by L. L. Raand
Sylvan sighed and pressed her mouth to Niki’s neck, grazing the bounding pulse with her fully erupted canines. Sylvan’s caress was possessive, not sexual. Niki was her wolf, as were all the wolves in the Pack, and Niki needed Sylvan’s touch, her heat, her strength. Isolation was a form of death for a Were. Niki arched subtly against her, taking comfort from Sylvan’s reassurance. Sylvan growled and bit down gently until Niki whined, her shiver of fear turning to pleasure. Gradually, Niki relaxed against Sylvan’s body, at ease and content. Only then did Sylvan release her.
“Do not worry, my wolf,” Sylvan whispered aloud. “The Pack will always come before all else in my life.”
“I know,” Niki murmured, grateful and saddened at the same time.
“Come on.” Sylvan squeezed Niki’s shoulder. “Keep me company tonight on a run?”
“With pleasure, Alpha.” Niki reached for the door and then abruptly stepped in front of Sylvan. “Wait.”
Sylvan felt it too. Waves of tension streaming toward her from the guards outside the door, but she could sense no immediate threat. No scent of enemies. “Open it.”
Niki did, but continued to shield Sylvan’s body with her own.
“What is it, Max?”
Max, a barrel-chested male easily six inches taller than Sylvan’s own five-ten, filled the doorway, his grizzled face tight with strain. “We have a problem. Several of the young slipped our perimeters and left the Compound. We just found out.”
“Where are they?” Heat flared in Sylvan’s eyes. The northern extent of Pack land bordered the Catamount Clan territory in Vermont.
The cat Weres were mostly feral and as territorial as the wolves. They would not give safe passage within their territory, even to foolish wolf pups.
“Here, in the city,” Max replied.
“Who?”
“Jazz, Alex, and Misha.”
Three teenagers, two brothers and a dominant young female, all in military training at the Compound—Sylvan’s home and Pack headquarters. The adolescents had strict curfews, not only because they were still too immature to control their shifts in the face of rampant hormonal changes, but because like all young wild animals, they craved excitement and had no sense of their own mortality. Sylvan cursed.
“That’s not all,” Max said grimly.
“What else?” Sylvan fixed him with a hard stare and he dropped his gaze to her shoulder.
“Alex was the one who called us. They’re at Albany General Hospital. We don’t know what happened, but Misha’s injured.”
Sylvan shouldered him aside and was halfway down the hall before he even finished speaking. Niki, Max, and the third guard, Andrew, ran to keep up. Sylvan didn’t bother with the elevator but loped into the stairwell, grasped the metal railing, and vaulted over the side and onto the landing one floor below. She leapt down, floor by floor, until she reached ground level seconds later. When she went through the door into the dark, she was racing on all fours. The others couldn’t shift while moving, and she didn’t wait for them. She was the Pack Alpha, and one of hers was in danger.
Sylvan ran alone through the night.
———
“Jesus,” Harvey Jones exclaimed, “what the hell is that racket?”
Drake McKennan listened to the steady cacophony of snarls emanating from behind the closed curtain at the far end of the ER.
“Wolf Weres. I paged the Were medic already.”
“What are they doing here? I thought they were indestructible or something.”
“They’re extremely long-lived, I understand,” Drake said, “but not immortal. They can be hurt. Killed.”
Her fellow medic didn’t even bother to hide his disgust, and Drake had to work not to make a caustic comment. He wasn’t the only medic who didn’t seem to think the oath they took extended to Praeterns, even though most of them had probably taken care of a witch or a lesser Fae at some point in their careers without knowing it. Probably not a Were, though. Harvey was right, the Weres rarely showed up in the ER. Their Packs or Prides had their own medics. Just the same, if she’d had the slightest idea how to treat the young female Were who’d arrived with a stab wound to the shoulder, she would have. Assuming the adolescent males with the pretty young brunette would let her get close to the girl without a fight, which she doubted. Just the same, she would have tried if she’d thought she could do any good. The six-foot-tall boys had a few inches on her and more muscle, but she was a pretty solid fighter. She’d had to learn quickly how to defend herself in the series of foster homes and state facilities she’d grown up in. The problem was, she didn’t know much about Were physiology—just one of the many secrets the Weres protected.
