Eventide of the Bear Page 12

  Shay turned his attention to the younger male. “Wesley, if contact is made, you pretend to be prey. As we’ve practiced, your job is to lure the hellhound into chasing you.”

  “That’s bullshit. I’m no fucking rabbit.” Wesley jumped to his feet. Although well muscled, at only six feet, he was shorter than the average cahir. Maybe insecurity explained some of his bluster. “I want the kill.”

  “No, you’re not a rabbit,” Shay agreed, showing admirable control. As alpha of the local wolf pack, he was probably accustomed to swaggering young males. “But this is our protocol. Cahirs who haven’t fought hellhounds are assigned as decoy first. This gives you a chance to experience a hellhound’s speed before you go hands-on.”

  “But—”

  “We ready to go?” Zeb interrupted, his irritation obvious. Wesley had been playing dominance games since arriving, and Zeb wasn’t known for his patience.

  Wesley shut up.

  Honed to a fighting edge and scarred from years of fighting hellhounds, Zeb exuded danger. No smart shifter fucked with him—and Wesley wasn’t stupid. He was just a typical young male, more mouth than brains, who’d mature into a decent cahir with time. The God hadn’t chosen badly; the cub had a good heart and ample courage—if perhaps a tad too much testosterone.

  He’d learn. And after seeing his first hellhound, he’d be far more willing to be part of a team.

  “Let’s go,” Shay said. “The sun is almost down.”

  *

  RYDER PACED THROUGH the house, checking the heavy, iron window guards and the door locks…again. All good. Unfortunately, the activity didn’t relieve the worry wafting up his spine like an icy breeze off the glacier-covered mountains. His littermate was out in the night, hunting hellhounds.

  He’d never worried about a dark of the moon night before. Then again, when a youth, hellhounds had been more of a legend than a reality.

  Not any longer.

  The past few years on dark of the moon, he’d taken panther form and gone deep into the mountains where hellhounds hadn’t penetrated. But he couldn’t run the trails with a cub. Instead, he was stuck in town, worrying about…fuck…about everything. Not only Ben, but also whether the last shifter who’d picked up a window guard had managed to install it. And whether Tullia, the old wolf shifter of Zeb’s, was safe in her ramshackle home.

  Even though Ben had assured him the Cold Creek shifters would remain inside their well-fortified homes, he still worried about them. And about Ben.

  Half of him wanted to be beside his brother, shoulder-to-shoulder, facing down danger as littermates should. The other half needed to be here, guarding their cub.

  And guarding Emma, as well. Anything trying to hurt the little bear would have to go through him first. Of course, protecting her was merely a…natural…instinct, nothing more. So why did guarding her give him such a bone-deep satisfaction?

  He kept moving through the silent house.

  Undoubtedly picking up on the adults’ anxiety, Minette had been nervous. After an extra two stories from her favorite picture book, she was still awake.

  But Emma had shown up to sing her lullabies while Ryder patrolled the house.

  He’d heard her singing softly in Minette’s room. Her presence in this house felt as right as when he trawsfurred and breathed in the scents of the wild, knowing he was in exactly the perfect place and shape for him.

  He shouldn’t feel this way about the little bear. Females were purely trouble. Didn’t he ever learn?

  Growling under his breath, Ryder built up the fire in the great room until the resident salamander spiraled in joy. At least Emma had stayed upstairs, leaving him to his silence.

  Damned if he’d think about how comforting it would be to have her gentle company right now.

  *

  IN BEAR FORM, Ben ambled through the dark town, sniffing the moist, clean air. A storm had passed earlier. Stray rumbles of thunder and lightning streaks tracked its passage toward the eastern side of the mountain range.

  The brisk wind ruffled his shaggy fur pleasantly. Not so pleasant was the cold mud packing between his paw pads.

  Tonight, he’d have to resume human form if a hellhound was detected, but until it was time to fight, he wanted his animal-enhanced senses. On his right foreleg, he wore a sheathed knife that a blade-mage had magicked for him. Akin to a lifemating bracelet, the band changed sizes when he trawsfurred.

  He lifted his nose into the wind, scenting Owen and Alec. As usual, Owen had remained in werecat form, while Alec had stayed human. Both cahirs hung back, letting Ben and Wesley take the lead.

