Savage Transformation

by Lexxie Couper

  Dense bush surrounded her, old-growth eucalyptus trees towering over younger melaleuca, acacia and grevillea. Not a building to be seen, not a car horn or human voice to be heard.

  Jackie frowned. How had she run so far from St. Helens?

  Inside her soul, her thylacine stirred. Jackie frowned deeper. The animal was as confused as she.

  She pressed her palm to the ground at her knees, the dew-damp grass soft and cool against her skin. A maelstrom of images surged through her, followed by a connection so profound her heart missed a beat.

  She’d been human, but not. Thylacine, but human. Two forms inhabiting the same space at the same time, moving as one. The connection with the land flowed through her, finding her rapid heart. Embracing it. Like a dream embraces time.

  Jackie closed her eyes and the connection flowed deeper, filling her with peaceful anger. Calm belonging. Letting her feel the wounds Einar had inflicted on the world and the pain those wounds brought to the time and the dream. She let the pain of every senseless slaughter slip through her. Thread through her grief.

  Show her. The wrong being done and the way to end it.

  Her thylacine stretched. Preening. Growing stronger. Growing more powerful, even in its inert slumber. Her connection with the ancient spirit of the land fed it. Awakened it. Awakened her. Awakened what she’d run from decades ago. What the cold, polluted, industrialized world of Sydney kept from her. A sense of belonging and serene acceptance. The understanding she was a creature of mystical beauty and ancient spirit. A creature of a dream in a time of reality.

  She pulled in a long, ragged breath and a sob lodged in her throat. Marshall’s distinct scent flowed through her nostrils and she lowered her head, touching her shaking fingers to the clothes she wore. Marshall’s clothes.

  Hate and grief and utter confusion sank into her chest and she pressed her face into her hands. Even with the surreal unity she now accepted with the Earth, with her thylacine, the smell of Marshall Rourke wrapped around her body and tore her heart apart. What was she doing? God, what should she do?

  Go back to the hotel. Beat the shit out of him. Make him hurt like you are hurting now. Make him suffer. Make him pay.

  Let him hold you. Let him love you.

  She let out a harsh sigh, squeezing her eyes tight. Hold her? Was she a masochist? Stupid?

  Would you have done it differently? If you were in Marshall’s position? Would you?

  She let out another sigh, her stomach a knot of sick tension. Lifting her head from her hands, she looked about herself, staring at the lush bush surrounding her.

  The ghost of a memory floated through her head and a wan smile pulled at her lips.

  She’d first meet Delanie in the bush. In what felt like a different lifetime ago.

  She’d found herself cowering under an ancient cedar wattle tree on the outskirts of a town she didn’t recognise. Head buried in her knees, she’d been hungry and scared and covered in dirt and grime, wondering where she was, what she would do now? How long she’d been in her thylacine form, she didn’t know, but things were different than the last time she could remember. The cars shooting past her were sleeker, the clothes on the people moving around the streets more brightly coloured. Even the air tasted different—dirtier, as if every particle was coated in filth.

  “I’m lost,” a squeaky voice had said and she’d jerked her head up, staring at the tall, lanky girl with the bright orange hair smiling at her. “Can you help me?” The girl had extended her skinny arm, holding out a sweater that looked like it was knitted from spun sunlight. “You can wear my jumper, if you like.”

  After that, Delanie was her best friend, helping her adjust to every new foster family she was dumped with, helping her deal with the strange duel existence she lived, keeping the one secret so big it could have made Delanie a substantial fortune if she’d wanted to tell all. When Jackie had lost control of her thylacine the day after her eighteenth birthday, it was Delanie who found her—four human months later—in a cave high in the hinterlands. Delanie who sat with her in that cold, rocky hollow, never saying a word, a vegemite sandwich—Jackie’s favourite lunch—sitting unwrapped on her lap. It was Del who just let the animal Jackie had been grow accustomed to her calm presence until the human Jackie was re-emerged, scared and confused and more than a little flea bitten.

  For years, she and Delanie were never far apart. Not until Jackie had moved to Sydney to escape the all-too potent pull of her thylacine.

  A tear slipped down Jackie’s cheek, cool on her flushed skin. “Oh, Del. I’m sorry.”

