Last Wolf Watching

by Rhyannon Byrd

  He was silent for a moment, then said, “Is it something you’re picking up from him, using your power?”

  “No,” she admitted, feeling foolish for even saying anything. “Dylan’s one of those that I’ve never been able to get a read on.”

  “Hmm,” he murmured, the corner of his mouth curling with a slow, contemplative smile. “Then it’s probably just Brody’s dislike for him rubbing off on you.”

  “I knew there was no love lost between them,” she told him, lowering her gaze to his chin, lest her eyes reveal more of her feelings than she intended, “but it wasn’t until this morning that I learned the reason.”

  “The Jenny story isn’t a pretty one.” Cian sighed, taking her into another slow spin as the sultry notes of a jazz song filled the nighttime air. “I was afraid he was going to let it screw up his life forever, but then you came along, and at just the right time, I think. I’ve never seen Brody so focused on a woman, not even when he was dating Jenny. With her, he always had his standard cool, calm control. And, lass, that’s something that he’s sure as hell never had around you. It’s about time a woman came along who could shake him up.”

  Michaela rolled her eyes. “You make me sound like an earthquake.”

  A low, husky chuckle rumbled deep in his chest. “I think you’re just what he needs. Whatever you do, sweetheart, don’t give up on him. I know it won’t be easy, but just listen to your heart, as my mother would always say. It will lead you where you need to go.”

  Michaela started to smile, when suddenly there was a touch on her bare shoulder, and she flinched, a clammy sensation of dread spreading over her skin. She knew, without turning, whose hand touched her, just as she knew it was going to lead to a scene. Casting an uneasy look up at Cian, she saw that his sharp gaze was focused on the man standing behind her.

  “I’m cutting in,” Dylan Riggs slurred, his slow speech betraying the fact that he’d hit the open bar one too many times that night.

  “Not now, Dylan,” the Irishman murmured in a low voice, obviously sharing her same opinion.

  “You’ve had your turn, Irish,” the Elder countered.

  “And you’ve already had yours.” Despite the casual tone of his voice, the Runner’s words were cut with steel. “Let it go.”

  “You know, I’m getting damn tired of being told what to do tonight,” Dylan growled, stepping closer, until Michaela could feel his heat against her back, the cut of her dress leaving too much of her skin exposed to his touch. With a sickly sensation in the pit of her stomach, she felt one of the fingers of his other hand trail lightly down the line of her spine as he rasped, “So be careful what you say.”

  “If you don’t like being lectured,” Cian warned him, the lilting burr of his accent thickening, “then maybe you should stop acting like a bloody child.”

  The hand on her shoulder tightened, fingers digging into her skin with bruising force. Determined to avoid a confrontation in the middle of the wedding reception, Michaela ignored the sting of Dylan’s grip and bit her tongue to keep from crying out, but it was already too late. From her left came a deep, furious rumble as Brody snarled, “What the hell do you think you’re doing, Riggs?”

  “Just planning on enjoying the pleasure of the Cajun’s company tonight,” Dylan drawled. “You got a problem with that, Carter?”

  What happened after that was nothing but a frenzied, chaotic jumble of images and sounds as Michaela found herself forced against Cian’s hard chest at the same time Brody crashed into Dylan, slamming him onto a nearby table stocked with plates and glasses of champagne.

  “Son of a bitch,” Cian hissed, moving her to his side with a protective arm as Dylan swung at Brody, clipping him on the side of his mouth, just before Brody countered with a driving right that slammed into the Elder’s nose. Blood spurted, covering the snowy-white shirt beneath Dylan’s tuxedo jacket, while more blood poured from his left hand, drenching his sleeve. Broken shards from the shattered champagne glasses glittered against the table’s surface, accounting for the cut on Dylan’s hand.

  “Stay back,” Cian ordered her, stepping forward as more punches were exchanged. Michaela assumed the Irishman would break up the fight, but it was Mason who suddenly took action, hauling Brody off of Dylan. The Runner trapped Brody against the front of his body, pinning his arms behind his back.

  “What the hell is your problem?” Mason snarled in Brody’s ear, while around them everyone drew closer, trying to hear what was being said.

