Winter of the Wolf (Hunt 2) Read online

  Eventually, she regained control. Wiping tears from her cheeks, she pulled in a shuddering breath. What’s done was done. Time to deal with it. Taking a determined sip of cola, she straightened her shoulders and started making plans.

  First of all, she couldn’t live here anymore. When her lips quivered, she firmed them immediately. No more tears. She’d have to find a different apartment somewhere in Seattle. She could keep everything else the same—her job, her city. Just a new apartment. With luck, she could find a place that was several stories up and that had security.

  And if the monster could get through those precautions? A shiver ran through her. She’d used her fists, her feet, even the sword and knife. Nothing had worked. Bree wrapped her arms around herself, gritting her teeth as the movement tugged on the stitches in her arm and shoulder

  If fists, feet, or blades wouldn’t work, she’d find something better. A pistol. Would a bullet go through those bony spikes? Putting her fingers together, she pointed at the glass door. “Bang, bang, bang.”

  Even the pretend recoil made her drop the imaginary gun and grab her shoulder. “Ooow.” But…a pistol would work. Her spirits lifted. She could shoot the monster. Over and over. Until it was just bloody bits.

  As she leaned back, her arm and shoulder throbbed viciously. Unfortunately, owning a pistol wouldn’t help if she couldn’t shoot it. She needed to find someplace safe to live until she finished healing. Getting out of Seattle would probably be the best idea. With a sigh, she set her finger on the faces in the photograph. The creature had said she was something different, wondered if she were human and if there were more like her.

  Are there more like me? No one else ever saw the flower-fairies. What if she’d inherited something from her mother or father? Would they know about this monster? She’d never cared about trying to find her parents—so loving that they’d managed to lose her. But if she had to leave the city while she healed, she might as well try to find some answers as well. Her eyes burned with fresh tears. Look, Ash, I’m going to look for my parents just as you wanted.

  She blinked hard and raised her chin. There—she had a recipe for the next few weeks. Get out of the city. Find parents. Heal up. And buy the biggest darn pistol she could lift.

  * * *

  Ailill Ridge, Rainier Territory ~ First quarter moon

  “You’re throwing us out?” Blindsided by the announcement, Zeb stared in disbelief at the Cosantir—Herne’s appointed guardian and ruler of Rainier Territory. When Pete Wendell had summoned him and Shay to his house for a meeting, Zeb hadn’t thought much about it. He’d figured the two-bit local bar owner had griped to pudgy Pete about the chairs he’d busted up in a fight last weekend.

  But this… A hollow spot formed in his gut.

  “Throw you out?” Pete rested his hands on the kitchen table and widened his eyes in assumed shock. “Of course not. It’s simply that the Cosantir of North Cascades Territory needs cahirs who know how to kill hellhounds. You and Shay are the most experienced here.”

  Beside Zeb, Shay made a derogatory noise. “This area still has and will always have hellhounds. So with your usual impeccable logic, you’re sending away your most experienced cahirs?”

  Zeb pulled in a slow, painful breath. He’d been doing okay here. Not like in Banff Territory where the alpha and beta had been so aggressive that he’d gotten into fights every few days.

  Pete’s hands closed into fists. “My own cahirs can handle any problems here. Since I shut down the fishing camp, you two are out of jobs. There’s nothing keeping you in my territory. You don’t have family or friends, not even among your wolf pack.”

  True. Zeb didn’t make friends. Didn’t have family. Didn’t belong anywhere. He tried to ignore the hollowness growing inside. “I can guess why you want me to leave.” He glanced at the beautiful blonde seated in the living room.

  Gretchen’s lips turned up in a tiny smirk. She might be gorgeous, but her self-absorption and vindictiveness made her the most unappealing female he’d ever met. He wouldn’t waste his time mating with such as her.

  His gaze on her, Zeb said, “I had her once, and she wanted more.” She never spoke to him normally, but when in heat, her instincts ruled. “I didn’t.”

  She turned dark red, mouth twisting with anger.

  Zeb kept his voice even despite his growing rage. “But why send Shay away?”

  Shay leaned back, dwarfing his chair with his oversized frame. His expression turned hard. “Your brother put you up to it, I’d bet. As alpha of the pack, Roger should be able to dominate me, but he can’t.”

