A few years after that, Daniel had found himself the unexpected guardian of Pete's three-year-old son Christopher. He'd done his best to be a responsible adult role model, and to give Chris a stable home life. In return, Chris had filled a place in Daniel's otherwise lonely existence, giving Daniel the kind of family life he hadn't experienced since he was a boy himself.
Daniel had been eleven when his widowed mother Sylvie took the leader of the Sandia Mountain Pride as her second mate, and relocated from Kisatchie Pride territory in Baton Rouge to Albuquerque.
After that, she'd been too busy clawing her way up the ranks of her new pride and managing the pride's finances and businesses to pay much attention to her sons. Daniel and Pete had been more-or-less on their own after that.
The sound of footsteps on the walk leading from the driveway yanked Daniel out of his reverie.
The steps were quick and stealthy. And there were three sets of them. All human.
It could have been worse. A lot worse. I guess they figured that they didn't need to make any kind of real effort for an unranked member of the pride.
Daniel snarled silently at this assumption and dared to be hopeful.
This is my lucky night. I might be able to take them all out...or at least hurt them badly enough to give Junior and me a chance to escape.
"Front door secured," someone whispered.
It would have been inaudible to ordinary human hearing, but Daniel, with his enhanced senses, heard every word.
Lizbeth was right! These guys are out for blood.
Once again, he silently thanked her for her for warning him when she had been in danger herself.
An instant later, he heard gentle scraping noises coming from his bedroom window at the back of the house.
Alicia and Tommy are dead. Maybe Lizbeth, too.
Daniel gave the closet door a quick glance, and prayed that Chris would stay quiet. Their combined scents were all over this house, so if the intruders were shifters, they probably wouldn't be able to sniff out the kid's hiding place very quickly if Chris didn't make any noise.
He could only imagine what his nephew must be feeling right now, sitting in utter darkness and hearing the same sounds that Daniel was hearing.
Clicking sounds alerted Daniel to the fact that whoever was at the front door was trying to pick the lock, and not very successfully. The guy at his bedroom window wasn't having much luck, either, especially since he was trying to be stealthy.
Despite his reluctance to own a gun, Daniel took security very seriously. Pretty much the first thing he'd done after moving in here was to change the locks on all the windows and doors, and to reinforce the door frames with metal plates.
This neighborhood was pretty safe, but the burglary rate was high enough that Daniel, who worked long hours at the restaurant, had wanted to keep his place from being an easy target.
"Aw, fuck," whispered the person trying to pick his front door lock. "Asshole has a Medeco lock."
Daniel had bought that lock precisely because it was designed to be pick-proof.
"Then stop fucking with it and just kick the fucking door in before anyone sees us and calls the cops," ordered a second voice, also in a whisper. "Zǔb, how's that window coming along?"
"No luck, boss," came Valentin Zǔb's quiet reply over what sounded like an earbud. "I'm trying not to wake him up."
"Fuck that," replied the boss at Daniel's front door. "Just get in, take care of business, and get outta here before the cops—or anyone else—shows up."
A sound like a short thunderclap followed his words.
Daniel crouched, preparing for the ambush. Adrenaline pounded through his veins and stirred up his cat's predatory instincts,
He knew that the reinforcements he'd installed on his front door would be no match for a shifter's strength.
Two more kicks, and the door, along with the door frame, exploded inward into the hall with an explosive crash. The sound almost covered the sound of Chris's muffled gasp inside the closet.
The night breeze pushed the musky scent of the pair of sabertooth shifters into Daniel's house. He recognized the scents as Aaron Messerzahn and his buddy Nikola Lakeĭ.
At the same moment, Daniel heard the screech of metal as the third shifter pulled the wrought iron grill away from the master bedroom window. Glass shattered, followed by the quick, thwat-thwat of a gun with a silencer firing two gunshots into the heaped comforter and pillows on his bed.
Okay, at least one of them has a gun. Probably all of them do.
Bad. Very bad.
Maybe these guys weren't as idiotically overconfident as Daniel had first hoped.
No time to think now.
Daniel released the iron control he normally kept over his cat. Go! Kill!
His cat didn't need to be told twice.
Before Daniel had even completed the thought, he was leaping from behind the breakfast bar with a loud roar, his claws unsheathed and his huge forepaws reaching for the black-clad invader closest to him.
He barreled into Lakeĭ, the shifter who had kicked down the door, and sent him stumbling backwards through the shattered doorway, right into Messerzahn, who stood behind Lakeĭ.
Both intruders went down hard on the concrete pad of Daniel's porch.
That's when Daniel got his first good look at the pair of them. They were dressed identically in black paramilitary gear, their faces concealed under dark ski masks, but they hadn't been able to hide their scents.
Daniel drew back his paw and hit the shifter closest to him as hard as he could.
