Bite Deep

by Rebekah Turner

  Bite Deep

  Rebekah Turner

  www.escapepublishing.com.au

  Bite Deep

  Rebekah Turner

  From Rebekah Turner, author of the Applecross Chronicles series, comes a paranormal romance set among the biker werewolves of rural Tasmania.

  Ben ‘Bulldog’ Jericho, president of the Diablo Dogs motorcycle club and werewolf alpha, bears the grim burden of leadership, punishing any who stray from pack rules. When one of his own is murdered, he knows justice must be served.

  Constable Lydia Gault has fled a traumatic past on the mainland for her Tasmanian hometown of Camden—and she has blood ties to hunters of Jericho’s kind.

  Now, Lydia and Jericho must join forces to hunt a killer, even as pack politics and werewolf hunters intrude on the small town, threatening to reignite an ancient war.

  About the Author

  Rebekah Turner was born in sunny Queensland, Australia, but has lived all across the country, including stints in Bundaberg, Townsville, Adelaide and Melbourne. With a degree in graphic design and a raging coffee addiction, Rebekah escaped the corporate world to now freelance in between sensible adult jobs. She rides a scooter called Skittles, owns two dogs who don’t get walked enough, and can never seem to find a blue pen when she wants one. She’s a dedicated movie gal, with a special affection for old sci-fi and action movies.

  Acknowledgements

  To Charlotte and Dion, many thanks. Again. And a big thank you to Belinda Holmes and Ainslie Paton for all your help.

  Contents

  About the Author

  Acknowledgements

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Bestselling Titles by Escape Publishing…

  Chapter 1

  Ben ‘Bulldog’ Jericho moved like liquid shadow, combat boots silent against the forest floor. His strides were fluid and his mood deadly. His right hand clutched a heavy semi-automatic, loaded with silver hollow-points and a trigger filed down for a faster pull. Moonlight laced the ground, not that he needed it. Breed saw just fine in the dark.

  He paused and sniffed the air, searching for his prey, his senses expanding. It was autumn, and nature’s temperature dial was set at a ball-shrinking single digit that made his bad knee ache. Around him, King Billy pines loomed, pines rustled and the fresh night air percolated with a woody, resinous smell. His footsteps sank occasionally into the spongy moss that crept across the forest floor and nearby tawny frogmouths croaked, joined occasionally by a far-off scream of a Tasmanian devil scavenging for meat.

  A faint throb of music pulsed from an apple orchard that adjoined the forest and he could just make out the trees, heavy with fruit. The pulse turned into a steady beat. Rap. His lip curled in a silent snarl. That music gave him a fucking headache.

  He turned as one of his crew members, Reaper, came up beside him. The large man wore similar clothes to Jericho: ballistic vest with a steel-laced collar and tactical holsters strapped to jean-clad thighs. Reaper’s long, ragged black hair hung loose and his heavy brow was furrowed in concentration. They both paused a moment, waiting for the third member of this night’s hunting party to join them. Reaper tugged at the snug collar of his vest, then tapped the logo on the front of the vest.

  ‘It’s a butterfly,’ he said in a low, suspicious tone.

  Jericho grunted, but didn’t answer. The crew had laughed their asses off when one of the prospects had ordered the vests from China, thinking they might need it in the event of a riot inside the compound. The vests had been heavily discounted, and when they arrived it was plain to see why. The material was a sickly green colour and the manufacturer’s oddly shaped logo was splayed on the front, resembling a Rorschach image.

  Reaper looked up from the vest, squinting towards the fruit orchard. ‘Is that music coming from the farm?’

  ‘If you can call it music,’ Jericho replied shortly. His mood was dark and nasty, thoughts focused on the role he was supposed to play tonight. Lance Lepkowsky had been delivered to the rehabilitation centre two weeks ago, trussed up in the back of a van and guarded by his old pack. Lance was a burly retired cop whose alcoholism had triggered multiple near-reversions and he’d been pretty messed up when he’d arrived. Had even taken a few swings at those trying to help him. But Jericho was used to stunts like that, and had promptly sedated the old man for two days before he was able to assure the cop he wasn’t about to be executed for breaking pack law.