  Pete reddened at the insult—a Cosantir wasn’t supposed to be swayed by relatives or females. Then his mouth flattened into an ugly line. “You don’t have to move to the Cascades. You two can go where you want. But you’re not welcome in my territory. In my house. At my table.”

  Even through Zeb’s fury, he saw the Cosantir clearly. No power glimmered around his body showing that the god, Herne, supported him. This wasn’t a true Cosantir’s Judgment. He and Shay could fight this. If they wanted to. He glanced at his patrol-partner.

  Shay’s eyes were the cold blue-gray of a winter mountain lake as he shrugged. “Let the hellhounds have them. I never liked this territory…or house…or table anyway.”

  Zeb rose and helped Shay to his feet. As his partner limped from the room, Zeb’s temper slipped. He slammed his fists on the table, splitting the wood down the center.

  The sound of it falling and Pete’s cursing accompanied him out the door.

  Chapter Three

  Cold Creek, North Cascades Territory

  At least packing hadn’t taken long, Shay O’Donnell thought the next day. All their belongings fit in the back of Zeb’s truck. Pitiful.

  As Zeb turned into the parking lot of the Wild Hunt Tavern, Shay gritted his teeth. His leg ached as if the hellhound’s teeth were grinding into it, and his skin itched from the long drive. Damn metal. Be nice if they’d invent plastic vehicles.

  Fun week. No healer for his wounds, only a few days of recovery, then kicked out of the territory. Unfortunately, they’d probably be back on the road within the hour, especially if their reputations preceded them.

  Far too often, he was more dominant than a territory’s pack leader. Even though he’d side-step actual challenges, irritated alphas meant unsettled packs and dominance struggles. Then there was his patrol partner. Scarred. Bitter. Hell, Zeb scared almost everybody—except during Gathers when the females in heat flocked to the strongest males.

  So fine, they’d go through the motions, get rejected, and then figure out what to do. Probably go separate ways since Zeb gave new meaning to the lone wolf designation.

  Shay glanced at his partner’s dark face. Rigid spine, tight shoulders, the acrid scent of tension. No shifter could live alone forever, especially a wolf. How many rejections could the male take before he broke and went feral?

  How many can I take? But with his bond to the God of the Hunt, he couldn’t turn feral. Just lonely.

  Shay slid out of the truck and held onto the door, studying the area as he waited for the pain to recede.

  Like Ailill Ridge, the Cold Creek population supposedly contained more Daonain—shifters—than humans. It looked like a pretty place, the town cupped in the palm of the mountains, in much the same way that the forest curved around the two-story log tavern. The air held a frosty bite, sweetened by the fragrance of pine forests and a hint of cedar wood smoke.

  “Ready?” Zeb’s black eyes were cynical.

  “Let’s get this over with.”

  The scent of beer and roasted peanuts filled the dimly lit tavern. Across a wealth of scattered tables and chairs, a long, dark oak bar dominated the back wall like a scene from a western movie. The late afternoon hour meant the room was mostly empty. Two shifter females sat at the bar. One was beautifully curvy, and Shay gave her an appreciative look.

  Three humans played pool in an alcove to the right, and upon seeing
Zeb, they gathered into a protective cluster like a herd of prey. In the left corner, a cahir-sized man was drinking a beer.

  “Where’s the Cosantir?” Shay asked.

  Zeb nodded at the black-haired bartender.

  “Him?” But damned if the male wasn’t surrounded by the thin shimmer of Herne’s power. The bartender caught Shay’s gaze and tilted his head toward the corner table where the lone man sat.

  As Zeb and Shay approached, the beer-drinker stood and held out a hand. “I’m Alec McGregor. Good to see you again, cahir,” he said to Zeb with an easy grin.

  The corner of Zeb’s mouth pulled up in his version of a smile. “Likewise, cahir.”

  As protectors of the clan, cahirs tended to be huge. Alec was typical—around six-five, heavily muscled, bearing Herne’s blade-shaped blue mark on his cheek. He turned to Shay and held out his hand. “And you’re Shay O’Donnell.”

  Shay nodded. Alec’s grip was firm without any testosterone-driven display of strength.

