Hour of the Lion Read online

  Evening is going well. Hair, the rich color of dark walnut, rippled across her shoulders, and her purple T-shirt was tight enough to reveal amazingly lush breasts for such a compact body.

  Since she was too occupied to notice his arrival, he could study her assets without being considered a macho pig. Abundant. Yes, that would be the word. He‘d heard the more-than-a-mouthful is wasted saying, but when it came to breasts, he was a bit of a glutton.

  Concentrating on freeing her leg from something, she was oblivious to everything else.

  He thought for a minute and decided to speak up. And hey, he needed to see the color of her eyes—for the report and all.

  'My jail is empty today,' he remarked sociably. 'In case you wondered.'

  She froze like a mouse hearing a fox. When huge copper-colored eyes met his, everything inside him came to a halt, like the day he‘d been chasing a rabbit and got his leg caught in a steel trap. A hard painful grip, only this time it was his chest being squeezed.

  The sound of her breath whuffing out, like she‘d been pounced on, cleared his mind. Cop—

  I"m a cop. And she was a burglar. No pouncing on this little prey allowed...and wasn‘t that a damned shame?

  'Oh, hell,' the lady perp said, obviously having recovered fast. She now looked more pissed-off than concerned, and that just wasn‘t right. 'Listen, I‘m really just—'

  He leaned his hip against the porch railing and crossed his arms. 'It‘s called breaking and entering,' he offered helpfully.

  Her mouth dropped open. 'No way. Hey, I talked to the realtor this morning and—.'

  'Um-hmm. It‘s good you‘ve done your homework. Shows a certain pride in your work.'

  The sparks in those big eyes almost did him in. 'I am not a burglar, dammit. I‘m here to rent this place. Amanda Golden is supposed to meet me.'

  He studied her for a minute. She had the realtor‘s name right—‘course it was there plain as could be on the rental sign.

  A wisp of scent drifted past him. Blood. Fresh. 'You‘re bleeding.'

  She blinked at the change of subject and he noticed with pleasure how her thick lashes feathered down against skin tanned almost as dark as her brown eyes.

  'I‘m bleeding?'

  Herne help him, but she really was lovely—and he shouldn‘t let that pretty face suck him in.

  She probably wrapped every male she met around her ringless, delicate finger.

  Besides, she was human. Some shifters enjoyed sampling human females, but he‘d never understood the attraction.

  He pointed to where a nail had snagged more than her clothing, and blood darkened the leg of her jeans. 'Looks like the previous renter overlooked a few nails from last season‘s Christmas lights. Let me get you down from there before I start on some serious interrogation.'

  Her eyes narrowed, then she leaned forward. Reaching out, she obviously intended to steady herself on his forearms, but the opportunity was too good to ignore. With a smooth move, he dropped low enough that her hands settled on his shoulders instead, and he grasped her around the waist. His fingers curled around surprisingly hard abdominal muscles—the female must work out regularly—and he lifted her up.

  She gasped as he swung her onto the porch. Her grip tightened on his shoulders, lean hands, not soft, yet they felt very, very good on his body. Her hands would probably clutch his shoulders—just like that—as he slid inside her, filled her.

  He shook his head. Where the hell had that image come from?

  Her eyes were huge, and she smelled of pain and fear. He released her immediately. She was frightened. And he could tell it was more than just worry about being arrested. No, she was scared of him. The idea was insulting.

  'Um. Thank you.' Her voice was husky.

  'My pleasure.' After all, honesty was the best policy, and he‘d enjoyed the hell out of getting his hands on her. Was looking forward to enjoying more, but...she was scared of him?

  On the street, a white Taurus pulled up behind the Jeep. Amanda Golden slid out, briefcase in hand, hurried up the sidewalk, and onto the porch. 'Hello, Alec. Ms. Waverly? I‘m sorry I‘m late. I got hung up at the title company.'

  'That‘s all right. I‘ve been kept entertained,' his ex-burglar said dryly.

  'Well, damn, guess I have to let you go.' And she would have decorated his jail cell so nicely too.

  She shot him a nasty look, her appealingly full lips tightly compressed.

  When she started to move, Alec tucked a finger under her belt to halt her. 'Let‘s make sure you aren‘t hurt too bad,' he said. 'Nails can be nasty.'

