Aragon swung around, slashing at the night air with his claws, howling at the moon in frustration at what it was doing to his were-form. Too many scents were bombarding him. Too many thoughts and sensations were intruding into his mind, stealing his focus from his prey, turning his Blood Hunter abilities into nothing more than animal cravings that were hard to fight. Yet still he battled with himself, determined to overcome this new hurdle, determined to find Pathos. No matter what.
The battle that had waged overhead with the Guardian Forces and Heldon’s Fallen Army had charged on to a different part of the heavens, giving the moon free rein to exert its full power upon the mortal ground. With its strengthening had come this change within him and his were-being—change that had never occurred before.
At first he couldn’t keep his mind on Pathos because of the mortal woman. He kept thinking about her, the man who’d upset her, and the pain she’d tried to hide from him. He wasn’t sure if it was that pain, the seductiveness of her scent, or the sweet, alluring glow of her soft skin that had urged him to touch her. But he hadn’t been able to stop himself. And once he touched her and felt the vibrant warmth of her softness, he’d become lost within the desires she evoked, almost driven to delve into the fire erupting between them.
If the battle hadn’t suddenly raged overhead, he’d likely still be there touching her, giving way to the mortal desire she’d brought to life.
Though he’d gained time and distance from her magic, he’d lost more of himself instead of recovering the balance in his spirit, as if she’d taken a part of him and kept it. Then the longer he ran beneath the moon’s brightening light, the stronger other primal, almost overwhelming desires pulsed through him as well, things he’d never felt before.
He didn’t want to track down Pathos or follow through with any quest. He wanted to run wilder than the wind, until the blood pulsing within him drowned out anything but the urge to satisfy his growing wants and burgeoning needs. He could smell the hot, juicy blood of the creatures that ran scurrying from his path. He wanted to grasp them with his claws and tear into their warm flesh with his teeth so strongly that he tossed aside his sword, ready to attack with his bare hands. He could taste their fear and relished in the power that—
By all that is Logos’s Will! What was happening to him? He clenched his fists in frustration, forcing himself to focus on Pathos, what Pathos had done, and why Pathos needed to be eliminated.
Frightened from its hiding place, a fawn leapt across Aragon’s path, and the raw desire to sink his fangs into hot blood and taste the flow of life over his tongue coursed through him. He raced toward it even as his howl of self disgust reverberated with bone-chilling depth through the dark of the night.
The gloved hand splayed menacingly around Annette’s throat held an unforgettable icy chill.
“Nyros, shed a little light on this situation,” her captor said to his companion, sounding unpleasantly amused.
The smaller creature obliged by shifting his aura from red to a dull yellow-white, lighting the area as a dim bulb would. Her captor’s hair wasn’t blond, but a rich silver that contrasted startlingly with his deep tan. He smiled slowly, coldly, striking more fear into her heart with that one gesture than with the hand that pressed slightly harder against her trachea. His eyes, an arctic blue, pierced her.
“Why are you here?” His tone of voice clearly said she’d die if she lied.
“My sister.” Annette gasped. “She’s missing. I must find her.” She’d lost the scalpel when she fell, but she doubted it would have done any good against his deadly force.
He pressed her throat harder. “Why are you here now, at this time of night?”
A dizzying buzz rang in her ears, and her vision dimmed. She needed more air. She slid her hand into her pocket, searching for her lighter, anything to help. “A man…called…meet him…here…midnight…he didn’t say who…he was…”
Her fingers touched the amulet, and she pressed it against her palm. Her heart pounded with fear, and her mind immediately recalled Aragon, his power, his strength, and his touch. She wished she was back, in her cabin with—
A primal scream shattered the night as a black, hairy, wolflike man appeared in the restroom, rushing at her and her captor. It was the beast she’d seen before. The werewolf…the other part of…Aragon.
Releasing her throat, the silver-haired man swung around and thrust himself at the black wolf with a chilling cry. The window glass rattled with the force if it.