  Jericho’s lips tightened. It was a promise he had to break, because Lance had begun to turn and once the process of reversion began, only the strong could pull back to regain their humanity. Now it was up to Jericho to take care of him, just as he’d been forced to take care of another pack member last month. In fact, his hand had been forced three times over since the start of the year, an unprecedented number of reversions, and each death sat like a weight on his chest.

  ‘How can you not like this song?’ Blades joined them, not bothering to keep his voice down. Ex-bounty hunter and good-looking bastard, Johnny ‘Blades’ Collins was blessed with a smooth tongue and baby-blues that melted women’s panties by the dozen. His sandy hair was tucked under a black cap and throwing knives were strapped across his vest. He was an expert tracker; Jericho knew if Blades didn’t see the need to whisper, their prey wasn’t near enough to hear them.

  Reaper cocked his head to the side. ‘I can hear it now. I like this one.’

  Blades grinned, teeth white in the gloom. ‘Goddamn, Bulldog. One day I’ll have to educate you about modern music. There’s more to life than that depressing shit you listen to.’

  Jericho ran a hand over his short beard, not bothering to respond. People either got blues music or they didn’t, and considering Blades’ questionable taste in trashy women and flashy bikes, he knew he’d be wasting his breath.

  Reaper turned to Blades and tapped his chest. ‘We’re wearing butterflies.’

  ‘It’s not a fucking butterfly,’ Jericho said wearily. Personally, he thought it was a badly stitched outline of South America, but he didn’t have much of an artistic eye. Seventeen years in the army had pretty much bulldozed any creativity out of him.

  ‘That’s right,’ Blades said. ‘It’s a unicorn.’

  Reaper’s eyes dropped down to his chest. ‘Are you serious?’

  ‘Sure. And there’s a rainbow sticking out of its ass.’

  Reaper looked up, eyes narrowing dangerously. ‘Are you taking the piss?’

  ‘Have you got Lance’s trail?’ Jericho interrupted Blades, signalling that the jokes were over. He knew both men were just blowing off steam, both as reluctant as he was for this night to go ahead. But they also knew there was no choice in the matter. To let a reverted Breed run free was unthinkable, the damage impossible to contain.

  Blades nodded towards the apple orchard. ‘Yeah. He went that way.’

  ‘Then let’s move,’ J
ericho said. ‘I want this over with.’

  All quips and jokes were gone now as they crept to the forest edge, stopping to peer into the dark tangle of apple trees. Jericho spied a thin line of smoke curling into the sky and a white van parked in the distance, down the gentle slope of the orchard. The rap music stopped and a new melody, heavy with guitar riffs, drifted across the field.

  Can’t put it off.

  He entered the field like a ghost, stride long and determined. He had better night vision than the others, and he knew the music would hide the occasional twig crunch from Reaper’s boots. Not that he would have considered leaving Reaper behind. While he didn’t have the hunting finesse that Blades did, Reaper was the most vicious and effective fighter Jericho had ever seen. Someone he needed to have his back tonight.

  As they approached the source of the music, Jericho slowed, sniffing the air. The musky smell of weed filled his nose, chased closely by the floral scent of females, and bright laughter danced in his ears. Inching forward, he got into a position with a good view of a small clearing. A steel drum had been stuffed with wood and a fire crackled away, emitting a pleasant, smoky aroma. Two women crowded around it, giggling as they held marshmallow-topped sticks over sparking flames. Three other women danced nearby, hips swaying to the music as they passed a joint around. Jericho felt his blood rush, the beast chained inside of him clawing with sudden, violent need.

  Backpackers. Lord knew the locals in town didn’t look like that.

  ‘Isn’t that a sight,’ Blades breathed from beside him.

