white wolf.jpg

by White Wolf (lit)

  All of a sudden the proverbial lightbulb went off. “Taylor's eyes.” Gray smacked a palm against his forehead.

  The three men halted at the forest's edge.

  Mike, clad head to toe in black plastic, stated, “What we need now is speed, not caution.”

  “I'm with Mike,” Chad acquiesced. “If they sense our presence, they'll be expecting us to creep up silently.”

  “You're right. You take right, Chad—I'm in the rear, Mike's left. Let's stir the forest as we go. The more animals on the move, the harder it will be for him to differentiate our movements.”

  The tension in the air palpable, the barometric pressure augmented the sudden odor of evil.

  “Move out. When we reach the clearing, do whatever it takes to get Taylor safe. After that, we focus on Joe.”

  As he deked between trunks, birds took flight, the sound of hundreds of wings beating like ancient tribal drums calling warriors to battle. He had the farthest route to the clearing, so Gray called on his wolf reserves to make up time. Racing through the dense pine and oak trees, he wound between trunks, keeping his tread light. His ears picked up the sound of green wood hissing under a flame, a snarled command issued in an ancient Indian dialect he didn't recognize.

  A cacophony rent nature's tranquility. Owls hooted, a black bear rumbled, foxes yelped high-pitched yowls, hundreds of frogs ribbited, their growing chorus drowning the human sounds he'd identified seconds before. “We need to hurry.”

  A hint of panic clouded Chad's telepathic communication.

  “What is it?”

  Gray's stomach boiled over. The snack he'd eaten earlier raced up his gullet. Every wolf pack boasted one member with forevision, and Chad was that acknowledged individual for the white wolves of Washington.

  “Sorcha and Susie are here.”

  Fuck.

  “Where?”

  “Almost at the clearing.”

  A red haze glazed his brain. Why the fuck hadn't she stayed put? Yet even as the thought reared an unholy fury, in the back of his mind he'd half expected the women to follow them.

  “They used the dirt bike. Took a direct line here.”

  Shock and surprise had distracted Gray to the point where he hadn't realized that he neared the perimeter of the clearing.

  No way in fucking hell he'd let Sorcha face the black wolf alone.

  “I scent them. Calm down. Sniff.”

  The violent command came from Mike.

  Gray took a deep inhale. Two new aromas perfumed the air, both familiar.

  “Whitener?”

  He knew before Mike answered.

  “And your Lieutenant Wicks.”

  Fuck.

  Gray's night vision scoured the clearing picking out details. The sight that unfolded as he neared the Abyss prompted a new burst of speed.

  Three fires blared and flared in spite of the driving rain. Through the dense fog, Gray pinpointed Hans Whitener in front of the central blaze. He wore a black wolf's pelt, his face painted an eerie chalk white, lips bared in a scarlet slash, fangs prominent.

  A dozen or more similarly clad figures formed a half circle around their leader.

  The scent of green wood smoldering couldn't disguise the familiar stench he'd smelled before. Whitener, the black wolf?

  “In position.”

  He zoomed in on Chad, half hidden by a wide oak trunk on the right of the clearing.

  “I'm directly opposite you.”

  Directly left, Mike gave him an “okay” signal. The former sharpshooter had his sniper rifle balanced on one shoulder. The infrared sight aimed at Hans's chest.

  “If you get the chance, and Taylor's safe, take him down.”

  Lifting his eyes from the scope, Mike nodded.

  Gray knew his brother-in-law understood his unspoken amendment to the order—take Hans down no matter what the cost once Taylor was safe. If either he or Chad took a bullet for their niece, so be it.

  Hans lifted a gleaming silver sword to the heavens.

  His followers howled and thrust their hands above their heads, brandishing a varied assortment of knives and swords. A hush fell over the clearing.

  A black-clad, hooded figure appeared at Hans's side carrying something.

  Plunging his jewel-encrusted blade into the muddied earth, Whitener tilted his face upward. As rain pelted his skin and dripped off his many-jowled chin, he roared words Gray couldn't comprehend.

  The crowd broke into a low, one-word chant.

