Triple Trouble 7
Triple Cross
Seer and wolf shifter Elain Pardie-Lyall has a baby on the way. If that wasn’t enough to deal with, she’s got to conduct a little grave robbing, battle vengeful cockatrice…and then there’s the accidentally exploding moose. Just an average day in her crazy life. It’ll get a whole lot worse before it gets better as she uncovers a painful secret from her husband Ain’s past.
Ain is willing to let Elain do what she needs to in the course of her Seer duties. What he didn’t expect was a chance to atone for an old mistake. Fixing what was means sacrifices for one of their friends, and even more drastic changes for their future.
Now Elain has to figure out how to keep her secrets. Not just from her men, but from her family, friends, and allies. But with only the Devil to lean on, can she turn away from ancient patterns of vengeance and embrace a future of forgiveness?
Genre: Contemporary, Fantasy, Ménage a Trois/Quatre, Paranormal, Vampires/Werewolves
Length: 95,910 words
TRIPLE CROSS
Triple Trouble 7
Tymber Dalton
MENAGE EVERLASTING
Siren Publishing, Inc.
www.SirenPublishing.com
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A SIREN PUBLISHING BOOK
IMPRINT: Ménage Everlasting
TRIPLE CROSS
Copyright © 2014 by Tymber Dalton
E-book ISBN: 978-1-62741-553-8
First E-book Publication: March 2014
Cover design by Les Byerley
All art and logo copyright © 2014 by Siren Publishing, Inc.
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED: This literary work may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, including electronic or photographic reproduction, in whole or in part, without express written permission.
All characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is strictly coincidental.
PUBLISHER
Siren Publishing, Inc.
www.SirenPublishing.com
Letter to Readers
Dear Readers,
If you have purchased this copy of Triple Cross by Tymber Dalton from BookStrand.com or its official distributors, thank you. Also, thank you for not sharing your copy of this book.
Regarding E-book Piracy
This book is copyrighted intellectual property. No other individual or group has resale rights, auction rights, membership rights, sharing rights, or any kind of rights to sell or to give away a copy of this book.
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This is Tymber Dalton’s livelihood. It’s fair and simple. Please respect Ms. Dalton’s right to earn a living from her work.
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www.BookStrand.com
DEDICATION
For Hubby, as always. He loves me, takes care of me, and most importantly, puts up with me. :) He truly owns my heart.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
The events in this book pick up immediately where the events of A Wolf in the Fold (Triple Trouble 6) leave off. If you haven’t read the previous books in the series, it’s suggested you do so first. Otherwise, events in this book might not make sense.
The correct reading order for the entire series, including the prequels, is as follows:
Boiling Point (Tasty Treats, Vol. 3) - Triple Trouble prequel
Steam - Triple Trouble prequel
Fire and Ice - Triple Trouble prequel
Trouble Comes in Threes - Triple Trouble 1
Storm Warning - Triple Trouble 2
Three Dog Night - Triple Trouble 3
Triple Dog Dare - Triple Trouble 4
Out of Smoke and Ashes - Triple Trouble 5
A Wolf in the Fold - Triple Trouble 6
You can also find Ryan Ausar in my Good Will Ghost Hunting series. All titles listed are available from Siren-BookStrand.
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Author's Note
Prologue
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
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
About the Author
TRIPLE CROSS
Triple Trouble 7
TYMBER DALTON
Copyright © 2014
Prologue
Waaay back when.
Rage filled his mind. Around him, the waning crescent moon lit the midnight landscape brighter than any sunny afternoon to his lupine eyes.
Grief. Death.
Revenge.
Their three sisters, dead.
Murdered.
He would exact the price from the hide of the beast who’d killed them. And fresh on the offensive scent trail, he knew exactly what he was tracking.
A cockatrice.
There’d been rumors in the nearby town of a couple of stray cockatrice in the area, but then again, there were always rumors. They’d never heeded them before.
Never needed to.
What lone cockatrice would dare invade a wolf stronghold?
Obviously, one with a death wish.
Somewhere behind him, the faint echoes of one of his brothers sounded in his mind, but he closed it off.
He would find this bastard.
He would kill him.
And then he’d track back to its lair, whatever disgusting crack of Hell it’d slipped out of, and destroy anyone he found there.
