Wolf Fire

by Christine DePetrillo

  WOLF FIRE

  Book Two

  Warrior Wolves Series

  by Christine DePetrillo

  Copyright 2017 Christine DePetrillo

  All Rights Reserved

  Cover design by Dar Albert of

  Wicked Smart Designs

  www.wickedsmartdesigns.com

  Edited by Janet Hitchcock

  www.theproofisinthereading.wordpress.com

  This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the copyright owners except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons, places, events, business establishments or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Author Contact:

  Website/Newsletter Sign-up: www.christinedepetrillo.weebly.com

  Facebook: www.facebook.com/christinedepetrilloauthor

  Find our cozy Reader Group, SMALL TOWN HEARTS, on Facebook and join!

  Dedication

  For those who seek fire to warm their hearts…

  and to Mary Deus,

  who can now add “Plot Assistant”

  to her list of occupations.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Epilogue

  Books in the Warrior Wolves Series

  Wolf Vow Sneak Peek

  Books in the Shielded Series

  Books in the Maple Leaf Series

  Other Available Titles by Christine DePetrillo

  About the Author

  Chapter One

  Jaemus McAlator hated his brother. Cowering in wolf form in front of Flidae, Celtic goddess of all wild things, he loathed what he’d become. Once a powerful warrior that kings hired to slay their enemies, Jaemus was nothing more than a mutt now, turned by his werewolf brother in the name of keeping his army victorious in battle.

  Selfish bastard.

  Winning was everything. Jaemus couldn’t argue with that, but he could protest the manner in which his brother had sought triumph. Turning his four closest men into werewolves without their consent was beyond absurd and definitely unwelcome. Who did Reardon think he was, playing with men’s lives like that? Just because he captained the army didn’t mean he could alter men’s fates without at least discussing it with them.

  And now the goddess Flidae was furious. Reardon’s intent to use wolves to kill went against her rules for wild things, and she was tearing into him now.

  Jaemus had trouble following exactly what the goddess was saying to his brother. All his energy was focused on trying to shift back to human, but Flidae was too strong. If she wanted them in wolf form for her tongue lashing, they were staying in wolf form, and there was nothing he could do about it. His head throbbed too, as her voice thundered along the Irish shores. The men around him—also stuck in wolf form—whimpered in pain, their large ears turned back against the goddess’s raging voice.

  Then one word reached Jaemus.

  Banished.

  Flidae couldn’t mean… she wouldn’t… she wouldn’t send them away, would she?

  In all his thirty-seven years, Jaemus had known no other home than Ireland. The army had traveled to neighboring countries, but they always returned to the lush green hills of their homeland. Always. Nowhere else in the world could be home.

  Did the goddess mean to separate the men? Scatter them to the winds? Jaemus considered these men his brothers, though only Reardon McAlator, Kole McMannus, and Shane McMannus were his true kin. Erik Rheagan was his family—if not by blood, certainly by the number of times they’d saved each other’s hides. They were all he had in this world, aside from his mother whom he hadn’t seen since joining Reardon as a hired warrior. They enjoyed great riches, bathed in immeasurable glory, toured a variety of interesting places, and sampled many beautiful women. He liked his life.

  At least he had.

  Now he felt like a feral animal, uncontrolled and impulsive. He and the men had been unable to contain themselves at their favorite tavern earlier this evening while celebrating their most recent victory and counting their newest treasures. It was easy to forget—for a little while—what Reardon had done to them.

  Until their hunger became insatiable. Their anger bubbling to the surface. Their primal urges unleashed. This was what Reardon had brought upon them.

  He’d never forgive his brother. Never.

  Jaemus looked around at the other men, the other wolves, then a flash of light so blinding he squeezed his eyes shut zapped down to the ground under his paws. His entire body, from muzzle to tail, buzzed with an energy he couldn’t see. When he opened his eyes again, the men were gone. Reardon was gone. Flidae was gone. The shores of Ireland were gone. He had a weightless moment where nothing was around him.

  A complete, black void.

  In the next instant, water raged around him and he sucked it into his lungs, choking on it. He paddled with his paws, but had no idea which way was up. The more he fought, the more the water battered his body, filled his ears, drenched his silvery fur, stung his big, golden brown eyes.

  Something sharp gouged his cheek and he let out a whimper, but the water absorbed the sound. His blood mixed with the water and the iron tang of it filled his mouth. His lungs were ready to burst. His muscles strained. His vision was foggy.

  Perhaps it’s time to let go.

  Jaemus had been fighting for so many years. Though he’d won many battles with his brother’s army, what else did he have? He had no plans, especially now that he was an abomination of nature. He had no true home, no cozy place to rest his head. He had no woman to care for him, to love him. He had his sword, his treasures, and the restless soul of a warrior.

  Maybe the time had finally come to surrender.

  You do not accept defeat. Flidae’s voice vibrated through his skull as he stopped moving and let the water carry him away. You fight.

  But at what cost?