  His chest heaving as he glared at Dylan, who was slowly pulling himself off the table, Brody grunted, “Get off me, Mase. The bastard was asking for it.”

  “Jesus, Brody, get a grip,” Mason snapped. “It isn’t like you to go around acting like a jealous ass.”

  “He was hurting her,” Brody growled, jerking out of Mason’s hold, his angry gaze cutting to Michaela’s shoulder.

  Turning toward Michaela, Mason’s eyes narrowed with concern, as well as a thread of confusion when he saw the dark finger marks against her pale skin. “Are you okay?”

  “It’s…nothing,” she whispered.

  “Dylan?” Mason said carefully, looking back toward his friend, his brows pulled together in a deep vee over the shadow of worry in his eyes.

  But the Elder averted his gaze to the white dinner napkin he’d wrapped around his cut hand, the linen drenched with blood from the seeping wound. Stepping to his side, Jillian reached for his hand. “You had better let me look at that.”

  “Forget it,” he grunted, jerking his arm away from her, while a strange expression shadowed the lean angles of his face. “I’m fine.”

  Frowning, Jillian said, “I don’t mind, Dylan. Really.”

  “I said forget it!” He took a deep, shuddering breath, then more calmly said, “You’ve got better things to do on your wedding night than worry about this. I’ll be fine.”

  “You should let her heal it,” Jeremy offered quietly, eyeing Dylan with a quizzical gaze, as if he wasn’t quite sure what or who he was looking at.

  “I don’t need you to be my goddamn mother,” Dylan snapped, releasing another quaking breath. Cutting his gaze back to Jillian, he muttered, “Sorry for the scene.” Then he turned and walked away.

  Almost at once, the entire group of onlookers seemed to release a collective sigh of relief.

  “I’m sorry, Michaela,” Mason murmured, rubbing the back of his neck as he turned her way, his ruggedly handsome face etched with deep lines of strain. “He’s a good man. I think the stress of the past few weeks is just getting to him.”

  “It’s more than that,” Brody argued, pulling his ruined shirt off, balling it up, and wiping his face with it, the corner of his mouth bleeding from one of Dylan’s punches. “Open your eyes. The guy’s coming apart at the seams.”

  “What are you suggesting?” Mason demanded, narrowing his eyes.

  “I don’t know. I just…I don’t think we can avoid facing the facts. If Drake’s accomplice is another Elder, then Dylan could be the one.”

  “Just because you can’t stand Dylan doesn’t mean anyone else shares your opinion. He’s our friend, Brody. Not a killer.” Slanting a meaningful look at Michaela, Mason growled,

  “And all things considered, I would have thought you were getting past old issues and grudges.”

  “I may not like him,” Brody ground out in a voice like gravel, “but that doesn’t mean I’d point the finger at him for no reason. You guys are blind if you can’t see he’s been acting strange as hell.”

  “He’s under a lot of pressure,” Mason grimaced. “Like we all are.”

  “Just don’t let friendship cloud your perspective,” Brody rasped, his auburn hair brushing against the golden sheen of his powerful shoulders as the wind picked up, surging around them.

  “And don’t let hatred cloud yours,” Mason countered.

  “He wouldn’t let Jillian heal him,” Brody pointed out, and Michaela knew he was thinking of the fact that the pack’s
Spirit Walker could see into the minds of those she used her power to heal.

  “And Michaela can’t read him,” Cian added, rubbing his palm against the hard set of his jaw as he entered the argument.

  “From what I’ve heard, she can’t read Brody, either,” Mason quietly snarled. “Does that mean we should lock him up in the woodshed and accuse him of being a traitor?”

  “Enough!” Reyes finally shouted, obviously deciding to be the voice of reason as she glared at all three men. “In case it escaped your notice, we’re in the middle of a celebration. So why don’t we save it all for tomorrow, before the three of you start bashing each other’s brains in?”

  “Carla’s right,” Torrance whispered, sending an apologetic look toward the wedding couple, who stood a few feet away, Jeremy’s strong arms wrapped around his wife’s shoulders as she cuddled into his side.

  “Christ, I’m sorry,” Brody murmured as he sent the newlyweds a flushed look of contrition.