"Oh, shi—" Lakeĭ's head snapped back and hit the concrete, hard, as Daniel's razor-sharp claws tore through clothing and skin.
The scent of fresh blood rose through the summer night
Without hesitating, Daniel leaped over the fallen man to reach the second shifter, Messerzahn. He had struggled to a sitting position despite his wheezing and was reaching for the gun that had been knocked out of his hand.
As Daniel's paws landed on the Messerzahn's chest, his cat was already fantasizing how good it would feel to drive his long fangs through his enemy's throat.
And that's when the third shifter, Zǔb, shot Daniel from behind.
Chapter Two – Memorial Day
Grizzly Creek Ranch
Bearpaw Ridge, Idaho
Margaret Einarsson Swanson woke from a disturbing dream of intruders trying to kick down her front door.
As she came awake, her heart pounded and her skin prickled with the pins-and-needles sensation of an impending shift. She blinked and peered around her darkened bedroom, convinced of impending danger.
But everything was quiet and calm, and she realized that she'd been having one of the vivid, hyper-real dreams that had been haunting her for years.
They'd begun when her late husband Ryan had been deployed to Iraq, and for a while, she had been convinced that somehow his experiences were filtering through their mate bond.
Then he was killed in action, but the dreams had continued for another few years before finally fading away.
The feeling of intense alarm shooting through her slowly began to subside. Margaret sighed, rolled over and hit the Off button on her alarm. She knew she wouldn't be able to go back to sleep in the time that remained before her alarm was due to sound at 5:00 a.m.
She might as well go downstairs and get started preparing a hearty ranch breakfast for her guests staying in the pair of rooms she rented as part of the Grizzly Creek Ranch's bed-and-breakfast business. As the ranch's Guest Services Manager, she prided herself in offering her visitors a great start before they headed out to their various activities for the day. And with an extra hour to prepare this morning, she could make cinnamon swirl French toast from scratch.
Her niece-in-law Annabeth had generously shared her recipe for her famous cinnamon rolls, and Margaret had adapted the recipe into a sweet loaf that she sliced and soaked in a mixture of beaten eggs and vanilla before frying them up for her guests.
Keeping herself busy in the kitchen until her first guest awoke and made their way downstairs might help keep her mind off what day it was: the anniversary of Ryan's death.
He'd been just outside of Baghdad city limits when his lightly-armored vehicle hit a roadside IED. None of the five soldiers inside the vehicle had survived the blast. Even a bear shifter's enhanced strength and healing capabilities had been no match for a bomb detonating directly underneath his vehicle.
Margaret didn't bother to switch on her bedside light as she rose from her bed and went over to the large antique armoire that held her clothes. Her home was nearly 130 years old, built back in the ranch's early days, when no one had ever heard of a walk-in closet.
She paused by the collection of framed photos sitting on top of her dresser. In the newest photo, her son Patrick stood next to his Ordinary wife Jessica and their daughter Olivia with a backdrop of Alaska mountains. Then there was her second-oldest, Kayla, grinning proudly in her graduation robes; and her youngest, Hannah, standing next to the big Hobart mixing machine in Annabeth's bakery.
And of course, there was her own wedding photo with Ryan. He looked determined and fearless in his dress uniform, and she was glowing with happiness, both of them utterly unaware of the tragedy in their future.
Margaret studied her own features in the shadowed mirror above the dresser and sighed. Her long chestnut hair, once her pride and joy, was threaded with silver these days, and there were faint lines around her mouth and the beginning of crows' feet at the outer corners of her eyes.
Smile lines, her older sister Elle called them.
When Margaret had mated Ryan, she had never thought that he would miss so many of the important milestones in their lives. Their children had been born during his tours of duty, and had taken their first steps and spoken their first words while he was serving his country far away from home. Patrick had been in college when his father was killed, Kayla in high school, and Hannah in middle school respectively.
After his death, Margaret had felt a fresh pang of grief at each new milestone that Ryan never got to share with his family.
Hannah's eighth-grade graduation. Kayla and Hannah getting their driver's licenses. First dates. Proms. High school graduations. College graduations. Patrick's marriage to Dr. Jessica Tristan. Kayla's graduation from veterinary college. Patrick's PhD in paleontology's. The birth of Margaret's first grandchild Olivia.
And here Margaret stood, growing older and grayer each day while Ryan remained frozen in the past, forever young, forever handsome. Margaret knew she was luckier than most to be able to live here on the ranch, close to her sister and surrounded by their family.
But she still felt very alone, especially at night.
When the loneliness became overwhelming, she had occasionally tried dating. Widowed shifter could sometimes find new mates.
Look at Elle—she got a second chance at love and mating with Justin, Margaret thought, trying not to feel jealous of her sister's luck.
But that same luck seemed to be staying away from Margaret. Her bear had protested vehemently at every eligible man they met, and there had been no second dates. She was afraid that she was destined to remain lonely and loveless for the rest of her days.
