by Lexi George
Romance was out of the question, but sex? Sex was clean and uncomplicated. Sex was fun. A sexual relationship was what she wanted. What she had to offer. Take it or leave it. Final decision. No negotiations. No compromise. Sex—mind-blowing, great sex—but nothing more.
If his ego couldn’t handle it, so be it.
Cassie marched to her dresser, retrieved clean panties and a bra, and put them on. Stomping into her walk-in closet, she jerked a clean T-shirt off a felt hanger with so much force the hanger snapped in two. Ignoring the dangling pieces, she snatched a laundered pair of shorts off the closet shelf and stepped into them.
Slipping on a pair of hiking sandals, she tramped out of the bedroom and into the hall, striding purposefully toward the kitchen. Her outrage lasted a few steps and faltered, her senses assaulted by the delightful fatty smell of frying bacon and the tantalizing aroma of freshly made pancakes. She inhaled. Dear God, did she smell maple syrup?
Her hunger, forgotten in the adrenaline rush of desire and outrage, returned with the bruising force of an offensive lineman. Her head roared, and the floorboards warped and pitched beneath her feet. Cassie swayed, and somehow Duncan was there, lifting her in his arms. He was very strong, she noticed absently, resting her head on his shoulder. He’d tied his hair back with a piece of leather, probably to keep it out of the way while he cooked. He had gorgeous hair, light brown shot through with tawny streaks, the color of honey or sunlight on autumn leaves.
She liked the way he smelled, too, woodsy and clean. If she turned her head a little, she could nuzzle his muscled neck. Would he taste as good as he smelled?
There was no time to find out. Duncan carried her into the kitchen and plunked her down at the farm table. With perfunctory efficiency, he set a plate, a knife and fork, and a glass of cold milk in front of her. The plate was laden with pancakes, golden-brown disks of yummy drizzled with syrup. Melted butter ran down the stack in rivulets, pooling on the plate in a maple buttery swirl. The bacon was nicely crisped, the way she liked it.
“Eat.” Duncan’s tone was cold as the wind off the North Sea. “You have depleted your strength, and your humors are out of balance.”
That was a fancy way of saying her blood sugar was low. No surprise there. This wasn’t her first magical rodeo. Magic sucked it out of you, and she’d had two big episodes in one day. She’d be fine once she ate.
She opened her mouth to tell him as much, and shut it again. He was wearing his granite face. Mr. Dalvahni was still ticked.
She picked up her fork. “This looks wonderful. Listen, about our . . . er . . . arrangement. We need to talk.”
“A thrall does not talk. A thrall uses her mouth for other things.” He turned and went back to the stove.
O-k-a-a-y. Fine. She had never been one to beat her head against a brick wall. She didn’t feel like talking anyway. She was ravenous and the food smelled divine.
Steam wafted in feathery swirls from the stack of hotcakes. She sliced through the tender mound and brought the first forkful to her lips. The pancakes melted in her mouth, and the combination of butter and maple syrup sent a little zing of pleasure from her brain to the soles of her feet. She swallowed and took a bite of bacon. Some of the syrup had found its way across the plate and onto the brown strip. The combination of salty and sweet was heaven on the tongue.
Cassie made a noise of contentment and tucked in. She was on her second stack of pancakes when Verbena darted into the kitchen. The girl reminded Cassie of a yearling, all legs and knobby-limbed grace. Verbena didn’t walk. She scurried, she dashed, she scooted, and she scampered, like some wild woodland creature.
Verbena had showered and donned her freshly laundered clothes. Her damp hair clung in wisps about her cheeks, and her feet were bare. Cassie suspected the girl wasn’t in the habit of wearing shoes, whether from preference or neglect. Her huge, violet eyes scanned the kitchen in quick, nervous movements, like a deer wary of predators.
“Hoo-wee, something smells good,” Verbena said. “They learn you how to cook in demon hunter school, Mr. D?”
“I am not entirely without ability.” He motioned Verbena to the table and placed a loaded plate in front of her, then heaped two more plates for himself and sat down between Cassie and Verbena.
Cassie watched him through her lashes as he poured syrup over a mound of pancakes and started to eat. Although the scarred farm table seated eight, Duncan seemed to take up space for three men. He was a big guy, a warrior built for battle and mayhem, but it was more than that. He exuded a raw, primal energy and the gravitational effect of a planet.
