Dingo Wild (The Dingo Pack Book 1)

by Lexxie Couper

  Yep. Uncle M’s handwriting.

  A prickling heat rushed through her. Hot tears stung at her eyes. Relief and fear churned in her stomach, tightened her chest.

  She stared at her uncle’s scrawl, her throat thick.

  Five words. Just five. And two letters.

  Shearer’s shed. Tin Hut Gully. DS.

  Tin Hut Gully. That was the place Wedge had said a colony of dingoes lived near.

  A choppy breath burst from Katy. Her temples throbbed. Oh God, was this what she needed? Was that where her uncle was? At this Tin Hut Gully?

  And DS? Were they initials? And if so, were they the initials of Dean Singleton? How many people in this town had the initials DS?

  “Doesn’t matter,” she muttered, jolting to her feet. First things first. She was going to check out this Tin Hut Gully.

  The Longyard was beginning to fill when she made it down the stairs. Mainly men, she noted, all quite rowdy. Some looked her way as she hurried to the bar. Some sized her up, some sneered.

  This truly was the weirdest town she’d ever been in.

  “Excuse me?” she called to Ipo’s back as he fixed a drink on the back counter. “Ipo? Will you give me directions?”

  Ipo cast her a wordless inspection over his shoulder and went back to the drink.

  Katy scowled. Of course. Why would she expect anything different from this place?

  “Where do you want to go, love?”

  She started at the strange voice beside her.

  The man who had accepted Dean Singleton’s beer offer earlier smiled at her. Rat? That’s what Singleton had called him. Rat.

  A frown pulled at her forehead. She studied him, unsure what to say.

  Rat chuckled, the sound good-natured and friendly. “I won’t bite. Or expect any favors from you. Promise. I’m not like Grayson and his lot.”

  At his dismissal of Wedge Grayson, Katy couldn’t help but let out a relieved chuckle of her own. The fact he’d been the only one in the bar to respond to Dean’s offer to buy everyone a beer added to the sense of ease spreading through her.

  Here goes nothing.

  “I need to get to Tin Hut Gully,” she said, studying Rat’s face for any hint of reaction. “To a Shearer’s shed. Do you know what I’m talking about? Where it is? Is it close?”

  Rat chuckled again. “Yep. Know exactly where it is. Follow the highway west. Turn right at the dead croc letterbox about twenty-odd miles from here. Follow that road for another ten or so. The shed’s there. Easy peasy. You can’t miss it.”

  Katy beamed at him. “Thank you. Oh God, thank you so much. I could kiss you.”

  He scoffed and waved a hand. “No worries, missy. It’s all good.”

  Katy smiled wider. Maybe this town wasn’t as bad as she thought.

  “That’s twenty miles west,” she said, fixing the directions into her brain. “Right turn at the…”

  Rat grinned. “Dead croc letter box. You’ll know it when you see it.”

  She caught her bottom lip with her teeth, hope wriggling deep in her belly. Oh man, was she about to find her uncle? After all these weeks, was she about to find the eccentric scholar and all-round loopy man who had raised her since she was fourteen?

  I’m going to strangle you when I get my hands on you, Uncle M. And then hug you silly.

  “Right turn at the dead croc letter box,” she went on—Dead croc? Seriously?—”and then another ten miles to the shed. Is that right?”

  Rat nodded. “That’s right.”

  “Thank you,” she said again, straightening away from the counter. “Seriously. Thank you.”

  Rat shrugged. “No worries, missy. Singo seemed to like you, and any mate of Singo’s is a mate of mine.”

  Katy swallowed. An image of Singleton flooded her head at the mention of his name, and once again, her body reacted as if she’d just put new batteries into her vibrator.

  “Thank you,” she repeated a third time, smiling at Rat. “Can I ask, do you know anything about an American man called Martin McCoy?”

  Rat chewed over her question for a second and then shook his head. “Nah. But then, I’ve been on walkabout for the last couple months. Only just got back into the Creek last night.”

