by Josie Hunter
Relax. You’ve got this.
He tossed his head to get the sodden mass of wet hair from his face, and as he cleared his vision, a hard object, like a knob of bone, hit the side of his face, sending another ripple of pain through him, this one going from his cheek to his neck and skittering down his spine. He felt wet feathers streak across his neck and saw a massive black shape flutter and hit the water with a loud splash right before he upended again. He’d wanted to really push himself today, but apparently it had been the wrong day to rent a touring kayak. Any other day, he’d have cleared the boat by now.
Time for Plan B.
He tucked forward and yanked on the ripcord. When the skirt popped, he slid his hands back to his hips, leaned forward, and pushed himself out, doing a forward roll out of the boat beneath the water. With a firm grasp on his paddle, he swept his arm to propel himself upward. He had just broken the surface and drawn a deep breath when he heard the raspy swish of beating wings and a hollow, nasally sounding trumpet. A solid form slammed into his upper body, swamping him with muddy, gritty water and holding him beneath the surface.
That’s when it hit him.
A swan. I’m being attacked by a swan.
He tried with everything he had to get the paddle up, to knock the bird from him, but for some reason, even after weeks of exercise and rehabilitation, his muscles were failing him, already cramping and threatening to seize. His knee screamed in agony as he tried to kick to the surface. His lungs were nearly bursting as he struggled with the bird. He just needed a breath…
To no avail, he tried to avoid both the slashing of the claws on the swan’s feet and the bony knobs at its wrists as it beat the air, the water, and him with its massive span of wings. The top of his head received vicious knocks, and his chest and shoulders had been raked and torn with the sharp talon-like claws on its webbed feet. He made an immediate decision and dove deeper into the murky water, dragging his paddle with him, swimming several yards away before he burst toward the surface and dragged in another breath.
She furiously beat her wings as she raced toward him, a beautiful black marvel, her red-rimmed eyes staring at him with demonic force, the red bill snapping with a fatal intent. And he recognized her. The swan from the pocket of shadows.
He’d thought that day she’d been protecting her territory, possibly her cygnets. Today he knew better. She had deliberately stalked him, she had methodically attacked him, and she had every intention of killing him. She was anything but a normal swan.
The swan lifted her body and launched herself forward, practically floating along the surface as she skimmed the water. He threw himself backward, avoiding her first strike, and as she reared back for another, he heard a strange sound. The noise of a struggling engine came at him from the shoreline, a clicking, chuffing sort of sound, which was odd because they didn’t allow powerboats on this part of the river. Then, just as the swan struck again, the noisy engine sound cut off. A hard snuffling sound reached his ears, and it became a muted inhaled grunt, followed by silence.
Three sudden high-pitched squeals nearly pierced his eardrums. He heard a pounding of hooves on hard-packed dirt, the sounds of vegetation being trampled, and then the squish of mud. Dylan was swamped with water as another solid, and very heavy, mass dove into the water beside him. He got a quick glimpse of a hefty gray body landing on the swan’s back.
The swan trumpeted, beating her wings wildly against the invading mass that twisted and turned in the sloshing water. Water invaded his lungs as Dylan tried unsuccessfully to avoid both the swan and its attacker. He sank beneath the surface to see the swan’s feet paddling desperately, trying to escape four hooved feet that struck it repeatedly in its wings and soft underbelly.
He pitched and rolled in the wild, churning water, sinking deeper when a hoof struck the top of his head. He struggled to the surface, coughing and choking, in time to hear the voice of an angel, his angel.
“Dylan! Hang on!”
He spun crazily in the water and saw the kayak racing toward him. He raised his hand to show he was okay, and the paddle in Steph’s hand dipped and rose faster.
The swan trumpeted again, a horrible blast of anguish and pain. Dylan felt the warmth of the blood before he saw it, and he spun to find himself in a pool of red liquid. The swam continued to beat her wings against her opponent, but even the massive wings were no match for the strength and power of the warthog’s body and the short tusks that repeatedly jabbed into the body of the swan. With one final thrust, the warthog impaled the swan, lifting her above the surface with a mighty toss of its head and swinging the seriously injured bird into the mud.
