Last Wolf Watching

by Rhyannon Byrd

  “Goddamn it,” Mason roared. “If you’re lying, I’m taking you apart myself.”

  “Oh, but he isn’t lying,” a cold voice suddenly called out, and her gaze scanned their surroundings as Michaela searched for the source.

  The Runners looked up to see Stefan Drake standing just outside the now-open door at the same time Michaela did, a cruel reptilian smile of triumph creasing his lean face. At his back, werewolves filed out of the Hall, one after another, their jaws dripping with blood. “With the help of your dear friend, I’ve taken out the League, and you Runners will be next. I’ll gain control of the Silvercrest, and my rogues will maintain order. Anyone who doesn’t like the new establishment will, of course, be dealt with accordingly.”

  “You sound awfully cocky for someone who hasn’t won yet,” she heard Jeremy call out.

  “It’s only a matter of time,” Drake laughed. “The second I give the word, you and your pathetic friends are going to be torn to pieces. There’ll be too many of them for you to fight at once, no matter how bloody good you are at killing.”

  With her breath held tight in her chest, Michaela watched in horror as the first wolves threw themselves from the top step, taking the Runners to the ground. She sat frozen in fear, until she saw Drake moving down the stairs. He didn’t even have to fight his way through the gory battle; a small group of the feral wolves he controlled moved with him for protection. She wondered what he was up to, until she realized he was stalking closer and closer to where Brody now stood fighting at the edge of the group.

  As if moving through a thick, hazy fog, Michaela found herself opening the door and climbing out of the truck, her steps gradually picking up speed, drawing her nearer to the bloodthirsty fighting. She felt…compelled, positive that something awful was going to happen. She had no claws or fangs, or powers like Jillian’s that could help her in a fight. All she had was the love that burned in her heart, propelling her forward. Her skin felt tight, hot, while a cold wave of terror swept through her insides.

  Brody was engaged in deadly battle with a black-furred werewolf, their claws clashing against one another. He lunged to his side when the Lycan made a move for his gut, then stepped back as the wolf advanced and separated him from the rest of the Runners, herding him toward the steps that Drake was slowly descending. As the Elder’s hands transformed into sinister claws she realized what Drake meant to do.

  Reacting purely on instinct, Michaela began running right into the heart of the battle, straight toward the man she loved.

  Chapter 15

  A strange sense of finality spread over Brody’s flesh, as if death were stroking his skin, as his opponent maneuvered him to the edge of the conflict and away from the others. He knew he needed to take him down, and fast, before he was attacked by one of the wolves on the stairs behind him. Striking out with a powerful side kick, he slammed his boot into the Lycan’s jaw, breaking it, at the same time as a high-pitched cry of outrage sounded behind him. Spinning, he found Michaela diving between him and Stefan Drake, who was lunging at him from the steps leading up to the Town Hall.

  With only a split second to react, Brody wrapped his arms around her and reared backward, dragging her with him, but he wasn’t fast enough. She screamed, jolting in his arms as Drake’s claws sliced into her abdomen, their backward momentum as Brody crashed onto the ground the only thing that kept her from being ripped in two. A great roaring wave of fury filled his head, broken and raw. He knew he’d made the horrific sound, though he couldn’t feel the cry breaking out of him. All he could feel was rage as he watched the Elder stalk forward, the tips of his claws stained with Michaela’s blood.

  “She’s mine now!” Drake snarled, while his pale eyes burned with maniacal triumph and he lunged forward, going for the kill. Brody shouted for Cian, but knew his partner couldn’t get to them fast enough. Sprawled on his back, with Michaela’s injured body draped lifelessly over him, Brody felt the cold chill of inevitability seep into him as he realized he couldn’t move quickly enough to save her. Like an evil specter, Drake descended closer, his malevolent gaze fixed on Michaela’s throat as his jaw expanded and his fangs speared through his gums. Brody clutched Michaela in his arms and rolled, shielding her with his body and protecting her throat as he tumbled her beneath his frame. And then, just as Drake reached them, something slammed the Elder’s body to the side, the powerful force moving so rapidly that Brody couldn’t be sure what it was.

