by L. A. Banks
Steady, checking shadows, he waited, knowing that he didn’t have the willpower not to do the unthinkable now. His only goal, however, was to not give the elderly patrons a heart attack. But to get to the meat, he had to come out of the shadows, even if just for a second.
It was all a blur, the lunge and then the snatch of sizzling hot meat that was just the right balance between cooked and raw. It was too hot to carry and yet too succulent to leave. Something very primal had taken him over as he guarded his hunt, growling deeply, eyes glowing, and proceeded to eat all ten slabs of beef ribs from the overturned grill.
Screams, abandoned dominoes, a shotgun blast from a righteously indignant store owner didn’t stop his meal. But when he heard the pump cock again, he looked up into the eyes of a very frightened man. It was clear from the chef’s expression that he thought a rowdy neighborhood dog had savaged his grill. Hunter stalked through the hot coals and punched the plate glass window, giving the owner the chance to flee.
Full-length wolf entered the establishment as the chef-owner and patrons screamed, running out the back. Po’boys called his name, half-eaten plates of jambalaya, red beans and rice, prawns and fries—he ate his way through the small neighborhood joint until he was panting and sweating. Guzzling soda to wash it all down, Hunter chuckled to himself, feeling much improved as he leaped into another shadow behind the destroyed eatery.
“Bad dog . . . very bad dog.”
“We’ve got a three-hundred-pound chef on the verge of a heart attack claiming lukegaroo, or something I can’t understand attacked his store in broad daylight—hence why he was blasting a pump shotgun in a residential district.” The police officer spoke quickly as the ER team whisked the raving man behind the doors. “Our boys had to pry the shotgun out of his hands and about ten neighborhood patrons and some old dudes were talking about werewolves. Can you believe it?” The cop scratched his head. “If it were Mardi Gras, all right. But, damn.”
“Do you know if he was on drugs, or better stated, what kind of hallucinogens he’s ingested?” the intake nurse asked, walking quickly behind the gurney.
Dr. Michael Williams opened his mouth to speak but no sound came out. He looked up from the head nurse’s clipboard. The schedule changes that would allow him, Dr. Lutz, and Dr. Sanders to work with the renowned Dr. Holland on a groundbreaking secret project for a few days could wait. He rushed into the room where the new patient was still raving and clutching his chest.
“Sir, sir, my name is Dr. Williams. We believe you!” he shouted. “Get Nurse Margaret in here. She’s the only one who seems to understand these kinds of cases,” the doctor said to one of the burly orderlies that had tied down the patient. He looked at the frightened man with compassion. “Sir, I need you to calm down, tell me slowly what you saw, so my colleagues can write it down. You’re safe in the hospital—we have armed guards.”
The other staff members seemed skeptical but played along with the doctor who was obviously humoring a deranged patient. The chef grabbed the doctor’s hand and kissed it repeatedly, weeping.
“Get this man on a tranquilizer drip to calm his heart rate, and have someone escort Xavier Holland down here stat. Where is Nurse Margaret!”
Dr. Holland looked at Dr. Williams and nodded. “Tell the police that this man shot at a wolf that somehow got out of its normal habitat—but he was right to do so and is not on drugs or a lunatic. Clear that poor man’s name. Tell them that the animal most likely did trash his store so at least he can get an insurance claim going.”
“You do this often?”
“More than I’d like.”
Dr. Williams’s previously crisp white medical jacket against his tanned, athletic, news-anchor-type good looks seemed crushed and wilted now. It was as though the man had absorbed too much truth, and that had overdosed his system and shaken his once orderly world. Xavier Holland landed a hand on his shoulder as he headed back to the temporary lab with Clarissa.
“It’s starting, isn’t it?” Dr. Williams called out.
Xavier Holland nodded without turning around and kept stride with Clarissa. “Get Sasha on sat-phone, Clarissa, and tell her the target is still in the area . . . and not to lose hope because he’s hunting po’boys and barbecue.”