The warthog squealed once more, a sound of triumph to Dylan’s ears, then paddled to the shoreline, pulling her tired body through the churning, bloody water and up onto the bank. She dropped with a splash into the mud.
Dylan swam to shore and reached it just as Stephanie jumped out of the kayak. He was right. His little agent was back in black, wet now and covered in mud. Grabbing a trailing vine, he pulled himself out of the water and rolled to his back, and she dropped to her knees beside him.
“Let me see you.” She grabbed his face, peered into his eyes with intensity, and then gently patted down his body.
“I’m okay,” he murmured. “At least I think I am.”
She brushed the wet hair from his face. “There are stains on your shirt…in your hair. Blood…” Her voice sounded so small.
“I don’t think much of it is mine. She tore me a few times, but I’m okay.” He lifted himself on an elbow. “Check on her.” He nodded toward the warthog several yards away, her lungs heaving as she struggled to get her breath. “She might be hurt.”
“I’ve got her,” Steph said.
As she fell to her knees beside the heaving animal, a golden shimmer passed over the warthog, and within seconds, a very naked woman lay on the ground.
“Is she okay?” Dylan sat up.
“Oh my god. It’s Dorothy Stanford.” Stephanie rose up on her knees then leaned over the woman, patting her gently on the face.
Stanford. Dylan knew the name, but he couldn’t remember why, and despite the streaks of mud and blood covering her face, the woman looked vaguely familiar. A warthog shifter, and she’d saved his life. And then he knew. Dorothy was the woman at the crime scene, the one so excited to take pictures. She was the wife of Catamount’s mayor.
Stephanie peeled off her jacket and draped it over Dorothy’s torso.
Dorothy stirred and blinked rapidly. “Is Agent Winston okay?”
“Yes, Dorothy,” Steph said. “Dylan’s fine.”
“Did I kill the bitch?”
Stephanie glanced to where the bloody body of the swan had lain but now, in its place, stood a beautiful woman whose body had been gored many times by short brutal tusks and held bloody puncture wounds and masses of bruises.
* * * *
“Hello, bunny.”
The woman tilted her head, and Stephanie heard the crack of her dark neck. Even gored and torn, the woman obviously felt good enough to fight, and despite the blood and the wounds—one extremely bad one near her hip—her body was in excellent shape, tall and slender, but she also had very muscular arms, shoulders, and legs. The woman had a six-pack that Stephanie would have killed for, and she obviously had more time than Stephanie. The woman was perfectly waxed, everywhere. Her smooth black skin glistened in the dapples of sunlight coming through the trees.
“Got a name for me?” Stephanie asked as she stood.
“Bitch? Slut?” The tall woman smiled. “Isn’t that pretty much what they call all the little bunny-shifters?”
“Very funny,” Stephanie said. “But I meant yours. If I’m going to beat your ass, I’d like to know what to call you.”
The woman shifted a bit, moving slightly to the left on bare feet. She never made a sound in the mud. “Medea.”
“Talk about bitches. One of the biggest.” Stephanie circled a bit to keep herself b
etween Medea and Dorothy.
“The name seemed fitting. Swans are such good mothers, and you know what an excellent mother Medea was.” She laughed.
“I suppose killing your kids to get revenge on your ex might be considered decent motherhood in Ancient Greece. Not so much here in Texas.” Stephanie linked her fingers together and cracked her knuckles.
“Then it’s a good thing I did that elsewhere, don’t you think?”
A drop of sweat slid down her forehead, and Stephanie pushed her glasses up. She used the moment’s distraction to glance around for a weapon. She’d left her damn gun in the SUV because the stop was supposed to have been a simple pickup. “I so did not have to hear that, but it actually gives me even more incentive to drop you.”
Rusty’s words came to her in a rush.
Anticipate the worse. Never let your guard down. Know what your opponent thinks before they think it. Always assume they’re going to get the best of you and don’t let that happen, little bunny.