  Brushing the long, windblown strands of Michaela’s hair out of his face, he turned his head to see Dylan Riggs rolling over the bloodied road with Drake, locked in battle. It was clear that despite Drake’s power, Dylan had the upper hand. As if sensing that fact, Drake opened his mouth, calling out to the feral wolves still battling the Runners and Eric. “Take him down!” the Elder screamed. “I want Riggs dead!”

  Like puppets on a string, the wolves instantly ceased their battles and moved toward the two fighting Elders wrestling in the middle of the road. Dylan pinned Drake’s body beneath his as they locked claws, their bodies human but for the shape of their hands and heads. Like zombies robbed of their free will, the Lycans threw themselves at the Elders, one after another, until the two were lost in a snarling, writhing pile of bodies.

  “Mother of God,” he heard his partner rasp as the Irishman crouched beside him. Blood oozed from a nasty gash on Cian’s temple, dripping down the side of his face in a thin, meandering trail.

  “Help me sit up,” Brody croaked, trying to be as gentle as possible with Michaela’s limp form while Cian supported his back and helped him into position. From the corner of his eye, he watched Eric and the Runners move toward them, the group as battered and bloodied as Brody felt.

  “They’re both going to end up dead,” Mason snarled, and Wyatt grunted in agreement.

  Stunned, the weary group stared in shock, unable to believe what they were witnessing. It was a gruesome, violent sight, until suddenly the roiling mountain of bodies grew eerily still. Like a caving mound of sand, the mountain fell as the Lycans began stumbling away from the pile, changing fluidly back into their human shapes. They swayed on their feet, clutching their heads, many falling to their knees, confused and disoriented. Some burst into tears, while others just stood in the middle of the street, staring at their blood-covered bodies with horrified looks of astonishment.

  As they staggered away, one by one, the two Elders were finally revealed. Cian made a sharp, hissing sound through his teeth, while Mason swore under his breath. Drake’s body had been torn into mangled pieces, while Dylan lay on his back beneath him. Somehow, he’d managed to roll Drake on top of him when the feral wolves had closed in, and though his chest lifted with short, shallow breaths, he was obviously dying from his injuries.

  “Dylan,” Mason rasped, kneeling beside the broken, bloodied body of his friend. Dylan’s flesh was torn in more places than not, vicious bite marks on the side of his throat, down his arms, his abdomen. “Hold on, man. We’ll get you to Jillian.”

  “No,” Dylan argued weakly, his voice a hoarse thread of sound. “I need to…talk.”

  “It can wait,” Mason grunted.

  “Can’t…” Dylan gasped, his breath rattling in his chest.

  “I’ve lied to you, Mase. And misled you. I told you I was in Alaska at the time that you were finding those first dead girls. I lied to throw you off my track. I was hiding out on the other side of the mountain, trying to get my head together.”

  “Christ,” Mason grated, his shock at learning that his friend was the brutal killer they’d been hunting, as well as Drake’s accomplice, evident in the hollow sound of his voice. “They were yours? All but the redhead that Simmons killed?”

  “Yeah,” Dylan croaked, his face nothing more than a ravaged mask of pain.

  “For God’s sake, why?” Mason demanded.

  “Ask Michaela. She’ll…explain. Told her…everything. I’m…I’m sorry, Mase,” he said softly. “I was going to run…but…I’m glad I cam
e back.”

  The Elder drew in his final breath, and his head listed to the side. Mason leaned down and closed his eyes, then turned back toward the place where Brody sat in agonized silence, clutching Michaela against his chest, her body cradled across his lap.

  “Where’s Jillian?” Brody hissed, rocking her gently in his arms, painfully aware that her life was slipping away with every second that passed by.

  “I’ve already called her. She’s on her way,” Jeremy told him. But it was obvious the Runner feared his wife was going to be too late.