“Well, I wish to hell they’d quiet down. They’re making the real patients nervous.”
“I’ll see if there’s anything I can do.” Drake had seen the girl when the boys had brought her in. She was scared and she was in pain.
The boys looked scared too, but they put up a tough front, snarling at anyone who approached, demanding a Were medic look at her and no one else. Drake’s instinct had been to help her, but she’d put in a call to Sophia Revnik, the medic who had worked in the ER for five years and who, after the Exodus, had announced to everyone she was a wolf Were. Drake liked the plucky blonde, but some of their colleagues had given Sophia the cold shoulder since discovering she was a Praetern.
“Why bother with them,” Harvey scoffed.
“Because that’s why we’re here,” Drake said, realizing that at the next ER staff meeting she’d have to bring up the schism developing around treating Praeterns. The bias had been subtle at first, but as each day passed, the prejudice was growing. The heated public debate over allowing Praeterns the rights of full citizenship hadn’t helped. Some, more each day it seemed, argued that the constitution only protected humans.
“Watch yourself,” Harvey grunted as she walked away.
She stopped in front of the cubicle, not foolish enough to surprise the boys when they were obviously upset.
“Hey,” she said to the curtain. “I’m Dr. McKennan. Can I help you at all? Can I come in?”
“No,” a rough male voice snapped back.
“Look—I can start an IV, maybe give her something for pain.”
“No one will touch her.”
Drake took a breath, kept her voice calm. “Someone’s going to have to.” She debated sliding back the curtain, but the sound of a commotion coming from the direction of the ER entrance diverted her.
A blonde strode toward her, but it wasn’t Sophia Revnik. This woman was taller and leaner than Sophia, with dusty blond waves that just brushed her collar in place of Sophia’s shoulder-length platinum locks.
Keen blue eyes that took in everything around her in one sharp sweep dominated her strong, angular face. Even dressed in jeans and a plain navy T-shirt, she exuded an unmistakable air of authority.
Everyone in her path backed away, hurriedly averting their gaze, but as the blonde bore down on her, Drake couldn’t look away. When the slate blue eyes fixed on hers, an unexpected wave of heat coursed through her. She had seen Sylvan Mir, the Special U.S. Councilor on Were Affairs, on television but the cameras had not done her justice.
They had made her look older than she obviously was and had muted her untamed beauty and charisma. She smelled wild too—burnt pine and cinnamon, with an undercurrent of tangy sensuality.
“Are you responsible for them?” Drake said, holding up one hand.
“I need to see the girl but they won’t let me in.”
Slowing, Sylvan studied the woman standing almost protectively in front of the closed curtain. Her thick, collar-length black hair contrasted sharply with her ivory skin, as if her face were bathed in moonlight.
Her carved cheekbones and slightly square jaw reminded her of the stark beauty of sweeping mountain peaks. She wore scrubs the color of warm blood, and she blocked Sylvan’s path with unwavering courage.
This stranger should have been
afraid—of her and of her nearly out-ofcontrol adolescents behind the thin curtain—but her charcoal gray eyes radiated only calm. A calm that slid over Sylvan’s skin like the brush of warm lips. Sylvan shook off the unfamiliar urge to let down her guard, to rest for a moment in that seductive peacefulness. She could smell Misha’s pain, the boys’ rising aggression. They were hers to protect, and this human had put herself between her and her wolves. A very dangerous and foolish thing to do.
“Who are you?” Sylvan demanded.
“Dr. Drake McKennan.”
“You’re a human physician.”
“Yes. You’re the Were Alpha, aren’t you?”
“Yes,” Sylvan said, impressed with the human’s use of the terms.
Many humans preferred to avoid a direct reference to her species or her status. “Sylvan Mir.”
Drake finally broke free of Sylvan’s hypnotic gaze and took in the whole of her long-limbed, rangy body. “You’re barefoot.”
For just a second, Sylvan’s full, perfectly proportioned lips flickered, as if she might smile, but then her expression cooled. She moved forward so quickly, Drake barely had time to get out of her path.
“You’ll excuse me.” Sylvan reached for the curtain. “I need to see to my young.”