Chapter 19
Facedown in goose down pillows, Sasha barely heard Doc’s cell phone ringing. She heard the blaring contraption from inside a dream, one that she was too disoriented to remember the second late-afternoon sun pierced her eyes. Fearing the worst, she fumbled for the device, and as soon as she flipped it open her greeting consisted of two words, “What’s wrong?”
Almost in a state of disbelief, she listened to Doc’s description of the restaurant wolf sighting. The information made every keened muscle in her body relax for a second; she’d thought the call was to tell her Silver Hawk had passed away. As she took her next breath, her body was rigid again; the infected wolf that was sighted could have been the only one she knew of that would pass dozens of humans to chow down on dressed po’boys and ribs. But, still, that was a good thing.
Fatigue clawed at the backs of her eyeballs and then sent mild spasms of tension down her spine as she sat up too quickly to better hear what was being said. Hunter had bum-rushed a barbecue joint? Wha . . . ?
“Okay, I’m on it,” Sasha said, standing, rubbing the tension from the nape of her neck.
“No. I don’t have time to come back to Tulane and get Bradley’s device. If I have to wrestle him to the ground, I’ll get a nontranquilizer-tainted sample. Yeah. Yeah. I promise. No, I won’t do anything rash. Okay. I’ll be careful. Bye.” For a moment she just looked at the phone. Doc knew damned well what she did in the field—don’t do anything dangerous? He sounded more like a worried father than an Ops mission specialist . . . but then, everybody’s nerves were frayed.
Easy come, easy go, sleep was worth more than money right now, especially after practically inhaling the homemade gumbo here before hitting the sack. Now she was glad that she’d showered in the hospital, grabbed some scrubs, made a quick change in a tourist shop, and had basically dropped like a stone—already dressed. What would have taken the average person a couple of hours had only taken her half that time, which allowed her to find a small B&B in the French Quarter to temporarily crash and burn in. But even though that brief respite had given her a badly needed one-hour power nap, the little taste of sleep now felt like a tease.
On unsteady legs, she staggered to the dresser to collect the standard mission envelope Doc always provided. Cash, credit card, ID with an alias. Plus, a local badge so she could openly wear a holster packing heat. Contents went in her back jeans pocket. Xavier Holland left no stone unturned. This time he’d added in one extra element: antitoxin. She wasn’t sure if Doc had meant it for her or Hunter as she stared at the premeasured hypodermic. Sasha checked the clip on her nine and then slid on a shoulder holster. What to do with the damned needle? She sighed as she slipped out of the room with it concealed in her hand. Ask the front desk for some duct tape, of course, and tape it to her shin.
There was no need to jimmy the lock when a firm shoulder applied to the door would do. Shogun stepped into the empty bedroom and swore under his breath. Her scent was still thick in the air—warm. He’d missed her by only minutes, and he would have preferred to approach Sasha in close, private quarters rather than where she might freak out and accidentally shoot him.
He stooped and touched the floor where she’d stepped, tilted his head, and briefly closed his eyes. Damn she smelled good.
Word travels fast in the Big Easy, Dominique. Etienne lay awakened in his crypt in the dark, eyes open, still as stone. His thoughts kissed the fringes of his daytime familiar’s mind. Ah . . . yes, bring me a little something extra—lagniappe, as we say . . . oui. You say the old man is a leader of the Shadows? Ah, he bears the amulet. Bon. Très bon. Yes, bring him; we may need a bargaining chip soon.
The orderly pushed a cart of meds aimlessly down the hall with his e
yes lowered and stopped outside of ICU. He glanced in and stared at the unconscious old man. Murmurs had gone around the nurse’s station that one of the strange soldiers must have left the charm after the patient had come out of surgery. Although it wasn’t hospital policy to allow such an obviously expensive item to be left on a patient for both health and legal reasons, no one seemed to know what to do. No one wanted to mess with it, either, not after Nurse Margaret told folks it was a religious item and then went on to scare the beejeebers out of the staff, claiming it to be a form of gris-gris.
