Decision (Shifters Forever More Book 2)

by Elle Thorne

  He must have realized this, as he continued speaking. “You are descended of shifters. I don’t know what you are going through now, but it’s clearly shifter-related. Somehow.”

  A shudder ran through her. I’m an intuitive, she wanted to scream, but knew it would only come out as a snarl. Something had happened to her voice. She couldn’t do anything but growl and snarl. She clenched her hands into fists behind her back, wincing and releasing when the talons dug into her flesh.

  “You can communicate with me the same way I’m communicating with you. You can.”

  She shook her head. She knew nothing of shifter ways.

  “You can. Listen. You just have to establish a link with me. To allow it to be open. Right now, it’s closed. You can hear me, but you can’t speak to me. I can’t hear you.”

  She raised a brow. Was this like mindreading?

  “Accept the link, Ciara. Accept it so we can talk. Griz is worried about you. And now I see he has cause to be.”

  She shook her head. She didn’t know how to do this link thing he was talking about. And she didn’t want anyone to know about what she was going through. Not even Griz. She paused. That meant no witnesses. And that would mean she had to kill this man. This bear. Kill him? How?

  She appraised him. He was huge. And she doubted she could get to the shotgun and kill him before he took her down. Then another thought occurred to her. She couldn’t rack a shotgun or slip her finger into the trigger guard. Not with these talons, she couldn’t.

  She huffed her aggravation.

  “You’re not allowing the link,” the bear told her in her mind. “I’ll shift into my human form and call Griz. Then you can talk to him. I mean, he can talk to you and convince you of who I am. That I’m here to help, not to harm you.”

  A nugget of an idea formed in her mind. If she allowed him to shift into his human form, she might be able to take him. She didn’t relish the idea of killing another, but she couldn’t have this getting out. Both the intuitive and the shifter communities could possibly come after her. She’d be killed herself if this got out. Or she’d be taken and studied so they could figure out what had happened to her and why.

  She took a step back and waited.

  “I’ll call Griz. We’ll figure this out.”

  He shifted into his human form after a series of crunching, tearing, and stretching noises and then a final grunt of pain.

  She scrutinized the man before her. Handsome. Okay, understatement. Muscular as all get-out. Lips full enough to be sexy, but not so full as to make him appear weak. High cheekbones. A jaw sculpted of granite.

  Shame she couldn’t spare him from his fate. Anger coursed through her that he’d come here. Anger with Griz for sending him.

  He reached into rumpled clothing—was this what shifting did to clothes? How did that even work?—and pulled out a cell phone.

  He swiped the screen then glanced at her. “Just give me a sec. I’ll have Griz on the line. He’ll know what to do. Who to call in for help or who to go see.” He gave her what he must have thought was a reassuring smile, then said, “I’m Krisztián,” then looked down and pressed a finger to the phone’s face.

  Ciara exhaled and reluctantly did what instinct and self-preservation told her to do. She lunged at Krisztián, talons extended, fangs bared. He could not leave alive. She had no idea what was happening to her, and she had no desire to let the world discover the anomaly she’d become. She had to sort it out, but alone. Definitely did not want others to know about her. She’d become a lab rat. An experiment. Something to be studied. Or worse, killed.

  Yes, this was definitely a kill-or-be-killed situation, and she needed to kill this man before he could tell Griz what had happened to her. Before Griz could send his well-meaning associates from different special ops shifter groups and shifter politics. Before the intuitive community could learn she no longer had her skills. Before—

  Krisztián jumped back far more quickly than she’d have anticipated he could have. Instead of striking him in the chest with her claws, all she managed to do was swipe the phone out of his hand and send him backstepping a pace.

  “Hey, what the hell?” he yelled, then threw his hands up in self-defense. “I’m trying to help you here. What is wrong with you?”

  His voice was hoarse and came out more like a growl. This meant he would shift. She had to act now.

  She had to—

  The door flew open.

  Both Krisztián and Ciara whirled toward the door.