In midair, right before her eyes, her captor turned into a wolflike creature, grotesquely different from Aragon’s form, but similar in its upright movement and deadly presence. An elongated snout housed this other wolf’s fangs, and a thick tail burst through his pants and flicked like a whip. Aragon had neither snout nor tail. The other werewolf’s leather coat and shirt hung by shreds from its body. Its hair was dull and patchy, nothing like the sleek gleaming black of Aragon’s coat.
The werewolves plowed into each other with bone-crunching force, knocking each other off their feet. Though the other wolf was taller, maybe seven feet to Aragon’s six and a half, Aragon was broader, more muscular, and more agile.
They circled each other, fangs bared.
“Pathos, at last,” the black werewolf said with disgust. His voice rang deadlier and colder than before, but was unmistakably Aragon’s.
The gray wolf shifted its immense head questioningly, then smiled, if one could call the stretching of his fleshy snout to expose more of his fangs a smile. “Aragon, my son. You’ve changed over a millennium. Did a Tsara bring you to the mortal realm to join my party?”
“No, I’ve not been poisoned. Even if I had been, I’d kill myself before I became what you are. You coward. Don’t call me son again. Ever. I renounce you as my mentor. You’re a bane upon the honor of all Blood Hunters and an abomination to all Shadowmen. I am here for one purpose: your execution, Pathos.”
The gray wolf, Pathos, cocked his head with interest. “So Logos is desperate now? He’s turning to assassinations to win his war?” He jerked off the shreds of his leather coat and shirt, tossing them aside, revealing more of his dull, patchy pelt. It looked sickly beside Aragon’s pantherlike sheen.
“No,” Aragon said, broadening his stance. “I alone chose this path. I left the Guardian Forces to see you to your end.”
Pathos gave a humorless snort. “My elimination? Was such a foolhardy goal worth your eternity, Aragon? You surprise me. I thought I trained you better than that.”
“I will restore the honor of the Blood Hunters or die.”
“Hell,” Annette muttered. What had she landed in the middle of? Aragon was either going to win or die right here. And there wasn’t anything she could do about it. She let go of the amulet and dug for her lighter.
“So be it. You’ve sacrificed yourself for nothing.” He suddenly launched himself at Aragon, claws slashing.
Using his bulk to his advantage, Aragon dove low in response, knocking Pathos’s feet out from under him. Pathos managed to rake a claw across Aragon’s chest as he went down. Aragon arched, grunting with pain. Pathos rolled to his feet.
Annette winced, squeezing the lighter against her palm. She didn’t see what happened next because Glow Man grabbed her arm, dragging her attention his way. Up close, his features became even more inhuman. His soulless eyes were desolate, devoid of any compassion or human feeling. Where he held her, an icy burn rushed painfully up her arm, and she tried to jerk free. Reaching behind with her other hand, she wrenched the disinfectant spray from the side pocket of her backpack. The man needed warming up, and the alcohol-based spray would help.
He smiled at her. “Let’s go. Tonight I’m your chill pill, baby. By the time I finish with you, you’ll be begging for more, and Pathos will join us then.”
“I don’t think so,” she said. Flicking the lighter on, she brought the can up and sprayed it in his direction through the flame. A fireball shot at Glow Man’s face, and he backed
away, screaming as if she’d fired a machine gun. Another blast, aimed lower, caught his suit coat on fire.
Turning, she found Aragon and Pathos at each other’s throats, locked in a death grip. It was a battle of strength to see whose fangs were going to rip into the other’s carotid first. Pathos was closer to Aragon’s. She rushed forward with her makeshift torch, sending out a blast of fire before her, praying that the flames wouldn’t eat a trail back to her and blow the can up in her face. Her third blast hit Pathos in the back, and he flinched, but didn’t let go of Aragon.
“No!” Aragon yelled, but she didn’t stop. She pressed the spray button harder. The fireball, larger than before, singed Pathos’s long mane of silver hair to a frizz, emitting a rank smoke.
Wrenching from Aragon, roaring with an icy rage, Pathos came at her unafraid of the fire she wielded, and Annette realized her mistake too late. She’d taken the situation from fifty-fifty odds that she and Aragon would live and turned it into a sure thing that she was about to die. She turned to run, but had nowhere to go. Four walls hemmed her in, and Glow Man was still smoking at the door.
