Wild Wolf

by Jennifer Ashley

  “And a Shifter is?” Reid leaned in the doorway. He still had the book, but he held it closed in his hand.

  “Shifters won the Shifter-Fae war,” Graham said. “Remember? We kicked your asses. You lost all your Shifter pets.”

  “That was more than seven hundred years ago,” Reid said mildly. “I wasn’t born then. And dokk alfar had nothing to do with Shifters.”

  “I know; I just say it to piss you off. Point is, this Fae targeted her—and me—and I’m not going to sit at home waiting for him to come get her.”

  Why did that make Misty feel better? She should want Graham gone. Out of here.

  Instead she went to the sink and filled up a glass of water. Las Vegas tap water tasted terrible, but who cared? She needed the water, needed the cool wetness inside her parched mouth.

  “This book.” Reid held it up. “Where did you get it?”

  Misty explained about the flea market. “I had it valued, but even though it’s a first edition, it’s in too bad a shape to be worth much. I kept it for the interest.”

  “Whoever wrote it knows much about the Fae.” He flipped to the title page. A nice frontispiece with an etching of an heirloom rose faced it, the plate guarded by a thin piece of vellum. The title page itself didn’t have much information.

  “The author didn’t put her name on it,” Misty said. “Or his. They didn’t always back then. This book has a date but no publisher or author.”

  “Maybe a Shifter wrote it,” Xav suggested.

  “Doubt it,” Reid answered. “The spells in here against Fae are subtle but show a good understanding of Fae magic. Shifters are cruder when dealing with Fae.”

  “He means we just rip their heads off and spill out their insides.” Graham strode to the back door and yanked it open. “Kyle! Get out of that damned tree! You’re not a cat.”

  Kyle stopped squirming in the branches of the fruitless mulberry that overhung Misty’s yard from her neighbor’s, and dropped to the ground. He yipped once when he landed, then he trotted off, none the worse for wear.

  Misty tried to memorize what he looked like, so she could try to tell them apart, but once he joined Matt, she gave up. The two, as wolves, were identical.

  “Are you babysitting them?” Misty asked when Graham came back inside.

  “Their foster mother dumped them on my doorstep,” Graham said. “I was on my way to hand them to Nell and her bears when the dream hit.” He regarded Reid speculatively. “You and Peigi have a bunch of foster cubs at your house. Kyle and Matt like them.”

  “No,” Reid said quickly. For the first time since Misty had met him, Reid looked less like a mysterious being and more like an ordinary human. A worried human. “Peigi’s got too much to deal with—the cubs, the other Shifter women from Mexico . . . You weren’t here when we rescued them. They went through hell, and Peigi as their alpha feels the worst of it. Leave her alone.”

  Graham scowled at him a moment longer before he relaxed into a grin. “Why don’t you just make the mate-claim on Peigi and get it over with?”

  Reid looked embarrassed. “Dokk alfar don’t do mate-claims.”

  “You’d better start. Shifters need females, and she’s fair game. Even my wolves are eyeing her. They’re going to start to Challenge for her, and they won’t care if you’re dokk alfar or tree bark. They’ll use the Challenge as an excuse to kill a Fae, and won’t care you’re one of the good ones.”

  “I’ll keep it in mind,” Reid said, recovering his calm. Graham didn’t seem to frighten Reid, and neither did other Shifters, Misty had noticed. Most humans, even Xavier sometimes, could grow nervous around Shifters, but never Reid.

  “So we wait until moonlight?” Xav broke in.

  Misty shrugged. “I guess.”

  “I guess we do.” Graham moved back to the door, opening it again to watch the cubs. He wasn’t about to leave, she saw. Misty would have to sit here with him for the next few hours, her nerves making her crazy, the sensation of his hard kiss lingering on her mouth. “Got any beer?” Graham asked over his shoulder.

  “I told my guys to bring some,” Xav said. “And we’ll get pizza.”

  At the word pizza, high-pitched yips sounded in the backyard. One cub popped up from the riverbed, an eager look on his face. There was no sign of the other cub.