She gazed down at Ryan's photo. "I miss you," she whispered, brushing a tender fingertip against the glass.
Then she stepped into her shower and got dressed.
It was time to push down the ghosts of her past, walk downstairs, and start a new day.
* * *
At first, Daniel didn't realize what had happened. He just felt an immensely powerful kick to his left foreleg. He felt like he'd just been stung by a giant hornet—an instant of numb shock, followed by a wave of burning pain that spread up his leg to his shoulder.
He staggered sideways, and his prey fought free, leaving skin and shreds of clothing behind on Daniel's claws.
Roaring with rage, Daniel tried to regain his balance and recapture Messerzahn. But the big shifter had already scrambled to his feet and was retreating out of reach of Daniel's paws.
The lights came on in his next-door neighbor's house.
"Abort!" Messerzahn ordered. "Zǔb, didya you get the kid?"
Junior! Desperation impelling him, Daniel heaved himself to his feet.
Before Daniel could react, his erstwhile prey kicked him in the side with a steel-toed boot, sending Daniel toppling to his side. It suddenly hurt to breathe, a deep, stabbing ache that spread deep into his chest and back
"No sign of him, boss," reported the shifter who had shot Daniel. "Hey, I thought this guy was supposed to be unranked. How'd he manage to take out Lakeĭ?"
"That hellcat at our last stop must have warned him."
As Daniel struggled to catch his breath and get back on his paws, he saw the intruders freeze at the faint sound of an approaching police siren.
"Fuck. Neighbor called the cops. We gotta go," ordered the boss-shifter, his head swinging around to glare at the neighbor's house. "Mr. M said not to let any Ordinaries see us."
The boss-shifter bent and effortlessly lifted the unconscious shifter that Daniel had attacked first, slinging him across his shoulders in a fireman's carry.
You're not fucking getting away! Daniel snarled, somehow found his feet again, and lunged forward.
Zǔb spun, lifted his gun, and fired.
Pain seared across the top of Daniel's head and the world disappeared.
Chapter Three – Scene of the Crime
When Daniel regained consciousness, he realized he was sprawled face-down on the concrete floor of his porch. His left leg and side both hurt like hell, and his head wasn't feeling a whole hell of a lot better.
Zǔb was speaking, his voice retreating along with the sound of his footsteps. "—head shot. But won't Mr. M be mad that we didn't get the kid, too? He told us he wanted the kid's head on a stake to show Langlais that he wasn't the First anymore."
The police siren was still distant, but getting louder by the second. Daniel realized that he'd only been knocked out for a minute or so—just long enough for the intruders to assume that they'd killed him.
Rage coursed through his veins at Zǔb's words. His injuries be damned—his cat wanted all of the invaders dead. But Daniel knew he was in no shape to fight further. No use getting himself killed for real and leaving Chris without a protector.
Junior is still safe, he told his cat. That's all that matters right now.
"Don't worry about it," said the leader of the raid. "With this loser taken care of, it's not like the kid has anywhere to go. We'll find him in a day or two. Just gotta ask around, y'know?"
Daniel dared to crack open an eye—one of them was glued shut with blood running down from his head. He saw the intruders heading at a rapid trot for the big black Chevy Tahoe parked behind Daniel's Jeep.
It took only moments for the leader of the raid to sling his wounded buddy in the back seat. Car doors slammed and the Tahoe backed out of the driveway at full speed.
Daniel heard the squeal of tires as the driver hit the brakes and changed direction in the middle of the street, then the roar of the engine as they sped off in the direction of the freeway.
He tried to get to his feet. He knew he was messed up pretty bad, but he absolutely had to shift back into human shape before the police arrived.
There weren't very many iron-clad rules for being a shifter. The only universal one was: don't let the Ordinaries find out that shifters are real.
Sure, almost all of the Ordinaries knew stories about werewolves and shapeshifters, but real shifters were safe as long as most people only thought they existed in folk tales, novels and movies.
If a real, live sabertooth cat showed up on a police car dash-cam tonight...well, Daniel didn't want to think about what would happen next.
Getting filmed by an off-duty cop while shapeshifting was what had caused Philippe Bertrand to go off the deep end all those years ago. The Sandia Mountain Pride had avoided
public exposure—barely—but the resulting clusterfuck of bad decisions had destroyed the pride.
Nope, can't get caught in cat shape. But this is going hurt even worse than getting shot, Daniel thought grimly, and began the agonizing shift back to his human shape.
* * *
The police car, lights strobing red and blue, pulled into Daniel's driveway just as Daniel, panting, completed his shift.
He had almost blacked out from the pain a couple of times. His throat felt scratchy, as if he'd screamed himself hoarse, though he didn't remember making any noise beyond a few groans.
Ember Page 2