  As if in tempo, the skies darkened, no light penetrating clouds thicker and blacker than the eeriest midnight. The downpour became an opaque curtain curtailing human vision. Three infernos raged, seven-foot blue-yellow fire plumes soaring and licking to the heavens now converted to worshipping Hades.

  Hans took a burden from the sinister obsidian-cloaked evil at his side.

  Balancing a nude Taylor on two palms, he paraded her small body from left to right. Obscenity challenging innocence.

  The wolf sect bellowed their approval, repeating their mantra faster and faster.

  Five feet more and he'd have direct access to Hans yet remain concealed by foliage and the shadows cast by the malevolent worshippers. Gray dropped to a crouch the minute eddies of smoke curled across his shoulders. Any nearer and someone would scent him. He needed to angle his attack diagonally.

  “Now!”

  An adrenaline deluge powered Gray's quadriceps; he jumped, soaring higher than he ever had before. A cloud of rising embers stung his cheeks.

  His feet connected with Hans's right shoulder.

  Surprise gave him a breath's advantage.

  The force of Gray's blow twisted Hans away from the fire.

  Chad twirled the net like a cowboy's lasso above his head.

  Taylor's golden body swung in a high arc out of Hans's grasp.

  Nylon looped around Taylor, netting and looping her body midair. Chad reeled her in and then bundled her into his backpack, tugging the ends of the leather ties under her nose.

  Rearing, snarling, Hans stumbled to the left and swayed before he regained his balance.

  Massive hands the force and size of an immense bulldozer knocked Gray sideways. His skull connected with a tree trunk and he dropped to the mud.

  Pain splintered his vision into disconnected fragments: Henry, syringe clasped in a bobbing hand sprinting a direct path to Gray; Hans squatting, then hurtling into flight.

  Mike tackled Henry to the ground.

  Some corner of Gray's mind noted the sucking and slapping of the saturated ground as Mike and Henry wrestled.

  The minute Hans's legs left the earth, Gray sprang to the right. His feet touched down for half a second.

  Hans bared his teeth, and the fangs the man showed were white against his yellow teeth. As he lunged forward, aiming a curved butcher knife at Gray's throat, a shot rang out.

  For a single pulse beat, Hans hovered in midair.

  Mike fired again. The sound echoed around the clearing, each repeat growing louder and louder.

  Hans's eyes widened, the fingers of his knife hand uncurled, and the silver weapon fell into the mud as the man crumpled and hit the ground with a deafening thud.

  Mud spattered far and wide, cool pellets stinging Gray's face, neck, and arms.

  A ruby stain spread from Whitener's bare chest, the crimson color widening in a perfect circle covering the man's entire right rib cage. Eyes open, unblinking in the driving torrent, Hans expired beneath Gray's fixed stare, his lungs ceasing to expand as blood spewed from the corner of his thick lips. Hans Whitener ceased to exist in long seconds.

  Bitterness blitzed Gray's mouth as he caught sight of Henry smashing a rock at Chad's skull. Chad rolled, and the stone glanced off his temple. Bounding to his feet, Henry hurdled over the center fire.

  Images tore at Gray's brain: Susie sprinting to the backpack with Taylor in it, Henry grabbing Sorcha from behind.

  Henry curled one arm around his mate's neck, the other hand bringing hi
s whittling knife to Sorcha's throat. The stiletto glistened in the dark, wet night, blazing flames mirrored in the knife's polished surface flickering a demonic menace.

  “I have a clear shot”

  “Take it. Now!”

  A neat, round hole appeared in the center of Henry's forehead.

  Gray read the surprise in his blue eyes the second before the man's pupils dulled. Henry crumpled.

  Sorcha swayed.

  Doug Wicks appeared at her side, catching her in his arms as her knees buckled.

  The foul odor began to dispel as the rain receded.

  “Mate.”

  Panic laced Gray's broadcast.

  Her gaze shifted away from the spot where Hans Whitener had once commanded the members of his cult.

  “Taylor? Joe?”

  Gray combed the elliptic clearing with his wolf vision but couldn't find Joe.

  “We'll find him. Susie has Taylor.”

  As he communicated with her, he ate the distance to Sorcha's side, and though it took under a minute before Gray enfolded her in his arms, each second that ticked by seemed like one spent in eternal hell.