  “Matt!” Graham shouted. “Get out of there.”

  The second wolf scrambled out from under the bridge. He gave Graham and Misty an innocent look, or as innocent as he could with a clump of Angelita daisies drooping from his mouth, their yellow heads bobbing in the sunshine.

  • • •

  Moonlight. The clear skies of southern Nevada ensured plenty of light once the three-quarter moon rose into the black night.

  The moonlight poured down into Misty’s backyard, rendering her colorful flowers pale ghosts of themselves. The neighbor’s tree cast sharp shadows on the patches of grass, and the dry river’s dark rocks took on a dull glow.

  The cubs, unbelievably, were asleep. They’d dropped off fearlessly on top of Misty’s bed after consuming more than their bodyweight in meat-lovers’ pizza.

  Misty’s aching body begged for rest, but she was afraid to sleep, afraid to dream. What if she found herself facing the hiker again, the wave of ice? The cubs didn’t worry, but then they hadn’t drunk the Fae water. How the cubs had entered the dream, and whether they’d truly been there, neither she nor Graham knew.

  When the moon had risen high, Misty and Graham went out to Misty’s backyard. Graham had told Xav and Reid not to join them. He didn’t know what the spell in the little book would do, if anything, and he didn’t want it messed up by unspelled humans or a Fae—especially not a Fae.

  Reid agreed without argument. Xavier didn’t like it, but he stayed inside, saying he’d keep an eye on the cubs.

  Xav’s men had not only brought the pizza, but water—glorious water. A case of it, which Misty had drunk almost half of.

  Graham had drunk nothing. She knew he was feeling the thirst, because he kept wetting his mouth, or swallowing and turning away as Misty had guzzled water. Why he wouldn’t drink, she had no idea, and he wouldn’t tell her.

  Graham helped her carry the accoutrements for the spell outside. Misty had harvested petals from two of the roses she’d brought home from her shop, washing them thoroughly and rolling them dry in a towel.

  “You eat flowers?” Graham asked when she told him imbibing the petals would be safe. “Humans are weird.”

  “Lots of flowers are edible,” Misty had answered. “Cake bakers paint them with sugar water and use them for edible decoration. Roses, pansies, carnations, squash blossoms. I went to a restaurant where they made sweet corn tamales in squash blossoms. They were awesome. You have to be careful to choose the right kind of flowers, though. Oleanders, for instance will kill you quickly.” She waved her hand at the thick, dark green bushes along her fence.

  Misty set everything up at a table on the other side of her yard, which was reached by the little bridge. She spread out a white cloth, scattered the cut rose petals on it, inhaling their fragrance, and consulted the book.

  Gather petals of red roses, washed three times. Check. Chopped with a fine-bladed knife. Check.

  Immerse in alcohol . . .

  That had been an interesting problem. Misty and her friends drank mostly wine and beer, saving hard liquor for martinis on evenings out. Misty wasn’t sure she wanted to gulp down rose petals in beer, or even in the nice white wine a friend had brought her last time she’d come over.

  Then Misty had found a bottle in the back of her liquor cabinet. She hadn’t noticed it in a while and hadn’t drunk any for a long time. But it might work.

  Now she put the chopped rose petals into two shot glasses, one in front of her and one in front of Graham.

  “What is that?” he asked as Misty poured o
ut the liquid. Graham only drank beer too.

  “The good stuff.” Misty sat down across from him, lifted her shot glass and waited for him to lift his. “Tequila.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  Graham shrugged, raised his glass, and clinked it against Misty’s. “Down the hatch.”

  “Cheers,” Misty said. They lifted their glasses at the same time and drank in one shot.

  The tequila burned Misty’s mouth like liquid fire. The rose petals felt strange against her tongue, but she made herself not spit them out. Some stuck to the bottom of the glass, but that was all right, the spell said. They would bury the spent ones.

  Misty swallowed, and the liquor shot down her gullet in a stream of flame. She coughed.

  Drink four quantities.

  Misty coughed again. One rose petal got caught on her tongue, and she fished it out and dropped it to the table.