There’d been much superstitious speculation, many whispers. No one seemed to want to take the responsibility for disturbing serious gris-gris. But the master wanted the old man, if possible, and most certainly the charm. The charm was easy enough to filch; the old man might require some assistance from the undead—however, he could give them something that would please them.
Glancing at the patient and waiting until the on-duty nurse moved to the far end of the ward, he entered the area with feline grace and slipped next to the oblivious patient. Peering down at the helpless soul, he smiled. One day he’d be so quiet, would have the stealth capacity of the undead that he so admired. He’d be able to look down into a face and determine if that person would live or die. In truth, he had that power now. His arms were so strong, this old man so weak. Taking a life would be easy . . . but for now the master just wanted something to bargain with.
Fine woven silver caught his eye. He could slip it over the patient’s head without disturbing his tubing, just like the person who’d put it on had.
Dominique reached out quickly, his deft fingers making contact with the oddly warm metal. Then his face contorted and his body convulsed. A wretched scream rent the room and brought personnel running from all areas. Silver-white static charge covered his hands as he stumbled backward, then arced from his hands to his chest, covering his body in a crackling wave only to suddenly stop as he dropped to the floor.
“Get a broom handle, anything that won’t conduct an electric current!” a nurse shouted. “Don’t touch that equipment! Something’s obviously making it arc!”
“Crash cart! We’ve got a man down, gotta jump-start him!” a doctor commanded.
“Check the ICU patient’s vitals—make sure that faulty equipment didn’t surge his heart monitor or alter his IV drips—check his respiration!” another doctor shouted as they made sure the orderly wasn’t still emitting a charge.
“Vitals, equipment, monitoring as normal on the ICU patients. All of them,” a bewildered nurse said, her voice awed.
“All clear,” the doctor on the floor yelled, making personnel step back as he defibrillated the orderly. “One, two, three—all clear. Come on, come on, again—breathe, man! All clear! One, two, three—shit! What the hell just happened to you?”
Midstep in the street, Sasha stopped walking. In the center of her mind she saw Silver Hawk open his eyes. Her amulet warmed and then heated so quickly it almost felt like it burned. His mouth didn’t move, but his message was clear: Go get my grandson.
She began running, screw a streetcar. Driving wouldn’t help; she needed her wolf senses ground level while on the move. Shadow hopping, she could skip through fast-passing vehicle shadows, leaping one to the other like Hunter had shown her not so long ago. That would get her to the battered store, but her sense was that he was long gone from there. She could still see Silver Hawk’s intense, open eyes. His presence loomed in her Shadow vision like a guide. Oh, God, he was headed for the bayou!
Images of infected Shadows hiding in the swamps invaded her psyche. “No!” She was shouting into the wind, no one could hear her, but she needed to head off Hunter before he blundered into the dens of the enemy.
Suddenly a huge silver wolf, majestic and proud, mentally slipped in front of her human form, leading the way, making severe cuts and turns down alleys, between buildings, into shadowed gardens, and behind mausoleums. Slowly she began to understand; the wolf in her mind was taking her to City Park. If she could get to Hunter there within the fifteen-hundred-acre municipal enclave, versus the bayou where anything could happen, then maybe he stood a chance.
But the silver wolf in her mind soon fled behind a tree. As she rounded it to find him, a familiar face met her. The shock almost made her jump out of her skin.
“Don’t shift, it’s safe,” Shogun said quickly. “Please, we need to talk.”
Sasha placed her hand in the center of her chest, trying to get her heart to stop racing. “I could have shot you.”
He nodded and stepped closer. “There is so much going on, we need to form an alliance.”
She looked up at him and nodded. “You know about the toxin on the street?”
“Some of the story. Don’t know it all, but I do know this—at the UCE Conference, the Vampires will try to divide us. That cannot happen. We can’t allow any open wolf hunts. We have to stand united and agree in full session to exterminate our own problems and to retain sovereignty. We don’t need outsiders coming in to do that, especially ones that have an agenda.”