  Chapter Eight

  Krisztián halted a shift he wasn’t able to complete because he was drained of the required paranormal energy. He stared at the figure in the doorway, still in shock from Ciara’s renewed and fevered attack. That he’d have to figure out later. There was a much more pressing matter at hand.

  The man in the doorway was huge. No, huge didn’t cover it. He was massive. Dark hair, intense dark eyes—eye actually—in a T-shirt and dress pants. The T-shirt had been white at one point, of this Krisztián was sure. But now it was a bloody, filthy, shredded mess of fabric. And blood and grime covered his skin. Whatever he’d been through was a hell of a battle.

  The man’s face wasn’t in much better shape. It looked like he’d taken a hell of a beating. One eye was swollen shut. His lip was split, a cut under his functioning eye leaked congealing blood.

  Krisztián glanced from the newcomer to Ciara, trying to assess the situation. Was this a friend of hers, coming to rescue her? Was this an enemy? Did she know him?

  Her face was shocked. But was that recognition? Krisztián didn’t know her well enough to get a good read on her.

  The man studied both of them then focused his intense eye on Ciara. “H—”

  He collapsed.

  Krisztián looked from the man to Ciara. “I guess you know him.” He kept his hands up though, first to let her see he wasn’t reaching for a weapon—he didn’t have one, who would’ve thought he needed one?—and second, to defend himself if she launched another attack.

  She was perplexed. It was clear from the expression on her face.

  “So now that we’ve established you know him, is he friend or foe?”

  She shook her head, dropped those lethal hands, then raised her shoulders in a shrug.

  Shit. Now what?

  “Can you talk?”

  She opened her mouth and the sound that came out was more growl than words. But somewhere in there, he picked up, “I don’t think I can.”

  “You don’t think you can? Is that what you said?”

  She nodded, her expression still fierce.

  “Well, I’m not shifting again right now—shifters can’t typically do that, shift on the heels of another shift—so there’s no chance we can talk this out in a sync. I’m certain you can hear me, but I’m not so sure about your ability to open up a link so I can hear you. And as far as talking-talking, well, I’d likely be struggling to discern what you’re saying.” He paused, then, “Got paper?”

  She nodded and indicated a table.

  He grabbed the notepad and a pen then handed them to her. “I’ll do the talking. You do the writing. Unless nodding or shaking your head or something like that works. Got it?”

  She nodded, taking the pen from him, grimacing as she did so.

  “First of all, I get the feeling you don’t want me to call Griz. That why you tried to kill me?”

  She grimaced an apology of sorts and nodded.

  “Fine, all you had to do was say so.” Then he realized she couldn’t have what with how quickly he’d reached for his phone. “I guess you didn’t have a chance.”

  She nodded, a tiny smile playing on a beautiful face, hiding the deadly incisors hidden inside.

  “Do you know him?” He pointed to the unconscious man on the floor.

  She raised a hand and did a so-so wave.

  Krisztián frowned. “So you kind of know him?”

  She leaned into the notepad, jotting, then raised it so he could
see it. Not personally. Know who he is.

  “Who is he?”

  Her shoulders dropping, she wrote something, then held up the pad. Complicated.

  “Great.” Because everyone likes complications. He scratched his jaw. “Is he an enemy? Your enemy?”

  She mouthed the words, “I don’t know.”

  “Then let’s get the hell out of here before he wakes up.”

  She shook her head, near-white hair flying.

  “Seriously. If he’s not your friend, you don’t want to be around him. He’s obviously a shifter.”

  She nodded.

  “So you know for a fact he’s a shifter?”

  Another nod. “Bear.”

  He understood that word, though it had been garbled.

  “Then that makes it even more dangerous. For both of us. He could shift. There would be collateral damage. You might be part of that damage. Shifters play for keeps when it comes to fighting.” He couldn’t afford to have a bear shifter injure her. That would not make Griz happy at all. “Like I said. We need to get out of here. Pronto.”

  She shook her head again. “No,” she growled.

