knife or pistol in hand.

  Shay went left; Zeb right. In the center, the hellhound stalked the female cowering to the right of the door. She was a shifter, and the scent of fear poured from her—the demon-hound would gorge on that emotion like a grizzly on a new-killed deer.

  The hellhound’s attention turned, and Zeb braced himself. This one was normal-sized—waist-high and bigger than any wolf, wrapped in bulletproof plating like a fucking dinosaur. It snarled, and the bony pointed muzzle displayed razor-sharp fangs.

  Zeb snarled back, cursing silently. So much for surprise.

  The beast stepped forward, bear-like claws clicking on the hardwood floor.

  “By Herne, you are an ugly one.” He checked Shay who would attack from the rear, the diversion allowing Zeb to drop, roll half under his quarry, and slice down the narrow leathery part of its gut.

  Sometimes it worked.

  Zeb glanced at the female and realized she wasn’t overweight, but pregnant. The knowledge sent his protective instincts skyrocketing. After checking the hellhound, he moved forward a couple of steps, leaving room between him and the wall, then caught her gaze and glanced behind him. Run that way, little female, so I can keep you safe.

  Despite her terror, she gave him an infinitesimal nod.

  Satisfied, he returned his attention to the demon scum’s eyes. The red in its pupils widened with rage. It would charge soon.

  With a loud snarl, Shay darted in. His jaw clamped on the hellhound’s hind leg, jaw working to penetrate the overlapping plates.

  The hellhound bellowed and spun

  Zeb crouched to spring forward—

  Trying to flee, the woman tripped, falling against Zeb’s legs from behind. He staggered, dropping to one knee as she scrambled to her feet and through the door.

  From the other side of the room, Shay yelped. His body thudded loudly against the wall. Silence.

  “Fuck!” Strategy gone, Zeb charged the creature savaging his partner. His leather tore as he rammed into its spiky shoulder, knocking it back a step. He reached down, trying to stab the gut. His blade scraped over the plating, caught the narrow leathery strip down the belly, and made a shallow slice.

  He’d barely scratched the fucking tank. Zeb scrambled away. Too slow.

  The hellhound’s jaws ripped a chunk from his right arm in a flash of hellish pain.

  Fuck. As it spun completely around, Zeb dove away. The demon-dog charged forward, one hind leg weaker. Shay must have managed to bite through the shallower plates there.

  Zeb braced himself as it advanced. Not going to survive this one. One-on-one with a hellhound was suicide. So be it. But the creature would finish Shay off, so he had to kill it. Had to. Maybe the hallway would give him a chance to use his pistol.

  He dodged the first attack and risked a glance sideways. His partner’s leg was awash in blood, but the big wolf was trying to rise. Alive, thank the Mother.

  Darting for the door, Zeb yanked out his revolver. The hellhound’s claws scraped on the floor as it followed.

  Halfway down the hall, Zeb spun. He aimed—the recessed eyes were the only place a bullet was effective—and fired again and again.

  But the attacking demon scum tipped its head down, so the bullets splatted off the armored head and ricocheted off the wall.

  Useless. He back-pedaled, but the hellhound hit him hard. As Zeb landed on his back, the creature lunged for his throat. Weapons flying, Zeb grabbed its neck to hold the jaws away. He kicked sideways to spin his torso out of reach of the claws.

  The hellhound tried to shake off his grip. Twisting and lunging. Over and over.

  Fuck. It couldn’t reach his throat…yet…but Zeb couldn’t use his knife. Stalemate, and he knew damn well which of them would tire sooner. If he hadn’t had a cahir’s extra strength from the God of the Hunt, Herne, he’d be dead by now. The muscles of his arms started to spasm.

  His death shone in the red-brown eyes.

  His stiletto was still sheathed. Could he stab its eye as it tore his throat out? Can’t…can’t let it kill Shay.

  The jaws inched closer, the stench foul.

  “You know, it really wants a taste of you.” With a lurching movement, Shay pulled Zeb’s stiletto from his hip sheath and buried it in the demon-dog’s eye.

  Its roar filled the room, and the creature collapsed onto Zeb, knocking the wind out of him.

  Shuddering, it died, changing to human a second later. A very dead, very naked male. Oversized, like all hellhounds.

  Zeb shoved the body off and staggered to his feet. The hallway spun around him. He bent, hands on knees to catch his breath. Just taking a breath hurt as if an iron trap had closed on his chest. Must have cracked a rib. His arm bled; his hands weren’t much better and hurt worse.

