Prophecy Awakened: Prime Prophecy Series Book 1

by Tamar Sloan

  Of its own volition, my hand comes up. I scan his face, asking permission. Not a muscle moves in that massive body. I cup my hand across his cheek, the heel of my palm resting beneath his jaw. Ridged bone beneath solid muscle rests in my hand. I feel the wolf’s throat work as he swallows. My other hand comes up to join it, resting in mirror image on the other side.

  Without conscious thought, they move backward, sinking into the thick mantle around his head. It’s warm and soft, like a pillow that just begs you to rest your head on. My fingers spear into its heat, the delicious thick undercoat. My right hand comes forward to feather across his muzzle, where the short hair feels like velvet. I trace across its ridge line, up and around the blue eyes that haven’t left my face. I’m touching Noah in wolf form, in all the ways I can’t bring myself to do when he is human.

  A soft hum rumbles deep in his chest. Do wolves purr?

  I feel a tremor run down his muscled body, his head sinking as his legs bend. Oh no, he’s changing back.

  “Come on, we’d better get among the trees.”

  He nods, and we head to the tree line. Just like before, we’ve only taken a few steps into the protective canopy when his white body sinks to the ground.

  And once again, morphs back into human form. The change is quicker this time, the evolution of wolf to man happening in a few painful seconds. Except this time I’m far more aware of that split second of glorious naked skin. My skin flushes, but I don’t look away. In that brief moment, I see Noah’s ridged chest, and the mark that adorns the upper part of its left side. Imprinted into defined pectorals, over his heart. It’s the fluid outline of a wolf’s head, arched up in howl.

  Then Noah is lying before me, dressed, eyes closed.

  I squat down, hand reaching out, when he sits up in a rush, eyes instantly locking onto mine. I fall back on my behind.

  “You did what to a bear cub?” His voice is not quite a shout, but certainly not far off. “With the mother there!”

  His legs push him upright, and he storms two paces to the left, before coming back, long fingers pushing those unruly locks back from furious eyes.

  I stay seated amongst the pine needles. Noah has recovered much quicker this time around. And this time he’s really mad.

  “I…” I clear my throat. “He needed help.”

  “Do you know how dangerous that is? No wonder you were scared.”

  My shoulders drop. I was really scared, which is exactly why Noah is here. But the cub needed medical attention. “I’m sorry, Noah.”

  Noah’s pacing brings him back to stand in front of me. His knees sink onto the padded ground. Blue eyes search mine. His hands come up to cup my cheeks, blazing their pale surface with heat.

  “I was scared. Scared that I wouldn’t get here in time.”

  It takes long moments for it to dawn on me. He was worried. A splitting grin arches across my face, pressing my cheeks farther into those hot palms.

  Noah blinks. And blinks again. His breath comes out in a rush, its sweet scent caressing my nose. “You’ve got to stop doing that to me.” And I know he’s not talking about the bear.

  I didn’t think it was possible, but my smile widens.

  Another gust brushes my face. And Noah is smiling back.

  “You should have seen it, my knight in white-furred armor. But no one to pull limb from limb.”

  Noah’s hands fall to hang between us. His head cocks to the side, eyes sliding to join it. “We don’t hurt humans,” he mumbles.

  I giggle. “Could have fooled me.”

  He grins. “You give meaning to the term ‘you bring out the animal in me’.” Noah stands up, holding his hand out to me. “Come on, I’ve got something to show you.”

  We leave the trees, hand in hand, heading back to the trail. The walk out takes longer. Because we stop to look at a lanky moose grazing amongst willow thickets, to point out a lone western meadowlark sitting atop a fence post, to try and count a herd of pronghorn grazing in the distance. As we walk, our hands reflexively pull us closer together. Shoulders brush, hips sway in tandem, smiles simultaneously spark. Making this trail the trail-of-memorable-moments.

  Back at the visitors’ center, Noah heads for his car. “Leave yours here. We’ll pick it up afterwards.”

  “We aren’t walking?”

  Noah opens my door for me. “Not here.”

  Confusion tangles my brow. “Then why did you ask to meet here?”