  A finger of disappointment traced up Katy’s spine but she shoved it aside. She had a place, a location. Somewhere to aim for. Somewhere her uncle himself had been interested enough in to write down. She’d go there first and if he wasn’t there, if there was no sign of him, she’d risk her libido and track down Dean Singleton. His initials on the paper had to mean something.

  Dusk was beginning to fall when she exited the bar, the sky a bruised purple with an angry red burn on the flat western horizon. The strange people of the town—and by strange, she meant either hyper-friendly, or hyper-fuck-off-and-don’t-talk-to-me-antisocial—were making their way around the street.

  She couldn’t wait to get out of the place. Get back home. Back to the States and San Diego.

  Her rent-a-wreck—a Toyota Land Cruiser with faulty air-conditioning and a radio that seemed only to play some messed-up kind of Australian country music—sat waiting for her a few yards away. She ran to it, her heart racing.

  Holy crap. Uncle Martin. Finally. She was going to find Uncle Martin. She felt it in her bones.

  She’d yanked the driver’s door open and had her foot planted inside, when the reality of what she was doing hit her.

  Driving out to a place she didn’t know, in a town she found creepy as all hell, to look for her uncle based on a crumpled up note she’d found under a bed? Was that smart?

  Her heart thumped faster. She gripped at the door, mind racing. She should go find the cops. Surely there had to be some in the town? Heading out there alone was…was…

  Dangerous?

  She frowned, looking around herself. How could it be dangerous? No one knew where she was going, she hadn’t told Rat she was going there now, just asked him where it was. And no one was following her, or paying her any attention. And what if her uncle was there? At this shed thing? Injured? What if she waited until morning and when she got out there, she found him…found him dead? She’d never be able to live with herself.

  Shaking her head, she pulled herself up into the rental, slammed the door, and turned over the engine.

  She couldn’t wait. She couldn’t. She had to find Uncle Martin.

  It took her hardly any time at all to destroy the twenty miles. Twice she had to swerve back onto the left side of the road, the excitement of finally finding her uncle overpowering the knowledge Australians didn’t drive on the right. Thank freaking God there was no one else on the darkening stretch of road with her.

  The dead-croc letter box reared up out of the dusk shadows just over twenty miles into the drive: a massive crocodile perched in an upright position on its tail and back legs, a rusted metal letter box fixed into the gaping maw of its open mouth.

  Katy stared at it for a few seconds after making the turn. Was it really a dead crocodile? Or a statue of one? Surely it had to be a fake one? Surely the people in this weird town weren’t so weird one of their number would use a dead crocodile as a letter box?

  “Looks real,” she muttered, slamming her foot to the accelerator.

  Ten miles. Ten more miles across godforsaken nothing—red dirt, dying or dead gum tress, and endless darkness—and she would hopefully be with Uncle Martin.

  Ten miles.

  A mile off the highway, the road turned to a dirt track. A mile after that, even the track seemed to surrender to the desolate dirt and dry tufts of wire-like grass. And then she was driving straight into blackness, trying like hell to keep the wheel straight as the Toyota’s tires fought with rocks and dips and thick thatches of grass.

  “Easy peasy my ass.” She gritted her teeth to stop them clinking together in her head as she pressed her foot harder to the floor. She should slow down, but she couldn’t. The sooner she got to the shed, the sooner she found out if her uncle was there.r />
  The Toyota lurched forward faster.

  Katy squinted into the night beyond the windscreen. Where the hell was this shearer’s shed? Surely she hadn’t missed—

  Something large and gray blurred out of the darkness, directly into her path. “Shit!” She hit the brakes, yanking the steering wheel to the left with instinctive panic.

  A sickening wet thud rocked the Toyota, jolting Katy forward in her seat. The engine gurgled once and then died. Silence swallowed her.

  “Shit.”

  She scrambled out of the SUV, pulse crazy. What had she hit? Shit, what had she hit?

  “Shit.”

  The powerful lights of the Toyota cut through the black night, illuminating nothing but more red dirt, dead trees, and tough grass. She hurried to the front, searching the ground.

  Nothing. Not even drops of blood.

  Frowning, she looked at the grill. Whatever she’d hit, it had done some serious damage. The grill and front bumper were a crumpled mess. The sound of water dripping from what she feared was the radiator turned her stomach to a knot.

