Hour of the Lion Read online

  When they reached the corner of Cumberland Street, Vicki looked up at him, her eyes a golden-brown in the moonlight. Would they brighten even further with passion? 'You really don‘t have to walk me home,' she protested again. 'I‘m fine. Shouldn‘t you head for the jail to take care of those men?'

  'I‘m in no particular hurry.' Alec stuffed his hands in his pockets to keep them out of trouble. 'They‘ll be more polite after the alcohol has worn off.'

  Muttering, 'I doubt it,' she started down the sidewalk. A breeze ruffled her hair as fallen leaves whispered across the pavement in an autumn song. 'Alec?'

  'Um-hmmm?' Her skin was a flawless ivory in the pale light of the moon, and the need to touch was almost unendurable.

  'Why did those two men want to kill me? I‘ve never seen them before.'

  Oh, this wasn‘t right—beautiful, deadly, and smart too? The Mother had been very generous with Her gifts. 'Well, now, seems like they‘d just had too much to drink. You‘ve seen bar fights before.'

  'Alec, you‘re blowing smoke up—um, you know full well that wasn‘t a normal bar fight. I didn‘t do anything to get them upset, and neither did the three college girls.' A frown line appeared between her pretty arching brows, made him want to rub it away.

  'You really shouldn‘t worry—'

  'The only time I‘ve seen anything like that was when a bunch of White Pride guys started a fight with a black soldier. They wanted to kill him.'

  This was too close for comfort. 'What happened? Did they succeed?'

  'Against a Marine? Get real.' Her husky laugh was as compelling as a gurgling spring on a dry day. 'But Alec, those men tonight had the same look. Hatred, but not for what I did, but because of something I represent. Something...hmmm.' Her voice trailed off.

  'What?' Worry crawled up his spine like a line of ants, and then he relaxed. She couldn‘t possibly know anything about Daonain. 'So, where did you learn to fight like that?' he asked.

  Time to yank back control of this conversation.

  'Oh, my daddy insisted his little girl be able to protect herself, especially since we traveled so much.' The fact she let him change the subject was a tad worrying. Like watching an alley cat deliberately letting a mouse go. What did she know?

  She resumed walking. 'I‘ve had years of karate lessons.'

  He could smell the scent of honesty, or rather the lack of nervousness indicating a lie. But she was, perhaps, not telling all the truth. She was obviously accustomed to full-out fighting. He scowled and bit back the need to push harder. It had been a long evening, and even if she‘d enjoyed the fight, she‘d collected a few knocks. But tomorrow, all bets were off.

  They walked up to the house and stopped at the porch steps.

  'Thanks for the company,' she said.

  'The pleasure was mine.' He gave in to the urge and ran his hand over her skin—every bit as velvety as it looked. When he threaded his fingers in her long silky hair, her breathing picked up.

  'Do you want to come in?' she asked.

  Yes. 'No.' Somehow he managed the lie with a straight face. A noise made him look up to see a sprite, awakened by their conversation, scowl down from the tree. 'No, Vixen. If I come in, we‘ll be indulging in some serious physical activity, and I think you‘re a tad bruised for that.'

  Her mouth dropped open.

  He stepped closer, bathed himself in her feminine fragrance and the growing scent of arousal, his and hers. How could she have the smell of a human…yet almost like a shifter? What strange chemistry produced that?

  Once more, he drew his fingers across her uninjured cheek and down, feeling the hammer of her pulse in her neck. His control slipped. He curved his arm around her firm waist and pulled her close enough to slide his hand up under her shirt. Under her bra.

  'Oh God.' She held herself stiff for one second, then melted against him, all lush female.

  Nuzzling the fine hair at her temple, he cupped her breast, so firm and soft at the same time, and rubbed his thumb over its tightly puckered nipple. When her breath hissed in, he nearly laid her down and took her right there in the grass.

  Instead, he released her—although it felt as if he was ripping his insides out—and brushed his lips across hers. Teasing, light. Her mouth was tender, full, enticing as she opened to him.

  Her hands slid up his chest, twined around his neck and she pulled him—the female had muscles—against her. His sex pressed against her stomach even as her breasts flattened on his chest, and the sensations shot through him like he‘d fallen full into Gathering time.

