The Mating Game: Werewolves of Montana Book 8

by Bonnie Vanak

  He was nude and shivering. Cold air punched him with each breath he dragged in.

  Who am I?

  Slowly forcing his gluey eyelids to open, he looked around, shaking violently.

  Sounds of rushing water collided with wind rustling through trees, the angry chatter of a squirrel overhead…

  Slowly he sat up, wrapping his arms around himself. Sharp rocks dug into his buttocks. He was on the banks of a rushing mountain stream. Fading sunlight dappled the tall, evergreen trees and bare brush flanking the water.

  I’m naked, alone, and I have no idea where I am. Or who I am.

  And I’m fucking freezing.

  He scrubbed a hand over his face, felt rough bristles. Forcing the panic squeezing his lungs to abate, he took a deep breath.

  Assess. Calm down. Who am I?

  Cold. So damn cold. Shaking, he felt his teeth chatter. No memory. No idea who he was. Where he was. Terror iced his veins and made his heart race in a gush of panic.

  I’m a person. I have a name, a life—hell, I didn’t just land here like an alien.

  The thought calmed him a little. Survival instincts kicked in. Assess.

  He stretched out his hands and stared at them as the purple shadows draped the embankment. Flexing his fingers, he then flexed his toes. Everything seemed to work.

  So fucking cold.

  Across the river, a small, furry creature emerged from its burrow and stared at him. It began to chatter, scolding him.

  He sensed no threat. Think, think. Blinking, he stared back at the creature. “Marmot,” he said aloud. “Mammal.”

  The creature continued to scold him.

  “Shut up,” he snapped and flicked his index finger at him.

  The rock next to the marmot exploded into shards. The marmot shrieked and scampered back into its burrow.

  Dumbfounded, he stared at his finger. Then down at his privates and hastily ensured his hands were nowhere near his genitals should he accidentally blow them up as well.

  Okay. I’m a person with enormous powers. I can kill.

  Destroy.

  But I must be able to use this for something good as well.

  Again he rubbed his face. “I’m a man,” he said aloud.

  He looked down, saw his privates.

  Yeah, he was a guy, all right. Impressive, even with the cold.

  Shuddering, he felt the panic rise again, flooding every cell. Light was leeching from the sky and the rocks beneath his naked bottom dug into his skin.

  Food. Shelter. Warmth.

  Survival. Instinct kicked in. He rubbed his arms, saw his breath fog the air, and felt his teeth chatter.

  I wish I had a warm blanket at least.

  Suddenly a soft, fleece blanket appeared on his shoulders. He jumped, scared out of his wits, and nearly fell into the gurgling stream.

  How the hell did that happen?

  Maybe this was a dream and everything he imagined would come true.

  Hmmm.

  I wish I had something to eat. An apple, nice and crisp.

  A rosy, red apple appeared in his palm. He blinked again. Damn, if that’s the case, screw the fruit. He tossed it into the stream. The apple bobbed and sailed merrily down the stream, a red globe floating in the rapids.

  I want a steak.

  A piece of raw beef appeared in his hand. But he threw it down with disgust.

  Maybe I can imagine I’m warm and this is all a bad dream.

  Suddenly the cold fled his body, and he felt as if he were in a tropical paradise, instead of sitting by a cold mountain stream, flakes of snow dotting his black hair. But it was no dream.

  Deep inside, he suspected he had done something very wrong and losing his memory was the result.

  He blinked snowflakes from his long eyelashes, searching his mind. Snow. He knew snow, knew this was a mountain stream, knew that people must live nearby because there were lights cutting through the thick brush at the stream’s edge.

  People. He knew about people—how they worked, ate, slept.

  Screwed.

  At the thought of sex, his shriveled dick gave a happy twitch.

  Killed. Blood. Guts. Screams.

  His dick deflated like a child’s punctured balloon.

  Okay, he knew what this was and where he was—someplace in the mountains. But he didn’t know who the hell he was.

  All he knew was he had to find shelter, fast. His senses alerted him that predators were on the roam. Perhaps not the animals who drank from this water but a more evil predator who would love to munch on his bones.

