Hour of the Lion Read online

  'Did—'

  'When the police and ambulance arrived, Lachlan was dead. The female ran out through the back door.'

  'Hell,' Alec muttered.

  Finally, Thorson looked up at their leader. The old man had known Calum and Alec since they were boys sneaking reads of comic books in his store, but he showed no memory of that now. As close as he was to changing, he probably only saw the black eyes and the aura of power.

  'Cosantir, please. I need—'

  'We can manage here, Joe,' Calum said. 'Purge your grief on the mountain. Alec, go with.'

  As Thorson stumbled toward the exit, hands reached out to him—carefully—to stroke in shared sorrow and friendship.

  Alec led him into the cool, silent cave like a child. Without speaking, they stripped, Alec lending a hand as Thorson fumbled. Then, Alec called the magic. As the wildness enveloped him, his mind sank like a stone, deep into animal instincts. There was only now, and the sorrow at the youngster‘s loss was buried under the wave of scents and sounds. And this was why Thorson needed the forest. His grief would return when he returned to human form, but...less.

  As his paws hit the earth, Alec felt the touch of the Mother as Her love flowed into him.

  Raising his head, he sniffed the air. Already in cougar form, Thorson stood in the doorway. Alec butted his shoulder affectionately and led the way out of the tunnel.

  The light of a pale, cold moon shone down outside the cave, and the scent of the pine needles under their paws rose around them. Alec looked back to see the gleam of cat eyes and then sprang forward into the dark forest. Joe followed.

  *

  Vic woke, didn‘t move while she assessed her surroundings. Warm, smooth fabric over and under her, a faint lemon scent—sheets. She lay in a bed. A bed was good, much better than concrete.

  Where? The new rental. Lord, her brain was moving slow. The house stood silent. No stench of gunpowder or sweat or blood. Things were looking up. She opened her eyes…and winced.

  The curtains glowed in the morning sun, the print a garish display of lions and tigers and bears.

  'Toto, we really gotta get out of this place,' Vic muttered and slid her legs over the side of the bed with a loud indulgent groan. Jesus fuck, she hurt. She rubbed her face. Was she really planning to look for people who turn into animals? In the light of day, the idea sounded insane.

  She didn‘t believe that shit, did she? Then again, the bite and claw marks on her body offered pretty good proof.

  And speaking of claw marks, it was time to take inventory; easy to do when you sleep commando:

  One: a headache throbbing like a ghetto blaster with the bass on high. The room felt like a sauna. Great, she had a fever.

  Two: her left shoulder felt like some lion had ripped a chunk out of it. Oh, wait—that"s what had happened. Considering the way her week had been going, she probably had gangrene. She pessimistically peeked under that bandage. Well, halleluiah, no putrid green gunk, but the surrounding redness showed a brewing infection.

  Three: Under the gauze wrap, Lachlan‘s claw marks on her back and sides looked like a red-streaked geometry lesson: parallel lines do not intersect. And wouldn‘t those be cute scars...but they weren‘t infected.

  Four: She sucked in a deep breath and groaned as unseen knives stabbed into her left side.

  Cracked ribs. Alas, no cure for them except time. And revenge. She looked forward to a rematch with the ape called Swane—and they would meet again, count on it—when she‘d kick his ribs in.

  Five: her right knee ached, but thank you, God, she could put weight on it and not fall-down-go-boom like some spastic cripple.

  I‘m alive. Life is good.

  As she headed across the bedroom, she snorted a laugh. The same maniac had bought both the curtains and wallpaper. On the walls, deer and elk wandered through the forest like Bambi gone wild. 'You‘d better hope the lions stay on the drapes or you‘re all breakfast,' she warned the herbivores, then shook her head. Bad enough to be talking to herself. Conversing with the wall? Next stop, psycho ward.

  A shower cleared her head. She ignored the rainbow trout swimming along the bottom of the blue shower curtain. Thank God the sunny kitchen and living room lacked the wildlife obsession.

  No coffee though.

  'Must go shopping.' She couldn‘t do anything without a full load of caffeine—and some ibuprofen for the pain and fever.

  First, she needed to call her handler. The old man got cranky if he didn‘t know where his agents were, even the ones on medical leave. Taking a chair at the small kitchen table, she pulled out her new cell phone and punched in the numbers.