  Noah waits until we’re both in the car and heading for the highway before he answers. “Where we’re going there’s no meeting point.”

  With that cryptic remark, he heads west. Away from the reserve, his house, and the Inn. In the direction of Wilmot.

  “We’re picking up Tara?”

  Noah’s eyebrows wiggle, and he says nothing. From the corner of my eye, I catalogue his strong arms, long fingers wrapped around the steering wheel. The confident manner in which he drives. I breathe in the warmth that fills the car, the sandalwood that fills my lungs. I decide I’m content to drive for a while.

  Without warning he turns right, onto a barely legible track that is rapidly swallowed by shrubbery. Noah doesn’t even glance at the ‘Private Property Trespassers Will Be Prosecuted’ sign as it sails past. He slows the truck once we’re amongst the greenery, and the track rapidly turns rough. For what seems like ages, we bump and thump through potholes and over mounds. Tall trees crowd the road, their branches occasionally brushing past my window. Where are we going?

  We arrive at a small grassy area, a parking lot of sorts. We get out, and I see a trail heading into the undergrowth. I step toward it, assuming that’s where we’re heading. I’ve taken one step when Noah grabs my hand.

  He smiles. “Decoy.” He indicates toward a thicket on our right. I keep my face blank, although there’s a strong urge to grimace. I don’t relish the thought of trekking through the thick, prickly brush he just pointed at. I’m glad I wore long slacks.

  We head to the thick greenery. Noah reaches out, and like he’s done it countless times before, reaches in and pulls back a large branch. I gasp. He reveals a hidden track, lined with grass, bordered by trees.

  “Ladies first.” He gestures with a flourish.

  I step through and Noah follows. He lets the branch fall back into place and we’re instantly cut off from the outside world. And I’m cocooned in a wonderland with Noah. An Oscar-worthy grassy carpet stretches before us. Nature’s kaleidoscope surrounds it, starting with the lime green of new growth, moving through jades, emeralds, and olives, finishing with the deep, almost blue-green of aged vegetation.

  He takes my hand, and we walk, deeper into Mother Nature’s bosom. We’ve only been walking for a few minutes when the trail ends, and opens out into a clearing—a beautiful, magical glade.

  Towering pines frame lush grass awash in sunlight, surrounding it like soaring alpine guardians. The mountain range dominates the left, a snowcapped mammoth so close you could almost touch its ancient walls. Stands of rocks litter the border, placed so artfully, the landscapers at the Inn would be envious. This mystical place bears the passage of time proudly, in the giant trees, the massive mountain, and the weight of the ages that hangs profoundly in the air.

  “This place is incredible.” My tone is hushed, reverent.

  “Every pack has a place, a place of meaning. This Glade is believed to be one of the first. It’s been shared by the Phelans and the Channons for as long as anyone can remember.”

  I walk a few steps farther in, feeling like I’m walking into nature’s cathedral.

  “This is where we come to bond, to change.”

  Where Noah didn’t.

  “Come.” He grasps my hand, and we cross the clearing, the grass soft and lush beneath my feet. I can feel his excitement, his anticipation pulsing through his palm. At the head of the Glade, is one of the rock stands. Bigger, more prominent, than the others. A large squarish rock juts through the soil, dotted with a few smaller at its side. A mot
her keeping her young close.

  Noah kneels down in front of it. “Look,” he whispers, brushing the long grass from the base of the rock. Two words breathe out on a prayer. “The Precepts.”

  There, hidden by Mother Nature, carvings have been etched into the rock. I kneel beside him, my fingers tracking the words, knowing countless others have done the same before me.

  You shall not reveal the bloodline

  You shall not bond with the opposite bloodline

  You shall not attack another blood member

  You shall obey the Alpha

  “The Precepts are our law.”

  I frown; so many things making sense, so many not. “Bloodlines?”

  “Humans and Weres”

  I look at the carvings, my eyes tracing the first line. “What happens if you break them?”

  “That’s up to the Alpha.” Noah shrugs. “Worst-case scenario, you’re cast out of the pack.”

  I stare at the ancient code of honor. Wolves are pack animals; they have evolved to depend on their social hierarchy. Wolves in the wild that are cast out don’t always survive.