  Don’t just be sorry, Huddart. Do something about it.

  An image of Daeved Einar rose through the dark fog of her grief, smile smug, silver blade glinting in the waning moonlight, and her chest constricted.

  Do something about it.

  She swiped at the tear on her cheek, black anger twisting through her sorrow. If the hunter wanted her that badly, she’d let him have her. All of her, not just the thylacine shape-shifter. If he wanted her, he’d get the whole lot: the Tasmanian tiger, the cop, the woman whose best friend he’d killed with a poisoned knife. The creature from an ancient time of ancient dreams. Four very dangerous creatures all in one small package.

  She cast the dense bushland a steady look, letting its peaceful beauty and the memory of Delanie ebb through her for one calm moment before turning around and breaking into a dead sprint. Back the way she had come. Back to the hotel and Marshall Rourke. She would deal with her life mate’s deception later, with the hollow void he’d created in her heart, but for now she needed him.

  She was going hunting.

  The rising sun’s soft light beat at her back, heating her skin and the ground beneath her feet as she ran to the hotel. A few people—some dressed for work, some for jogging, some walking their dogs—watched her sprint past them, their expressions startled. She didn’t wonder—a five-foot-three female running barefooted at break-neck speed wearing men’s clothing would make anyone suspicious. She pulled a shallow breath, trying not to take Marshall’s scent into her lungs. She didn’t know what waited for them both at the end of this. She didn’t know if she could ever forgive him. Hell, she didn’t know if she wanted to forgive him, but she needed him right at this present. No matter how angry she was, no matter how good a cop she was—and she was good—no matter how tenacious her thylacine spirit was, she couldn’t take Einar out without him.

  Her heart squeezed at the thought and she bit back a frustrated growl. The first thing she would do when face-to-face with the man was hit him. Hard. After that…

  The hotel loomed before her and she increased her pace, her stare locked on the open door. For the first time since leaving him, Jackie wondered why Marshall had not come after her. She remembered him calling her name as she ran across the car park, but that was it.

  He may be a deceiving bastard, Jackie, but he’s not an idiot. Coming after you would have been the worst thing he could have done at that point and you know it.

  And so, it seemed, did Marshall.

  Because he is your life mate?

  Her stomach tightened into a knot at the question. Mated to an extinct werewolf from a secret American organisation, who used her as bait and was willing to become a dog-walker to be with her. God, if Delanie were here, she’d laugh her skinny arse off.

  Tight pain stabbed into Jackie’s chest and she faltered, her feet slowing beneath her. She stared hard at the open hotel door, her mouth dry, her pulse thumping in her neck.

  Deal with Einar first, Jackie. Then you can figure out the rest of your life.

  She nodded once and jumped the small garden strip, curling her hands into fists to stop her fingers from wriggling. God, when did her life become so bloody complicated?

  Crossing the threshold, she took two steps into the hotel room and stopped. Marshall wasn’t there.

  “Pacman?”

  Silence answered her call and she frowned. Her stare moved to the closed bathroom doo
r. She walked to it and gave it a gentle push.

  Empty.

  Maybe he came after you, after all?

  Turning on the spot, she studied the small hotel room, an uneasy sensation squirming in her belly. Nothing about the room looked out of place, but it felt… “Wrong.”

  The whispered word sounded like a gunshot in the silence and she frowned again, balling her hands into tighter fists. Her thylacine snarled, its agitated energy razing her spine. The hair on the back of her neck prickled and she clenched her fists harder.

  Wrong. It felt wrong.

  Why? Surely he came after you and you missed each other? Surely that’s all it is?

  Jackie flicked her gaze around the room, the urge to wriggle her fingers a constant itch in her nerve endings. Two things about the situation put her on edge. One, Marshall’s sense of smell was phenomenal. He’d detected faint traces of Delanie on the air when Jackie could only smell the night. If he’d followed her scent he wouldn’t have deviated from the path she took, no matter how fast she ran. And two, he had no clothes. She’d taken off in the only clothes he had, and she doubted he’d fit into the jeans and shirt he’d packed for her.