  ‘Keep it in your pants for once,’ Reaper muttered from behind them.

  Jericho searched for Lance and a movement at the far end of the clearing caught his attention: eyes deep in shadow, glinting against the firelight, watching the women.

  He tensed, knowing what Lance would do, understanding the urge that was controlling the man: a single-minded pursuit to kill and eat, to rage and ravage and to change, ripping and screaming, into the beast that would devour his sanity in the blink of an eye. Jericho himself had been to that edge a few times before, and knew how difficult it was to contain the raging urge to give in and let the beast take over.

  He watched and waited, muscles bunched tight, breath short. Beside him, Reaper and Blades were silent, waiting for his signal. An unspoken worry pulled tight around them, both fear for the safety of the women, and concern that they might witness too much. After all, it was the duty of the Diablo Dogs MC to protect the secrets of the Breed rehabilitation centre, affectionately nicknamed the Dog House, and its safety took priority above all else.

  A howl sliced through the night, the sound ragged and torn. The women froze, staring at each other with wide eyes. Tree limbs shuddered across the clearing, then Lance burst into view, covered in blood. He was caught mid-change: all distorted muscle and a mouth pulled long, with a half snout dragging low, gore dripping from it. Long teeth jutted from his lower jaw and his fingers had curled into blackened claws; one eye was twisted by bulging flesh, the other still painfully human. Coarse hair covered his naked upper torso and the metallic stench of sickness rolled out from him.

  The women shrieked, falling over themselves in a tangle of hair and legs as they scrambled to flee from the nightmare lurching towards them.

  Jericho shot forward, gun snapping up, and Lance froze. Jericho tried to stare Lance down, and though it was impossible, he wanted somehow to save this man, whose only sin had been to be infected with the lycanthropy virus. His teeth ground together and a sour taste flooded his mouth at what he had to do now.

  Until last year, his tenure as Rehabilitator had been flawless. He had managed to save all those who came to the centre. But as if a switch had been flipped, men had begun to lose the fight with the virus, even one man who had previously been able to go off his medication, his control reasserted through meditation and breathing exercises. Medications had been doubled, but still men had succumbed and he couldn’t understand what had changed. Worst of all, Jericho knew there would be others. He could already see telltale signs. And he knew if he failed them as well, his hand would be forced again.

  Lance’s human eye flicked past Jericho, noticing Reaper and Blades flanking him, then his shoulders drooped as if he was exhausted with just the effort of standing. Jericho’s aim wavered. If he could reach Lance, get him to back down, then maybe there was still hope. Maybe this was the one he could save.

  A chill wind dipped into the clearing, ruffling Lance’s blood-matted hair and cooling Jericho’s heated skin. Lance blinked sluggishly, distorted chest heaving, and the clearing became still, the night sounds muted around them, the moment compressed.

  From the corner of his eye Jericho saw Reaper shift his position, one boot stepping on a large twig, and the snap filled the silence like the crack of bones. Lance blinked, then the madness flooded back into his eyes and he sprung forward with a roar, clawed hands outstretched. Jericho fired twice, missing once. The second hit Lance’s shoulder, but it didn’t slow him down any.

  Reaper and Blades both rushed forward, but Lance’s reflexes moved double-time and he was nothing but a blur of rage, hair and teeth. Blades copped a faceful of claws and Reaper was sliced across the chest, his vest taking most of the damage. Jericho fired again but missed, and Lance whirled, smashing Jericho’s hand to one side, gun sent flying. Jericho recovered quick, ducking a second swipe and then answering with a hammer-fist, scoring a solid hit against Lance’s disfigured jaw, sending him stumbling back.

  Jericho threw back his head and howled, the sound a heady vibration in the sweet night air, rattling the leaves around them with the sound of an alpha who demanded obedience. It was a last, desperate effort to pull Lance back.

  Beside him, Reaper and Blades backed off, waiting. They were the soldiers in this fight, not the executioner. Lance glared at them, then zeroed in on Jericho, eyes full of a wild madness.