If he was aware of her observance, he gave no sign, methodically working his way through a pile of pancakes big enough to choke a horse, along with a dozen pieces of bacon. He moved on to the second plate. Though he ate quickly and with unnerving focus, not so much as a droplet strayed from his fork or marred the pristine whiteness of his shirt. The guy had excellent table manners, Cassie had to give him that.
She returned her attention to her own food. By the time she’d finished eating, she felt much better. Her head still felt a little achy and she was tired, but the collywobbles were gone.
Verbena pushed her plate away with a satisfied sigh. “That was mighty good, Mr. Duncan.” She jumped up and began busing the table with her characteristic quickness. “I’ll do the dishes.”
“Thank you, Verbena,” Cassie said, getting to her feet. “You can throw everything in the dishwasher.”
“No, ma’am.” Verbena turned the faucet, and water hissed into the sink. “Not if you plan on using it again. Me and machines don’t gee haw. Old Charlie used to say I could bust a wheel.”
“Old Charlie was full of beans.” Cassie grabbed a clean dish towel and grinned at the girl. “Still . . . to be on the safe side, you wash, and I’ll dry.”
Duncan put down his fork. “Hold. I hear something.”
“Probably them fellers working on your house,” Verbena said. “Busy as beavers, ain’t they? Tap, tap, tap, like a hunnert little hammers agoing at oncet.”
“No, ’tis not that.” Duncan’s expression was intense. “Hark.”
Cassie listened and heard a faint, insistent scratching at the back door, like a dog begging to be let in. She threw down the towel and hurried into the hall, but Duncan blurred past her and reached the door first. He threw it open, and a glossy-coated blue dog with tan and black markings bounded inside. The dog whined and rose on its hind legs. Its form shifted and Evan stood in the hallway, still dressed in the knee-length trousers. They clung to his powerful legs and exposed his strong calves.
A shuddering howl came from the woods behind Cassie’s house.
“Werewolves,” Evan said, his chest heaving. “Bunch of them, headed this way.”
Evan’s expression was strained, his eyes wild, but she had a hunch it wasn’t the werewolves that had upset him. He’d gone into the woods after Taryn. Had they had a fight?
“Where’s Taryn?” she asked, watching him closely. “Did you find her?”
His lean, handsome face twisted. “Yeah, I found her,” he said with a hoarse laugh. “She’s gone. Listen, about the werewolves. There’s something off about ’em. They don’t smell right, know what I mean?”
“Don’t have a dog nose,” Cassie said, “but I’ll take your word for it. Black and rust markings?”
“Yeah. What do you think they want?”
“My guess is Zeb’s come for Mac, and about time. I don’t mean to be insensitive, but the poor kid’s been dead for hours in the back of my truck.”
Evan’s eyes widened. “You got a dead guy in your truck? What the hell?”
“The alpha’s nephew. And technically, he’s not a guy. He’d shifted when he—” Cassie made a face. “It’s complicated. Did Taryn say when she’ll be back?”
“Nope.” Evan clenched his jaw and tightened his hands into fists. “Forget about Red—I intend to—and tell me more about this dead werewolf.”
“There
is not much to tell,” said Duncan. “A wolf attacked Cassandra, and I cut off his head. End of story.”
“End of story? You can’t go around whacking off people’s heads because you feel like it.”
“Duncan didn’t have a choice,” Cassie said. “Mac was sick or crazed, or on drugs. If Duncan hadn’t been there . . .” She shook her head, unable to finish.
“The werewolf tried to kill Cassandra, and I slew him,” Duncan said. “And so I shall tell this Zeb, should he ask.”
Duncan flung Zeb’s name out of his mouth like it was something foul.
A ululating cry shivered the air, this time closer to the house.
“Looks like you’ll get the chance,” Evan said. “That’s the alpha, unless I’m mistaken, and he doesn’t sound happy.”
“His happiness or unhappiness is not my concern,” Duncan replied. “Should he, however, trespass without Cassandra’s permission, I shall take the necessary measures.”
“Ooh, you’ll take measures.” Evan gave him the squint eye. “We’re outnumbered, tough guy. The Skinners are running with the wolf pack.”