  'Wells.' Voice low but edged. Typical Wells—speak softly, then gut them with a sharp knife.

  Didn‘t it just figure that he‘d actually answer his phone this time? She‘d have preferred voice mail—recordings never asked awkward questions. 'Sir.' A nonchalant tone, that‘s the ticket. 'I‘m getting out of the city and heading into the mountains. Might be out of touch for a while.'

  'Is there a problem, Morgan?'

  'No, sir. Well, come to think of it…' Excellent lead-in, not too pushy. 'Perhaps one thing.'

  'Go on.'

  Here it got tricky. Dammit, she‘d never lied to him, and doing so felt like gravel in an open wound. 'I had a drink with an old buddy from Afghanistan. She told me about an ex-marine named Swane.'

  'Swane.' She heard the scratch of his pen as he wrote the name. More anal than a proctologist, Wells jotted everything down. Hell of annoying at first, until she‘d learned other people often forgot stuff...like the moron last year who‘d forgotten the GPS quadrants for the pickup zone and her best friend had died. She swallowed. Stay on track, soldier.

  'What is the problem—I assume there is one—with this individual?' Wells asked.

  'Seems he‘s torturing homeless people and using a cop contact for the cover-up. Doesn‘t look good, sir, to have a screwed-up marine loose in Seattle.' After a few scandals involving recently discharged soldiers and violent altercations, the military was walking on eggshells.

  Although this wasn‘t in Wells‘ area, he‘d still do something.

  A grunt. 'No, that‘s not good. Your buddy‘s name is…?'

  'I‘d rather not say, sir. I don‘t want to betray a confidence.'

  Silence. She knew what he was thinking. Duty to your country outweighed any other loyalty, including what you owed to your friends. But she‘d made a promise to Lachlan. Unless the shifters were dangerous, she wouldn‘t put them in Wells‘ sights.

  'All right, Sergeant. I‘m not in-country, but I‘ll look into it when I return.'

  In spite of the pain, she grinned. Getting Wells onboard was siccing a pit bull on a poodle.

  'Thank you, sir. I‘ll be in touch. Good—'

  The line clicked. Wells never said goodbye. He thought it sounded like a curse, so he saved his farewells for his enemies.

  'Goodbye, Swane,' she said cheerfully. 'Bye-bye, Mr. Asshole-Suit. ‗Parting is such sweet sorrow‘.'

  Yeah, if anyone could find these guys, Wells could. The first time she‘d seen him, she‘d been doing sit-ups to burn off her anger at being turned down for combat duty. She looked up at this man. Older than her father. Sharp nose, icy clear blue eyes, tailored clothing like some English aristocrat. He‘d watched her for a minute, before giving her a thin smile. 'I hear you want to join the fighting in Iraq.'

  She‘d frozen halfway through a sit-up as he said, 'If you don‘t mind wearing civilian clothes, I can promise you all the danger you‘ll ever want, and that your work will make a difference.' He‘d won her over with his final words. 'I need you, Morgan.'

  He‘d kept his promise then and always. She could safely leave the kidnappers to him.

  Time to go shopping. But when she rose from the table, her headache went ballistic. Then dizziness hit, a riptide sucking at her consciousness. Dropping back on the chair, she shook her head. Oh, this wasn‘t good at all. Fucking-A, was she going to di
e like that old woman?

  As she staggered into the living room, sweat broke out on her skin like she was in the fucking desert. But her legs crumbled under her, and she hit the floor hard. God! Everything hurt so bad she didn‘t know what to hold first. Just shoot me now.

  'Lord, look down on Thy Servant! Bad things have come to pass.

  There is no heat in the midday sun, nor health in the wayside grass.

  His bones are full of an old disease—his torments run and increase.

  Lord, make haste with Thy Lightnings and grant him a quick release!'

  After a minute of not moving, she groaned and tried to push to her feet. Her stomach turned over, bile flooding her mouth. Werecat bites—not for the faint of heart.

  Chapter Three

  Well, well, well, Alec thought as he strolled down Main Street. Here"s an unanticipated gift.