  Brody didn’t know how many minutes passed before Cian knelt down beside him again, but it felt like hours, the time stretched out and drawn like a body on the rack. He’d pressed his left hand against Michaela’s blood-soaked sweater, across her wounded abdomen, still rocking her gently back and forth, devastated by the knowledge he was losing her. It twisted through him like a lethal blade, as if it were his own life spilling out over his fingers in a warm, wet flow.

  “Brody, man, you need to loosen your hold on her.”

  “No,” he croaked, his own voice unrecognizable, ravaged by grief. “I can’t let go.”

  “You’ve got to,” Cian told him, placing his hand on Brody’s shoulder, “or Jillian won’t be able to get to her injury.”

  “She’s dying,” he rasped, his vision blurred by tears for the first time since he was a boy, as he pressed his lips to her temple, her skin cool and infinitely soft against his mouth. He blinked impatiently at the hot tears that wouldn’t stop falling. And then he could see Jillian settling on her knees in front of him, her gentle voice telling him to loosen his hold through the roar of noise buzzing in his ears—loud and disorienting—but he couldn’t do it. His body wouldn’t follow the command of his mind.

  “Listen, man. She’s going to be okay,” Cian assured him, his deep voice cut with compassion. “Just let Jillian do her thing. She’s going to make it, Brody.”

  Taking a slow, trembling breath, he reached deep and finally found the strength to relax his muscles, easing his hold on her, and she fell softly away from his chest, still cradled within his arms.

  With gentle movements, Jillian lifted Michaela’s gray sweater away from her stomach, pushing up the bloodstained material to reveal the horrifying evidence of her wounds. His gut clenched, heart stuttering, breath suspended, unable to comprehend why she’d done it, putting herself between him and Drake the way she had.

  Saving his life.

  Michaela gave a soft, nearly inaudible groan and turned her face toward him, nuzzling his bicep, when Jillian placed her hands directly over the raw, vicious claw marks that had ripped open her skin.

  Time seemed suspended as Jillian knelt there on the blood-covered ground, eyes closed, blond hair concealing her face while she whispered quietly under her breath, her skin glowing a warm, vibrant shade of gold, as if lit with heat from within. No one spoke a word as they waited for the Spirit Walker’s power to work its magic on Michaela’s tender flesh.

  Carefully shifting her head into the crook of his arm, Brody leaned down, pressed his mouth against the tender shell of Michaela’s ear, and whispered his secrets to her, the emotion pouring out of him in a broken, rambling stream of words.

  He only wished that he’d had the guts to say them sooner…when she could have heard them.

  * * *

  Walking through the front door of his cabin the following morning, Brody couldn’t help but notice the increase in his heart rate at the thought of seeing Michaela. She’d still been sleeping peacefully when he’d left at daybreak, going with the other Runners back up to Shadow Peak to help deal with the lingering confusion and chaos that would take weeks, if not months, to sort out.

  When he’d gotten Michaela back to his cabin the previous afternoon, he’d laid her in his bed, tucking the covers up around her chin, handling her as if she were made of spun glass. Making his way into the kitchen, he’d found the others waiting for him, Torrance and Reyes sitting at the table with a shattered looking Mason, while Cian and Wyatt had propped themselves up against the counters, their ankles crossed in front of them. Reyes’s right arm had been in a sling, bandages in various shapes and sizes covering the others, since Jillian would’ve been drained if she’d healed each of their injuries. She’d handled the severe ones, but most were left to heal the old-fashioned way, over time.

  They’d discussed Drake’s plan, marveling at how all the pieces had fit together in the end. The Elder had finally gotten the revenge he’d wanted against the League for failing to order his wife’s assassination, and if things had worked the way he’d intended, he would have gained ultimate control of the pack. The move would have allowed him to rule the Silvercrest with a prejudiced hand, one that would have ushered in a reign of terror, they suspected, for both Lycans and humans alike.

  In its own twisted way, his plan had been horrifically brilliant. By using the townspeople to murder the League, Drake had not only found the means of gaining the power he coveted, but he’d done it in a way that would have played on the guilt of those who’d made the kills, even though the feral wolves had been under Drake’s control at the time. And with his contingent of rogues already in place, he’d had the means of keeping in line anyone who disagreed with the new leadership, like his own personal, diabolical SS.