  He waited for his partner’s low howl, to start the song of victory over a hellhound. Over death. Nothing. He painfully straightened. “Shay?”

  “Sorry I was slow,” his partner managed before toppling to the floor.

  Fuck, fuck, fuck. Throat tight, Zeb dropped to his knees. Still in human form and naked, Shay had bites, gouges, ripped flesh down his right hip and leg. Blood flowed sluggishly over his pale skin.

  Gut twisting, Zeb ripped a bed sheet and bound up the worst of Shay’s wounds. His eyes kept blurring with memories of his brothers and sister—his littermates. How their flesh had been torn away from the bones, how blood had pooled around them.

  Shay would live. But with no healer in the area, he’d hurt for a fucking long time. Once again, guilt swept over Zeb. My fault. Hadn’t thought ahead, hadn’t dodged the woman, should have moved faster.

  Hands shaking, he holstered his weapon and sheathed his knives. With a grunt of pain, he carefully lifted his partner.

  The cold night air stung his skin. The starlight blurred and cleared as he staggered down the small street. After a minute, he raised his face to the moonless sky and howled his song of victory and death, of lingering grief for his family. Of loneliness.

  Chapter Two

  Seattle ~ First quarter moon

  A week after the attack, Bree entered her apartment and snapped the deadbolt. Leaning her forehead against the door, she tried to steel herself to move. Criminy, she hurt. Her leg, her shoulder, her arm—her wounds burned as if the thing’s teeth were ripping at them all over again. As the pain eased, she pulled in a slow breath, smelling the harsh odor of industrial cleaners. Okay, I can do this.

  She slowly turned, terrified of what she’d see. But there was no body, no gore, no pools of blood.

  The glass door had been repaired. The beige carpet was new. The knots in her shoulders eased. Of course, the landlord had had the place cleaned up, and the police had already told her that the murderer had taken Ashley’s body. The knowledge sent a shudder through her.

  Seeing the bloody paw prints, the cops had decided the killer had brought a dog with him. They certainly didn’t buy her story of a monster that changed into a man. Although the detectives, doctor, nurses, and counselors had been very sympathetic, she knew no sane person could possibly believe her. She didn’t blame them, but how could the police find the creature if they didn’t realize what they were looking for?

  Hauling in a deep breath, she forced herself away from the door—after rechecking the deadbolt three times. Not that a lock was much use. After all, the sliding door had been closed last week, and the beast had charged right through the glass. Thank God, Mrs. Johnson had been walking her terrier and noticed the shattered glass, o
r Bree would have bled to death.

  But help hadn’t arrived soon enough to prevent Ash’s death or soon enough to keep the monster from… Bree’s stomach turned over, and she barely made it to the toilet. She vomited over and over until she was empty. Bile burned her mouth, and she crumpled on the cold tile like a used towel.

  Used—that was the word. She’d been used. She scrambled for the toilet again.

  When the dry heaving finally ended, she fell back against the tub, clammy sweat drying on her skin. She’d avoided thinking about it, but she had to face reality. She’d been attacked, savaged, bitten, torn up by a…creature, and then she’d been— She swallowed. Swallowed again. Raped.

  After rinsing her mouth, she headed for the kitchen on wobbly legs. A diet cola erased the last traces of sickness from her mouth, and the caffeine refueled her flagging energy. Nightmares had stolen her sleep. She hadn’t been able to eat. A bitter laugh broke from her—at least she was clean, considering how many showers she was taking, day and night. But no matter how hard she washed, she still smelled him on her skin.

  She wasn’t pregnant, at least. Living on the street had taught her a few lessons. 1: Life isn’t safe. 2: Having children by accident is stupid. She’d been on birth control pills since she was able to obtain them, and the hospital had given her extra medications as part of the hospital’s post…assault…protocol.

  Holding the cola, she sank down on the couch and noticed that someone had picked up her spilled memory box. On top was the photo of her with the people everyone assumed were her parents. “You know, if you blew this up, you might be able to get an ID on your parents.” The memory of Ash’s voice was so clear that Bree looked around, but the apartment was empty. Would always be empty.

  All that was left in these rooms was horror. A sob lodged in her chest, hurting, trying to break free. Everything she’d worked for—her beautiful stable world—was shattered. I want it back. My Ashley, my home, everything. Please, God, put it back. With a tearing feeling, the sob broke loose. Pushing her face against the cushion, she cried, the anguished sounds ripping her sore throat.