  He ran his hands down her back and took one sweet ass-cheek in each palm. 'Herne, I‘ve been wanting my hands right here since I met you,' he whispered, squeezing gently, feeling a quiver course through her body. He angled the kiss—and bumped her cheek.

  She winced, hissed in pain.

  'Oh, hell.' His fingers did not want to relinquish their prey, but he let go and gripped her shoulders to move her away. 'You‘re hurt. And this is not the time.'

  And not the person. Herne help him, he was charging straight for misery, no doubt about it.

  She wasn‘t a shifter, dammit. Daonain weren‘t all that attracted to humans, so why now? This must not happen.

  'When is a good time?' Her voice was throaty, like she‘d just woken up, just had sex, just—

  He gritted out, 'Go. Now.'

  'Oh, fine.'

  If she stuck out that delectable bottom lip, he‘d have to bite it.

  She merely huffed and turned away. But then, as she moved past him, she stroked one hand up the front of his jeans.

  Vicious, evil female. He tightened so hard he almost groaned. Gritting his teeth, he watched her waltz up the steps and into her house.

  And then, somehow, he managed to walk back to the jail.

  Chapter Seven

  The following Monday, Vic watched a black-tail deer spring up the winding mountain trail to disappear into the pines. She yawned and shook her head. Not much sleep, thanks to how the sexy sheriff had said good night. The way he kissed, the feel of his hard hands, even his smell—

  God, she‘d wanted him. Good thing he‘d kept his head. Not smart, Sergeant, wanting to have sex with someone in the target population.

  What bothered her now was that this afternoon, she‘d see Calum. Over the past few weeks, she‘d come to know him. He had a dry humor that didn‘t come close to masking that lethal aura of power and authority and intimidating self-confidence. The way he studied her, seeing more than she wanted to show. He was as honorable—and protective—as Alec. In an entirely different, but frightening way, he turned her on just as much. That was against the unwritten code—lusting after brothers, and so not like her. It was unreal.

  Almost as unreal as her stroll through the woods. Sighing, she watched a little tree-person run along a pine branch, pause to stare down at her, and disappear.

  Vic planted her butt on a convenient log and frowned. She‘d seen four tree-things on her walk. Or, maybe three—would a tree-thingie be considered the same as a bush-thingie? The bush one had looked smaller, its long fingers tipped with claws that had snagged her hair as she‘d pushed past some blackberry bushes.

  Her eyes widened. No damn way—as a youngster, when blackberry thorns had caught her hair and clothing—had it really been a bizarre bush-person?

  Nah. Even as a child, she‘d have spotted any bush-thingie grabbing her clothes. They seemed to live just in this area. Why this mountain was so populated with strange creatures she didn‘t know, but dammit, she‘d figure it out...starting with the shifters.

  Damn shifters. It would be convenient if one would obligingly pop out and say, “Hi” . She glanced around hopefully.

  No luck. Then again, she hadn‘t really expected to find a fuzzy werebeast slinking past.

  She‘d just needed to get out of town for a while. Those two guys who‘d attacked her. She had to wonder if they‘d done it because of her...would it be her species? Would shifters be considered a separa
te race or species?

  Yeah, she bet the two drunks were shifters. They‘d been too fast and strong, especially the old guy who should be in a wheelchair instead of trying to put his boot in her gut. Rising, she headed toward the sound of trickling water. After two sunny days, the drying pine needles underfoot crackled slightly as they released a tangy scent. It was so quiet she could hear the branches overhead rustle in the wind.

  The desert seemed a long way away. But there were some nasty similarities. In Iraq, the question was: is that person a terrorist? Do they have a bomb underneath their clothing? Here, she had to ask: does this person turn into something with claws and whiskers in their spare time?

  Alec had scratch scars across his face. Did that mean he‘d met a shifter…or was one? What would he do if she asked him about Lachlan‘s grandfather?

  She shook her head. No, don"t bring it up with him for now. She already had suspects to stake out. Yeah, a couple of human-hating...things who in animal form would probably devour her for breakfast. After biting her into tiny pieces.

  God, Lachlan‘s request was so not fair.

  Thinking of fairness, what was all this ‗ owing‘ business anyway? These people sure had weird customs. She‘d have to ask Calum before they met her two attackers today. Breathing in a moist green scent, she discovered a tiny stream almost hidden by underbrush. She knelt and dipped her hand in the icy cold water. Such a pretty place, maybe she should— Wait. She stared at her knees. I knelt? When had the pain in her knee disappeared?