  Graham wiped his mouth, shaking his head. “What is this—lighter fluid? Humans actually drink this stuff?”

  “All the time. Haven’t you ever had a margarita?”

  Graham made a face. “You mean that frothy shit in fancy glasses? I don’t drink stuff with slices of fruit stuck in it. Drinks should be in a bottle.”

  “You have no soul, Graham.”

  “All Shifters have souls.” Graham spoke without humor. “Can you imagine me with my wolves? Hey, thanks for helping me fend off those hunters. How about we kick back, watch the game, and I’ll make some margaritas? Or mimosas. Or wine coolers. Girly drinks. They’d tear me apart and pick a new pack leader real quick.”

  “I get it. You’re rugged.” Misty sprinkled more rose petals into the glasses and added another shot of tequila to each. “Four times, the book says.”

  Graham studied the rose petals floating in the liquid. “I don’t feel any different.”

  “Maybe we have to drink it all first.” Misty lifted her glass, and again they clinked them. Graham’s scarred fingers touched hers.

  The second swallow was even more fiery than the first. Misty shuddered as it went down, her body feeling the heat.

  “Lemon drop,” Graham said. “Another girly drink.”

  “This is straight tequila,” Misty said, licking her tingling lips. “It’s plenty manly.”

  “Bellini,” Graham went on as Misty doled out more petals and more alcohol. “I don’t even know what the hell that is.”

  “Like a mimosa. Champagne, but with other fruit instead of orange juice—peaches or berries, say.”

  “Great. You ever seen me put berries in my beer?”

  “Beer can be fruity.” Misty raised the third glass. “Like hefeweizen. Bars serve it with lemon wedges. Or orange.”

  “I know. Ruins the head. It’s beer. A hundred years ago, no one put fruit in it. We just drank it. By the barrel.”

  “You shouldn’t tell me how old you are,” Misty said, giving him a little smile. “Chin-chin.”

  Another clink, another shot dumped into her mouth. This time, Misty’s entire tongue went numb. But the thirst was still there. The dehydrating alcohol was only making it worse.

  “Let’s hurry and do the last one.” Misty’s hand fumbled as she poured the last shot. She was almost out of rose petals.

  “You are so beautiful.”

  Misty jumped, tequila sloshing from her glass. Graham was staring at her, moonlight on the thick glass in his hand throwing spangles over his face. His eyes were pale gray, wolflike.

  “What?” Misty stammered.

  “You heard me.”

  Misty thought of the searing kiss they’d shared this afternoon, under the equally searing sun. How he’d touched the tip of her nose and said, You and me. We’re not done.

  The gruff note in his voice tonight was the same. Graham wasn’t comfortable with the words, but he’d said them anyway.

  “Cheers,” Misty said softly.

  She clinked her glass against his. Graham reached over and brushed his fingers along her hand before he turned his glass and poured the shot down his throat.

  Misty swallowed, wincing at the fire in her throat. Her mouth burned, and her tongue felt thick. Good thing the spell book said only four shots. Misty would be flat on her back if it had said five or six.

  “I still don’t feel any different,” Misty said. “Except a little drunk.”

  Graham thumped his shot glass to the table and slammed his hand down next to it as he swallowed. “Nope.”

  “Maybe it really isn’t a spell,” Misty said. “Maybe whoever wrote the book is laughing at us.”

  “We’re not done yet.”

  “That’s true.”

  Bury the rose petals in the earth, turn thrice, and open to the cleansing rays of the moon, the Mother Goddess.

  Misty stood up, and clutched the edge of the table. “You’re going to have to help me dig.”

  Graham was less shaky than Misty, but he definitely swayed a little as he got to his feet. Shifters could handle alcohol a lot better than humans, he’d told her. Their metabolism burned it off quickly, same way they burned food. But they could still get drunk and have hangovers—it just took more doing.

  Misty and Graham went together to the corner of the yard, where the ground was soft under the rosebushes. The jutting branches of the neighbor’s tree plus the wall of Misty’s garage shielded that part of the garden from the house, and the glow from her lit back windows was muted here.