  As he leaned forward, he realized the faint scent of blood wasn‘t just from the nail; it came from multiple places. She had dark red-brown spots on the back of her T-shirt. The gasp when he‘d lifted her from the windowsill—had that been from surprise or pain?

  He studied her closer. Meticulously applied makeup covered a bruise on the side of her face.

  There was maybe a lumpy dressing on her shoulder under the T-shirt, and something more than a bra wrapped around her sides.

  Now, all that damage might be from a car accident. But that wouldn‘t explain why she was scared of him, the most likable fellow on this planet. So. He could be wrong—frequently was—

  but he picked the most logical explanation.

  Someone had beaten the hell out of her.

  'Where else are you hurt?'

  Why would the big sheriff ask that? Vic wondered, feeling a chill. She‘d covered the blood and bruises adequately. Had her description and injuries been on an APB?

  Dammit, he‘d already given her one scare. For a nasty moment, she‘d thought Swane had hired him until it became obvious he was just a small-town cop having himself a good time.

  'Don‘t be silly,' she said, deliberately misunderstanding. 'A little nail scrape doesn‘t warrant all this concern.'

  Nudging his arm away, she shook hands with the realtor. 'Ms. Golden, nice to meet you.'

  'Just call me Amanda.' Tall, blonde, wearing silky black pants with matching jacket, she was the epitome of a refined style that Vic had never mastered. After giving Vic‘s hand a firm shake, the realtor frowned at the cop. 'Is there a problem?'

  'You got here just in time,' Vic said. 'Your policeman was about to arrest me and haul me away.'

  Amanda‘s snicker wasn‘t at all businesslike. 'Ah, yes. If his jail‘s not overflowing with criminals, Alec feels he‘s not doing his job.' She leaned forward and whispered loudly, 'Of course, it‘s only a two-cell jailhouse.'

  Vic smiled and glanced over her shoulder to see how the sheriff took being taunted. With one hip propped on the railing and a lazy grin on his tanned face, he didn‘t look too upset.

  When his focus shifted from Amanda to Vic, his gaze intensified, as if he were trying to see inside her. She felt a quiver low in her belly, but from worry or attraction—she wasn‘t sure.

  Probably worry.

  Towering six feet five or so with appallingly broad shoulders that narrowed to a trim waist, the man moved like a trained fighter. Not all spit and polish like a soldier though. His golden-brown hair brushed the collar of his khaki-uniform, and he‘d rolled his sleeves up, revealing corded wrists and muscular forearms. She remembered how easily he‘d lifted her, how those big hands had wrapped around her. He was damned powerful, despite the easygoing manner.

  Yeah, the quiver was definitely from worry.

  But then he smiled at the realtor, and a dimple appeared at one corner of his mouth. The laugh lines around his eyes emphasized a thin blue-tinted scar that angled across his left cheekbone as if someone had marked him with a pen. His voice was deep and smooth and slow as warm honey, and she felt her muscles relax. 'You have a mean streak, Amanda,' he was saying. 'I‘ll have to warn Jonah.'

  'He wouldn‘t believe you,' the realtor said as she worked on unlocking the front door.

  The sheriff turned, letting that should-be-a-registered-weapon grin loose on Vic, and her temperature rose. 'So,' he said
, 'Ms. Waverly, will you be staying in Cold Creek?'

  He was gorgeous, and he looked at her as if she was something tasty. "Um...' she said and his smile increased a fraction, just enough that she realized what an idiot she was. You"re losing it, Sergeant. She scowled at him. 'A while.'

  And the sooner she left this damn town, the better.

  The breeze whipped his shaggy hair 'Well, while you‘re here—' he started.

  'I need to get my stuff,' she interrupted. Anything to escape. Odd how the scare from the sheriff‘s appearance had wiped out her need to pee.

  To her annoyance, he followed her down the steps. 'You‘re going to enjoy Cold Creek,' he said. Before she could dodge, he slung an arm around her shoulders, and she felt his fingers trace the thick gauze dressing covering the cat-bite.

  'Thank you, but I can manage,' she said, smoothly enough despite the way her heart was pounding. Then she looked up.

  Dark green eyes the color of the mountain forests narrowed, and he studied her like she was a puzzle to be solved. A quiver ran up her spine as she realized the laidback manner and slow voice camouflaged a razor-sharp intelligence. Knives tended to come at a person in two ways: dark and hidden, or out in the open, all bright and shiny. A bright and shiny blade could still leave you bleeding on the sands.