  Slowly, she rose to her feet and touched her leg. Rubbed her knee. No pain. She did a snap kick, a side kick, and lunged, putting all her weight on it. No agony, no weakness. Healed. She was healed!

  'Hooyah!' She did a victory dance from one side of the clearing to the other. A second later, she whipped out her cell phone. The reception was barely adequate, but she dialed anyway.

  'Wells.' Her boss wasn‘t one to waste words.

  'Sir. It‘s Morgan. I‘m ready to return to duty.'

  'Sergeant.' His voice warmed. Now that was a shock. 'You believe you are fully recovered?'

  'Yes, sir.'

  'Not that I would ever doubt your word, Sergeant, but I need a doctor‘s confirmation. Are you still in Washington?'

  'Yes, sir.'

  She heard scratching sounds, shuffling papers. 'I‘ll send the paperwork for a physical to Lewis-McChord. See Doctor...ah, yes, Dr. Reinhardt. I will accept no other physician‘s okay, is that clear?'

  Hell, another one of his unbribable people. 'Clear, sir. I‘ll call him tomorrow.'

  'Good enough. As to the matter you‘d mentioned before—' More paper shuffling. 'Yes.

  The ex-marine named Swane. I‘m back in the States now, and I‘ve started some inquiries. Do you have any additional information for me?'

  This was her chance to bring up shapeshifters... She remembered Lachlan‘s terrified face and sighed. I gave my word. 'No, sir. That‘s it.'

  'Then, I‘ll talk to you after I have Dr. Reinhardt‘s report in hand.'

  'Thank you, sir.'

  Her grin faded as she closed the phone. Once again she‘d dodged telling Wells about the shifters. Dammit, she needed to return to Baghdad where the issues were clear and she knew her ass from a hole in the ground. And where she wasn‘t getting sucked into people‘s lives and lusting after civilians.

  But her mission wasn‘t over. She had to find Lachlan‘s grandfather. And be certain the werebeasties posed no danger to normal, unfurry people, or no matter what she‘d promised Lachlan, she‘d turn over the investigation to Wells. Her promise to the American people came first. Hell.

  As she scowled, she saw something skitter across a branch, then a tiny face peered down at her. Another of those tree-thingies? She pointed a finger at it. 'Whatever you fuckers are, do not—I repeat—do not follow me to Baghdad.'

  *

  Joe Thorson squinted against the bright afternoon light as he stepped out of his bookstore.

  His twisted knee burned like fire, and the massive purple bruise on his jaw had turned shaving into a hellish exercise.

  He deserved every bit of it.

  Nodding at Al Baty who waited on the sidewalk, Thorson eased onto the ironwork bench by the display window.

  'You look like you got caught in an avalanche.' Al took the matching chair. He grinned, fingered his chin. 'The human packs a punch.'

  'Does she,' Thorson said in a dry voice.

  'At least—'

  'Shut up.' His soul felt tattered with humiliation. What had he been thinking to attack a female? No matter the species, it was wrong.

  He waited silently as Calum and the human strolled down from the tavern. As they approached, Thorson stood and waited. And watched, noting how Calum‘s eyes darkened, his posture turning protective. Surely the Cosantir hadn‘t formed an attachment to this...human.

  Thorson turned his gaze on the female. Pretty enough, he supposed, but lacking—his eyes narrowed—actually, she wasn‘t lacking. She had a werecat‘s grace although not the wild scent of one who‘d run the forests. He could see why she might, possibly, have attracted Calum. Still, any relationship with a human would be as doomed as an air sylph trying to mate a fire salamander.

  'Calum,' he said, nodding to the Cosantir, then grudgingly tilted his head to the female.

  'Miss.'

  She was silent, an unusual trait in a human. One to be appreciated.

  'Victoria, this is Albert Baty. He owns the grocery store,' Calum said. 'Joe Thorson owns Books.'

  Her gaze was cool, her voice husky. 'Great name for a bookstore.' No tedious, pleased to meet you, or how are you niceties from her.