  Eventually, everyone had headed home, and Brody had made his way back to Michaela. Unable to resist, he’d lain down beside her, needing to be close to her, holding her in his arms, reassuring himself that she was okay. That they’d survived the nightmare.

  As he’d slid under the covers, hope had begun to burn in his chest as he thought of what she’d done that day. Why had she put herself in front of him that way? What did it signify? He was so afraid to believe, and yet he couldn’t stop the foreign, sweet churning of excitement, of hope, burning like a warm, dazzling glow in his chest, expanding out through his body in a gently pulsing wave. As tired as he’d been, he’d felt more alive than ever before, looking forward to the morning—to the moment when she’d awaken and they could talk.

  Now, as he wandered through the cabin, making his way toward the bedroom, he rubbed at that pulsing spark of heat in the center of his chest, a low rumble of laughter breaking out of him as he realized what the odd sensation was.

  Happiness.

  Wearing a crooked grin, he stepped quietly into the bedroom, in case she was still sleeping. But she wasn’t. In fact, the bed was empty. Turning around, he hurried back through the cabin, his heart pounding harder with each breath when he failed to find her anywhere.

  Heading for the front door, Brody ripped it open, intending to go straight to Mason’s cabin and look for her there, but he was brought up short by Cian, who stood on his doormat, a cigarette hanging precariously from the corner of his mouth. “Let me guess,” the Irishman drawled. “You’ve lost your little lady love.”

  Brody scowled. “How the hell do you know that?”

  “Just ran into Jeremy,” Cian murmured, slipping past him into the cabin, making himself at home as he perched on the wide arm of a leather chair. “He said that both Torrance and Jillian are gone. Left notes saying they’d be back tonight and not to worry.”

  Rubbing his palm against his whiskered jaw, Brody asked, “And what does that have to do with Michaela?”

  Cian shook his head with mock sympathy. “You’re not thinking straight, boyo. Obviously, all the ladies have wandered off together while we were up in town.”

  “Goddamn it,” he grunted under his breath as realization suddenly dawned, and with it the sickening knowledge that he’d lost her—that she’d left him. “They’ve taken her home.”

  “Probably,” his partner drawled, pinching his cigarette between his thumb and index finger and taking a slow drag, while keeping his keen gaze focused on Brody. He knew the bastard was studying his reaction, but he couldn’t play it cool. Too much was crashing together inside of him. Anger. Hurt. Frustration. Turning to pace toward the far wall, Brody
ripped his hands back through his hair, then locked his hands behind his neck, his jaw grinding. All the budding hope that had been burning in his chest since last night turned to ash, charred by the devastating sense of loss flooding through him, and he struggled to hold back the telling, guttural stream of obscenities that poured quietly from his lips.

  “I thought so,” Cian whispered, narrowing his pale gray gaze.

  “You sneaky son of a bitch. You’ve been keeping secrets, boyo.”

  “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “I’m talking about the fact that she’s your mate!” Cian growled, tossing the butt of his cigarette in the empty grate as he surged to his feet. “Were you ever planning on telling her?”

  Like a verbal set of brakes, the Irishman’s words stopped him dead in his tracks. For a moment, he just stood there, panting, every muscle in his body rigid with tension, and then he finally croaked, “Hell no.”

  “Why not?”

  “Open your damn eyes, Cian!” he snarled, pinning his scowling partner with a blistering look of outrage. “In case you didn’t notice, she could do a helluva lot better than tying herself to me for the rest of her life!”

  “Well, she apparently doesn’t share your crappy opinion,” Cian snapped, his fury evident in the crisp tones of his speech.

  “If she did, she wouldn’t have nearly gotten herself killed yesterday trying to save your miserable ass. She loves you, man.”

  Brody made a rude sound in the back of his throat. “If that’s true, then why did she leave me?”

  “Jaysus, you don’t understand anything about women, do you?” Cian grunted, making Brody want to throttle him.

  “Don’t push me,” he growled.

  “You need it,” his partner shot back. “You need to have your miserable ass kicked, is what you need.”