by J. A. Saare
PERFECT DARK
THE COMPANY OF WOLVES
J.A. SAARE
Perfect Dark Copyright ©2019
All rights reserved.
Cover Art Denise Worisch Cover Books ©2019
Perfect Dark First Edition 2019
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination, or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entire coincidental.
No part of this book may be scanned, uploaded, or distributed via the internet or any other means, electronic or print, without permission from J.A. Saare. Warning: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. Copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to five years in federal prison and a fine of $250,000. Please purchase only authorized electronic or print editions, and do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted material.
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Dedication
To my superhero before superheroes.
Dad, I love and miss you.
Contents
PERFECT DARK
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
LOOK FOR THESE TITLES BY J.A. SAARE
Chapter One
Sickness has a scent. The heady musk of illness is heavy and hovers over its victims like an invisible cloak. Death, while impossible to predict, remained a hidden promise. Upon arrival, it was impossible to deny. I tried to push aside the putrid smell as I inhaled and came to awareness. I nearly gagged, overwhelmed by the stench of alcohol, sgoaline, blood, and bleach.
Death surrounded me, but I wasn’t dead.
Not yet.
The past rushed back, thoughts tumbling through my mind. Another scent—one I’d never forgotten—zinged through my nostrils and went straight to my head. For a moment, I wondered if I had died. Maybe this was the fate I’d be given following my demise. Then I realized I’d never be that lucky.
Unlike death—which signaled the end—life didn’t have guarantees.
I considered feigning sleep, concentrating not on the unexpected earthy scent I knew all too well, but rather on the strong and intrusive aroma of sterile fluids and bedpans overflowing with bodily waste. The world was less complex without the complication of pack. Unfortunately, I couldn’t hide behind weighted lids forever. I was ousted, thrust back into the open. Revealed as exactly who and what I was.
Loup-garou. Shifter. Lycanthrope.
Werewolf.
The hustle and bustle of nurses speaking privately with doctors and families was muffled, the clicks and staccato of multiple heels and plastic soles drowning them out. I tried to piece together the block of time I’d lost, unable to recall anything other than the bloody massacre that followed my shift during the robbery. The noises, sounds, and combined scents told me I had landed in the hospital, which made sense. I’d taken multiple rounds of buckshot and ammo to various parts of the body in the chaos. My right leg twitched involuntarily and I grimaced, biting back the yelp that threatened to break free. The dull ache was centered in my upper thigh, radiating from the bone.
Then, I remembered. I’d also broken a leg.
"Raven, are you in pain?" His voice hadn’t changed in seven years, and neither had my reaction to the alluring and husky southern baritone. The honest answer to his query was yes, but allowing Noah Cameron to know I was in absolute agony wouldn’t do.
I answered simply, "I’ll live."
"Still stubborn," he muttered gruffly.
I refrained from denying or endorsing the sentiment. My thigh was throbbing mercilessly, and with the necessary movement of my diaphragm to speak, my chest decided to protest as well.
"I’ll get the nurse," he said in a gentler tone.
I heard shuffling footsteps, the squeaky cackle of rubber soles on linoleum, and Noah calling out, "She’s awake, and she’s in pain." A loud squawk followed, footsteps approaching rather than departing. I winced at the sharp shrill of metal chair legs scraping across the floor. Taking a quick look, I saw Noah had taken a place beside me. His clothing rustled as he took a seat at my side.
"What you did was completely reckless—brave and ballsy, without question—and absolutely foolish."
Although speaking hurt, I managed to wheeze. "How is the little girl?"
He released a heavy and uncertain sigh. "She received the vaccine within the first hour of contamination."
The relief that came courtesy of his answer was short lived as my thoughts drifted back to the hours I’d spent in terror and fear. The bank wasn’t crowded when I'd darted inside. Only a handful of people waited in line to withdraw funds on a bright, cloudless, and otherwise mundane Wednesday afternoon. I'd gone there during my lunch break to cash my last check.
There'd been no need to see the ski masks obscuring the faces of the men that entered to know they were trouble. My nose caught the bitter tang of gunpowder the instant they came through the doors. Everyone was forced to the floor, and they instructed the cashiers to empty the registers. Somehow the police managed to get wind of the robbery. They'd converged on the building and trapped everyone inside.
When the agreed upon deadline for transportation wasn’t met, the men turned their weapons on a child. They'd ripped a girl that was seven or eight years old from the protective shelter of her shrieking mother’s arms. They said several things the moment they turned on one another, but one threat I heard loud and clear. I had come directly from the leader, who'd covered himself in camouflage.
"I’ll cut out her heart and throw it through the door."
He reeked of stale cigarettes, body odor, fear, and desperation. I knew he meant exactly what he'd said. I could hear the sincerity in his words. I could also sense the finality of what he was going to do. The little girl would suffer before she died. The way he intended to kill her wouldn’t be pleasant.