  Finally, the cost seemed too high. He was giving more than he was getting, and he was tired. So tired. His entire body ached from the water’s abuse, and the cut on his cheek did not like the salt water’s touch. It felt as if someone had poured liquid fire into his flesh, traded his muscles for rocks, and filled his lungs with sand.

  He was done.

  You are not done until I say you are, warrior wolf.

  Jaemus didn’t have the energy to yell back at Flidae, nor did he want to. Nothing he could say would diminish her anger anyway. He’d only make things worse.

  As if things could get worse.

  He was about to drown in an ocean that was all too eager to swallow him. He had no idea where he was. He didn’t know if he’d ever see the other warriors—his friends—again. He was certain his life only had mere moments left in it.

  Werewolves live longer than this. Don’t waste the time you’ve been given. Where was Flidae? Why couldn’t he see her? Why could he only hear her?

  Suddenly a spray of water pushed up from underneath his body, hoisting him past the foamy surface and tossing him onto an unknown shore full of hot, white sand. He coughed out a mouthful of grit followed by a gush of salt water. Heaving until there couldn’t be anything left inside him, Jaemus tried to raise himself and realized he was no longer in wolf form. His lar
ge silver-furred paws had been replaced with rough, familiar hands that sifted through sand as he grabbed at it. Water dripped from his blond hair into his eyes, stinging them.

  He wasn’t sure if he should be happy to be back to human or if that made him vulnerable. Could he shift back to wolf or had Flidae shown some mercy and taken that horrible curse away too? Closing his eyes, he pictured his wolf form and instantly turned.

  Damn.

  The one thing he wanted to be rid of stayed with him. He shifted back to human and sat on the sand, slicking his soaked hair back with his fingers. Hot sun overhead blazed down on his exposed flesh, and he looked over his shoulder where trees with wide leaves offered shade. Crawling on his hands and knees with what little strength he still had, Jaemus pulled himself into the shadowy relief of this strange forest. Ireland didn’t have trees like these with curvy barks that swayed in the warm breeze and large, feather-like leaves that whispered as they moved.

  He propped himself up against one of the trees and touched a finger to the cut on his cheek. Wincing, his fingertip came away bloody, but he had nothing to soothe the pain.

  Add it to the other scars.

  Jaemus was no stranger to scars. He’d been sliced by sword blades, poked by spear tips, nearly gutted by daggers, burned, beaten, walloped within inches of his life. He’d always survived. Never doubted he’d wake to another sunrise.

  Now? Well, now he wasn’t as confident that tomorrow was a guarantee. If he did live, what was his purpose? He had no army to fight with, no king to protect, no riches to count, no maiden willing to bring him physical pleasures.

  His stomach growled and his survival instincts kicked in. Food. He had to locate some. Shelter. He had to make one. Water. He needed the drinkable sort. Surviving would have to be his new purpose. For now at least. Until he could figure out how to get back home to Ireland.

  Standing slowly and using a nearby tree for support, Jaemus surveyed the immediate area. He gathered several fallen logs and fashioned them into a frame of sorts. His movements were slow, both his tussle with the sea and the extreme heat of this place exhausting him. Ireland was never this hot, and though he was naked, he couldn’t cool down.

  He paused in his laboring and eyed the sea. He wasn’t overly eager to enter it again, but its water would relieve his discomfort. After binding a few more logs together, he walked across the near-burning sand and waded into the water. The waves had calmed quite a bit, and as he scanned along the vast expanse of the sea, its tranquility struck him.

  Had Flidae purposely churned up the waters when he’d been submerged in them? Was she trying to disorient him? Thrash him? Kill him?

  Jaemus shook his head. The Celtic goddess of wild things didn’t need the sea’s help. If she wanted him dead, he’d be dead. Simple as that.

  For whatever reason, Flidae had spared his life, encouraged him to live, and dumped him here—wherever here was. She could have sent him to a more… populated area, but at least he had the means to survive. In gathering logs, he’d noted several types of berries growing about that appeared promising, he’d found a freshwater pond some frogs had deemed suitable, and he’d located a rock that nearly screamed out to be made into a spear tip. With a shelter, food sources, and water, he’d be fine.

  But that was all he’d be. He’d be dry. Fine. He’d be fed. Fine. His thirst would be quenched. Fine.

  He’d be alone. Not fine.

  Unfortunately, he didn’t have any other choices. Reardon had taken all of his choices when he’d offered Jaemus a drink of that water he’d bespelled with the curse of the werewolf.

  Now all Jaemus could do was exist and contain the beast residing beneath his skin.

  He finished his shelter, feasted on the berries, washing them down with water, and settled down to sleep. With any luck he’d wake up and all of this would have been a dream. A sick, unbelievable dream.

  But it wasn’t.

  When he woke, he found the odd forest still surrounded him and his hunger had grown tenfold, as had the ache from the slash on his cheek. If he’d still been with the army, one of the men would have tended to the injury as Jaemus had tended to theirs. He remembered sewing the tip of Reardon’s ear once. He hadn’t done an impressive job, but the bleeding had stopped. Reardon’s ear had healed—more quickly than normal due to his werewolf abilities—but the tip was missing and what remained was misshapen. Still, he’d eased his brother’s pain. No one was around to do the same for Jaemus now.

