Warrior Wolf (Shifter Falls Book 3)

by Amy Green

  He raised his eyebrows. “Who is what?”

  “The person you want as my replacement. It’s Gary, isn’t it? The deputy you made me hire? I figured there was a reason. So you’ve been working on this for a while—the phone call angle, getting someone in place to take over. Nice work.”

  “Nadine,” her father said.

  “Don’t start, Daddy,” she heard herself snap. “You helped.”

  He shook his head. “I had no idea this would happen today.”

  “But now that it has, you’re not exactly in my corner, are you?”

  Daddy’s answer said everything. “He’s an animal.”

  Devon. This was about Devon.

  I am your wolf.

  She stood up and dropped her gun on the desk. Pulled out her badge and dropped it too.

  She’d always thought that if this day ever came, the day when she lost her precious job, that she’d be shaking. That she’d be lost. That she’d have to fight not to cry.

  None of that happened. She wasn’t even trembling when she walked out from behind her desk. “I resign,” she said, and met eyes with the mayor. “Get yourself a damn lawyer.” Then she walked out of the room.

  Her two deputies watched her leave in silence. She stepped out the door and looked at the mountains in the distance, cold and lonely and beautiful.

  She’d always hated this uniform shirt.

  And she had a craving for some ice cream. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d treated herself to an ice cream.

  She decided today was the day.

  22

  Shifter Falls’ resident tattoo artist was a fox shifter named Orwell, who had taken over the practice from his uncle some ten years ago. Every shifter, when he was old enough, got a tattoo of his animal on his shoulder, and the Donovan alphas had their insignias. Shifters got other tattoos, as well, because their healing powers meant that getting inked was close to painless. So Orwell was usually kept busy.

  He worked from a small run-down unit in a strip mall next to a dry cleaner’s, equipped with a table and a tattoo gun. Since shifters couldn’t get infections, his standards of cleanliness were lazy at best—Orwell was usually thrown in a tizzy of cleaning the few times a year when a human client came in. Still, Orwell was a Falls legend because of his art. There was no one in fifty miles who could make an animal come alive in a few strokes of ink, or who could use color exactly the way Orwell could. A few dirty instruments was a small price to pay for genius.

  Devon was sitting on Orwell’s metal table, stripped to the waist, as Orwell touched the gun to his shoulder blade.

  “How does it look?” Devon asked.

  “Awful,” Orwell said bluntly. “Your fucking Silverman ruined my work.”

  Very true. The Silverman’s silver blade had gone straight into Devon’s wolf tattoo, making the animal look punctured. “Can you fix it?” he asked.

  “What the fuck do you think I’m doing?” Orwell said. “Sit still.”

  Devon sighed. Only Orwell was able to talk to a Donovan like that; anyone else would be hung by his heels from a window in the old City Hall. He felt the tattoo gun touching the scar from the blade, which hurt more than it should have. It had taken this long, two months, to heal over completely, instead of the minutes it took for a normal wound, and it still ached every damn day.

  “Devon,” Ian said from the corner of the room, where he was sitting in a rickety lawn chair reading a magazine. “You hungry for a little fox on the next hunt? Could be tasty.”

  “Sounds good,” Devon said.

  “Hah,” Orwell said. “You guys won’t eat me. You need me too much. Devon, tell me this Silverman died in pain. You don’t stab great art like this unless you’re some kind of monster.”

  “I ripped his throat out,” Devon said.

  “Good.” Orwell put down the gun and angled the light so he could see his work better. “It will never look the same, but I think I can get it close.”

  He went back to work, and quiet fell. Devon looked at Ian from the corner of his eye. “You don’t have to wait around, you know,” he said.

  Ian held up his magazine, which was a Popular Mechanics from sometime around 1989. “I’m fine. This is great reading. Really timely. Plus we’re supposed to meet Brody, and I’m hoping that if I leave him alone at the Four Spot Diner, he’ll finally notice that Alison is in love with him.”

  Devon smiled to himself. Alison Masterson, who waited tables at the Four Spot, had been in love with Brody since they were practically kids. Brody, dumbass that he was, still had no clue. He was probably the last person in Shifter Falls who hadn’t figured it out. “Nice plan, but it won’t work.”