The change had come quickly, my instinctual drive to protect overpowering the self-preservation that came from my more docile human-half. The terrified victims were focused on the child being manhandled by a crazed lunatic with a hunting knife. They'd been too aware of the danger he represented to worry about the one among them who wasn’t entirely as she seemed.
They hadn’t seen me transforming, which gave me an advantage.
I’d lunged for the man, teeth and claws bared. He placed the little girl into my path, shielding his body with her tiny frame. I’d lunged for his arm but inadvertently pierced her soft hand with my teeth, breaking tender skin in the process. The images were muddled and disjointed—flashes of blood, breaking bone, and gunfire—mixed with the recollection of excruciating pain.
"Shh," Noah soothed, reminding me of just how perceptive he was to my emotions. "It’s over and done. You did what you had to do. The PBI wasn’t thrilled to discover a rogue wolf was living packless and unaccounted for in New Y
ork, but Michael managed create a story they accepted and smoothed things over. With the circumstances involved and the lives you saved, they are willing to make certain allowances."
I groaned.
If the PBI was involved and Michael was here, my little transgression was national news. When vampires came out to the public fifty years ago, it was romanticized. Eternal life by way of drinking blood was considered sensual and highly erotic. Ten years later werewolves decided to come clean, and shortly thereafter an epidemic called AIDS struck the nation. Vampires lost their appeal, becoming scapegoats for a virus that killed indiscriminately, and werewolves became the next big threat Uncle Sam needed to contain. Preternatural creatures were the latest and greatest global menace, something that needed to be monitored. Fittingly, the Preternatural Bureau of Investigation was created. A branch of the government intended to keep supernatural kind under wraps and, more importantly, under control.
I sensed someone enter the room. "I have your Demerol," a woman informed me in a brisk, unfriendly tone.
A throaty sound penetrated the air—Noah’s growl.
I felt him pressing closer to the bed, the heat of his body and his familiar, woodsy scent filled my nose. The wolf rose from beneath Noah's skin and wrapped around me like a comforting blanket, surrounding me in waves of reassurance and security. I didn’t open my eyes to see if the threatening noise did the job after she’d administered the drug, uncaring if the woman who reeked of disdain and fear walked or ran from the room. It had been so long since I’d felt the reassurance of my own kind, and this was Noah.
As if he sensed my need for touch, he draped his palm across my forearm. My anxiety and unease settled with the contact of his skin upon mine, the raging beast within me contented and soothed. Wolves responded to the touch of their own kind. It was needed and oftentimes welcome.
"We’re taking you home."
"No." I swallowed and cleared my throat, grateful for whatever concoction was zinging through my veins to dull the pain. "This is where I belong."
He exhaled wearily and released my arm. "That’s non-negotiable, for numerous reasons. It was Michael’s pack you deserted, and because of that, he’s being held accountable. I don’t have to tell you what that means."
I stifled another groan.
Michael Preston was one of the oldest werewolves existing in modern day, an alpha of one of the two packs located in Rhea County, Tennessee, and one of the few werewolves who spoke openly about what we were. He was also the United States official pack representative, appearing at summits and briefings on behalf of all the packs in the Continental US. I wasn’t surprised the PBI contacted him after my rampage. When wolves went rogue, he was the one who disposed of them.
But perhaps more importantly, Michael was a close personal friend of my father; the long standing beta of Michael's pack. It was probably the only reason—aside from Noah—I wasn’t being shipped to an unmarked grave.
I licked my parched lips, hoping they wouldn't crack as I spoke. "I’ll contact the alpha in Manchester and make arrangements. I’m sure he can work one more into his pack."
Noah’s bitter laugh was a sound I remembered well. "Still holding a grudge."
Seven years is a hell of a long time to loathe someone, especially when you once loved him. Still, he was right. I was holding on to a grudge, one that sent me hundreds of miles away from home.
The familiar scent of piston grease, oil, and orange scented GOJO hand cleaner encouraged me to make the effort to pry my eyes open. The light from the high wattage bulbs overhead burned my retinas, scalding the shaded surface, and I had to blink back tears. The corkboard ceiling slowly came into focus, dirty white squares with brown indentions hidden within. I rotated my head on the pillow, my nose piloting my face toward the calming fragrance wafting through the doorway.
Another growl came from Noah, this one deep and threatening. His voice echoed the sentiment, possessive as ever. "You won’t even look at me, but you welcome him."
Goading Noah was stupid.
From the moment I'd arrived to live with my father some twelve-years ago, Noah all but staked his claim, warning everyone in Michael’s pack I was off limits. Of course, I hadn't known that. I didn't discover the lengths Noah was willing to go to ensure I accepted him as a mate until much later. He and his wolf had been robbed of my closeness for seven years—a lifetime for a male who'd found his other half—and only three of those years had been agreed upon.