  Because of Reardon. He should have let his brother bleed to death. Not that he would have. His werewolf abilities would have closed the wound eventually.

  Jaemus fingered the cut again, wondering why his own werewolf abilities hadn’t rid him of the wound yet. It would be his luck to have garnered all the unwanted traits of the werewolf and none of the advantageous ones. Shaking his head at his dark thoughts, he lashed the sharp-edged rock he’d picked up earlier to a long, sturdy branch and set out in search of something a little… meatier to eat. Being part wolf now made him more carnivorous and his mouth watered thinking about tearing some flesh from bone.

  He thudded the heel of his hand against his forehead, trying desperately to clear the wolfish notions from his mind. Looking at the makeshift spear in his hand, however, made him stop and consider other options. Wolves were good hunters. They needed no man-made tools to catch their prey.

  Setting the spear down, Jaemus shifted to wolf form and raised his nose, sniffing the warm breeze that ruffled his fur. The sun rested on the horizon and everything was cast in dim shadows, but his wolf eyes didn’t care. They saw much more than his human eyes could. A small creature scurried amongst the dense, green brush on the forest floor. Something that moved fast, but Jaemus could move faster.

  He stalked the animal for a few moments, becoming familiar with its movements, its patterns, its unawareness of his presence. Coiling his body back, he sprung forward and pounced on the creature. Its small body wiggled under his large paws, but he didn’t relent. With a few squeals of horror, the critter ceased moving.

  Jaemus lifted his paws and regarded the lifeless body. He’d killed men in battle. Many men. Without a guilty thought. Without remorse. Without questioning his life. This defenseless creature, however, that he’d sacrificed so easily, caused a wave of regret to crest and crash over him. He backed up several steps, attempting to put distance between himself and the bloody meal he’d garnered for himself. He didn’t want to want it.

  His stomach growled again. Louder this time. Like a rumble of thunder. He had no choice but to dine on the kill. Better to devour it than to waste the life he’d taken. In human form, he’d never felt so connected to what they’d hunted, cooked over a roaring fire, and eaten. Why was it different now? Why did he feel as if he’d cut a strand in the spider web of life and the web’s integrity had been compromised?

  Animals ate other animals. Cycle of life. Food chain. All natural.

  And yet… he felt like a betrayer.

  You are not like a regular wolf. Flidae’s voice cut through the growing darkness. You are part man, part wolf. Both. And neither. What you feel is a reflection of that.

  What he felt was due to his brother’s selfishness.

  Growling, Jaemus shifted back to human form and grabbed the slain animal by the hind legs. It appeared to be some form of rabbit and fat enough to fill his belly for tonight. He pushed aside any kinship he felt to the creature and set about building a cook fire. He rubbed sticks together as he had in Ireland until a spark ignited the dried grass he’d collected. After roasting the meat, he ate greedily until his stomach no longer protested and sleep overtook him once again.

  Jaemus did the same thing for weeks. Slept, explored, ate. He did not make contact with any other humans. There were none. He did not hold out hope of leaving this place. No way of escape existed. He practiced fighting imaginary demons with the spear he’d made to keep his body in good shape, but each day that crawled by made him wonder if he shouldn’t lie
down in the sand and let himself wither to nothing under the beaming sun.

  This was not a life.

  This was punishment and nothing more. Punishment for what Reardon had done. Punishment Jaemus did not deserve. If he ever saw his brother again, he’d… he’d… Gods, he couldn’t even come up with a revenge plan harsh enough.

  He lowered to the sand as he’d done almost every day since being exiled and rested his elbows on his knees, his head in his hands, his fingers raking through his chin-length blond hair. He scratched at his beard that would soon be unruly—except for the spot where he’d been gouged by the sea and no hair had grown after the wound had closed. As the gentle waves rolled along the pristine shore, a flash of light cracked open the sky as it had back in Ireland all those weeks ago.

  When his eyes adjusted, Jaemus found himself away from the sand and sea and in a very different forest.

  ****

  The silver and turquoise bangles on Nika Skarvinski’s slender wrist jingled as she dusted the bookshelves lining the back wall of Maple Ridge Trading Post, a shop her tato, her father, Cezar Skarvinski, had left her in the tree-covered mountains of Canville, Vermont. She loved the shop. She did. Honest.

  But sometimes…

  “Oh, Tato, why couldn’t you have died a billionaire, huh?” She blew a strand of her curly chestnut hair out of her face then sneezed over the cloud of dust she’d churned up. “Would have been so nice to not have to worry about money. To kick up my feet, maybe travel, spends oodles of time making jewelry or something else relaxing.”

  Instead, Nika was neck deep in debt and barely scraping by on the meager profits of the trading post. When she was a child, Maple Ridge Trading Post was a booming business during the spring, all summer long, and well into the fall, always full of tourists from all over the country. She’d always enjoyed running about the aisles, meeting new people and learning their stories as she helped Tato work. Her father always had a smile for his customers and everyone who talked to him instantly liked him.