  Quiet and subdued, Sorcha leaned against Gray, tilted her head up, and one cold, wet palm curved over his jaw. “It's over now?”

  “It's over,” he said, wishing he could focus his energy solely on her. “I need to get things organized. You going to be okay?”

  “I'll be fine.” She shuffled her feet and tried to push away from him. Gray squeezed her closer. He shook his head. “I need to hold you, honey. I can do my job like this.”

  She rubbed her cheek on his shoulder, and her lips curved into that perfect smile he loved and she said, “Thank you, Lieutenant Wicks.”

  Gray's attention morphed instantly, and he traced her gaze. “What the fuck are you doing here?”

  “RCMP,” Doug replied and lifted both shoulders. “Need-to-know basis.”

  “Your ass is grass, RCMP or not.” He'd fucking strangle the Mountie who'd ordered this play.

  The radio in Wicks's right hand cackled. “I need to report in. You have anything else to say?”

  “Phone Edie and give her your commander's contact info. Let him know to expect a call,” Gray growled, trying to swallow his fury.

  “It worked out okay,” Sorcha said as they both watched Doug amble in the direction of the Chinook Council Lodge.

  “I sure as hell hope you remember what happened the last time you said that, Sorcha McFadden.” His hold on her tightened.

  She stiffened in his arms. “I'm not going to marry you unless you can promise me that punishment will never happen again.”

  “Ooops,” Chad muttered.

  Neither of them had heard his approach.

  “Sorry. I'll leave you two to sort things out, but I should point out you have an audience.”

  Gray stifled a groan as he took in the circle of Mounties staring at them.

  Events fragmented after that, one revelation blurring into another,, and the following three hours proved the worst torture Gray had ever endured in his short life.

  At the first signs of trouble, the members of Hans's cult had dispersed like scattered buckshot, right into the arms of the RCMP team backing Wicks.

  The storm dissipated, rain slowing to a fine drizzle, and the skies lightened to a dull silver-gray.

  Unable to let Sorcha out of his embrace, he called the 400, brought Ted current on the situation, and ordered an immediate search of Henry's log cabin, the Hazards' mansion, and Hans Whitener's red-bricked manor.

  Chad and Mike joined them as he disconnected.

  “You okay, Sorcha?”

  “I'm fine, Mike. Where's Joe?”

  “We found him in Whitener's trunk. He regained consciousness a few minutes ago. Henry shot him with curare when he went to the barn to look for Taylor.”

  “How's Taylor?” Sorcha interjected, her hand tightening on Gray's forearm.

  “Sleeping like a lamb. Susie won't let go of either her or Joe. After what she's been through”—Mike shrugged—“it'll be a while before she lets them out of her sight.”

  “I noticed Wicks hightailed it back to the station the minute we got things under control,” Gray muttered. “Either of you talk to him?”

  Chad's mouth twitched. “He's an undercover Mountie.”

  “I f—fricking know that.”

  He noticed both men's mouths twitching, and he scowled first at Mike, then at Chad. His irreverent brothers-in-law broke into amused grins.

  “Wait till I get his supervisor on the phone. They're both going to regret running an operation under my nose without first obtaining my consent.” He'd have Wicks's balls for this.

  “Your team's on the scene. I'm wet, muddy, and cold. So's Sorcha. I'm taking Joe, Susie, and Taylor to the farmhouse, collecting my family, and then heading home. You want I should take Sorcha?”

  Automatically, Gray's hold on his mate tightened. “Nah, Chad. I'm done here. Come on, honey. Let's go home.”

  Seven hours, three showers, and innumerable cups of coffee later, Gray stretched his legs and cradled his head in his palms.

  What a fucking night.

  “Are you having more coffee?” Sorcha asked. Wearing her long white T-shirt, a towel in one hand, she sat on the couch next to him and folded one leg under the other. Damp hair curling, smelling of lilac and soap, she looked like his heavenly reward.

  “Nope. Pot's empty. Come here.” He patted his thighs.

  “Uh-uh.” She shook her head. “The notion of punishment first.”