  “No worries,” Jeremy replied with a wry grin, repeating one of Michaela’s favorite sayings. “At least no one will be able to say that the party wasn’t exciting.”

  Some of the guests smothered sharp barks of laughter under their breaths, while others shared worried smiles as they turned back to whatever they’d been doing before the commotion. Monroe put on a new song, and Jeremy pulled Jillian back onto the dance floor for another dance, then Torrance did the same to Mason.

  Eyeing his partner’s tense posture, Cian murmured, “Why don’t you be a doll and take Brody home early, Michaela. See if you can’t help calm him down.”

  “Come on,” she whispered, reaching out and taking his warm hand, surprised that he let her, instead of pulling away. But he looked a million miles away, completely lost in thought as she said, “Let’s go, Brody.”

  She’d just started to lead him toward his cabin, when Pallaton suddenly ran out of the woods, and everyone stiffened in alarm. Panting, the Runner stopped at the edge of the dance floor, jerking his chin toward the thick expanse of forest behind him, and in a low, guttural rasp, he said, “We’ve got company.”

  * * *

  The night was cool, the moon bright within the blue-black stretch of autumn sky, thin clouds stretched across its dark canvas like pulled threads of cotton. Brody and his partner moved with stealthy purpose through the trees, careful to stay downwind, closing in on their prey, while Mason and Pallaton headed in from the other side.

  Their differences momentarily put aside, the foursome had immediately moved to investigate, while Jeremy remained behind with his bride, Reyes taking Michaela and those guests who chose to stay to the Dillingers’ cabin. While patrolling the perimeter of the Alley, Pall had picked up the scent of a group of ten or more Lycans in their human forms. Considering the threat that had been scrawled across his door the day before, Brody wasn’t taking any chances with Michaela’s safety. Fully prepared for battle, he and the others had already shifted the top halves of their bodies into wolf form, fangs and claws at the ready.

  Unfortunately, the wind shifted as they drew nearer to their prey, allowing the Lycans to pick up the Runners’ scents. Mason bellowed a short, sharp howl just to their north, telling them that he and Pallaton were trailing a smaller group that had branched off from the first, most likely retreating in fear. The rest held steady, about twenty yards in front of them, either too cocky to run, or too stupid.

  Personally, with the growing tensions between the pack and the Runners, Brody thought anyone foolish enough to venture near the Alley uninvited must be missing some valuable brain cells. The wind blew stronger, and he finally caught what he’d been looking for. Dustin. The flames of a fire could be seen flickering through the trees just ahead, and he and Cian moved in perfect synchronicity as they burst into the small, open patch of land surrounded by the thickness of the forest.

  Sitting on a rock on the far side of the small campfire in a T-shirt and jeans, Dustin Sheffield shot them a slick smile, a longneck bottle of beer in one hand, smoldering cigarette in the other. Three of his friends stood behind him, their expressions indolent, though Brody could scent their fear on the air. Unlike Dustin, they were wary of facing off against him and Cian, now that the time had come.

  “Well, well, well, if it isn’t the legends themselves,” Dustin drawled snidely, slowly clapping his hands. “Carter and Hennessey, two of the most bloodthirsty Bloodrunners who’ve ever existed. Tell me, boys. Exactly how many of your own kind have you murdered in the hopes of one day buying back a place among us?”

  His voice roughened by the muzzled shape of his ebony snout, Cian barked a low, gruff burst of laughter. “I get the feeling you don’t like us much, Sheffield.”

  “That’s because I don’t,” the golden-eyed Lycan replied, causing his friends to snicker nervously behind him.

  “Good,” Cian rasped, his long, sinister fangs glinting white in the flickering firelight. “Because we think you’re a sniveling little shit.”

  Standing, Dustin took a hostile step forward, the flames of the fire casting his young face in a demonic light, as if he were standing at the gates of hell itself. Brody thought it was a fitting analogy, considering he didn’t think it would be long before the rogue actually found himself waiting on Lucifer’s doormat. “You can’t talk to me like that,” Dustin snarled.