  Ben snorted. After Zeb and Shay had split off, Wesley’d argued again to be allowed to fight. He didn’t want to be prey. Owen and Alec had ignored him, forcing Ben as Wesley’s token “partner” to give a firm no—which he had.

  Results? One sulky young male filled with attitude. A hefty paw upside the head might knock some sense into the lad.

  Hearing a door open, Ben edged farther into the shadows. Although humans in Cold Creek were used to wild animals venturing into town, grizzlies were damn rare in Washington, and Ben tried to keep a low profile. Besides, getting shot would suck. Discharging a firearm inside town limits carried a fucking huge fine, but terrified humans weren’t always rational.

  As a small poodle pranced out to piss on a bush, Doug Banner, the school’s principal, stood in the doorway.

  By Herne’s deadly horns, get your ass inside, Banner. Sure, hellhounds didn’t attack humans if they could scent shifters, but still… No one should be in the open on a dark of the moon night.

  As the poodle trotted back into the house, and the door closed, Ben huffed a relieved breath and resumed the patrol.

  The night was only half over, and they’d found no hellhound tracks or scent. From the silence, the cahirs on the other side of town hadn’t had better luck.

  A hellhound in human form had been scented last week. Chances were good the monster would show up here. Ben wasn’t sure he’d call it luck, since any meeting with a hellhound might be a cahir’s one-way ticket to the Mother. But death was simply the underbrush on a cahir’s path—always present.

  Normally, the thought of dying didn’t bother him, but he had more to lose now. Ryder and little Minette…and Emma. It felt damned good to have people of his own to guard.

  The wind shifted and carried a stink like weeks-old carrion sprinkled with orange rinds. A hellhound was close.

  Possessing the most sensitive nose on his team, Ben usually scented problems first. With a quiet huff, he alerted the others.

  Still out of sight, the cougar—Owen—snarled softly in acknowledgement.

  Wesley lifted his head, sniffing, and caught the stink. He nodded.

  Wind in his face, Ben headed toward the scent, using the shadows as he led them down Bonnyrigg Street. If he’d been tracking a shifter, he’d have gone slower, but not with a hellhound.

  Descended from an unholy crossbreeding of human, demon, and fae, the arrogant hellhounds rarely utilized their senses. Demons were lazy—and hellhounds were nearly indestructible, after all.

  His nose lifted. The scent came from the back of the line of houses.

  He slowed and cut across a front lawn. Sensing the other three following, he motioned with his head to the left to direct Wesley.

  As Ben veered to the right of the small, one-story house, the smell of garbage assaulted his nose. In the blackness between the houses, he paused. The back yard was unfenced and butted up against a rising, forested slope.

  The creature crossing the patchy lawn had the heft of a grizzly, but the light from the windows glinted off the dinosaur-like, spiked—bulletproof—plating.

  Yay, team. We got us a hellhound.

  The night was going to get bloody.

  The shifting breeze carried the scent of Sarah, a female shifter Ben had once mated.

  The hellhound prowled along the back of the house, obviously displeased with the iron guards on the windows.
It stopped at the backdoor, raking the wood with grizzly-bear-long claws.

  Time to move.

  Ben stepped farther into the darkness and trawsfurred to human. He stood for a second, adjusting to his diminished size, strength, and senses. At least the garbage didn’t stink so bad. But he couldn’t hear shit, and he felt as if he’d shrunk to the size of a fucking dwarf. Great feeling when planning to take on an armored demon tank.

  He glanced around the corner.

  The hellhound was still trying to claw through the door, and chunks of wood hit the stoop with each swipe. Sarah needed a thicker door.

  Inside the house came the tap-tap-tap of shoes. A female’s face appeared at a back window followed by a high, piercing screech of fear.

  The sound of a frightened female flooded Ben’s system with adrenaline. Even knowing Sarah wasn’t in danger, he realized he’d drawn his knife.

  Undoubtedly driven by the same protective instincts, Wesley showed up on the other side of the backyard. Only the paleness of his complexion made him visible.

  Fighting the need to act, Ben evaluated the terrain. The open backyard had two old maples. Good. Wesley could dodge behind one if needed. Hellhounds were fast, but less agile than humans.