Pathos’s claw made excruciating contact with her back. She screamed, turning sideways to escape him and the pain. The alcohol slipped from her grip. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Aragon knock Pathos aside. One second she was on her feet, the next she was caught up in the arms of the black wolf-man. Aragon’s arms. Strong arms. Warm arms. Hairy arms. Hairy everything. With fangs and claws and like Wolverine on X-Men…Oh, God, she felt faint.
He leapt toward the windows, clearly planning on smashing through the beveled glass.
Annette saw the glass coming right at her and cringed into Aragon’s shoulder, but he twisted in midair. His back hit the window, shattering it. Glass rained down for a second, then the damp night air blasted her face.
Unbelievably, not only had he protected her from the glass, but he’d managed to land on his feet and didn’t even pause before he pumped into a sprint that should have broken the sound barrier. In fact, she thought he had when she first heard a crack, but the shouts from the guards and several following pops made her realize they were being shot at through the swirling mists and drizzling rain.
As he reached the edge of the woods, Aragon grunted and seemed to stumble, then lurched into the cover of the forest, where the rain slowed to a damp mist beneath the shelter of the leaves.
“Let me run now,” she said.
“No. I must…danger—” His voice, more guttural than earlier, rumbled through her, touching her inside. He pulled her tighter into his arms and ran harder, cutting to the left then right. He ran upright, his movements so aggressively fast and animal-like that there was no mistaking his feral nature, but there was also a cunning intelligence driving him. She had no doubt he would be the most deadly predator any man or beast could ever face.
Yet she sensed amid his feral countenance a protectiveness toward her that would see her safe at all costs. And she was afraid it was costing him as he ran farther, determined to carry the burden of her weight. His breathing became labored, and the pound of his heart against her right shoulder made her hurt to do something to help.
“Please,” she whispered to him, squashing her trepidation enough to touch his hair-covered cheek. “Let me run. Let me help.”
He paused a moment, as if her touch confused him, surprised him. Then he shook his head and rushed forward. Only his apparent will was greater than his waning strength. Minutes later, he stumbled and fell to his knees.
“Let me help,” she said, pushing from his arms. He released her. She rolled to her feet and faced him. Her back burned from where she’d been clawed, but the rest of her instantly felt the loss of his heat in the chilled mountain air, making her want to burrow back against his warmth. She stiffened her shoulders instead and tried to take stock of where they were.
Aragon had moved so fast through the forest that her head was still spinning. His speed had carried them a good distance from the guards and whatever beings Glow Man and Pathos were, but they still had to hurry. She had no doubt that if Pathos was in pursuit of them, he’d be on them in minutes.
The deep woods surrounded them, and a misty rain continued to fall. She listened hard for sounds of pursuit, but could hear nothing beyond the rasp of their breathing and the pound of her own heartbeat in her ears. Even the night creatures seemed to be holding their breaths.
Aragon had landed in a patch of moonlight, his body shuddering as if racked by pain. She started to step toward him, but he flung his arms out, stretching them toward the sky as he looked up at the heavens. His body strained and trembled as if suffering greatly. “Must get out of the moonlight,” he cried, thrusting himself into the deep shadows of a large pine tree.
“Aragon?” Annette moved closer to him. “What is it? Are you hurt?” She reached for him.
“No!” he shouted. “Stay away. Must change before I harm you.”
He was so strong, so deadly, that she had no doubt he could kill her in an instant. And he hadn’t harmed her. “You saved me,” she said. “Now, let me help.” In the brief second it took for her hand to connect to his hairy shoulder, he changed form, becoming a man with smooth skin and muscles that tightened and quivered beneath her fingers. The shift was so sudden that she almost pulled away from him, shocked. But the temperature of his skin registered, and the doctor in her took over. His skin burned hot and deep and bleeding slash marks gouged his chest, a condition that carrying her had to have aggravated.
“You’re hurt, fevered,” she said softly. He didn’t seem to hear her. He kept his gaze fixed upon the night sky and breathed heavily as if he couldn’t get enough air into his lungs.