  Heat rushed to his cheeks. “That was pure terror speaking. It won't happen again. You have my word.”

  Her squared shoulders relaxed, and he knew he wore a silly grin. Gray patted his thigh again.

  His mate smiled, and he grew giddy as happiness pumped through his veins.

  “Why do I have this feeling you're not going to let my feet touch the floor for a while?” He loved that perfect smile and couldn't resist licking a tempting dimple as she settled in his lap.

  “Probably because I don't intend to let you out of this cabin for the next week,” he answered. “You okay, honey?”

  “I'm fine. And if you ask one more time I'll…I'll…”

  “Cat got your tongue, honey?” Gray arranged her legs to one side and shifted her bottom so her rounded flesh caressed his arousal.

  A strange expression crossed her face.

  “What?” He cupped her chin. “What's wrong?”

  “It just seems so surreal. Henry, a serial killer. And Hans, the black wolf.”

  “Half-black wolf,” Gray corrected. “I've only skimmed Henry's diaries, but Hans started the human sacrifices because he couldn't shape-shift for longer than a couple of minutes at a time. He did seem to be able to marshal the elements for longer time periods, though.”

  “When you sensed him hunting me in the cabin, he did that to the weather?”

  “According to what Henry wrote, he did.”

  “I still can't figure him out. Who killed first, Hans or Henry?”

  “Hard to say.” Gray shrugged. “What I can't get over is that I never suspected anything. And I've worked with Henry for six years. I never considered him a suspect.”

  “Why do you think Henry killed my parents?”

  “According to his second diary,” Gray replied, jutting his chin at the college-style, hardcover notebook lying on the coffee table. “He thought he was in love with your mother. From his ranting and raving, I think he figured if he couldn't have her, no one else would.”

  “And he shot me because I was a witness?'

  “In a sick way, it's logical.” He kissed the tip of her nose. “Back then he wasn't employed by the Twisp sherriff's department but by Waterville's. He manipulated events so that your parents' autopsies were conducted by an alcoholic coroner about to be fired. Honey, we'll never know what's accurate on those reports from fifteen years ago.”

  “It's enough to know that my father's been vind
icated.” She frowned. “Why didn't he kill Kumar and Harold when Grams came back to live in Twisp? Why wait until I returned?”

  “He obviously didn't know the birds had memorized what happened that night.” Gray lifted a shoulder. “Maybe he overheard one of them mimicking his voice.”

  Sorcha blinked rapidly; she cupped a hand over her mouth.

  “What?”

  “When I stopped at the McDonald's that first night, there was a sheriff's car in the parking lot. I left the car windows open because of White and the birds when I went in.”

  “Harold must have repeated something from the night your parents were killed. Henry couldn't take any chances. He wouldn't have known you had no memory of that night. But we'll never know for sure. Some parts of this whole story we won't be able to resolve entirely, honey. You need to accept that.”

  Her mouth twisted and she wrinkled her nose. “I know. My mind keeps circling and circling. All these things I didn't notice before seem so obvious now—Henry's voice sounding familiar, Hans giving me the creeps all those years ago.”

  “Take it from me, 'I should have known' will rival 'I told you so' for the most irritating phrase on the planet for me for a long time.”

  “Are you still going to fire Doug Wicks? He did sort of save the day.”

  “It's not a question of firing. He's a Mountie, honey. He has to decide if he wants to stay in Twisp or go back to the Vancouver.”

  “NAFTA should cover the sharing of criminal information. If you'd have known about the murders in Alberta, you might have been able to focus on Henry and Hans long ago.”

  “We don't even share info with other states,” Gray said, shaking his head. “I can't imagine the bureaucratic nightmare it would take for us to share data with Canada.”

  “What I don't understand is why Henry killed the twins.”

  “After finding all those white supremacist ramblings in his diary, I figure he killed Kevin because of his relationship with James. Maybe Ken figured out Henry killed his brother. At least now I know how he managed the time. He must have used the department's motorcycle and cut through the dirt roads. Going that way like you and Susie did last night shaves the time between Twisp and Leader Lake in half.” Gray trailed a finger over Sorcha's collarbone. “I reckon Henry was so near complete insanity at the end that he acted on impulse.”