  The yard merged into the edge of the forest, creating an escape route, which the hellhound would want to block.

  He scowled as he studied the hellhound. Bigger than average, thus older, which often meant smarter. Smart was not good.

  Fabric rustled behind Ben, and he caught Alec’s scent. The sheriff checked out the field of battle with a quick, assessing gaze.

  Owen wasn’t with him; the cougar would have followed Wesley.

  Ben edged out far enough to signal Wesley without success.

  The younger cahir’s attention was all on the hellhound. He charged around the house, knife in one hand, pistol in the other, and skidded to a stop in the center of the backyard. His eyes were brilliant with excitement. “Demon-dog! Try someone your own size.”

  “Hell,” Alec muttered.

  Ben silently agreed.

  The hellhound spun around to face its opponent.

  Inside the house, Sarah burst into loud, relieved weeping…and Wesley’s chest puffed up.

  Behind the hellhound’s back, Ben stepped out and waved his arms over his head. Look here, dumbass.

  Wesley startled and stilled, and regained control. As taught, he waved his weapons conspicuously and retreated a few steps to trigger the demon-dog’s predatory instincts.

  As was typical, the creature padded toward Wesley. It wouldn’t charge. Not yet. Hellhounds fed on emotions as well as flesh and would delay the kill to increase the prey’s fear.

  A shriek came from the house. “Hurt it!”

  “What the hell?” Alec said under his breath.

  Visible in the window, Sarah pressed her hands against the glass. Fear gone, her expression held only bloodlust. “Hurt it. Kill it! Shoot. Shoot. Shoot!”

  Ben gritted his teeth. Shut up, female.

  As Wesley continued to retreat, luring the hellhound after him, Ben sprinted down a course directly behind the creature to stay out of its field of vision. The female’s goading screams disappeared under the roaring of his pulse.

  He dove, twisted in midair, and hit the ground on his back. The ground scraped Ben’s bare shoulders as he skidded directly under the hellhound. Perfectly aligned to gut it.

  Wesley’s pistol barked.

  Pain slammed into Ben’s right shoulder like the kick of a bull moose. His arm went numb. The knife dropped from his hand. Fuck!

  “No!” The desperate cry came from Wesley.

  Ben’s arm was limp. No way to recover the knife. Heart hammering, Ben rolled out from under the hellhound, knowing he was dead meat.

  “Eat this, hellhound!” Wesley yelled. Two more bullets whined off the hellhound’s armor.

  Rather than turning to savage Ben, the demon-dog charged the younger cahir.

  “Run, Wes!” Ben yelled and trawsfurred to bear while still on the ground.

  Swearing loudly, Alec tore past.

  Two more cracks of the pistol sounded. A snarl. A scream from human lungs—one of mortal agony.

  By the God, no.

  Ben lurched forward—and fell. Pain raged through his shoulder. Right foreleg useless, he struggled to rise.

  The demon-dog was tearing at a body on the ground. Owen attacked from the rear. The cougar bit into the hellhound’s left hind leg, dug in his fangs, and darted away before the hellhound could nail him.

  Silently, Alec eased forward from behind, zigzagging to stay in the monster’s blind spot. Fury seared the air around him.

  Owen attacked again, and this time, the creature caught him, huge jaws clamping onto his shoulder.

  On three legs, Ben charged, unable to suppress the animal moans as his limp leg dragged at his shattered shoulder. He hit the hellhound from behind, knocking Owen loose from its jaws, losing his own footing, and rolling over.

  The hellhound was on him instantly. Its teeth clamped into his side. Caught, Ben struggled, roaring in his ears. His claws scraped uselessly over the bony armor.

  Boots stepped up right beside his head.

  While the hellhound’s jaws were still clamped in Ben’s flesh, Alec stabbed his stiletto directly into its recessed eye.

  The death-shriek was satisfying.

  As the hellhound transformed back into an oversized, naked human, Alec dropped down beside Wesley.

  Owen shifted and knelt beside Ben. Blood poured from ugly bite marks far too close to his neck. “Thanks for the save, cahir.”

  Ignoring him, Ben struggled to look at Alec.