  Why didn’t you put them on before you fled, Huddart? Hmmm? Even when you were so angry with Marshall you wanted to shoot him yourself, you still covered your body in his clothes, his scent. There’s something a touch Freudian about that little fact, don’t you think?

  “Shut up.” She snapped her hands back into fists before her fingers could begin to dance. “Focus on the situation, detective, not your goddamn pathetic state of mind.”

  She paced the room, studying the minimal furniture, the rumples on the sofa cushions, the folds in crumpled bed sheets. Everything looked the way it had before she ran. Nothing was different. Even his phone was still—

  Jackie’s mouth went dry.

  His phone. Why was Marshall’s phone on the floor? He’d had it in his hand when she left. Why would it be on the floor now? Almost hidden under the bed?

  As if kicked there?

  She hurried over to the phone and scooped it up, a heavy pressure wrapping around her chest. Why would Marshall go away without his phone, unless he went somewhere in his wolf form?

  Or was taken against his will.

  Flicking it open, she looked at its display. Three missed calls, all from a blocked number. She scrolled through the phone’s functions, looking for the list of Marshall’s contacts. Maybe Hillerman could tell her what was going on? The walking office block had to know something, right?

  Growling, she snapped it shut and threw it onto the bed. She couldn’t access any function on his phone, not even the list of the last calls he dialed. Not without a PIN and she had no idea what those four numbers were. Not at all.

  “Damnit.”

  Walking back to the doorway, she stared out at the quiet car park. His scent still lingered on the clothes she wore, still slipped into every breath she pulled. Not only teasing her, but haunting her. She’d lost Delanie this morning and now it seemed she’d lost Marshall too.

  The thought sent a shard of something dark and bleak into her soul and her thylacine whined. She narrowed her eyes, glaring at the long shadows stretching across the car park. What did she do now? She couldn’t call the only connection to P.A.C. she knew of. She didn’t know Hillerman’s number, nor could she call P.A.C. itself—Hello, Operator. Can I have the Paranormal Anti-Crime Unit’s head office, please? Umm, somewhere in America, I think? She couldn’t call the local cops—Hello, this is Detective Huddart from Sydney City Command. My best friend’s been killed by an elf and my lover’s gone missing. By the way, he’s an agent for an American agency dealing with paranormal crime and a werewolf, so can you send out Animal Control while you’re at it, please? The only soul living she knew who may be able to comprehend her situation was Declan O’Connell, and the Irish werewolf would be of no help more than one thousand five hundred kilometres north of where she was.

  What about Detective Peter Thomas? O’Connell’s brother-in-law? He knows of the existence of shape-shifters. His partner and suspected lover was a werewolf.

  Jackie chewed on her bottom lip. What did she say to him? Heya, Detective Thomas. This is Detective Huddart. You probably don’t remember me, but I spoke to you briefly a year or so ago in a Sydney mansion. I’m actually a shape-shifting Tasmanian tiger and I think the dark elf currently hunting me down here in Tasmania is responsible for killing your old partner. Can you help me find my two-hundred-and-fourteen-year-old life mate werewolf please, so I can stop the elf before he kills us too?

  No, no matter which way she looked at it, she couldn’t call for backup. The only man who could help her was Marshall, and he was nowhere to be found. Which worried her to no end.

  What if he’s hurt?

  She scrubbed at her face with her hands, her stomach rolling. Damn it, what if Einar had taken him? What if the elf had killed him?

  “Stop it, Jackie. You’re getting yourself in a state.”

  She pulled in a slow, deep breath, tuning out the distinct scent of Marshall on the air. She needed to be calm. She had to work her way through the situation. If she didn’t, all the finger wiggling in the world wouldn’t stop her transforming into her thylacine form, and despite the newfound connection she shared with her inner animal and the ancient land in which it existed, she wasn’t ready to be lost to the creature. Not yet.

  She released her breath in a long, measured sigh, pressing her hands flat to the sides of her thighs as she studied the pale morning sky. She had to find him. Track him if need be. Her sense of smell wasn’t as good as his, but she would find him. She couldn’t be without him. He was her mate for life and she…

  Her heart clenched and she bit back a guttural groan. She loved him. “Even if he’s a lying, sarcastic pain in the arse.”

  Lifting her nose to the slight breeze flowing across the car park, she drew in another deep breath.