  Approaching with a tray of drinks, the Cosantir had the distinctive prowl of a werecat. Only a couple of inches shorter than Shay and slightly less broad of shoulder, he was as muscled as any cahir. And, unlike their old Cosantir, this one’s power flowed in a luminescent aura around him.

  “Sit, cahirs.” He set a mug of dark beer by Zeb and a mug of light in front of Shay.

  Shay glanced at Zeb and caught the cynical acknowledgement. The Cosantir had done his research if he knew the type of beer they drank—in which case, he’d also know how little he’d want them in his area. Hell.

  Well, since Herne wasn’t calling Shay in any specific direction, he could go anywhere. Maybe Zeb would be interested in visiting the Rockies. The hellhounds were thick around there.

  “I am Calum McGregor,” the Cosantir said.

  “McGregor?” Shay asked, glancing at lighter complexion of Alec McGregor.

  Calum nodded. “Alec’s my littermate.” He took a seat and steepled his fingers on the table. “I’ve talked with people about you and have decided—”

  Shay held up his hand. Why draw this out? He caught the resignation in Zeb’s black eyes and leaned forward. “Let’s not waste time on amenities, Cosantir. I realize you didn’t know who Pete would send until too late to call us off. We’ll finish our drinks—and I thank you for them—and get out of your territory.”

  Alec laughed and shook his head.

  “I think not. Be silent, and drink your beer.” The Cosantir didn’t raise his voice, but the order was so compelling that Shay took a swallow before he realized it.

  “Cosan—” Shay started. Seeing the darkening of the Cosantir’s gray gaze, he shut his mouth. Zeb had mentioned meeting this guy at some Gathering, said he was deadly. Shay leaned back in his chair.

  Zeb’s glance held a hint of amusement.

  Alec tilted his glass in apparent approval of Shay’s show of self-preservation, and Shay growled at him.

  “I know your Cosantir did not enjoy having you in his territory. You’re both overly inclined to fight. You may not start them, but dominance fights follow you around”—Calum’s gaze rested on Shay before turning to Zeb—”and you frighten humans and shifters alike.”

  Shay shrugged and sipped his beer. Nothing like getting lectured before being pitched out on one’s ear.

  Calum said mildly. “I doubt those traits will cause a problem in my area.”

  Shay blinked, replayed the words, and lowered his glass. Hope glimmered inside him. “You want us to stay?”

  “Exactly so. I was pleased when your Cosantir indicated you were leaving his territory. You’re the very ones I’d hoped for.”

  “Why?”

  Alec leaned forward. “We’ve got at least one hellhound in the area, maybe more. We lost a young male two moons ago, a female last month.” He and his brother exchanged glances, their grief and fury obvious. Protective shifters, both of them. Nice to see.

  Alec continued. “Aside from me, there’s only a couple of other cahirs in our territory—Owen and Ben. None of us have experience with finding hellhounds, let alone killing them. You two are the best I’ve heard of.”

  A compliment? How long since he’d had one of those?

  Alec rubbed his ear and smiled slowly. “My lifemate says there are three words that have an irresistible effect on her.”

  Shay stared. By Herne’s antlers, what did his mate have to do with this? “I can guess. She wants the ‘I love you’ words?”

  The Cosantir tilted his head, drawing Shay’s gaze back. With a bladelike smile, he said, “No, cahir, not the ‘I love you’ words. These words”—he paused—“we need you.”

  The phrase hit Shay like a gut punch and silenced him utterly.

  Zeb looked as stunned. He met Shay’s gaze, looking as defenseless as Shay had ever seen the dangerous wolf, but after a second, he nodded.

  Shay cleared his throat. “If you need us, then you’ve got us.”

  Alec and Calum accompanied them out to the truck. As Zeb opened the door and slid behind the wheel, he felt as if he’d stepped onto a talus slope and lost his footing. Yet, maybe…maybe this would work, at least for a time. Calum was known as a good Cosantir. Open-minded. Fair.

  Calum gripped the door before Zeb could close it. “One final detail. While in my territory, you live together. Under one roof.”

  Zeb’s jaw dropped open as something washed through him that tasted like fear. “I live alone.”