“That’s fair. Makes sense,” Sasha said, remembering every facet of his kind, dignified eyes and handsome face. She smiled, remembering how the last time she’d seen him he was clean-shaven and now his hair spilled down in a cascading, blue-black silken fall to his elbows. “How do we get our packs to understand, though? Some of those guys are pretty entrenched in the old ways.”
“My sister is, too,” he said with a wry smile. “Many of the packs and clan adhere to the old ways because they’ve never seen a new way that could work.”
“Your sister?” Sasha chuckled and shook her head.
“You do remember the cold bucket of water she threw on us?”
Her smile widened. “How could I forget?”
“I told you she was my sister . . . that was truth.” His smile faded and became replaced with something deeper that she couldn’t allow her mind to address. “Not all Werewolves lie . . . not all of us are monsters, Sasha.”
At a temporary loss for words, she simply nodded.
“I can count on you?” he asked.
“Yes. And I you?”
“With my life.”
Again, she was at a loss.
“I came, before, when you were in Shadow country—twenty men strong, and we waited, we watched, were prepared to join your battle if necessary.”
“Thank you for that,” she said quietly. “Now I guess our clan knows what it feels like to have some of our own go rogue . . . and then have every member looked at as a potential hazmat carrier.” She let out a long, weary sigh. “This shouldn’t be, brother against brother . . . the physical differences between Shadow Wolves and Werewolves is so minor . . . the cultures are so close, as is the history and many of the beliefs—but this hatred is bone deep. How did that happen?” She searched his gaze for something to cling to, something that would help her understand the insane politics that had to be negotiated at the UCE
But all he offered was a good-natured shrug. “The same way it happens with humans. A rivalry turns into a bitter dispute, then barriers get erected, and the next thing you know there’s war and genocide. Does any of it make sense?”
“No,” she said, quietly ashamed of it all and not sure why. “I’ve got your back, I know what you’re saying is true . . . but I’m not the ultimate authority on clan politics. I’m just an enforcer—not a leader.”
Shogun tilted his head. “You’re still not his pledged mate?”
Sasha looked away. “I can lobby for an alliance, but I don’t have the power to make warriors stand down.”
He traced her cheek with a finger, holding her gaze. “But you have influence . . . and a good heart. You know what is right for the wolf families—all clans, all packs . . . but, beautiful she-Shadow, do you know yet what is right just for you?”
Much improved after feeding, he knew he had to keep moving. The farther away from civilization he got, the better. But he could sense some
thing bearing down on him, something that just would not relent. It was there, but not there, a vapor in the shadows. Familiar, yet strange, almost steering him—that’s when he stopped and turned on it for a moment, growling, before he pressed onward. Of all places, not here . . . not where there was the Carousel Gardens amusement park for children.
The reality seized his chest and constricted it with grief. From a place he couldn’t fathom, images and information scorched his mind. Fifth-largest municipal park in the U.S. Lush botanical gardens full of strolling couples and families. More than ten million tourists visited here annually. One of only a hundred wooden merry-go-rounds left in the U.S. resided here, which meant more families and more children. He could see a Mother Goose ride and then Art Deco–inspired fountains. People, people, a place where they held weddings. No. Something awful could not step out of the shadows here. Two predators could not do mortal combat here! No! This place, this healing sanctuary, could not be hunting grounds for demon-infected Shadow Wolves. Never the children, never their mothers.
Hunter stopped moving, turned on the unseen presence, and lowered his head with a warning snarl. Yes, he would run from humans, now for their own good. But something in the shadows stalking him . . . never.
Spanish moss waved at him like a maiden riding a carnival float. Ancient oak trees stood like sentries. Something was there but refused to show itself. Then, just as suddenly as he’d felt it, the presence slipped away to be replaced with one he’d know anywhere. Sasha.
His first instinct was to flee her possible detection, but when she stepped out of the shadows with her hand over her heart, breathing hard, something stayed his leave. He told himself that it was to be sure the other ominous male wolf presence he’d just felt wouldn’t attack her, but as he studied her carefully, he knew that was a lie. Sasha Trudeau was thoroughly capable of addressing a threat. Even if the threat was him.