  “Excellent.” She let out a shaky breath, crouching down to peer closer at the busted grill. “There goes my insurance.”

  Why wasn’t there any fur? Whatever she’d hit had been big. Big and obviously hard, not just because of the damage the collision with it had caused, but because it clearly hadn’t been injured.

  “What kind of animal runs away after being hit at fifty miles an hour?”

  The busted grill gave her no answer.

  She straightened, searching the darkness around her as she pulled at her thumbnail. The last vestiges of dusk disappeared behind the distant western horizon, leaving her with nothing but a star-blanketed night sky and baking heat. “Okay. Now what?”

  “Now,” a male voice drawled beside her, “we have our fun.”

  Katy didn’t scream. She was a California girl, after all. She knew how to take care of herself when unexpected creeps came along.

  Head roaring with adrenaline, she spun toward the voice and smashed her fist into its owner’s barely visible jaw.

  The small, greasy guy from the bar stumbled back a step, laughing. The sound danced on the dark night, taunting her. She caught glimpses of him—Merv. His name is Merv—in the glow of the Toyota’s headlights. Glimpses of him watching her. Glimpses of other movement.

  Oh God, there were more of them. More men…

  “She’s a fighter, eh?”

  Katy’s stomach curdled at the unseen man’s sniggered question. Her eyes burned. Jesus, how could she have been so stupid? Coming out here alone at night?

  She balled her fists, keeping her limbs as loose as she could. Six months of karate lessons. That’s all she had to protect herself with. Six months of karate lessons and a shit load of terror-fed adrenaline. Fuck, she hoped she’d got her money’s worth.

  “That pretty mouth of yours is made for kissin’, little kitten,” Merv said, stepping into the beam of her headlights.

  She locked her stare on him. “Please don’t do what you’re thinking about doing.”

  He laughed. “Oh, I’m gonna do it. Over and over.”

  Katy lashed out at him, swinging her foot for the side of his knee.

  Take out his kneecap. Cripple him.

  He stepped out of the way with casual ease, his laughter rising up into the night.

  More movement beside her. More laughter. Who else? How many?

  This isn’t…this isn’t happening. It can’t be.

  “Made to be kissed,” Merv repeated, walking closer to her. “To be fucked.”

  She kicked at his knee again. Man, why had she quit going to class? Why hadn’t she watched more Bruce Lee movies?

  Why hadn’t she—

  Someone grabbed her from behind. Fat arms locked around her. Hot breath blasted at her ear a split second before a wet tongue licked up the side of her face.

  Mr. Beefy.

  No. No no no. She thrashed in the man’s hold. He laughed. Merv laughed.

  “Let me go!” she snarled, throwing herself backward into Mr. Beefy’s weight. She rammed her feet onto Merv’s chest and pushed, snapping her body as straight and stiff as she could.

  Both Merv and Mr. Beefy let out stunned shouts, their balance doing exactly what she hoped—failing.

  The fat, sweaty arms around her slipped. Enough for her to fling herself out of their hold.

  Merv lunged at her but she ducked, driving her elbow into his throat before launching herself into a frantic sprint.

  Laughter filled the air. And then it wasn’t just laughter but another sound. A howling sound, like a pack of wolves had suddenly materialized in the Australian Outback and were joining in on her torment.

  But that was impossible. Wolves didn’t exist in Australia. Her uncle had told her that a few weeks before he left for the country.

  The apex predators in Australia were dingoes. And it sure as hell wasn’t dingoes howling behind her.

  Howling and growling and running.

  Get away. Get away now.

  She ran. Into the black night, heart wild, fear eating at her just as much as rage, rational thought gone, the sounds of laughing men and howling wolves all around her.

  She ran, a distant part of her mind screaming at her to get back to the Toyota, to get in it, to drive away…and let out a shout when she slammed into something hard. Strong hands snagged her upper arms, stopping her backward tumble.

  “It’s okay,” a familiar voice with a faint Russian accent said. “I’ve got you.”

  She thrashed in Wedge’s grip, fighting to free herself. “Let me go.”