  And though he knew he had formidable powers, he didn’t know if his powers were strong enough to withstand whatever evil was out there. Hell, he didn’t even know where he was.

  Gathering the blanket more securely around him, he stood on shaky legs, feeling weak and disoriented still.

  I wish I were in a place that could offer me shelter for the night.

  A tingling rushed down his spine. Suddenly he yelped as he felt his entire body pulled, as if suctioned into a dark hole.

  Faster than an eye blink, he reappeared in front of a narrow, one-story building. His head ached, and he pressed fingers against his temples, losing his grip on the blanket. It spilled to the pavement.

  The pink, neon sign read, “Alpine Lovers Hotel.”

  Below it was an address—100 Evergreen Lane, Fern Forest, Colorado.

  It sounded familiar, this town, yet he had no memory of it. He scanned the parking lot. Only two cars were parked in front of the block of rooms.

  Hotel, okay, I know what this is. He pulled the blanket around himself like a warm cloak and headed to the sign that read, “Office.”

  A little silver bell tinkled over the door as he walked inside. The office was not impressive, little more than a long, wood counter cluttered with papers, an orange sofa with a tear in the middle, and a scratched, wood table holding a glass ashtray cluttered with cigarette butts.

  “Hello?” he called out.

  A gray-haired man clad in a dirty, white sweater and jeans came out of a back room. He looked at him and blinked. Immediately the man’s gaze narrowed.

  Nose twitching, he picked up the man’s scent. Pine, leather, and tobacco.

  “I need a room for the night,” he told the hotel proprietor.

  The man’s gaze whipped up and down as he peered over the wood counter, taking in the blanket he wore, along with his bare feet and his beard.

  “Cash only,” the man said curtly. “One hundred dollars.”

  Cash. He wished for one hundred dollars, and it appeared in his hand, hidden by the blanket. He counted out five twenties and handed them to the suspicious clerk.

  “You one of them nudists who comes here to the mountains to smoke pot and commune with nature?”

  He bowed his head and managed to look grave. “I’m afraid so. Except I do not smoke cooking containers.”

  “No smoking in the room, else you get slapped with a five hundred-dollar fine. Colorado law.” The clerk pointed to the hand-lettered sign.

  The man went to the computer and began typing. A large, black printer spat out papers.

  “I’ll need your name and a signature,” he said, thrusting the papers at him, along with a blue ballpoint pen.

  Name, name, name. I have no name. His mind zipped through a series of possibilities. He gazed around the office, saw a newspaper on the counter with a headline. “Prostitute Arrested for Soliciting a John.” He needed a name. Jon would suffice.

  “Jon,” he said quickly. “Jon…Winter.”

  “Got any ID?” the clerk asked with a frown.

  He shook his head and started to lift the blanket. “Does this look like I have pockets?”

  The clerk averted his gaze. “Just sign the papers.”

  He signed the paper and took the key the clerk handed him.

  Room 109 was small and stuffy. The bed was covered with a faded, brown spread, but it was clean. He locked the door behind him, tugged dow
n on the bedspread, and sat on the bed.

  I should have wished for clothing.

  But his head still felt muzzy, as if he’d slammed it against the wall. Fear began flooding his cells, snaking down his spine.

  Alone, no way of knowing who he was or what he was. Only that he was a being of tremendous power, who now had to call himself something or people would get suspicious.

  Deep inside, he suspected he had done something very bad. Horrible.

  Did I kill another?

  He had to find answers. Curling up into a ball, he tried to rest. But sleep proved elusive.

  I need documents.

  Documents, along with money, were key in fitting into this strange new place.

  That and clothing.

  Blinking rapidly, he imagined the proper documents one needed to prove one’s identity. They appeared on the table beside him. He sprang out of bed and combed through them. Driver’s license. Social Security card. Passport. Credit card.

  All with the name Jon Winter upon them.

  This is me.

  Yet it was not him.

  And he had nothing to guide him, help him regain his memory, or get his former life back.