“The river lies yon.” Duncan indicated the door at the opposite end of the hall with a jerk of his head. “Hie thee across, an you are daunted.”
“Stop being a dick,” Evan said, scowling. “I’m trying to help you. Don’t want you to go off half-cocked and get your ass handed to you.” He tapped his temple. “Like I keep telling you, knowledge is power, my man.”
“Your caution is noted, but I remain undismayed.”
A series of sharp yips came from the woods. There was a crash of breaking glass from the kitchen, and Verbena sprang into the hall like a jackrabbit on steroids. “Joby Ray,” she squeaked. “He’s back. Don’t let him get me.”
“Hush, child,” Duncan said. “You are safe.”
His tone of voice was soothing, Cassie noticed with a twinge of envy. But then, he wasn’t angry with Verbena. Verbena hadn’t insulted his irresistibility with a straight-up offer of sex. Most men got sore when you turned them down. Not Duncan. The booty call next door had offended him.
She would never understand demon hunters, not if she lived a thousand years.
Cassie stepped around Evan and peered through the glass insert in the back door. Her heart gave a sickening little kick. Dark, hulking forms moved beneath the oaks at the edge of her property. The Randalls had wolfed out. Cassie was baffled and more than a little freaked. Toby was supposed to smooth things over, explain that Mac’s death had been an accident, a horrible, horrible accident. Tragic, yes, but not worth starting a war. She’d hoped to parley with the alpha, make him see reason. Instead, Zeb had gone on the offensive. This was not good. This was definitely not good.
An attack on her would be tantamount to an attack on the kith. Worse, it could draw the attention of the norms, and that would be disastrous. Reprisal from the Council would be swift and absolute. Surely Zeb knew that.
The wild hydrangea bushes parted, and a scrawny coyote slunk out of the trees to sniff at one of the scorch marks on the back lawn. The animal gave a sharp bark, and three rangy coyotes and a slew of sickly weasels, possums, skunks, and rats answered the call, boiling out of the underbrush. The Skinners were here, and in force.
The werewolves crept from the shadows, and any hope Cassie had of settling the business of Mac’s death without bloodshed died. Evan’s nose had not deceived him. Down to the last wolf, the pack showed signs of a virulent illness, a malignancy that had left them wasted and deformed. Like Mac, they had half shifted, and their pelts were covered in oozing scabs. Fluid leaked from their maddened eyes, matting the fur on their muzzles, and they moved with a shambling gait on their twisted hind legs.
Cassie swallowed. “Oh, my God, what’s happened to them? This time last year, the Randall pack was perfectly healthy.”
“This time last year, huh?” Evan said. “Is that when you took a walk on the wild side?”
Cassie stiffened. “Zeb and I had dinner a couple of times. What of it?”
“You know what they say. Once you go pack, you never go back.”
A muscle twitched in Duncan’s cheek. “Enough, Evan. You go too far.”
“Aw, Dunky. You know I’m dicking with—” Evan broke off, his eyes widening. “Jesus Horatio Christ, what the hell is that?”
A huge thing had stepped out of the woods. Ten feet tall, the monstrosity had the head, back legs, and tail of a wolf and the belly and torso of a man. Three powerfully muscled human arms sprang from either side of the thing’s upper body, and a series of bristling spikes ran down its back. Filthy fur covered the creature’s head and lower body in patches, fur with the distinctive Randall black and red mottling.
Cassie swallowed the throbbing lump of fear in her throat. “I’m not sure, but I think that’s Zeb.”
“That’s the alpha? Man, that’s messed up.” Evan rolled his neck and shoulders and flashed Duncan a reckless grin. “How ’bout it? You ready to kick some werewolf ass?”
“I thank you for the offer, my friend,” Duncan said, “but your assistance is not required.” With that, he disappeared.
“Duncan?” Cassie spun around. “Where’d he go?”
“To deal with the alpha.” Evan made a sound of disgust. “By himself, the cowboy.”
“What?” Cassie threw the back door open and saw Duncan materialize on the lawn. “Is he crazy? He’ll get himself killed.”
Evan grabbed a handful of her T-shirt and yanked her around. “Hit me.”
“What?” Cassie stared at him.
There was a strange gleam in his eyes, a sort of rebellious, unheeding madness that made her almost as uneasy as the monsters on her lawn. Evan looked hopped up on something, juiced to the max. Or maybe he had something to prove.