  He was getting better at understanding her snarled words but doubted he could handle a whole sentence yet. “Look. Are you sure he means you no harm?”

  Another head shake. “I ‘eed ‘im.”

  That he understood. Barely. But still, he hazarded a guess. “You need him?

  She nodded.

  “Why?”

  Back to the pad she went, with a grimace of pain at holding and manipulating the pen with those ungodly talons, then held it up. Something happened to me. I think he has the answers.

  He exhaled. “Then I’d better tie him up and keep him under control.” He looked at her hands. “Does it hurt to write?”

  Tears welled in her eyes, clearly a reaction to the sympathy on his face. She nodded emphatically.

  Chapter Nine

  Ciara was in no less agony than she’d been in the past few days, but she had to ignore it for the sake of the task at hand.

  She remembered the name of the shifter who’d appeared on her doorstep.

  Slate Youngblood.

  The thing was, she had no idea what was going on with her. But she had a damned good idea it was because of him.

  He had tightly tied up Slate Youngblood then turned to her. “We have a few moments, so why don’t you let me know what’s up with this guy. What’s the connection?”

  She grabbed the notepad which she’d set down in order to help him secure their “guest.” He was there when this happened to me.

  Krisztián peered up from the pad. “This? This what?”

  She waved up and down her body, indicating her talons, her fangs, the tattoos.

  He eyed her newly acquired tats. “Those have something to do with this?”

  I’m certain they do, she wrote.

  “And you think he might have the answer to this?”

  She gave a half-shrug with a nod, then wrote, I hope. I’m desperate. Please don’t tell Griz.

  He shook his head slowly. “That’s a difficult request to honor.”

  She snarled. She hadn’t mean to, but it was not like she could talk clearly. She jotted down, For now. Please.

  He huffed in exasperation but nodded.

  Ciara turned her attention to Slate Youngblood and, for the umpteenth time, wished she’d studied the file she’d seen on him. She knew nothing about him. Good guy? No clue. Bad guy? No idea. The only thing she knew for certain was she lost her intuitive skills the last time she saw him, right after he launched himself at her. The next thing she felt fairly sure about, this half-morphing thing that had produce claws, fangs, and tattoos on her body had come on right after that. It had to be related. And he had to have an answer.

  And she was tired of waiting for answers. She sidestepped Krisztián and approached the man strapped to a kitchen chair they’d brought to the main living area. She prodded Slate Youngblood’s leg with her foot. Okay, she kicked him. Whatever. She needed him awake. And she needed that now.

  She glanced at Krisztián to see if he would protest her methods and was surprised to see the tiniest of smiles curving his lip upward.

  “It’s your show,” he said. “Do what you got to do.”

  She grunted her appreciation, picked up the fireplace poker, and nudged Youngblood in the thigh.

  “Let me help you out here.” Krisztián stepped up and slapped Youngblood’s cheek. Once. Twice. A third time.

  Youngblood stirred, then his eye opened—the only one that could—and it focused on Krisztián first then on her. “W-what—” He struggled against the ties binding him and, at the same time, secured him to the chair.

  Ciara found herself thankful she’d furnished the cabin with metal chairs. Who’d have thought how handy that would have been when compared to a flimsy wooden chair.

  “Why am I tied up?” Youngblood asked.

  Ciara looked at Krisztián. He’d have to be her mouth. For now. At least until she could figure out what the heck happened to her and how to reverse it.

  She’d been brokenhearted when she lost her intuitive skills. In retrospect, she found herself wishing that had been the worst thing that had happened to her. Instead, she was in this weird half-shifted state of a horrific vision.

  Krisztián glanced at her. “I’ve got this.” He turned to Youngblood. “What’s your name? What do you want?”

  Youngblood sized him up. “Slate Youngblood. Yours?”

  Krisztián shook his head. “I do the asking. What do you want?”

  “I came to help her.”

  “Right. So, you’re a good Samaritan that, out of the blue, showed up.”