  I stand, taking a step away. What is Noah trying to tell me?

  “What does it mean, Noah?”

  He comes to stand in front of me, his sky-blue gaze trapping mine, taking my hands in his. “It means what we have is special and unique, Eden.”

  I want to believe him. So badly.

  Noah steps in, so close I can feel his heat radiating down the length of my body. His head tips forward, those fascinating lips coming closer to mine. My pulse skips through my body, tripping out an excited, nervous rhythm. Yearning, longing, has my lips parting. Warm breath brushes across my cheeks, making me tingle. I stand still, not moving back, not moving forward.

  I want this so bad it scares me.

  A ping sounds through the clearing, and I feel something tug at my jacket. Noah lands against me, a groan rupturing from his lips. Arms that had been frozen by my side a second ago, come out to brace his weight. But I can’t stop his downward trajectory, and his body crumples to the ground.

  “Noah?” I look at my hand, feeling something warm and sticky. Horrified eyes see a smear of blood across my palm. “Noah!”

  Noah groans, rolling onto his back, both hands on his left side.

  “What just happened?”

  “I don’t know.” Noah’s voice is rough, low. He brings his head up so he can look down, keeping his torso still. Two hands pull away to show crimson streaks across his fingers.

  I fall to my knees beside him, mouth open, but no words coming out.

  Noah’s head falls back with a soft thud, eyes closing. “I think I may have just been shot.”

  “Shot?”

  My eyes dart around the small clearing, scanning for the threat, thinking of the hunters. But there are only two people here. One lying still on the ground, blood pooling in his palms. The other equally unmoving, struggling to process what just happened. As the blood continues to pool.

  “Eden?”

  That single word spurs me into action. I press my hand onto his, and Noah groans an objection.

  “We have to stop the bleeding,” I explain. “Keep up the pressure.”

  I sling off my backpack, once again retrieving my first aid kit. I pull out scissors and more gauze. Kneeling beside him, Noah watches me silently as I cut away his shirt. I know I need to see the wound, but I’m scared of what I might find.

  Carefully, carefully, I peel back the pieces of shirt, slowly lifting Noah’s hands. Beneath is a long diagonal gash and ragged edges of skin softly oozing bright red blood, creating crimson rivulets trickling down his ribs.

  My breath gusts past tense lips. “It looks like it just grazed you.”

  “Just?” Noah echoes.

  The tightness between my shoulders eases a little. This I know how to deal with. I place several nonstick gauzes over the wound in a neat row, and keep up the pressure. The blood eventually stops seeping out from beneath the no-longer hospital white patches. Then I get out a broad bandage. And a second.

  “What else have you got in there? A gurney?”

  The well-stocked kit sits by my side. “Duct tape.”

  “Duct tape?”

  “Keeps the patients quiet.”

  Noah goes quiet, a light grumble rumbling through his chest. I begin wrapping the bandage around his torso. I lean in, passing the bandage from one hand to the other, my nose inches from his chest. Breathing in his warmth. Sandalwood tainted with the coppery tang of blood tingles my senses. I hear an intake of breath, and realize I’ve paused.

  I bring the bandage around, resuming the wrapping, reminding myself I’m tending to an injured Noah. “Sorry.”

  “You didn’t hurt me.”

  The soft statement only heightens my awareness. But I keep my eyes at chest level. Now is not the time to see if I have the courage to touch him, despite the expanse of naked chest before me. Despite the overwhelming desire to trace the wolf tattoo that’s right before my eyes. And if those eyes are doing what I think they are doing, I suspect my crumbling caution may finally collapse.

  So I keep up an efficient rhythm. Across the chest, around the side, I pass the bandage, back to the front. I don’t pause. I don’t stray. My patient remains still, taking shallow but even breaths.

  In a few short minutes, I’m done. I sit back, eyeing the evenly spaced bands, the skin above and below, assessing I haven’t wound too tightly.

  Noah’s chin sucks in as he looks down at my handiwork. “Should I be concerned that you’ve obviously bandaged guys who have been shot before?”

  “Of course I haven’t.”

  “Well, you’ve done a pretty professional job here.”