  Misty crouched down under the rosebushes. In spring and fall, these plants were a glory of red, yellow, pink, orange, and white. In August, it was still too hot for blooms, but even now, buds were showing in the shadiest spots.

  Misty awkwardly poked at the dirt with her trowel. Graham closed his big hand over hers, shoving the trowel in and turning over the earth. The strength of him came through her hand and sent heat to her heart.

  She scraped the last of the rose petals from the shot glasses and dumped them in the hole, adding the petals she’d cut but hadn’t used. Graham’s hand still on hers, they filled in the hole and smoothed the dirt over it.

  Graham released the trowel and stood up. He reached down and pulled Misty to her feet, remaining close to her in the shadows. “Now what?”

  “We turn around. Three times. Like this.”

  Misty stepped out into the moonlight. She opened her arms, lifting her face to the moon, the Mother Goddess, and turned in place once. Graham watched her, then he spread his arms and did the next circle with her.

  Misty thought Graham might complain he looked stupid rotating in Misty’s yard, but then, Shifters performed rituals all the time. Misty had seen a mating ceremony, which was a little like a human wedding, though much briefer and rowdier. They called it mating under sun and under moon—one ritual performed in daylight, the next under the full moon. After the full-moon ceremony, the Shifters were considered officially mated.

  She had also seen a ceremony to celebrate a cub coming out of Transition to full adulthood. Sadder, she’d attended a Shifter gathering to recognize the yearly anniversary of a loved one’s passing.

  Graham and Misty did another turn together, then Misty stopped, and Graham did his third one alone.

  When he finished, they looked at each other. “Now what?” Graham asked.

  “I don’t know.”

  The book hadn’t specified whether the moon should be full, waxing, or waning. Or whether the roses had to be fresh cut, or other details like that. Could be the book was just the ramblings of someone who loved whimsy, and it wouldn’t help at all.

  Graham was watching her, his body quiet in the darkness, moonlight glinting on his Collar. He belonged out here in the night, a wolf, a being of the moon.

  Other Shifters Misty had met could look and act exactly like humans, but Graham never quite could, not entirely. Graham was always a beast—tall, broad, raw strength in his bare a
rms. She had the feeling he kept to human shape only for convenience . . . his.

  “Nothing’s happening,” he said.

  “I know,” Misty said glumly. “Maybe we—”

  Pain choked her words to a halt. She bent in agony as blood surged through her veins as hot as the tequila had been, burning its way to her heart.

  Misty thought she screamed, but only a faint cry escaped her lips. She pressed her hands to the hot core of her chest, struggling to breathe.

  Not a heart attack. She couldn’t be having a heart attack. Could she?

  “Call . . .” Misty coughed, lungs begging for air. She clawed at her chest, trying to open it, to let the air in. What the hell was happening to her? She was falling, falling . . .

  But Graham had caught her, solid arms around her, cradling her as she went down. He was on his knees with her, gathering her to him.

  Misty felt Graham’s heart hammering in his chest. He closed her in his arms, hands on her back.

  “Stay with me, Misty.” His voice was harsh. “Stay with me, love. Don’t . . . don’t . . .”

  Misty opened her mouth—and found air rushing back inside her. She gasped out loud as hot desert night air flowed into her lungs, expanding them again. Oxygen pounded to her heart, filling her blood, which shot fire around her body again.

  And then the burning eased, little by little, cooling as did the baking desert under a soft fall of rain.

  Misty drew another breath, this one more natural. She licked her lips, tasting the residue of tequila, feeling moisture linger in the wake of her tongue.

  Moisture. Not parched lips and dry mouth. The horrific thirst had vanished.

  “I think it worked.” Misty looked at Graham in relief. She smiled. “I think it actually worked.”

  Graham said nothing. He bathed her in another of his intense stares, then he cupped her face in one hand and kissed her mouth.

  No slow starts and easing in this time. Graham’s hand was hot on her cheek, thumb at the corner of her lips. He took her mouth in hard strokes, and Misty clutched Graham’s shoulders, his skin hot through his T-shirt. He curved over her, sending her down into the ground.