“What is this weakness that I cannot fight? What are these hungers that drive me to do things no Blood Hunter would ever think of doing? If my fate is that of a faded warrior, then why do I gain substance?” He shouted his questions at the heavens in an angry rush.
When nothing happened, no answering sound or even rustling breeze, he grabbed her hand, urging her closer, his face a dark shadow, his voice ragged. “How do you call me to you at your whim? What magic do you cast, mortal woman? And what is your connection to Pathos? Why were you with him?”
She had a lot of sympathy for him, but she didn’t like feeling his anger. Nor did she like the accusation in his tone. She pulled her hand free and spoke just as emphatically as he had. “My name is Annette, not ‘mortal woman.’ There’s no magic. I wasn’t ‘with’ Pathos. He just appeared, and I don’t know from where. Now you’re hurt and need help. So sit still and let me take a look at your injuries,” she told him, standing to listen for signs or sounds of someone following. The shouting she and Aragon had done would have been a beacon to anyone after them.
“There’s no need,” he said harshly. “We must talk. What does Pathos have to do with—”
“I’m not saying another word about it until I see if you’re all right,” she said firmly. When it came to medical attention, men were the worst at accepting the need. Her back ached sharply from the scrape, and his chest wound appeared worse than hers, so he had to be in pain. “I promise that I’ll be careful. You can trust me.”
He set his palm against her cheek and looked deep into her eyes, and that connection she’d felt before came roaring back, barreling through her isolation and pain. It almost seemed as if he had the ability to get inside her somehow.
Don’t be ridiculous. Don’t go looking for excuses for your libido.
“Do what you must, but hurry,” he said softly. “I must know of Pathos.”
See. He can’t read your mind. Otherwise, he’d know there was nothing about Pathos to tell.
Shaking off her thoughts, she set to work. When she touched his shoulder to angle him toward the light, she felt warm, wet fluid on her hand. Moving around him, she cried out at the amount of blood covering his back. She grabbed her flashlight, training the beam on his injuries, wincing at the chunks of glass embedded in his back.
Then she saw ripped flesh and a dark hole in his shoulder. A constant flow of blood streamed from the injury.
“Dear heaven. You’ve been shot. And you carried me while hurt like this?” Her chest squeezed tight.
She had to get him to her car fast before any of the goons they left behind found them, and especially before he became too weak to walk. First she had to stop some of his blood loss.
“Hold still.” Yanking off her backpack, she propped the flashlight on the ground so that she could see in the shadows. He seemed to want to avoid the moonlight, as if it had a bad effect on him. She removed her cotton and lace bra under her shirt and doubled the cotton cups into a thick pad that she tied together. Then she pressed the bandage against his bullet wound and wrapped the elastic around his broad torso, unhooking the bra’s straps to be able to stretch around him enough to create a pressure bandage.
Every breath he took, every look he gave her as she worked, seemed to ratchet the tension he created in her higher and higher. She’d never been as aware of a man as she was of him, and his intent scrutiny of her as she worked wasn’t helping matters at all. When he focused on her hands, they went numb and she’d fumble. When he looked at her mouth, her lips would tingle and her breath would catch. And God help her, when her bra-less breasts accidentally brushed his arm, she burned right to her center, feeling as if she were back in the hallway of her cabin with his hand exploring her skin about the towel and her libido ready to back him to the wall. He completely unhinged her professional detachment and left her open, vulnerable, and wanting.
His sin-dark eyes, shadowed stubble, and angled features made for a deadly combination, a primal mixture of roughness and wildness that lured her closer to him. Made her want things—not just the sensual either; she wanted that connection he made her feel when he looked so deeply into her eyes.
“Come on.” She urged him up. “My car’s on the highway, which should be south of here. Once we’re safe, I’ll tend your wounds, and then we’ll talk. You can tell me about Pathos and what connection he might have to my missing sister.” Just to be sure she still had the computer data, she pressed her hand against the flash drive nestled between her breasts under her shirt.
The Lure of the Wolf Page 7