“Can I help you?”
“No.” Sylvan pulled the curtain aside.
Drake stayed where she was. The Were Alpha hadn’t said she couldn’t watch.
“Alpha!” one of the boys exclaimed. Both boys, handsome darkhaired teenagers with startlingly beautiful dark green eyes, immediately ducked their heads, seeming to shrink in on themselves. The equally beautiful brunette girl on the stretcher whimpered.
“What happened?” Sylvan growled.
“Rogues,” one of the boys whispered. “They attacked us in the park. We fought them, Alpha, but—”
Drake jerked in shock and barely stifled a protest when Sylvan Mir grabbed the boy by the collar and yanked him up onto his toes, shaking him so hard his thick black hair flew into his face. The Alpha and the young male were nearly the same size, but she handled him as if he were half her weight.
“You brought Misha out of the Compound and then failed to protect her?” Sylvan roared.
The boy trembled in her grasp and the girl, to her credit, forced herself upright on the stretcher, even though she was in obvious pain.
“I don’t need males to protect me,” Misha cried, her dark brown irises circled in gold. “I am strong enough—”
Sylvan whipped her head around and silenced the girl with a glare. “And you? You followed these brainless pups against my explicit orders? You want to be a soldier, yet cannot obey a simple command from your Alpha?”
The girl’s pale face blanched even whiter and she shuddered.
“She was attacked,” Drake exclaimed, instinctively wanting to shield the injured girl. There’d been a time when she had been the defenseless one, and no one had stood for her. She had stopped hoping for, stopped needing, that kind of caring a long time ago, but she couldn’t erase her bone-deep drive to defend the defenseless. “She’s hurt and in no condition—”
“This is none of your concern,” Sylvan snarled, rounding on Drake, lethal-looking canines flashing. Her eyes were no longer blue, but wolf-gold. “These are my wolves.”
Drake stiffened, the memory of bruises inflicted by older, stronger youths in a group home suddenly as fresh as if the blows had been delivered yesterday. She heard a low rumble and her skin prickled, the fine hairs on her arms and neck quivering. Forcing herself to think, not react, Drake assessed the scene as she would an unknown clinical situation. The boy was limp in the Alpha’s grasp, the way Drake had seen young kittens and puppies go boneless in their mothers’ jaws.
The teenagers did not appear frightened or abused. Chastised, yes.
But not afraid. In fact, all three of them looked at Sylvan Mir with something close to adulation. Drake realized that no matter how human they appeared, these Weres did not live by human social and moral conventions, and she was out of her element.
“My apologies, Ms. Mir,” Drake said softly. “I meant no offense.”
Inclining her head infinitesimally, Sylvan said, “None taken.”
Sylvan was impressed with the human’s fortitude. When Pack Alphas went dominant, they exuded a complex combination of powerful hormones that triggered a deeply ingrained flight instinct in the primitive brain centers of every species. Any other human, and even the most dominant wolves, would have cowered in the face of her rage.
But Sylvan had no time to ponder why this human female seemed able to absorb her fury without fear. Misha needed her.
Sylvan released Jazz and turned to Misha. When she stroked the girl’s cheek, the teenager nuzzled her palm.
“Where are you hurt, Misha?” Sylvan inquired softly.
Misha lifted her chin, seeming to take strength from Sylvan’s touch. “My shoulder.”
Drake watched the exchange, struck by the tenderness that passed between the Alpha and the young Were. Anyone who wasn’t looking closely would have missed the small signs of caring, but to Drake the subtle gestures said everything. The deep love that existed between these Weres and Sylvan Mir was unmistakable.
“Did any of you shift?” Sylvan asked, taking in the three teens.
The two boys had crowded around the stretcher now, each of them stroking the girl, comforting her.
Misha shook her head. “I wanted to, because I thought it might heal my shoulder, but I was afraid to try. You said we couldn’t, without permission.”
“So you did remember something,” Sylvan murmured, rubbing her knuckles along Misha’s jaw. “Turn over, let me see.”