  Ian turned a page. “One of these days, he’ll catch on.”

  Devon snuck a glance at his half brother again. In the two months since he’d left Nadine in her bed and come home, his brothers had been surprisingly nice to him, especially Ian. Nice didn’t mean the same to a Donovan as it meant to most people—it meant fewer insults and a sort of tolerance of the other’s presence without actual hostility. Devon hadn’t expected it, but he found that he reluctantly welcomed it. He was a loner—they all were—but being a loner wasn’t always the best thing. There were times that his brothers’ presence wasn’t completely unwelcome.

  Brody had even surprised him, one day, by asking how the renovations on the house were going. It turned out Nadine had been right when she’d said his brothers paid more attention than he thought they did. They’d shook on it, he recalled, and now he’d lost the bet. He’d tell her if he ever saw her again.

  The last two months had been lonely, though he was used to that. But there had been moments.

  “I should tell you something,” Devon said.

  Ian lowered his magazine. “You’re getting a personality transplant?”

  See, being nicer didn’t mean no insults. “No.”

  “You’ve hired a waxer?”

  Devon rolled his eyes. A man gets a haircut and gets his beard trimmed, so he looks less like a goddamn barbarian, and his brothers never cut him an inch of slack. “No. Are you done?”

  Ian tossed away Popular Mechanics. “Well, that magazine was fucking fascinating, but go ahead.”

  “You remember the time a few years ago when I tried to kill you?”

  At his shoulder, Orwell didn’t even flinch. He probably wasn’t listening, too tied up in his work. Devon didn’t care if he was listening anyway; his attempt to kill Ian was widespread knowledge, and Orwell wasn’t the type to spread Donovan gossip.

  Ian’s green eyes narrowed. “Gee, let me think,” he said sarcastically. “Yes, I believe I recall.”

  “I did it on Charlie’s orders,” Devon said.

  Ian rubbed his jaw, which was raspy with his own short beard. “I always wondered,” he said after a minute.

  “It’s been long enough,” Devon said. “Charlie’s dead. I thought you should know the truth.”

  “That my father tried to kill me, and not my brother?” Ian shook his head. “As crazy as it sounds, I actually prefer option A. I really did hate that old bastard.”

  “So did I,” Devon said.

  Ian stroked his jaw again. “There was a moment in that fight,” he said, “right before I won. You came at me and my left was unguarded, just for a second. But you didn’t take advantage.” He watched Devon’s face. “You didn’t think I noticed? I was a professional fighter.”

  “Maybe I just slipped up,” Devon said.

  “Maybe you slipped up right when you had a chance to make the kill,” Ian replied. “I replayed that moment over and over in my head, wondering about it. Whether it was deliberate. I eventually decided that it wasn’t, that you were an asshole who wanted to kill me just like I’d always thought, so I let it go. I was wrong, wasn’t I?”

  Devon sighed, tried not to flinch as Orwell drew his gun over his healed scar. “You beat me in that fight fair and square,” he told Ian. “You’re faster than me, and you had training
and skill. I got one opening, and I didn’t take it. That was all.”

  “Yeah,” Ian said. “And how many openings did you miss in all those years working for Charlie? How many other fights did you lose?”

  “Not many,” Devon said. He turned away and looked at the wall. “Then again, I didn’t fight often. A lot of people left town before I could get to them.”

  “They did, huh?”

  “Yeah. They did.”

  Ian leaned back in his chair. “Well. Charlie’s own enforcer was working against him. I’m starting to believe Heath’s theory that our father was murdered.”

  Devon had heard that theory. Charlie had died in his sleep, officially of natural causes. But the coroner who filed the report left town the next week, never to be seen again. Heath’s theory was that if the coroner was covering for someone, he’d likely left town to cover his tracks.

  “The only way to know for sure is to dig him up,” Devon said. “And I for one am not doing it.”

  “Me neither.” Ian shrugged. “It doesn’t matter to me, because I’m the only one who isn’t a suspect. I was in prison when he died. Locked in my cell, innocent.”