  Jericho shifted a boot heel, getting his footing just right. Lance was gone, he knew this. A savage wildness echoed through Lance’s face, all his humanity consumed.

  The women were long gone now, their faint screams heading east and toward town, and Jericho knew it was a small blessing. They couldn’t have seen much, and who would believe a group of stoned backpackers?

  Lance’s lips peeled back to bare a row of razor canine teeth, slick loops of saliva swinging from his jaw. Jericho steadied himself, knowing it was too dangerous to put it off any longer. He knew his duty and would always fulfil it, knowing that for Lance death was a mercy.

  * * *

  Lydia Gault rubbed her eyes against the rosy sunrise, mind parched for coffee. She’d even take it without milk and sugar if she had to. Anything to help prop her up after yet another sleepless night.

  Her eyes dropped to the corpse stretched out before her in the long grass and fear knotted her stomach. Tucking a stray curl of scarlet hair back under the baseball-style police cap, she looked over to the bristling pine forest that edged the field. The Pembly Forest Reserve was just a ten-minute walk from town, sitting at the foothold of the surrounding mountains. Filled with acres of ancient pines, deep river gorges and sweeping fern glades, it was a popular place for tourists, crisscrossed by walking tracks and information boards that detailed the wildlife to be seen.

  The body had been discovered by early-morning hikers in a small clearing of green moss, bracken and a scattering of bright fungi. Around her, Lydia caught glimpses of volunteers in bright yellow coats who’d begun searching the woods.

  Bringing her attention back to the body with a sigh, she snapped on a pair of latex gloves and tried to compose herself, tried to ignore the queasy sensation rolling her stomach. She never used to be squeamish about bodies. For chrissake, she’d joined the Force when she was nineteen. Four years on general duties, then blazing her way to detective. The things she’d seen in that time had given her a cast-iron stomach. Of course, that was before, when she had been whole. In the shocked months of after, when she’d realised her ol
d life was no longer an option, she’d fled here to her hometown of Camden, for a quiet country cop’s job.

  And now, this.

  ‘What do you think?’ Senior Sergeant Derek Bowden appeared beside her, expression grim as he tilted back his wide-brimmed hat. ‘Hunting season doesn’t kick off until February, but there’s always folk who’ll ignore the rules. Maybe she got in the line of fire of some drunk idiot.’

  Lydia shifted her bulky duty belt under her coat and crouched down beside the body. The woman lay face down, arms splayed out, and Lydia’s eyes traced over the details: bare feet, jeans, casual shirt. Skin was pale under a tan and the woman’s feet were grass-stained. She’d been running, hard and fast, before she’d been killed. A splotch of blood marked where the bullet had entered her back, ending her life.

  ‘Do we have a name?’ she asked Bowden.

  ‘I think I’ve seen her around town now and then,’ he said. ‘Might be one of the girls who lives in that women-only hippie retreat just out of town.’

  Lydia nodded absently and looked around her. The discovery of a body was big news for this small community and a crowd of people with sombre faces had gathered some distance away. Someone had even called the fire department. Her eyes moved over the volunteer firefighters lounging against the town’s fire truck, some sipping from a Thermos, and while they were wearing their all-purpose reflective coats, she spied a few pyjama pants and Ugg boots underneath.

  ‘Well?’

  Bowden’s voice broke into her thoughts and she held back a frown, wishing he’d keep quiet and let her concentrate. She didn’t answer, still scanning the crowd and looking for someone who might be a little too interested in what she was doing. Someone who might have something invested in the body, or be holding onto some guilt. Her eyes caught one of the firefighters: a young man with blond hair and broad shoulders. He gave her a sad smile and she frowned, breaking eye contact quickly. She didn’t need anyone’s sympathy; she had no use for it.

  ‘I’m not so sure it was a hunting accident.’ She pointed at the woman’s bare feet. ‘Bit cold to be walking with no shoes.’