  13

  Five days later

  Her mother was in danger, and the Nymphs of the Fern Forest colony counted on Ciara to save their leader.

  Without Carlina, they were lost and grew weaker by the day. Carlina was the glue holding together the twenty-five Nymphs. Streams began to dry up, and a nasty fungus attacked nearby trees.

  Responsible for protecting the forests and water, the Nymphs lagged in their duties. If this kept up, the forest near the mountains could perish.

  And Xavier, who was responsible for judging and guarding the Nymphs, was nowhere in sight. It was probably because of her.

  Juno, the Nymph next in charge, promised Ciara if she rescued Carlina, Ciara would be granted full acceptance into the colony with a blood bond.

  Only pureblood Nymphs were accorded the blood bond. Ciara was more determined than ever to rescue the woman who had birthed her but, until this past year, refused to acknowledge her.

  Ciara left the forest, hopeful that soon she would return there, not as a visitor but a sister. She headed to her apartment in the village of Fern Forest.

  The studio apartment was dark and small, and though she tried to coax out as much natural light as possible to remain closer to her beloved outdoors, it never felt the same as when she was in the woods. Her nature cried out for fresh air, and even as the days grew colder in the mountains, she cranked open the single window and shivered beneath the blankets, simply to breathe.

  If the colony didn’t allow her to live with them, what was her purpose?

  She must save her mother.

  Ciara sat at the scratched desk beneath the window, tracing an ancient, protective rune on the wood. She wasn’t certain if Viola was responsible for the evil that grew stronger each day, but she knew the witch courted power more than justice.

  When Xavier had brought her to this mountain village, she’d overheard him talking about the darkness with the residents of the condominium he owned. Back then, the darkness had been a smudge against the serenity of the town and the surrounding mountains of the park.

  Now the evil had grown, and it had her mother captive.

  Not that Xavier cared. The Crystal Wizard had simply vanished. She’d checked his home in Fern Forest, but only an elderly Brownie occupied the complex, and the widowed fairy told her she hadn’t seen another soul.

  Ciara fished a key out of a flowerpot and unlocked the desk’s single drawer. The silver ring sat there, a subtle glow of power pulsing from it.

  She touched the ring, and tendrils of current jumped onto her skin. The sensation wasn’t unpleasant, but her fingers tingled.

  Xavier hadn’t been lying when he said his power fused to the ring she’d given him. Such enormous magick scared her.

  The ring glowed white, as if containing an electrical charge. Each time she handled the ring, her spirit felt heavy.

  Was this what Xavier had felt each day? To be burdened with such responsibility that it felt like twin lead weights?

  She needed the ring. Each day that her mother remained Viola’s slave stripped her spirit. Soon nothing would remain, and the Nymph who had guided the small colony in the mountains would be gone.

  Ciara put the ring in a small pouch and went to see the witch.

  The witch Viola lived in a large two-story house near the national park, on an isolated dirt road. Magick prevented Skins from accessing the road, for most thought it abandoned, and they failed to even see the house.

  Google Earth showed no trace of it, she thought in sour amusement. Viola was ancient, her magick powerful. If she had belonged to a coven, the witch never acknowledged association with them.

  But her formidable powers were much greater than Ciara’s puny Nymph magick.

  She trudged up the stone pathway leading to the magnificent house. Tall aspens ringed the property, but no trees grew near the house, as if Viola’s magick had tainted the land. No grass grew here either. Instead, stones and gems peppered the earth. They sparkled beneath the warm sun, tempting the unwary. Ciara knew better. Viola guarded her gemstones with zeal, and anyone even handling one faced her wrath.

  The witch, who held the power to grant the dearest wishes of Others, was quite popular and her services sought by many. Males who wished to attract mates or wanted to be sexually virile. Females whose beauty had begun to fade.

  My mother should never have ventured here. She is lovely enough. Why did she feel the need to enhance her looks? She has no need of a man.

  It made Ciara question if her beloved mother had spent too much time in the Skin world, watching television commercials about youthful models or reading Skin fashion magazines.