  “True.” Devon turned and locked gazes with his brother’s green eyes. “I could have done it easy,” he said. “That worry you?”

  Ian smiled. “If it was you, I’d have you enshrined in a statue in front of City Hall.”

  Devon almost smiled at that. Almost. “That would be one ugly fucking statue,” he said.

  “I don’t disagree.”

  “I’m finished,” Orwell broke in. “It isn’t as good as it was, but it’s the best I can do.” He put down his tattoo gun and held up a mirror so Devon could see.

  His wolf looked like himself again. The scar was still visible, but when Devon flexed his shoulder and lifted his arm—with the injury he couldn’t lift his arm all the way, and probably would never be able to—the animal moved, rippling and snarling like he always had. Scarred, but whole. Damaged, but still a warrior wolf.

  “It’s perfect,” he said to Orwell. “Give me my shirt. Let’s go.”

  23

  “You’re late,” Brody said.

  Ian slid into the booth next to the alpha, and Devon slid into the seat across from him. “I was getting my tattoo fixed,” Devon said.

  “You get something to eat?” Ian asked Brody. “You should order.”

  Devon looked at him and shook his head.

  “What?” Brody, as always, was oblivious. “No, I didn’t order anything. I’ve been busy waiting for you two. And where’s Heath?”

  “You should eat,” Ian said. “I’ll just call Alison over.”

  “Why should I eat? I’m not hungry.” Brody scowled at them from beneath the brim of his ball cap. “Jesus, you’re like a mother hen.”

  “Yeah, I’m soft all right,” Ian said. He craned his neck and looked around the diner. “You know, Devon, maybe you should date Alison while you’re waiting for Nadine to come back. She’s a good-looking girl.”

  It was a completely impossible suggestion, but Devon made himself shrug. “Sure. I like redheads.”

  “That’s insane.” Brody looked from one to the other. “You’ve both gone insane. Ian, shut up. Devon, don’t even breathe in Alison’s direction. For fuck’s sake, that’s an order from your alpha.”

  Devon scratched the back of his neck, like he was thinking it over. “What? She’s nice. Besides, Nadine still hates me. She might never come back.”

  “She’ll come back,” Brody said. “She’s your goddamn mate, you idiot. She just has to figure that out. Ian went through the same thing with Anna. And I have to say, he was as much of a miserable bastard while he was waiting as you are.”

  Jesus. Brody was good and riled. Someone needed to wake his stupid wolf up, and soon. “I’m not that miserable,” he argued.

  “You renovated your entire house by hand,” Brody said. “Floors, bathrooms, everything. At night. While you weren’t sleeping.”

  Okay, so he’d had some pent-up energy since coming home. He’d finished the whole house, every inch, until there was nothing else to do. He was a wolf who had had a taste of his mate, then lost her again. It would make any animal a little bit crazy.

  But as painful as it was, at least she knew. She finally knew. And he’d meant what he said to her that last time—he was her wolf, no matter what happened in the end. He didn’t fear death; he never had. Now he realized that the only thing to fear was a life built on lies and secrets, a life in which you weren’t who you were supposed to be. That kind of life was no life at all.

  He’d been honest with his mate, had laid everything out before her for her to see. The truth, both the good and the bad. Everything he was. Whatever happened, he’d always know that he’d had the courage to do that. And courage came in a lot of different guises—she’d taught him that.

  “Afternoon, you losers,” Heath said, sliding into the seat next to Devon. He looked at Brody and immediately looked around. “God, we really should get Alison over here and order.”

  “I swear to God, I have no fucking clue what’s going on,” Brody said. “If you guys are hungry, just fucking order something.”

  “In a minute,” Heath said. “I have news.” He looked at Devon. “Wes just came in to the Burned Wolf and told me.”

  Devon felt something hard in his throat. “Told you what?”

  “The sheriff of Grant County got fired.”

  Devon froze and stared at his brother.

  “Actually, she technically resigned,” Heath continued. “But everyone knows she was forced out, because of the fallout from the Silverman thing.” Heath waved a hand. “Human law enforcement gets worked up over dead cops and suspects with their throats ripped out. Whatever. In any case, the blame got dumped on her, and she was told to get out or else. So she’s gone.”