  “You used to live alone. Now you don’t.” The Cosantir leveled a hard stare at Zeb. “I’ve found wolves function better if they’re around other wolves. If you prefer to join someone else, that would be acceptable. Gerhard Schmidt is the alpha in this territory if you need help.”

  Shay scowled and said what Zeb was thinking. “This type of decree is made by the pack alpha. For a Cosantir, especially a werecat, to presume is—”

  “Presumptuous,” Calum said with a slight smile. “I do know that. Nonetheless, the decree is not negotiable.” Not waiting for an answer, he strode back to his tavern.

  “Fuck. I knew this was too good to be true.” Shay hit the back of his head against the neck rest and glared at the bar. “You know, if we both took him on, we’d—”

  “Die. Messily.” Zeb was inclined to try anyway. But no. “Even when Pete calls on Herne in a ritual, he doesn’t receive that much power.”

  “Yeah, McGregor looks like a walking light bulb.” Shay frowned. “A competent Cosantir would be a change. I liked him except for this living together bullshit.”

  “Uh-huh.” Zeb wanted to go further, but the words didn’t come. Words never came. He’d spent too many years as a wolf before returning to civilization. Fuck, he couldn’t do this.

  Shay waited a beat, then shook his head. “Okay, asshole, I’ll say it. You think we can share a house? Without killing each other?”

  “I’ve never…” He’d been alone since he was thirteen, when his uncle and littermates had died. He blinked away the wash of grief and guilt. By Herne, he didn’t want anyone in his den. Didn’t need anyone.

  Shay waited.

  It’d been over two years since Shay had been called to Rainier Territory. Two years that they’d been assigned together as partners—perhaps the only decision Pete had ever gotten right.

  Zeb clenched the steering wheel until his knuckles turned white. He trusted Shay with his life. Could he make it work? Fuck. His throat tightened, and his raspy voice came out sounding raw. “I’ll give it a shot.”

  Shay gave him a keen glance, but said only, “Good enough.”

  Zeb started the engine and then turned it off. “Where the fuck are we going?”

  Even as Shay barked a laugh, Zeb saw Alec leaning against a truck, waiting for their response to the Cosantir’s ruling.

  Now he came over. He didn’t ask what they’d decided, probably didn’t have to. “You two have a place in mind?”

  “No.” Zeb barely kept from growling at him.

  “Good. C
alum and I had an idea.”

  “Why am I not surprised?” Shay snapped.

  Grinning, Alec motioned to his battered pickup. “Follow me, and we’ll see if you agree.”

  Zeb trailed the other vehicle to the road. Less than a tenth of a mile farther out of town, they turned left at a sign indicating “WILDWOOD LODGE” and headed straight into the pine forest.

  The dirt road was poorly kept with foot-deep ruts. As the truck bounced, he caught the scent of pain.

  Shay had turned pale and was bracing his injured leg.

  Zeb slowed, easing around the potholes.

  “I’m good.” Although tendons stood out on his square jaw, Shay jerked his chin at Alec’s disappearing pickup. “Keep going.”

  Hell would freeze over before the idiot complained of pain.

  Zeb scowled. It sucked that Ailill Ridge hadn’t had a healer. Instead, their wounds had had to close up the slow way. Zeb was doing all right, but Shay’s injuries had been ugly. Unfortunately, even if a healer lived in Cold Creek, it was too late now.

  A massive two-story log cabin—the design much like that of the tavern—came into sight, and Zeb parked beside Alec’s vehicle. Just past the building, the road narrowed, and tiny lanes branched off to small rustic cabins. The Wildwood Lodge. Good name.

  Zeb jumped from the pickup. He hauled in a breath, letting the crisp pine air erase the stench of truck fumes and Shay’s pain-filled sweat. Cold Creek was definitely deeper in the wilderness than Ailill Ridge. Turning in a circle, he caught whiffs of deer and fox and the bitter mineral scent of dwarves. “Your mountains smell good.”

  Alec’s voice drifted out the front door of the building. “They’re your mountains now too. Get your asses in here and tell me what you think.”

  Zeb slammed the truck door shut, trying to control his temper. He’d liked the werecat when they’d met at a Gather last fall. But the scent of Shay’s pain had abraded his nerves, his arm hurt, and, fuck it, knowing he’d have to live with someone made him feel like cornered prey.