  “Yeah?” Brody rumbled, just waiting for Dustin to make a move so that he could rip into him. The only thing that kept him from dealing out the punishment Sheffield deserved for attacking Max was the knowledge that if he struck first, the League would deem it an illegal kill and sentence him to death. Not that he was afraid of dying, but he couldn’t leave Michaela when it was his job to keep her safe. And just roughing Dustin up a bit wasn’t an option, no matter how tempting. No, Brody knew that once he got his claws on the little bastard, he wouldn’t stop till he was dead. “Who’s gonna stop him, Dusty? Your daddy? Your pals? Sorry, but your daddy’s dead, and your buddies are all pissing themselves in fear right now.”

  “You’re forgetting Drake,” Dustin murmured, the corner of his mouth kicking up in a taunting smile as he took a slow drag on his cigarette, the gusting breeze whipping his brown hair around the sharp angles of his face.

  “You think he really gives a shit about you?” Brody laughed, shaking his head. “Hell, Drake’ll probably kill you himself when he’s done with you. That is, if I don’t get you first.”

  “Aw, are you still sore about the pretty little Cajun and her brother?” Dustin smirked, exhaling a long stream of smoke.

  “Look around, Runner. No little lady to worry about protecting now. What’d you do? Leave her back at the Alley all alone?”

  Brody took a step forward, and Cian stayed him with one long, claw-tipped arm across his fur-covered chest. “Don’t let him bait you, man. He’s just getting worried. Isn’t that right, Sheffield? You know, if Drake doesn’t kill you, he’ll probably just set you up to take the fall for the blondes.”

  Dustin threw back his dark head, a low, rusty laugh spilling from his lips. “Aw, nice try, Runner. But it won’t work. Still, I’ll let you in on a secret. I’m not the one you want for the blond little bitches. I’ll take the blame for a lot of things, but not those pathetic whores. Too dramatic for my tastes. If I’m going to put myself to the trouble of a good meal,” he drawled, his slow smile baring the tips of his fangs, “I expect to enjoy more than just her heart.”

  “And just whose whores are we talking about?” Cian asked.

  The Lycan’s mouth curled in a cocky grin. “Wouldn’t you like to know, Runner.”

  “I bet I could make you tell me,” Brody rasped, stepping closer, the heat of the fire searing against his fur.

  Holding up his hands in a mocking gesture of surrender, the golden-eyed Lycan smirked as he backtracked into the woods. “I’d love to hang around to see what you have in mind, but there’s no rest for the wicked. Another time, Runner?”

  “You can bet on it,” Brody rumbled.
r />   Dustin winked at them, then turned and disappeared with his cohorts into the trees.

  * * *

  Michaela was standing beside the front window of the Dillingers’ cabin when the Runners finally returned. She watched as the half wolves came back into the Alley, their sheer size staggering, enough to make fear thicken in your veins. And yet, she wasn’t afraid, knowing they used their skill and strength to protect the innocent.

  She picked out Brody immediately, his deep ginger fur glinting like blood-red rubies beneath the ethereal glow of the moon, green eyes burning vividly bright as he looked toward the window. He was terrifyingly beautiful, savage and powerful and deadly, and yet, all she wanted was to run to him. She wanted to throw herself against him and sink her fingers into that rich, thick fur, holding him as the shape of his wolf bled away, back into the equally powerful body of the man.

  And then she wanted to take him to the ground and rock his world, blow his mind, enslaving him with her feminine wiles.

  Snorting under her breath, she shook her head at her foolishness, thinking it was a nice fantasy—but one that didn’t have a chance of happening. Despite how people tended to perceive her, she was actually kind of shy when it came to sex, always feeling a bit awkward and nervous, instead of a confident seductress. Still, if she had to learn to seduce Brody, then that’s what she’d do. She wasn’t going to let him keep fighting her forever.

  Who knew? Maybe it wouldn’t be so hard after all, considering how wild she went in his strong arms, her natural reserve destroyed beneath the force of her desire.

  Moving away from the window, she stepped out onto the front porch, coming down the stairs. As she watched, the Runners allowed the shapes of their wolves to melt away, thick fur giving way to the sun-darkened flesh of man, though their eyes still glowed with preternatural fire. Cian gave her a sly wink, then turned and headed toward his home that sat higher up the glade. Pallaton joined him, the two talking quietly as they walked, while Mason nodded as he passed her on his way to his front door.