On he ran, kilt swirling around his knees, sword in his hand, ready to kill. He didn’t need to be shifted into wolf form to follow the cockatrice’s trail. Its scent blew strongly enough through the heather and grasses it passed, betraying its path.
Anytime he faltered, anytime he considered the way his breath burned in his lu
ngs, he called to mind the image of Colina, only seventeen and already showing herself to be a fierce wolf, dead, her body lying in front of the corner where their two youngest sisters, Adair and Sulwen, only five and three, had been butchered. She’d died trying to protect them, a dirk in her hand.
She’d been run through by a spear, the little ones stabbed to death.
The scent grew stronger, fresher as he ran, meaning he was catching up to the fecking bastard. He leapt a shallow creek and on the other side caught sight of what looked like the corner of a cape disappearing through more trees ahead.
Struggling against the urge to let out a howl of success that would alert the monster, he dug deep within himself and poured on more speed, until he could see the cockatrice ahead of him. Likely a youngling, or unable to shift, or else it would have done so already, a fully-grown and shifted cockatrice more than a fair match for a wolf.
It glanced back over its shoulder, which turned out to be its downfall. Literally. Tripping, the cockatrice went flying, landing face-first in the dirt.
Before the cockatrice could scramble to its feet, the wolf was on him, sword ready, lopping off a leg first and reveling in the sound of the beast’s shriek of pain.
“Take that!” He stood and as the cockatrice tried to flip over, he brought his sword down again, taking off the other leg just below its knee.
Panting, he reached down, ignoring the cockatrice’s shrieks, and grabbed its spear, launching it out and away into the dark woods.
“Children!” the wolf roared as he stared down at his prey. “They were bloody children! What, ye cowardly beast, ye couldn’t face men?”
With another roar, he swung, lopping off the cockatrice’s left arm.
It was moving less now, its cries weakening as its blood seeped into the dirt, creating black pools around it in the moonlight.
The wolf stepped over it and took off its right arm.
Then he straddled the body, ignoring the horrid feel of the warm blood mixing with cold dirt to become mud squeezing between his bare toes. He placed the point of his sword at the cockatrice’s throat.
“Know this,” the wolf swore. “I will track down yer scent to whence ye came. I hope ye have a mate, because I will destroy any hope of yer line ever continuing.”
The cockatrice shouted something that sounded like “no,” but by then the wolf had shoved, hard, burying the point of his sword into the ground by way of running it through the cockatrice’s throat and spine.
He let out the howl he’d been holding back, screaming his rage and grief to the sky, to the Goddess. Then he stood back and, first rocking the sword back and forth to make sure the head was completely severed, he pulled his sword free.
Panting, fighting against the urge to shift and let his Alpha take over, he picked up the scent once again and began tracking. No doubt his brothers would find the body before they found him.
If they found him first, they might try to change his mind, try to argue than an eye for an eye wouldn’t bring Colina, Adair, and Sulwen back.
That wolves were better. That wolves didn’t go after mates.
Normally, he’d agree.
But this was a cockatrice. And those were his sisters. And if cockatrice had no honor, then, in his mind, they deserved none in return. Not when his little sisters had been ruthlessly butchered.
He ran, slowing as the scent had faded a little in the hours since the cockatrice had passed this way.
The thought that it might be a trap designed to lure him out, alone, crossed his mind.
He didn’t care. He’d go down fighting and taking as many of the evil ones with him that he could.
Through the woods, a winding, twisting path that crossed several streams, obvious attempts the cockatrice had made to backtrack and mask his trail.
The wolf would not be fooled.
It was before dawn when he smelled wood smoke, like a cooking fire, and found the hovel tucked against the side of a hill, sheltered by a rocky outcropping.
No animals in the yard, just a haphazard pile of wood that looked like it’d simply been thrown there.
He had no trouble kicking in the door. As he did, he glimpsed someone running through a curtained doorway. Giving an enraged roar, and with his sword leading him, he rushed through the opening only to be brought up short when he felt the sword’s tip punch through a meaty target before burying itself in what felt like a wooden timber.