The woman’s gaze shifted behind Stephanie to look at Dylan, still drawing in ragged breaths from his place on the bank. Stephanie’s gaze caught on a long, reasonably straight tree branch lying on the ground.
“Protecting your boyfriend isn’t enough incentive? Poor little wolfie. Can’t shift to protect himself.”
He can’t shift? What the hell is she talking about? She shook the hair away from her face because she couldn’t worry about that now.
Medea laughed. “Without a big bad wolf to protect you, what’s a little bunny going to do?”
Stephanie smiled, trying to regain her focus. “Well, I don’t have the awesomeness of the Terwilliger genes,” she said with a shrug, “so I guess I’ll just have to improvise.”
She leapt forward, kicking out to stab the heel of her foot into Medea’s midsection, grazing the dripping, gory hole above her hip. Medea let out an oof and staggered back, and Stephanie found her balance then sidestepped to the left and snatched up the branch. She held it loosely in her hand and kept her eyes on Medea’s. The woman backed up and held out her hands.
“I’m not armed. How is this fair?”
“Nice try.” Stephanie swung the branch. Medea feinted to the left but wasn’t fast enough. The stick cracked against her shoulder. She lurched backward, jogging in place, and Stephanie followed, blocking the kick Medea tried to land on her thigh. She then whirled in a complete circle, scraping the stick against Medea’s stomach before the woman could get enough distance between them, leaving an oozing welt behind. Swinging the improvised staff over her head, Stephanie got into a fighting stance and thrust the weapon repeatedly, following Medea in short forward bursts as Medea backed toward the river. She made one final jab just as she felt something change in the air around her.
She’s going to fucking shift.
Medea leapt back into the water. Stephanie swung the branch and connected with the empty air where the woman’s head had been. The swan lifted its mighty wings and leapt at her target.
Relax. Awareness, safety…
With Jake’s words going through her mind, Stephanie called her inner rabbit. She felt the fur bristling and, as the swan dove through the air toward her, Stephanie found herself in a pile of hot, dirty clothes. The swan sailed over her rabbit and landed in the mud, trumpeting her anger and flapping her wings. Stephanie hopped over her glasses and away from the water’s edge, shimmered back to her human form, and grabbed the branch again.
“Told you I’d improvise.” She swung it like a baseball bat and knocked the swan in the head.
* * * *
Jake rounded the bend just as Stephanie shimmered into her rabbit. He watched with bated breath as the swan launched herself and met empty air. His woman reached toward a stick on the ground. She might have this under control, but he couldn’t take chances. Dylan was lying on the riverbank, obviously in distress, and a woman—he could have sworn it was Dorothy Stanford—was clutching Stephanie’s jacket to her naked flesh.
When the kayak hit the edge of the riverbank, Jake tossed the paddle forward and called his wolf. The black animal leapt from the boat and raced toward them, splashing through the shallow water. He came to a dead stop when Stephanie swung the impromptu staff like a weapon and knocked the swan in the side of the head.
Stephanie gave the swan’s body a kick then tossed the branch. She turned around, and he spurred forward. His large body smashed against her, knocking her to the ground and licking up the side of her face with his rough, warm tongue. He felt her warmth through his fur and smelled the sweat from her exertion. Not a drop of fear in it.
That’s my girl.
Stephanie giggled and wiggled, trying to avoid his tongue. She plunged her hands into the scruff at his neck and shook his head. “You’re a beauty…and a bit”—she tried to haul in a big breath—“heavy.” The final word came out on a big exhale.
He shimmered, and when she was looking into his face, she smiled.
“Still heavy,” she murmured. “But you feel oh so nice.”
They were laying skin to skin, hot flesh to hot flesh. He felt the pillowy mounds of her breasts pressing against the hardness of his chest. She ran her hands down his naked body, coming to rest on his ass, where she squeezed his cheeks suggestively. She wiggled her hips, and his cock, already hard and pulsing, began to ache, searching for the warmth of her pussy, which he could smell. The mesmerizing scent was overwhelming and stole his breath. She wrapped her legs around his and pushed up.