  In front of the bookstore was the pretty woman he‘d almost managed to arrest last week. Not being in any particular hurry, Alec stuck his hands in his pockets and leaned against a wrought-iron streetlight to enjoy the view. Seemed like that long, wavy brown hair was just begging for a man to bury his fingers in it. The silky strands rippled against her tightly rounded butt, something else that would fill his hands nicely.

  The same breeze ruffling her hair brought him the scent of illness, a tad acrid, yet sweet. So she had been sick. He‘d wondered...

  He‘d driven by her house now and then over the past few days. Leaves had built up on the hood of her car. If the lights inside hadn‘t moved from room to room, he‘d have worried she‘d died in there, so it was a relief to see her, not only alive, but out and about.

  Yet, even as she innocently perused the bookstore display, she made his instincts twitch like a mouse scenting a wolf in the underbrush. He‘d even run her name last week, but no priors had popped up. Hell, nothing had come up. So if she‘d been beaten up by a husband or a mugging, she hadn‘t reported it.

  Then, again, maybe she wasn‘t innocently perusing, maybe she was casing the joint, planning to break in. Make off with all of Thorson‘s cherished classics, or even the steamy romances favored by ninety-year-old Miss Evangeline.

  Couldn‘t allow that kind of crime in his quiet town. As a dedicated officer of the law, I must take action immediately. Pushing off the pole, he wandered closer, still enjoying the sight of her backside, at least until he looked up.

  She was studying his reflection in the bookstore window. Herne help him. How long had she watched him ogle her ass? Maybe she‘d just caught sight of him?

  She turned and the decidedly unfriendly expression on her face killed that hope.

  Brazen it out? Good afternoon and I couldn"t help admiring your ass? Unfortunately, she didn‘t seem to be a female who‘d appreciate that type of honesty. He held his hand out instead.

  'We meet again, Ms. Waverly. How have you been?'

  She didn‘t look any more thrilled this time than she had the last time they‘d met. This outright dislike could give a man a complex.

  'Good afternoon, Sheriff.' She didn‘t answer his question, obviously hoping to stop the conversation dead. Now, that might work...if he was anyone but Alec McGregor, renowned for never being at a loss for words.

  He tilted his head slightly. 'It‘s good you didn‘t say, ‗I‘ve been fine‘, since you don‘t seem like you‘ve been fine at all.' And that wasn‘t bullshit. She looked like hell. Her pallor had turned her dusky complexion almost yellow. She had dark circles under her eyes. Lost a few pounds too, leaving her high cheekbones standing out like boulders in a meadow. 'Have you been ill?'

  Despite the annoyance in her eyes, she gave an inaudible sigh and answered, 'I apparently picked up some flu bug. This is my first day out of bed.'

  'Now, that‘s a shame. New to the town and you probably didn‘t have anyone you could call to help you out.' He‘d seen no other cars in front of the rental house.

  'I managed,' she said, briefly and added an insincere, 'Thank you.' She turned her gaze back to the store, obviously hoping he‘d take the hint and leave.

  A pity he wasn‘t skilled in the nuances of polite society. He leaned against the plate glass.

  'You planning to break into the bookstore now? Continue your life of crime?'

  'Listen, I wasn‘t breaking in. I rented that house, remember?'

  He scratched his neck, worked up a befuddled look. 'Oh. I forgot.'

  That might have been a curse she muttered under her breath before saying, 'Well, since you‘re here, I wanted to buy a book—and what kind of business name is this anyway? BOOKS.'

  Alec grinned. 'Thorson, the owner, doesn‘t believe in fancying things up.'

  'No shit.' She scowled. 'None of the lights are on inside. It‘s three o‘clock on a Saturday.

  I‘ve heard of short business hours, but this is ridiculous.' The edge of annoyance in her voice was sharp as a blade.

  'The owner‘s out of town for a couple weeks. Need a book, do you?'

  'Well, duh,' she muttered. 'Yes. I like to read. Any suggestions?'

  'Weeell,' Alec drawled, just to see sparks glint in those big brown eyes like solar flares that‘d fry anything in their path. The woman needed to mellow out a tad, or her pretty hair would turn gray. 'The library is open Monday through Friday.'

  'That doesn‘t exactly help me today.'

  'Baty‘s Grocery usually has a few books.'

  'Five—count‘em—five paperbacks off the best-seller list, and I‘ve already read four and wouldn‘t read the last if you paid me.' She stopped and considered. 'Not even then.'