  She nudged him and showed him the notepad.

  He read her question. “How did you know where to find her?”

  Youngblood dropped his head, released a shuddering breath then looked at Ciara. “I used her intuitive skills.”

  Ciara gasped then let out a low growl. She started, ready to lunge at the bastard.

  Krisztián grabbed her arms, holding her back. “Hang on,” he whispered in her ear. Still grasping her tightly, he turned to Youngblood. “Explain.”

  Youngblood kept his gaze focused on her. “I took your intuitive skills.”

  She growled out the word, “How?”

  Krisztián gave her a sideways glance and a tip of the head that he’d understood what she said. “How did you do that? Give them back.”

  Ciara flinched in surprise when Krisztián launched himself at Youngblood and grabbed him by the throat.

  “Listen, you bastard. I’m sick of pulling answers out of you by piecemeal. You better start delivering explanations without prompting and prodding. Otherwise, you hold no value for me. None.”

  Youngblood’s face was turning purple beneath the blood, bruises, and grime. “Okay,” he warbled around the fist cutting off his air.

  Krisztián released him then took a step back. “Spill.”

  A change came over Youngblood’s face. “Can you at least untie me?”

  “Not a chance in hell.”

  Youngblood nodded slowly, accepting his fate. “Fine.”

  Chapter Ten

  Krisztián couldn’t wait to hear this explanation. And not just for Ciara’s sake. He knew very little about intuitives. And he had no clue what had happened to her. And still was happening. So, yeah, he was pretty damned curious.

  Youngblood shifted in his chair, unmistakably uncomfortable. Was it from being bound or the situation itself? He had no clue, but he didn’t give a damn. He wanted answers. He needed resolution. Hell, he needed finality so he could go back to Griz and assuage his fears.

  As if on cue, his phone—he’d retrieved it after she smacked it from his hands—buzzed. He gave it a quick glance. Griz, again. He silenced the phone. He’d report in to Griz later. After he knew what was going on. And after she told him she felt comfortable with apprising Griz of the situation at hand.


  A situation about which Krisztián was still in the dark himself.

  “Well?” He cocked a brow and waited for Youngblood to speak.

  Their captive looked at Ciara. “Can you talk?”

  Her eyes narrowed. Her lips thinned.

  He stepped forward. “You don’t ask the questions.”

  Youngblood’s jaw tightened. Beneath the T-shirt, his muscles bunched.

  That was when Krisztián noticed them. Tattoos. They were faint, not dark like Ciara’s. He studied their shapes then chanced a glance at Ciara’s. Very similar.

  “And explain those.” He pointed to the tattoos barely visible under the blood and grime.

  She gasped. Her eyes widened. His bear shifter senses picked up the sound of her accelerated heart rate. Evidently, she hadn’t noticed the tats until he’d pointed them out.

  “Time to start talking,” Krisztián reminded him.

  “I’ll give you the abbreviated version. I stole her intuitive skills. I then used one of those skills to find her here. I did that by imprinting on her with her intuitive powers.”

  She grunted.

  His head was spinning. He had no idea what this imprinting shit was about, but he also had no intention of letting Youngblood know he was clueless. “So, what about this?” He pointed to her talons.

  Youngblood grimaced. “Best as I can tell, stripping her of her intuitiveness has given rise to something dormant.” He appraised her. “You are part shifter? Have a shifter relative?”

  Her face unreadable, she didn’t answer him.

  Krisztián thought of the story Griz had shared. He knew the answer to that, but he wasn’t going to share with Youngblood.

  “Let’s get back to you. How did you take her skills?” He’d never heard of that sort of thing. A part of him wondered if Griz had. Or maybe Salvatore. Or if Allegra’s grandmother, a knowledgeable witch might have.

  “I’m a skilljack.” That was all Youngblood said.

  This was becoming irritating. Pulling teeth, really. “And?”

  “Are you familiar with skilljacks?” He wore a condescending sneer, one which Krisztián was thinking of knocking off his damned face.