Her brow rose. “Riding to my rescue? Or just riding?” She rocked her hips, and the base of his cock slid along her warm pussy hips. Public exhibitionism wasn’t his thing, but another movement and he wouldn’t be held accountable for the outcome.
“Did you think I’d let you have all the fun?” he said. “I had a feeling the minute you chose upriver that was where the action was.”
Dylan strolled toward them, twirling Stephanie’s glasses.
“Hey, remember me?” He flipped his index toward his face. “Attacked, injured, almost killed?”
Jake winked at Stephanie. “He’s really milking this.”
Dorothy followed him, now stuffed into Dylan’s T-shirt to cover her nakedness.
“Are Dorothy and I the only people dressed in this town?” Dylan asked as he raked his eyes over Jake’s naked form.
“It doesn’t bother me at all,” Dorothy said, her gaze following the line of Jake’s back down to his butt.
“Dorothy Stanford, shame on you,” Stephanie teased.
The warthog-shifter sniffed and lifted her chin. “It never hurts to look. Well, as long as you don’t do it too often.” She smiled. “My clothes are just past those trees. I’ll be right back.” She waddled up the embankment and vanished into the woods.
“I’d have to agree with Dorothy there,” Jake said, lifting off Stephanie and standing. He held out his hand and yanked Stephanie up. His gaze ran the length of her muddy body, and then he followed the line with his hands, running them over smooth skin and sultry curves. “I always thought you’d be a dirty girl. Care to show me how dirty?”
* * * *
A slight shift in the air caught her attention.
Rusty was right. This paying-attention stuff really works.
Stephanie held up a finger. “Hold that thought.”
Stephanie strode to her branch, grabbed it, and swung it at Medea’s head just as she shifted back to her human form. The woman had one moment to register what was happening, staring daggers at Stephanie for a split second, her red-rimmed eyes full of hatred, before she collapsed back to the mud. Stephanie sauntered to her pile of clothes, reached into her coat pocket, and grabbed some zip ties. She rolled the woman until she was lying on her stomach then efficiently snapped the ties in place on both the woman’s wrists and ankles.
Dylan came up behind her. “You’re all business when you’re in Dana Scully mode. Even naked.” He winked at her as he slid her glasses onto her face.
Dorothy emerged fr
om the woods, wearing a pair of shorts, a tank top, and some flip-flops. She had her sparse, bristly hair in a ponytail. Her face and visible skin were dotted with cuts and scrapes, and she had a bruise on one shoulder. Such a brave woman in such an unassuming form.
Tears glistened in Stephanie’s eyes as she said, “You, Dorothy Stanford, are a real hero. Do you know that?”
Dorothy blushed. “I was just in the right place at the right time. I like to shift out here and root around.” She shrugged.
“Lucky for me,” Dylan said. “Thank you, Mrs. Stanford.”
“Dorothy please,” she said with another blush as she handed him his shirt.
Dylan pulled the T-shirt over his head. Jake returned from the kayak, clothed once again in his black pants and black shirt.
“Thank God you saw everything in time,” Stephanie said.
“I didn’t actually see anything,” Dorothy said, squinting toward the water. “Bad eyes, you know, and I keep losing my damn glasses. I’ve lost seven pairs this year because I can never find them once I lay them down.” She laughed. “But there’s nothing wrong with my hearing. I heard a bit of a struggle, and then I smelled it.” She glanced back at Stephanie. “That same thing I’d smelled on the cigarette, remember?”
“I do indeed.” Stephanie hooked her arm through Dorothy’s. “You just became my new best friend, Dorothy. Will you be able to testify to that?”
“I’d be happy to,” Dorothy said.
“We’ll have solid evidence if we discover the bitch carries the same enzyme we found attacking Scott’s Bennington’s DNA. I think our little assassin has been tampering with her DNA signature, which is why we never found any useful trace evidence. Still, I’ll take every bit of help I can get. My case has to be airtight.” She cast a glance at the woman who had now begun to moan a bit. “Or, in this case, watertight.”
“Of course, having her”—Jake nodded toward the woman on the ground—“is going to be a big bonus. Now we just have to keep her alive.”