  Wedge laughed. “Why would I do that, Katy-Lin?”

  Fear sheared through Katy. Ice filled her veins. How did he know her name?

  His fingers turned cruel on her arms and, before she knew what he was doing, he yanked her to his body. “You’re just as nosy as your uncle, kitty cat.”

  Her stomach rolled at her uncle’s nickname for her. Oh God, oh God, what was going on?

  “You know what happens to curious kitties, don’t you, Katy-Lin?” Wedge said, releasing one of her arms to hook his hand over her butt. He ground his groin to hers. The unmistakable pole between their bodies told her exactly what he planned to do.

  No. No no no.

  “Fuck you,” she snarled, smashing her knee upward.

  It connected with his inner thigh, hard enough to make him shout out, pain in the cry.

  Without hesitation, she twisted her arm free of his grip and slammed the heel of her palm at his face. She hoped her target was true. In the darkness she could hardly see a thing.

  Her palm connected. Her brain told her she’d hit his mouth, the distinct feel of his teeth against her hand detonating a little rush of cold joy through her.

  He staggered back, enough to let her strike out at him with a wild sidekick.

  He tumbled back farther.

  And then the animalistic howls were right behind her, beside her. Howls and laughter and whooping shouts of sick delight.

  Katy threw the darkness a harried look. Her eyes—adjusted to the lack of light—told her the very bad news.

  She was surrounded.

  Wedge chuckled. “I like this kind of foreplay, kitty cat.”

  Gut churning, Katy balled her fists again, stare locked on the man as he slowly walked towards her. “Sick freak.”

  He sniggered. “Oh, my sweet little kitten. You have no idea. And now I’m going to show you just how freaky I can—”

  A sandy-colored blur leapt at him.

  A dog. Big dog.

  A dingo.

  It sank its teeth into the side of Grayson’s neck, the force of its leap sending him sideways.

  Growls and snarls and the sound of animals fighting filled the air. Katy gasped, her brain incapable of comprehending what she was seeing.

  Dingoes. Three of them. And wolves. Three. Bigger than the dingoes. All fighting.

  All—


  One of the wolves ran for her.

  She screamed, bursting into a backward sprint.

  Her heel snagged on something, a rock, an animal, something. She screamed again, falling.

  Falling.

  Her head hit the ground, white-hot pain erupting behind her eyes. Pain. So much pain.

  She cried out, the world spinning.

  And then it all went black.

  But not before one of the dingoes changed before her.

  Shifted. Its shape changing into…

  * * * *

  They’ve gone, Dean.

  Dean looked up from his inspection of the unconscious American woman’s face to his approaching beta.

  Still in dingo form, Cameron Watts padded up to him, his four paws silent on the ground. Behind Cam followed his wife, Lucy, also still in dingo form, her ears flat with agitation.

  We lost their trail in Patterson’s Creek.

  Dean bit back a growl.

  Cam’s ears dropped. His tail tucked between his back legs.

  Shaking his head, Dean held up a hand. “Sorry, Cam. I’m not pissed at you.” He turned his attention back to Martin McCoy’s niece. “I’m pissed at Grayson.”

  The scent of the American woman threaded into his every breath. It unraveled him, stirring in him a tight heat he had trouble ignoring.

  Given the confrontation he’d just had—three dingoes against three wolves—he should have been charged with adrenaline and aggression. Primal, animalistic aggression. He didn’t shift often anymore. It was too dangerous. His baradii, the ancient magic that allowed him to exist as both dingo and man, was too seductive, too alluring. When in dingo form, he often forgot he was also a man.

  Hard to be a man when the lure and appetites and nature of a beast ruled him. Called to him.

  But when he finally caught a faint whiff of the American’s delicious scent just outside the Creek, and then detected Grayson’s stench—along with his sniveling wolf pack—tracking her, he didn’t hesitate.

  Cam and Lucy caught up with him as he was about to charge the wolves alone. As all good betas, Cam followed his lead…and at the same time saved his skin.

  A Russian wolf didn’t stand a chance against an angry dingo in the Outback, regardless of the size difference, but even Dean had to admit, three wolves on one dingo was a risky fight.