He shook her arm. “There are too many of them. We need the ogre. Hit me. Hard.”
“No. There’s no time for that.”
Cassie pulled away and rushed onto the porch. She heard Evan curse and follow her out the door, but she hardly noticed. Her attention was on Duncan. He stood, unmoving, in the path of destruction, a lone champion in a white T-shirt and jeans.
“Idiot,” she breathed, starting down the steps. Belatedly, she realized that she’d forgotten to grab a staff. “Move, Duncan. Get out of the way.”
It was over before it began. Later, Cassie would recall the almost-battle in brief snatches: the alpha bellowing and charging Duncan, slavering jaws open and sharp claws whistling through the air, claws that could cleave a man in two with a single blow; the howling pack throwing itself after the leader; the Skinner clan skulking at the periphery, nervous, half-starved hyenas waiting to savage a downed antelope.
Time seemed to slow and stretch like refrigerated molasses as the tidal wave of teeth and claws rolled toward Duncan. Then, as the onslaught threatened to engulf him, he raised his hands and gestured, and something astounding happened.
Plop, plop, plop, the pack of werewolves reverted to human form in a repulsive symphony of wet sounds. Howling, the weres rolled on the ground, muscles seizing and contracting at the rapid transformation. Plop, squelch, the hideous alpha degenerated with a sickening crunch of bone and sinew. Thbbtp, the Skinners shifted, bodies jerking and spasming in pain.
Cassie gaped at the bizarre scene. No more shifters or werewolves, only naked people on her lawn, piles and piles of them. Ugly, naked people, an orgy of them puking and writhing, like a horror art depiction of Dante’s Inferno.
Duncan waded through the wriggling mass of bodies and bent over Joby Ray. The head of the Skinner clan was on his knees, vomiting in long, racking shudders.
“Gerroff me,” Joby Ray snarled. Swatting a hand at Duncan, he scrambled to his feet.
Joby Ray was filthy, covered in dirt, grass, and his own puke. His pocked skin had an unhealthy cast, and his arms and legs were shrunken and bony. His thing and his ball sack were on display, limp and dispirited. He was either oblivious to his nudity or he didn’t care.
>
Cassie cared. She cared a lot. Some shifters—Toby, for instance—retained their clothes when they shifted. Joby Ray obviously lacked that gene, but, oh, how Cassie wished he didn’t. Joby Ray wasn’t easy on the eyes dressed. Naked, he was the stuff of nightmares. He wasn’t beefcake. He was beef stew with lots of gristle and dead, hairy things floating on top.
“Thieving bitch.” Joby Ray pointed a grimy finger at Cassie. “It weren’t enough you stole Beenie. You went and stole from the pack, too. I hope Zeb rips your tits off and feeds them to the cubs.”
Cassie regarded him in astonishment. “Steal from the Randalls? What on earth are you talking about?”
“Like you don’t know.” Joby Ray spat and wiped his mouth on the back of his dirty hand. “Tell Beenie we’ll be back. Skinners keep what’s our’n.”
Lifting his head, he gave a short, mournful yowl and shambled for the tree line. Groaning, the ailing Skinner clan climbed to their feet and staggered after him.
Chapter Seventeen
“What the hell?” Evan said, watching the Skinners limp into the
Wwoods.
“No idea. Unless . . .” Cassie hesitated. “You don’t suppose they mean Mac? But I didn’t steal him.”
“Perhaps this one can clarify matters.” Striding over, Duncan prodded Zeb with his boot. “You. What mean you by this attack?”
The alpha was curled in a fetal knot, shivering and shaking like a man with an ague. At Duncan’s nudge, he snarled and sprang to his feet. His appearance shocked Cassie to the core. Zeb Randall wasn’t classically handsome like a certain Dalvahni whose initials began with D.U.N.C.A.N., but he’d been far from ugly when he and Cassie had dated. Not so anymore. Zeb’s rough-hewn good looks were gone, and he’d aged decades in less than a year. He looked every day of seventy-five years old when, in reality, Zeb had yet to see forty. His big body, naked and on display, was gaunt to the point of emaciation, and his eyes were sunken pools in his heavily lined face. His reddish-brown hair was matted and unwashed, and he smelled of vomit, sweat, and worse.