Obediently, Misha rolled onto her side and Drake eased into the cubicle for a better look. Misha’s shirt was in tatters and Sylvan swept it aside, revealing a long gash in the trapezius muscle, beginning high on her back just to the left of her spine and extending diagonally downward for six inches. The wound didn’t look like any knife wound Drake had ever seen. The edges were blackened and already beginning to fester.
Angry red streaks extended outward from the gangrenous margins for several inches. Something was very wrong.
“That wound is infected.” Drake pushed closer. “Let me at least take a loo—”
“No,” Sylvan lashed back.
Then Drake heard a sound unlike anything she’d ever heard before—not a snarl, not a growl. A deep, resonant rumble filled with pure animal fury. The air around Sylvan Mir shimmered, and a surge of energy skittered over Drake’s skin. Her breath caught in her chest as Drake tried to make sense of what she was seeing. Sylvan held Misha facedown on the bed with one hand clamped around the back of her neck. Her other hand was no longer a hand, but an elongated appendage with inch-long, razor-sharp claws. Before Drake could force her own limbs to move again, Sylvan plunged her claws into the girl’s shoulder.
Misha screamed.
CHAPTER TWO
Drake shoved her way in front of the boy at the head of the stretcher. “Back up, let me get to her.”
She briefly registered a look of confusion in his emerald eyes, then something like acquiescence. He made room for her, switching his grip to Misha’s arms. Drake grasped Misha’s shoulders to prevent the thrashing girl from throwing herself off the stretcher. Whatever Sylvan Mir was doing, Drake had to believe it was necessary. “I’ve got her.”
“Be careful, don’t let her bite you,” Sylvan ordered.
The Alpha’s voice was an octave lower than it had been and so rough Drake had to strain to make out the words. When she comprehended the warning, she bent down to see Misha’s face. Her eyes were wide and wild, a red-gold eclipsing the brown irises. Sharp canines extended beyond her blood-flecked lower lip. Bones grated, muscles bunched and rippled beneath Drake’s hands. The young girl emitted a terrified whine, bucking and writhing, the flesh on her fingertips tearing as she flailed at the table. A brackish black fluid welled from the laceration in h
er back, bubbling out over her smooth golden skin, an obscenity of putrefaction and decay.
“What is that?” Drake asked.
“Poison,” Sylvan snarled, forcing her claws deeper into the wound.
“Is she shifting?”
“She can’t—the poison is paralyzing her.”
Rivulets of sweat ran down Misha’s face. The flesh beneath Drake’s hands was blisteringly hot.
“She’s becoming hyperthermic.” Drake railed inwardly at her helplessness. She didn’t understand Were physiology. Pre-Exodus the Weres had hidden their biologic differences to prevent discovery, and they still safeguarded that information. Some theorized the Praetern species feared their enemies would develop bioweapons to be used for their selective termination. Right now, Drake didn’t care about politics or power games. She cared about one teenaged girl who was going to die.
“What’s causing it? What’s the toxic agent?” Drake demanded.
Misha’s lips were covered with pink froth and her breathing was labored. An ominous crackling sound accompanied every breath. “Her lungs are filling up with blood. Maybe I can administer an antidote. Let me help her before she drowns.”
“You can’t.” Sylvan dragged a two-inch triangular object from the depths of Misha’s wound. It looked like metal of some kind.
Drake registered a babble of voices behind her in the hall, shouts and snarls morphing into an incomprehensible roar of anger and panic.
The next thing she knew, she was thrown against the wall and pinned there with an arm across her throat. Acting on instinct, she shot out her fist and connected with flesh and bone. Someone cursed. The pressure on her throat lessened for an instant, and Drake wrapped both hands around a forearm that was smaller than she had anticipated but as hard as sculpted iron. She managed to suck in a breath.
“I’m a friend,” she gasped, focusing on the fierce hunter green eyes that bore into hers. “A doctor.”
The only response was a threatening growl from the auburn-haired female who restrained her. Drake responded with a near growl of her own. She’d tried negotiating. Now she’d fight. Even the warning flash of canines couldn’t stop her. She let go of the arm across her throat, but she hadn’t counted on the inhuman speed of these Weres. Before she could even begin to throw a punch, her arm was slammed against the wall and held there in a granite grip. The constriction on her throat tightened again and her vision started to dim.