  'Have you suggestions for reciprocity?' Calum asked. Strictly business was the Cosantir, especially when something raised his ire. He wasn‘t one a shifter wanted to rile up. Although he‘d never wanted the God-given title, he‘d led them with wisdom…and power that had become legendary.

  Al stepped forward, his gut leading his chest by a good few inches. He needed to get into the forest more, run some of that flab off. 'First, Miss Waverly, I‘d like to say that I‘m sorry. I was drunk...and stupid.'

  Her eyes narrowed. 'I‘ve dealt with stupid drunks before. Never seen one try to knife a person in the back.'

  Al cringed like a whipped dog. Thorson barely repressed a snarl.

  The grocer‘s face turned red enough to match the broken veins in his nose. 'I-I.'

  The woman sighed. 'Do me a favor. If you want to drink, leave the weapons at home.'

  'Yes, miss. I will,' Al said.

  By Herne, if Al had been in wolf form, his tail would be under his belly. Thorson really needed to rethink his friends, or, at least, avoid submissive werewolves.

  Al continued, 'My thought to balance the debt is free meat from the grocery for you as long as you live in Cold Creek.'

  The human‘s eyes widened. She glanced at Calum.

  The Cosantir considered, then nodded. 'A fair exchange. Let it be so.' He turned to Thorson, his pupils very close to totally black. Not a good sign. He obviously held Thorson to blame for the fight.

  'My apologies also, Miss Waverly,' Thorson said stiffly. He wouldn‘t—couldn‘t—crawl like his dog of a friend. Not for a human, even a female one.

  She tilted her head, studying him. 'Why do you hate me?'

  The question came like a slash to the jugular. Because you"re one of them who killed my boy.

  Human. Images of Lachlan flooded his memory. The day the boy arrived, his mother dead, his little face so white. Giggling under a pile of books dislodged when he‘d tried to climb a bookcase. His wonder at his first trawsfur . His body lifeless on a steel table. Killed by humans.

  Thorson choked on hatred. His hands closed into fists, tingling with the beginning of trawsfur.

  Calum pulled the human back a step and moved in front of her. His eyes, black as night, met Thorson‘s, and power edged his voice. 'No, Joe.'

  The impending change fled; the anger did not. L
ips closed over a snarl, Thorson turned his head away and struggled for control. He heard Calum speaking...'lost his grandson.

  Grieving...not himself.' And hearing, he regained his composure. No one apologized for him.

  He turned back to the female. 'I‘m sorry.' Her face was whiter than the snow-capped peaks, her eyes shocked. Did grandchildren not die where she came from?

  'I… Fucking A, you‘re…' She swallowed and raised her voice and her chin both. 'I‘m sorry for your loss, Mr. Thorson.'

  'Thank you.' He inhaled, his chest sore from more than the fight. 'Calum. I haven‘t thought of a way to achieve balance. Since you know the fem—ah, lady, have you suggestions?'

  'I have an idea that might serve,' Calum said smoothly. The faint smile on his face had the hackles on Thorson‘s neck rising. Last time he‘d seen that smile, Calum had crippled the recipient. 'I would suggest you give Miss Waverly free rein in your bookstore.' Calum glanced at Al and added, 'As long as she resides in Cold Creek.'

  The Cosantir had lost his mind. How could free books compensate for Thorson‘s attempt on her life? But by Herne, the female clasped her hands together, and the look on her face could only be described as bliss.

  Calum raised an eyebrow at Thorson.

  An unfamiliar human underfoot in his domain? The townsfolk he knew were bad enough.

  Thorson choked a little, and then spit out the traditional answer. 'The balance is fair. Accepted.'

  Engulfed in the aroma of books, leather, new paper, and a hint of dust, Vic was unable to keep the smile off her face. She‘d begun to wonder if the place was ever open. Bookstore withdrawal—who would suspect such a thing existed? But she‘d get her fix today. The store was even better than she‘d hoped with a great selection of new and used books, including military sci-fi.

  Joe Thorson had taken up position behind the small counter, watching her, his expression somewhere between amused and furious. Furious wasn‘t good. This probably wasn‘t the smartest thing she‘d done, entering a pissed-off panther‘s lair.

  Then again, this lair had books.

  And she didn‘t blame him for attacking her, not after Calum‘s explanation. The old man had to be Lachlan‘s gramps, and if he‘d learned how his grandson had died, it was no wonder he hated humans.