  “I worked at a vet center back in Boston.” I smile a little. “I just pretended you were a Great Dane.”

  Noah snorts, then grimaces when the motion hurts.

  “Come on, we need to get you to a hospital.”

  “Home actually.”

  “What? Noah, that cut is going to need stitches.”

  Noah pushes himself up, his face contorting with the effort. I rush forward to help him, but he’s upright before I get a chance. Shallow breaths move the fabric lines in and out.

  “We don’t go to…” Noah pauses, his hand at his side. “…hospitals unless we’re at death’s door. Too hard to explain the high body temps and rapid healing.”

  “But—”

  “Dad has some paramedic training.”

  I huff. “Fine. Come on, let’s get you home.”

  I slip under Noah’s good side, and look up to see him gazing down, a single brow arched. “I don’t want you opening up that cut again.”

  “I’m not complaining.”

  We slowly waddle back to the parking lot, although I seem to be bearing very little of his weight. Nonetheless, he keeps his arm around me as we cover the short distance back through the green tunnel. At the car I help Noah up into the passenger side, and he winces as he digs into his pocket for his keys.

  The drive out is slow as I try to avoid the worst of the potholes, but the slow-moving truck does little to level out the deep ruts. Beside me Noah doesn’t say a word, his lips in a firm line, making the edges a little white. Small spots of red dot across his bandage. I check him regularly, keeping an eye for signs of shock: cool and clammy skin, rapid and shallow breathing, and loss of consciousness.

  I pull into the Phelan driveway, slowing to a gradual stop. I slip under Noah’s arm again as we walk to the veranda. This time he leans his weight against me, and I have to brace myself as solid muscles bear their weight down.

  We angle through the front door, where Beth is in the lounge room. “Ah, you’re home.” Her smile drops as she takes in Noah’s bare chest, and the line of spotted red. “What happened?”

  “A bullet,” Noah says in a strained voice.

  “Adam!”

  Adam rushes in; he hasn’t missed the urgency in her tone. “Beth?”

>   Blue eyes scan Noah leaning against me. He strides forward, relieving me of Noah’s weight.

  “Let’s bring him into the kitchen.”

  I stand back as Adam, stooped below his son’s arm, directs him to a kitchen chair. From a cupboard above the bench he pulls out a first aid kit. He opens it on the table, trays coming up to stack in diagonal shelves. It makes mine look like a My Little Nurse toy.

  Noah’s eyes close. “You’re going to need a lot of band aids.”

  Adam is carefully unwrapping the bandage, the red spots getting progressively bigger. “What happened?” he asks past tight lips.

  “We were in the Glade.” Noah looks at me, that moment passing between us. “And the next second, I was down like a sack of Precept rocks.”

  Adam has unwrapped the bandages and my row of blood-soaked gauze march across Noah’s side and up his chest. The blood has dried in places, sticking them to his skin. Adam pulls out some saline, flushing the crusted pieces of material off.

  “Nice work, Eden.”

  I shift on my feet. “Thanks.”

  “It’s not deep, just long.” Adam wipes some alcohol gauze across the cut. Noah’s breath sucks through his teeth, the muscles of his chest tightening. I lock my legs into place, wanting to go to him.

  “Just a few more, son.” I can see Noah’s jaw clench as his father finishes cleaning the wound.

  Beth comes over to stand behind Noah, her hands on his shoulders. Worry lines are etched across her brow, fanning from her eyes, tightening her mouth. “How could this happen, Adam?”

  Adam pulls out a stack of butterfly strips and fresh bandages from the kit. “The Glade isn’t too far from the reserve. Hunters ignoring the border, a ricochet bullet.” He squints as he pinches the pieces of torn flesh, then tapes them together. “It’s possible, but pretty unlucky.”

  Noah rests a weary head against his mother’s arm. “Tell me about it.”

  With practiced speed, Adam wraps up Noah’s chest. “There, all done. It should heal in a few days. But you’ll have a pretty good a scar.”

  Noah grins. “Chicks dig scars.”

  I roll my eyes, shaking my head. Only Noah could grin after a lengthy cut has been cleaned and bandaged.