  His stillness and sagging shoulders confirmed the outcome. The young cahir was dead.

  The sense of failure swept over Ben.

  “Hang on, Griz. Gonna hurt.” As Owen pressed his hands directly over the gushing gunshot wound, fiery agony engulfed Ben, and only a huffing moan escaped.

  *

  IN HER NIGHTGOWN and fuzzy robe, Emma watched Ryder pace around the great room. In the flickering firelight, his carved features resembled those of the Greek god of war.

  Somewhere in the night, Ben was patrolling Cold Creek, looking for hellhounds. If he found one, he’d die. Hellhounds were impossible to kill.

  Although the red-tinged salamander was dancing in the blazing flames, Emma felt as if ice had taken up residence in her bones. She pulled her robe tighter for the hundredth time.

  Making another circuit of the room, Ryder shot her an annoyed stare. “Why don’t you go back to bed? Nothing’s happening down here.”

  Nothing was happening upstairs either, since Minette had fallen asleep hours ago. Emma had tried to stay in her room, but the walls had inched closer with each passing minute until she hadn’t been able to breathe. “I want to be down here.” She knotted the fuzzy belt, unknotted it. “He’s out there. With a hellhound.”

  “Yep.”

  Ryder’s reply was so even and calm she wanted to slap him. Didn’t he understand his littermate’s danger?

  “He’s going to die, you gnome-brained idiot.” Too loud. She couldn’t help herself. “No one can kill a hellhound. It’ll rip him to pieces and—

  A snort interrupted her. “You’ve listened to too many stories, bard. Try talking to someone who’s seen a hellhound.”

  His sarcastic voice slapped against her nerves like icy sleet. “I’ve seen one, you-you stupid male. What do you think slashed my leg to pieces?”

  He halted so suddenly he almost tripped. Then he laughed. “By the God, you almost had me. You busted your leg while you were in the forest—Ben told me. Hellhounds don’t range wilderness areas, and no female would survive a hellhound attack. At least offer me a story I can believe.”

  The insult was deep. Nasty.

  She pointed to the far end of the room. “Just you stay over there and don’t talk to me.”

  He blinked, and his eyes narrowed as if she hadn’t reacted as
he expected. But he did as she asked.

  The jerk. She’d never lied.

  As he returned to pacing the room—stewing about Ben, she knew—her anger started to fade. She had to admit she hadn’t been…exactly…forthcoming about her past. And if he knew what she’d done, of the Gathering, her banishment, he really would hate her.

  The thought hurt, because she’d come to like him. He was all stone-faced and terse with her—and most people, really—but his icy exterior dropped when he was around Ben or Minette. Affectionate. Slyly funny. Thoughtful.

  Recently, she’d gotten the impression he liked her, too…although she could tell he didn’t want to.

  Her brows drew together as she considered. Why wouldn’t he like a perfectly nice person such as herself? Maybe there was a sad tale in his past, something dark. Maybe he’d lost someone he loved—maybe Minette’s mother? Having a female around might unsettle him.

  Stories of disastrous love affairs abounded in her bard’s repertoire. If she could only pick out the strands making up his past, she’d know how to help him. As she studied him, seeing past the threatening-to-her handsomeness, she realized the lines fanning the corners of his eyes weren’t all from laughter. Other lines beside his mouth told a tale of unhappiness. Had he been different before he’d suffered…whatever had happened?

  Compassion softened her heart. “I’m sorry for whatever made you so suspicious of me,” she said gently.

  He looked as if she’d slapped him.

  A forceful pounding on the door wrenched Emma to her feet, her pulse thrumming in her veins.

  With a werecat’s speed, Ryder was already in the foyer. He peered through the glass peephole and threw the door open. “What the fuck happened?”

  Alec walked into the room, carrying Ben over one shoulder.

  Horrified, Emma realized Ben was covered in blood. More dripped onto the floor.

  “Ben.” She rushed toward him, stumbled, and steadied herself on the entry table.

  He didn’t move. Wasn’t even conscious.

  She tried to take another step, and her knee started to buckle. By the Mother, she had no time to be weak. Her frustration turned into a glare at Alec. “Get a healer. Right now!”

  “Got it covered, Emma.” Alec tilted his head toward the still open doorway.