  Devon felt his hands clench into fists beneath the table. Those fuckers. Nadine loved that job; she must be crushed. He couldn’t stand the idea. “Gone where?” he asked.

  Heath shook his head. “Not sure. There’s a rumor that she took a vacation. Took off to the Caribbean.”

  The table was quiet. Devon felt all of his previous good mood fade away. Nadine at some resort, relaxing in a bikini. Forgetting about everything, including him.

  “There’s some other asshole in the sheriff’s job now,” Heath said, turning to Brody. “The mayor’s lapdog. The new sheriff hates shifters even more than Nadine did.” His eyes cut to Devon. “Even more than she used to, back in the day. He’s teamed up with the mayor, my informers tell me. They’re putting together an anti-shifter campaign.”

  “What does that mean?” Brody said. “They’re going to tell the humans to hate us? Humans already hate us.”

  “It means human cops,” Heath said, “in our business. Making our rules. That’s my guess.”

  “Let them try,” Ian growled. “This is Shifter Falls.”

  But Brody looked thoughtful. “I’ll have to look into this,” he said. “We just dealt with the coup after Charlie’s death and the Martell attack. I don’t want trouble.”

  “This is my fault,” Devon said. He had to say it. “Nadine getting fired, and now this.” He locked eyes with Brody. “I’m the one who killed the Silverman in front of witnesses. I might be damaged, but I’m still strong. If you need me to lead the fight, I’ll lead the fight.”

  Brody nodded. “I’ll keep that in mind, but this isn’t your fault. The Silverman was a killer. It’s too bad they saw you put him down, but you did what you had to do. He threatened your mate.”

  “She’s not my mate,” Devon ground out. “Not if she’s gone to the Caribbean.”

  “Hope isn’t lost,” Heath said. “Track her down when she comes home. Court her. Use your charm.” When Devon glared at him, he shrugged. “Well, she slept with you, so I presume she thinks you have some.”

  “She does,” Brody said. When Devon turned his glare to him, Brody shrugged just like Heath had. “I
sat here with you two, remember, looking at maps. It was pretty plain to me. That woman likes you. I’d prefer you get this sorted out so you don’t go rogue and make the rest of us put you down.”

  “Wait,” Ian protested, scratching his beard. “We have to kill Devon? I already fought him once, and I only won because he let me.”

  “Ouch,” Heath said.

  “All right.” Devon elbowed Heath to let him out of the booth. “I have to go.”

  “Do a big gesture,” Heath advised, shifting over. “I bought my mate a bar. It was worth every penny.”

  “I put down an entire coup attempt for mine,” Ian said as Devon stood up. “And she still had to think about it. Women are tough sometimes.”

  “Don’t ask me,” Brody added. “I have no advice. I’m so screwed up no woman can stand me for ten minutes in a row.”

  “I can’t believe I’m related to you idiots,” Devon growled.

  “It’s the asshole gene,” Heath explained. “Passed down in Charlie Donovan’s DNA.”

  Devon left them without another word and walked out of the Four Spot onto Howell Street. It was late afternoon, and the October sunlight had turned golden, the air crisp and sweet coming down from the mountains. Maybe he should hunt tonight. The four Donovans usually took turns roaming at night, keeping a guardian eye on Shifter Falls in wolf form. Devon hadn’t taken his turn in a while—having both an injured leg and an injured shoulder made him feel useless. But his wolf was howling, and wanted to run. Even injured, he was still a Donovan. He still had a duty to do.

  He’d go home until the sun set, grab a nap, and hunt tonight. He walked Howell Street in the direction of his place, feeling the isolation settle in on him again. The loneliness he’d felt over the past two months—it was different from the loneliness he’d felt all his life. It was deeper, less angry, more of an ache. He was starting to think it was because he’d spent time with Nadine now, been close to her. He’d touched her, tasted her, felt her trust. He’d told her things he’d never told anyone else. And that that night he’d been with her, his wolf had never been happier in his life.