  No birds chirped in the nearby forest. The scent of fresh earth and rainwater permeated this place, along with a faint smell of sulfur. And something old—so very, very old, like a musty book kept in a dank, dark library for hundreds of years.

  Through the velvet pouch, the ring warmed in her hand, pulsing with its own power, as if recognizing the taint of darkness of the witch’s property. Senses pricking with dread, she went around the back of the house.

  Viola was in her garden, watering the herbs with a metal can. A scarecrow wearing a tattered and faded, red gown hung in the garden’s middle. The scarecrow had a forlorn expression on its cloth face.

  Clad in a long, flowing, green dress, Viola was quite breathtaking. Her green eyes sparkled with life, and her skin was pale, accenting her long, black curls.

  Ethereal, she seemed too lovely to be evil, until you saw the sinister curl to her mouth and her absolute indifference to suffering. On her last visit, Ciara had watched in horror as Viola had killed a young fawn, laughing as it struggled to live.

  Ciara had tried to save the young deer, but it had gasped its last in her arms.

  Viola had killed the fawn because Ciara had noticed it limping at the edge of the forest and rushed to aid it.

  “Ciara. Here to visit mommy dearest?”

  The witch had a sultry, deep voice that should have been sexy but only served to rake against Ciara’s nerves.

  “I came to ask you once more to free her.”

  Viola’s answer was to ignore Ciara and continue watering the garden. A toad hopped out from the herbs, and the witch squished it with her foot. Nausea rose in Ciara’s throat, but she held her ground.

  “Free my mother,” she said once more.

  The witch, her long, black hair flowing in the breeze, laughed. “Your mother made herself a willing slave in exchange for beauty. I told you, I need a boon in exchange for her freedom.” Viola’s gaze grew sly. “You would suffice.”

  Screams sounded from the basement darkness. Her mother’s screams.

  “Ciara, help me, please!”

  Her stomach churned, and her blood raced as she clenched her fists. Somehow she must f
ree her mother, whose only crime had been to entrust the witch to enhance her fading beauty.

  “I have something better. My Nymph ring that you mentioned you want. It contains great power,” she cried out, desperate to end those terrified shrieks.

  Viola’s eyes widened as Ciara drew it off her finger. The witch sniffed the metal, and her expression changed, growing rapt with excitement.

  Hope rose in Ciara. Perhaps this could work…

  “Another being has worn this. It has the aura of tremendous power, power a weak Nymph could never harness. Who wore this ring last?” the witch demanded.

  Ciara shook her head. She must not betray Xavier.

  Viola stepped forward, her gaze hypnotic. “Tell me, runt. Who was it?”

  Invisible claws wrapped around her throat, squeezing tight. Ciara gasped, her lungs straining to pull in fresh air as her feet left the ground…

  “Tell me!” Viola shrieked.

  “The Crystal Wizard,” she croaked.

  Immediately the grip on her neck vanished. Ciara fell to the ground, gasping for breath, rubbing her throat. Such awful power.

  She must free her mother from this witch!

  “Xavier. The Crystal Wizard. Good. Good.” Viola threw the ring back at her. “Take your ring, runt. There is only one way you will free your mother from her prison. Bring me a lock of hair from the Crystal Wizard.” Viola pointed at the ring, which began swirling in the air like a child’s top. “A lock of hair that contains his crystals. His power.”

  “No. He would kill me.”

  “Kill you? He was your lover. It’s the only reason why such a powerful being would keep such a puny gift. Bed him again and cut off his hair. One lock is all I need.”

  “I cannot,” she cried out.

  Viola shrugged. Downstairs, her mother’s screams grew weaker.

  Tears burned in her eyes. “All right, I will, but please, don’t let her die.”

  The witch smiled. “Oh, I have no intention of that, my dear. No intention at all.”

  Stumbling out of the witch’s house, Ciara headed for her car. Hands shaking, she started the engine and drove down the steep, dirt driveway toward town.

  Steal a lock of hair from Xavier. It was the only way. But how could she steal his hair when no one knew where the wizard was?