  'Now, Seattle would have a dozen bookstores—'

  'My Jeep‘s dead.'

  'Not been a good day for you, has it?' he said, sympathetically.

  'Hell, it‘s been a crappy week,' she exploded. Then she laughed—the first time—and his heart slammed right up against his ribcage. Damn, but there was something about her that yanked at him.

  'The auto shop will have my car running by tomorrow.' She sighed. 'But I don‘t have a television or anything to read. I can survive without a TV, but no books? I may die.'

  'Have a dead body cluttering up my streets? Can‘t be tolerated.' He could only wish that needy expression had been for his attention, dammit.

  He moved to stand beside her, unsurprised when she unconsciously stiffened. The girl had rigid lines defining her personal space. Too rigid. Leaning forward, his shoulder rubbed pleasantly against hers as he pointed toward the end of Main, then up-slope to the Wild Hunt.

  'My brother lives above his tavern and has several walls of books. If you sweet-talked him,'—

  he fixed her with a stern look—'not, I add, like the poor effort you‘ve shown me so far, you might wangle a loan of a couple of books.'

  'Thank you, Sheriff,' she said, surprised, but sincere. Then she smiled and added in a sultry, way too suggestive tone, 'I‘ll try my best to sweet-talk your brother.'

  'Oh, hell,' he muttered. Why the hell had he scheduled an interview in five minutes?

  Her laugh was low and throaty as amusement turned her copper-colored eyes to gold.

  He was a dead man.

  *

  Vic stopped just inside the Wild Hunt Tavern to let her eyes adjust from the bright afternoon light. After a moment, she could see the round oak tables scattered across the wide room. An alcove off to the right contained a couple of pool tables and a jukebox with the usual garish lights. Two couches sat in front of a massive fireplace on the left wall. A long dark bar ran the length of the back with a mirror behind it. Automatically she catalogued escape routes: picture windows at front and sides, the back wall to the left had a doorway to the restrooms and kitchen and exit.

  Not a bad place. No blood stains were visible on the dark hardwood floor, the jukebox was playing soft country music, and the smell of beer vied with the appealing scent of roasted peanuts.

  Trying to ignore the ache in her knee, she strolled past a center table seating three rednecks, probably the drivers
for the rigs taking up most of the parking lot. Two men were playing pool.

  A young college-aged couple by the fireplace held hands and talked quietly, totally enmeshed in their own little world.

  Vic frowned and checked the room again. Where was the sheriff‘s brother? Or a waitress at least. She slid onto a wooden bar seat. And waited a full minute. Then grabbed a handful of peanuts as a reward for being patient and all that shit. But she owed the deceptively easygoing sheriff a thank you for giving her an excuse to meet a local. It didn‘t usually take long to get to know who had information in a town, and who liked to talk. This was an excellent start.

  As she cracked peanuts and practiced patience, two of the truckers tossed several dollar bills onto their table and left.

  Vic drummed her fingers on the bar. Didn‘t anyone work in this joint?

  Finally a youngster hurried out from the kitchen, wiping her hands on a white apron worn over faded jeans. Sun-colored hair and a British Isle‘s complexion, and—Vic frowned—no way was this kid over twenty-one. The girl checked the room, stopping to talk with the people by the fireplace

  The remaining trucker, a big man with a florid face, pushed himself to his feet with a grunt of effort. After a furtive glance at the underage waitress, he picked up the money left on the table and lurched toward the door.

  The girl looked at the table, and her mouth dropped open. 'Hey! You took my tips!' She ran after the trucker and circled to stand in front of him, a chihuahua confronting a rottweiler.

  He glared. 'Didn‘t do nothin‘.Get outta my way, kid.'

  'Give me back my money.' Hands on hips, the girl had the bravado of a child who‘d never been seriously hurt.

  That kid was about to learn a really hard lesson. Vic scowled as she eased off the bar stool and crossed the room. And how dumb was this? She hadn‘t even healed up from the last fight.

  The bastard actually swung at the girl.

  Almost too late, Vic slammed her forearm into his, knocking his punch to one side. The kid squeaked in shock and back-pedaled quickly. ‘Bout time.

  So. Stand down and let him go? Naw, letting the asshole steal from a baby didn‘t sit right.