  And let it out in a gasp when Marshall’s phone rang behind her.

  She dove back into the room, snatching the phone from the bed, flicking it open and pressing it against her ear all in one fluid action. “Yes?”

  “Isn’t it ironic that the man who once used you as bait to catch me,” Einar’s croon scratched at Jackie’s ear through the connection, “is now the very thing that will bring you to me?”

  Jackie’s thylacine snarled, the creature’s fury roaring through her. She gripped the phone, staring through the open bathroom doorway at her reflection in the small mirror on the wall. Eyes the colour of burnt toffee looked back at her—her animal’s eyes. Not hers. Steady and primitive and wild.

  Hunt, track, kill.

  “You didn’t need to go to so much effort, Einar,” she said, her voice barely a murmur. “If you’d waited but a few minutes I would have come to you anyway.”

  Einar’s laugh wheezed over the connection, making her smile. A cold, dead smile. “Ah, but where would the fun be in that, detective. True, you were the initial target of my hunt, but since discovering my ex-partner is a dire werewolf I’ve amended my plans.” He paused, and Jackie heard her inner animal growl in the brief silence. “My only question now is who watches who die?”

  She bared her teeth, her smile growing colder. “I know the answer to that.” The eyes of her thylacine gazed back at her from her face. “I’ll tell you when I get there, shall I?”

  Marshall lifted his head and studied the room around him, ignoring the dull ache in the back of his head and the sharp pain at the base of his spine. He was in what looked like a teenage girl’s bedroom. The walls were covered in posters of actors and singers all in various stages of undress, all male, all from the late nineties.

  He sat up, the pain in the small of his back a drilling scream of burning ice. Continuing his inspection of the room, he noted the pristine condition of the bed, the collection of soft toy animals in the corner, the ballet slippers hanging on the back of the closed door and the fine film of dust on the candy-p
ink bookshelf dressing table. Definitely a teenage girl’s bedroom.

  Whose bedroom, Marshall? Shouldn’t you be asking that question? Whose bedroom and whose house? Einar’s dumped you here alone and he wouldn’t have done that if he didn’t think it was secure. What’s he done with the original occupants?

  A foreboding sense of unease coursed through him. He pressed his hands to his knees and pushed himself to his feet. The unexpected feel of course material under his palms drew his attention to his legs. Someone had dressed him, no doubt Einar himself, in black combat trousers. The type worn by P.A.C. agents on field missions.

  Marshall narrowed his eyes, pushing his hand into the right hip pocket. His fingers brushed something thin and hard and, letting out a snort, he withdrew the small object, knowing what it was before he even looked at it.

  A message.

  He flipped the flat rectangle piece of plastic over on his palm and looked at it, dark contempt unfurling in his gut.

  Einar’s P.A.C. ID card.

  The man was taunting him.

  Closing his fist around the card, he pushed it back into the pocket of the trousers he wore. It wouldn’t surprise him in the least if they were, in fact, his trousers. His ex-partner always took great delight in the little details of an interrogation. Dressing Marshall in his P.A.C. uniform when they both knew he wasn’t on an official mission held all the trademarks of Daeved Einar.

  The dull ache in the back of his neck flared to a hot throb and Marshall swiped at it with gentle pressure before taking a quick look at his fingers. Blood smeared them, bright red and slightly tacky to the touch. Whatever Einar had hit him with back at the hotel, it had done the job.

  A growl rumbled in his chest and he rubbed at his neck again. Damn it. If he’d followed Jackie when she’d fled from him, like his gut wanted him to, he wouldn’t be in this ridiculous situation. Instead, for the first time in not only his P.A.C. career, but his life, he’d listened to his heart, his head, and let her go. He’d known there’d be no talking to her in her current state of mind, and he didn’t blame her. Time was what she’d needed. Time to think about what he’d said to her, what she felt. If she came back and told him she never wanted to see him again he’d understand. Hell, he deserved it. His heart would break, but he’d understand. So, even though every molecule in his body wanted to go after her, beg her to forgive him, he’d stayed put in the open doorway and watched her run as fast as she could away from him. And when he couldn’t see her anymore, he’d walked back into his own room.