A scream cut through the dim light. He swore as he tore at the curtain until he pulled it free from where it’d been tacked to the doorframe. It was nothing more than a sleeping alcove, barely large enough for two adults, straw on the floor covered by ratty, dirty blankets.
He’d found his target, all right. The female bore the unholy stink of cockatrice, and his sword had pierced her in the back, through her chest and out the front.
With another roar, he ripped the sword free and shoved her to the side so he could finish her off. As she looked down to where her arms had been clutched in front of her, it was only after he was running her through again, from the front, that he realized she’d been holding something.
An infant.
Sick horror washed through him as he yanked the sword free again. Now the woman was dead. She slid down the wall, leaving a bloody trail in her wake, which appeared black in the flickering light from the fire.
He’d killed the infant with the first thrust from behind.
As he stared down at the dead mother and child, an agonized roar went up, born from his lungs without conscious thought or will, grief and anger and a primitive vortex of horror and regret.
A baby.
As he backed away from the alcove, he tried to rationalize it. No, he’d never killed a cockatrice child before.
Any child.
Rarely, they’d encountered mates. Usually when cockatrice attacked them, it was men, sometimes accompanied by women who could shift and fight.
My sisters are dead, children. Dead by a cockatrice’s hand.
They’d been shown no mercy, so why should he feel badly about what he’d done?
An infant.
I’m supposed to be better than cockatrice.
Wolves are better than that. We don’t kill mates or children of our enemies.
And yet, he had.
He ripped through the small room that formed the bulk of the hovel’s size. Other than a piece of dried venison hanging from a nail near the fire, there was no food in the house. Barely anything. The hovel itself looked like it had been cobbled together rather than built. One wall was the rocky outcropping.
He stepped forward and grabbed a piece of kindling stacked by the hearth. Holding it to the flames, he waited until it had caught to step away from the fire. He walked over to the doorway of the sleeping area and touched the flame to the edge of the curtain he’d torn from the doorway, waiting until it caught. Then the straw, which easily lit. The blankets there.
Backing toward the front door, he lit the walls, reached up and touched the flame to the thatched roof in several places, until he backed out into the night and tossed the stick inside.
Retreating to the far side of the clearing, he watched as the shanty burned. When the flash of something to his right caught his eye, he looked only to find…nothing.
Must have been a trick of the smoke.
Or perhaps of his conscience. He’d thought he’d seen a woman standing there, with brilliant orange hair, but he was alone.
Only when he was satisfied that everything inside would be consumed did he turn and head back the way he’d come.
He encountered Brodey first, before he’d reached the body of the male cockatrice.
“Aindreas! Are you all right?”
He’d already scoured the blood from his sword with dirt and water, sheathing it and hoping his brother’s keen senses didn’t pick up anything Ain didn’t want him to know. “I’m fine.”
He walked past Brodey, but Brodey grabbed Ain’s arm and swung him around.
Ain shook free, hoping he wouldn’t have to edict his brother. “I burned down the monster’s hovel.”
“Mate?”
“Dead.” He trudged forward, exhaustion catching up now that his rage had been sated.
Brodey followed. “Any others?”
Ain couldn’t lie to his brother. But he wasn’t obligated to volunteer the truth, either. “None who live.”
“Was it a nest?”
“A small one.” He trudged forward. “Where is Cailean?”
“Disposing of the body of the male.”
“Good.”
Thankfully, Brodey went silent, his own grief rolling off him in silent waves Ain could feel as keenly as his own pain.
Grief. Yes, he couldn’t lose sight of that fact. Why should he feel any remorse about killing the baby of a monster who’d murdered three children himself? A baby who’d grow up to kill, or at the very least, breed other monsters?
He couldn’t even tell if it’d been a boy or a girl.
Shoving those thoughts out of his mind again, he forced himself to keep walking.
It wasn’t just Cail, but Brighton, as well. Not even two years older than the triplet brothers, Brighton stood and stared at Ain and Brodey as they neared.
“Are you all right, brother?” Brighton asked.
Ain nodded.
They finished building a pyre and stacking the parts of the cockatrice’s body on it. Once it was alight, they stared as it burned.
Brighton laid an arm on Ain’s shoulder. “You did well,” he quietly said.
“It will not bring them back.” His voice choked up at the end, grief now threatening to unman him.
Triple Cross Page 1