  She pulled away. 'I‘ll be fine.'

  'Well then, I‘ll take myself off so you can get settled in.' He waved at Amanda Golden and smiled at Vic, but this time the smile didn‘t touch his eyes. 'I‘m sure we‘ll run into each other again, Ms. Waverly. Cold Creek‘s a small town.'

  Cordial, polite. And Vic heard the threat underneath.

  *

  Alec shoved open the heavy door to the Wild Hunt Tavern, picked his favorite table in the back corner, and settled into the chair for some serious pondering.

  That had been an odd meeting and an odd woman. Over many years of law-enforcement, he‘d arrested a few wife-beaters and interviewed their battered wives. Ms. Waverly‘s injuries might have come from a fist, but she surely didn‘t give the impression of an abused woman. That glare she‘d given him, for whatever reason, was almost lethal.

  Actually, the woman‘s moods, within the space of ten minutes, had been as winding as a tornado. From being wary of him, to being attracted, to giving him a look like: I"ll cut your guts out with a rusty spoon. She might be a foot shorter, but he had a feeling she‘d be quite a wildcat in a fight. And in bed.

  Now why did he find that so arousing?

  'Excuse me, Sheriff, would you care for a beer?'

  He looked up into the prettiest blue eyes on the planet and grinned. 'Jamie, if you fetch me a beer, I‘ll have to arrest your thirteen-year-old butt and throw you into my jail.'

  She wrinkled a freckle-covered nose. 'I won‘t bring it—Daddy will, so I guess you still won‘t have anyone in your jail tonight, huh?'

  'Now that was a low blow,' he conceded, winning himself a delighted smile before she trotted off to the bar, all legs and bounce like a half-grown cat.

  A few minutes later, Calum set a mug of Guinness and a glass of wine on the table, then took the empty chair.

  Alec tilted his head toward his niece as she danced her way between customers. 'I envy you sometimes, brawd.'

  His brother turned to look, and his gray eyes softened. 'Indeed. She‘s a blessing.' He sipped his wine, his gaze intent on his daughter. 'And makes me afraid in ways I never thought I could fear.'

  Alec took a drink of the rich, malty beer before commenting, 'You‘re not the type to shy from leaves blowing in the wind. What‘s up?'

  'I summoned the Daonain to meet tonight.'

  Alec‘s hand tightened on the mug. Shifter meetings were rarely called. He bowed his head to the God-chosen leader of the shifters in this territory and said formally, 'Cosantir, I‘ll be there.'

  *

  That night, Alec rested one arm on the fireplace mantle as he listened to the debate. Despite the chill of the evening, the tavern felt uncomfortably warm, and the scent of anger and sweat mixed with the wood smoke. Golden light from the brass wall sconces flickered over the people squeezed around the heavy oak tables and lining the back. Seemed like any adult shifter in the Northern Cascades territory had attended.

  After Calum had told them about the outlawed steel-jawed game traps that shifters had found in the forests, and that Thorson‘s grandson had been missing for a month, the mood had turned ugly. No surprise there. Daonain were predators, after all. The werecats were the worst. A wolf or bear might fight if cornered; a cat would shred an opponent to bloody ribbons just for entertainment.

  After Calum shot down Grady‘s proposal to attack any human entering the area—Grady was rather excitable—Angelina claimed the floor. Alec listened for a minute, grinning at his brother‘s careful lack of expression. Calum had little patience for stupidity, and Angelina‘s logic was as convoluted as a house-brownie‘s tracks on cleaning day.

  'We don‘t know if the trappers are after us specifically or just poaching,' Calum said, cutting Angelina off before she could digress further. He straightened from leaning on the bar, and the power of a Cosantir shimmered around him like heat waves. 'If they‘re looking for us, I‘ll be happy to oblige them. After that, they won‘t remember why they were on the mountain at all.'

  The people laughed, and the level of hostility waned. Calum reminded them, 'We‘ve become lazy about observing the precautions. That needs to stop. Use the tunnels below the tavern. I want no humans to find piles of clothing at the edge of the forest, let alone to see one of you shift. Also, remember—'

  The bar door burst open, and Joe Thorson shoved his way through the crowd to the center of the room. Deep lines and gray bushy brows accented his leathery face. Thin white scars covered his hands and arms—souvenirs of his younger days when he‘d fought to win the females at Gatherings. Tears had tracked the dirt on his face.