I chose the safe route: feigned submission. "Please, Noah."
The soft plea didn’t have the desired effect. The painful prickling of energy increased, the power of his beast wafting off him as the growl became louder. Noah was alpha and dominant to a fault. He wanted more than my submission; he wanted my total acquiescence and compliance.
"Damn it," I huffed weakly, giving him what he wanted by turning my head.
Time hadn’t changed much, but then, it didn’t in regard to werewolves. He was still unjustly breathtaking—built like a NFL running back in his prime—tall, lean, and muscular. His blond hair was stylish, with long layers on the top that bled into shorter, darker strands along the back. His dark blue eyes with glowing silver flecks had a way of reaching past his gaze to stare right into the soul. A darker shade of blond covered his squared jaw and surrounded his full lips, the shadow giving him a rugged and devastatingly handsome visage.
The growling subsided, and the silver embedded in his irises slowly dulled and faded. The burning tingle against my skin eased. I wasn’t sure if he could see just how much pain I’d held on to in the last seven years, if he could smell my fatigue and exhaustion, or if he was experiencing a rare moment of guilt for being the cause of it.
He maintained the eye contact, voice steady. "I’ll give you privacy, but I should warn you. Lucas and Brianna are posted at the exits on the floor, and Michael is driving over as soon as he’s finished with the agent in charge of your case."
He stood, and I severed eye contact, my focus drifting down his immaculately pressed dress shirt and black slacks. He’d always been beautiful yet deadly. A man I craved like no other.
"Lucas and Brianna?"
"Yes," he replied. "You know what that means."
Lucas and Brianna—the gruesome twosome—had tagged along as insurance. My case was definitely national news. When you needed to call in the big guns, it could only mean one thing.
Death threats.
◆◆◆
Steven breezed into the room just as Noah stormed out. Steven was slightly shorter and bulkier, but his body was equally impressive. It was the result of hard work and long hours spent sweating inside his car shop. He was dressed in garage clothes, but they were surprisingly clean. The succulent freshness of lilac static sheets indicated they’d come straight from the dryer. His dark brown hair was messy—the long strands along the front and crown slightly tangled and windblown—but his jaw and cheekbones were smooth from a recent shave.
A person would never know a genius mind lay hidden beneath the mechanic façade, and he liked it that way. He'd worked as stock broker for years before we met, investing wisely and amassing an exorbitant amount in savings. Now he made a living doing what he enjoyed most, restoring classic muscle cars from the ground up.
I'd met Steven McDaniel shortly after I arrived in New York while sitting in Chloe’s café—which coincidentally, I had also been employed by—four years ago. The friendship wasn’t intentional as werewolves and humans don’t mix well by design, but occurred because each of us saw in the other what we needed at the time. He was recently widowed, having lost his wife and infant daughter in an automobile accident. I was a young girl fresh off the train, without friends or family.
The connection had been immediate.
He didn’t discover my carefully hidden secret until two years later. One night the fan belt on his ‘67 Camaro snapped, leaving him stranded a few blocks from my neighborhood. He'd decided to walk the short distance to my home instead of flagg
ing someone down, guided along the way by the glorious light of the full moon.
When I didn’t answer his knock, he'd used the key hidden inside a ceramic flower pot to gain entrance. I had been caged at the time, locked in the basement on the off chance I couldn’t suppress the urge to go for an extended run through the cityesque burbs of Greenpoint. When he had come into the basement searching for a phonebook in my office, and gazed into my green eyes, it hadn’t taken him long to put two and two together.
He’d known who he’d been looking at.
But he hadn't run.
When I shifted back to my human form, he’d asked a lot of questions. He took the truth surprisingly well, meaning he continued to stick around.
"Dear God, Raven. I’ve been scared out of my mind." He approached the bed slowly, as if he was afraid I wasn’t real. "What were you thinking?"
"Close the door." I tried to sit up and groaned, pain returning swiftly.
His uncertainty and nervousness evaporated. "Hold on. I’ll help you."
He slid the door closed and walked to the bed. After readjusting the pillows, he pressed a button along the side to help me sit upright. I clenched my jaw, biting my bottom lip, nearly drawing blood. All things considered, the damage my body suffered wasn't too extreme. Werewolves healed quickly unless the rounds were silver, and the thug monkeys at the bank were only carrying standard ammo. I would have felt a white hot burn which accompanies silver otherwise.
Reminding me of just how clever he was, Steven walked to the television and turned it on. He flipped through the channels until he came to reruns of The Price is Right. He adjusted the volume to a level that ensured privacy before he walked to the seat vacated by Noah. He looked me over, taking me in from head to foot, and shook his head.
"You look like shit, but it’s an improvement."
I smiled at that. "I feel like shit, and I’m glad to be of service."
"That was some stunt you pulled. It’s all over the news and radio stations."