  Dread iced Alec‘s blood. What could possibly make the old werecat cry? Lachlan? He pushed his way to the maddened werecat. To serve and protect. The duty given to a sheriff by the law…and the duty given to a cahir of the clan by the God.

  After giving Thorson a second to recognize his scent, Alec wrapped an arm around his shoulders. With only a token snarl, the old man allowed the familiarity, yet another sign of his distress.

  'What‘s wrong, Joe?' Alec kept his tone calm as the raised voices hushed.

  'My grandson—Lachlan,' Thorson‘s voice was hoarse. 'He‘s dead. Killed in the city.'

  The noise rose. Males lunging to their feet. Angelina‘s shrill scream. The Murphy brothers‘

  curses.

  Calum growled low, then snapped, ' Silence. ' The command with a Cosantir‘s power behind it quieted the room. 'Tell us what happened, Joe.'

  In his usual jeans and white shirt, Thorson rubbed his face, streaking the dirt. 'That shifter detective in Seattle—Tynan O‘Connolly—just called. Like you asked, he‘d watched for Lachlan in Seattle. He said…' His voice broke. 'There was a young man‘s body in the morgue.'

  Alec raised an eyebrow at Calum, silently requesting permission to continue. Calum nodded.

  'Go on, Joe,' Alec prompted, squeezing his shoulder.

  Thorson shook his head like a confused animal. 'The cops haven‘t identified him, but they‘re trying, passing out pictures. Tynan emailed me one. It‘s my Lachlan.' His words dropped like stones into the quiet room.

  'Did you go to the morgue in Seattle?' Alec asked quietly despite the unease fingering the back of his neck. An autopsy wouldn‘t show the magic that created a shifter, but carelessness would. If Thorson‘s actions exposed the shifters, he‘d be declared an enemy of the Daonain…and as a cahir, Alec would have to kill him.

  'I never went near the station.'

  Relief loosened Alec‘s grip, and he pulled in a hard breath. 'By the God, I‘m sorry, Joe.

  Sorry for Lachlan, sorry for you, that you can never—'

  'Never put claim to him or bury him. I know, dammit.' Thorson s
tared at the floor.

  Calum said, 'I‘ll call Tynan for more information, but for now—has he discovered how Lachlan died?'

  Thorson‘s head snapped up, his eyes burning with fury. Against his fingertips, Alec felt the tingle of imminent trawsfur. He shook the old man‘s arm. 'Control yourself. We need answers, not claws.'

  When Thorson growled, Alec tensed, preparing to fight a berserk cougar.

  After a moment, Thorson sucked in a breath, and the tingling receded, disappeared. As the wildness left his body, his eyes showed his shame. The old guy probably hadn‘t lost control like that since he was a cub. 'Sorry, my friend,' he said softly.

  'It‘s all right,' Alec answered, equally softly. 'Tell us what you know.'

  Sorrow deepened the lines in Joe‘s face, and he had to clear his throat. 'He looked starved.

  Ribs showing. Tynan said he was jaundiced from liver shutdown.'

  'Metal-induced?' Alec asked.

  'Yes.' The man‘s fingers curled, shaping claws.

  Alec shared the need to slash and rend. The pain of that kind of death… Instead, he squeezed the tight shoulder under his hand. 'Stay with me here, Joe.'

  A heavy breath. 'He had burn marks, cuts, bruises. He‘d been beaten. Tortured. Some of the cuts were in square patterns on his skin.'

  'Wire cage,' Calum growled. His pupils had turned black with a Cosantir‘s rage. 'That would explain the liver failure, too.'

  'They kept my boy in a cage!' The words burst from Thorson. 'They tortured him, starved him.' He moaned, 'A cage, Cosantir, a cage …'

  'They will pay,' Calum said quietly. 'Was Lachlan penned up when they found him?'

  Thorson shuddered, staring at the floor, and Alec knew the man couldn‘t bear much more.

  He needed the forest, to feel the trees and grass and scent of freedom, to have the Mother‘s love around him. 'Tynan thinks Lachlan escaped,' Joe said. 'But too late. A man found my boy and a female on his doorstep and took them in, then called 911.'