by L. L. Raand
Misha sighed and closed her eyes.
Sylvan waited another few moments, feeding Misha her strength, ensuring that she slept peacefully. Then she shifted back to skin and sat on the edge of the bed, softly stroking the beautiful gray and white wolf. The wound on Misha’s shoulder was raw and red, but Sylvan saw no sign of the black poison.
Elena handed Sylvan her jeans. “I may need you again if she tries to shift back too soon.”
“Thanks.” Sylvan stood and pulled on her jeans. Her shirts rarely survived her rapid shifts, the fragments incinerating in the heat of her transition, but she usually managed not to shred her pants if she wanted them again.
“Call me,” Sylvan said. “No matter what I’m doing, I’ll come.”
Elena kissed Sylvan lightly on the mouth. “I know. We all know.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The windows in the gathering room were open and a breeze thick with honeysuckle and pine stirred Sylvan’s hair. The scents of rabbit, squirrel, and possum rode on the heat currents, teasing Sylvan with the lure of freedom and the joy of the hunt. Hunting prey was part of the natural order, but there was nothing natural about the hunt she contemplated today. Sylvan shut the heavy double oak doors, put her hands on her hips, and surveyed her war council.
Niki lounged by the huge fireplace, her back against the stones, her arms folded beneath her breasts. Max and Andrew flanked the entry, shoulders resting lightly against the walls. Lara, her fourth centuri, reclined on the arm of an oversized leather chair, her eyes scanning the open windows while the fingers of her right hand played through the short, thick hair of a statuesque brunette. Lara and Val had obviously been in the midst of a tangle when summoned. Val, who like Sylvan wore only a pair of jeans, was Callan’s top-ranking lieutenant and dominant enough to have been offered a place with the centuri. Val had declined, saying that she preferred her position with the sentrie.
She liked spending long hours in wolf form patrolling their borders.
Val could follow a days-old track better than anyone except Sylvan and could take down a full-grown cat Were by herself. On a hunt, she was merciless.
Callan, the captain of the sentries, slouched on the leather sofa, bare-chested in skintight leather pants, appearing deceptively relaxed.
He was as tall as Max but whip slender where Max was bulky. Both had shaggy dark hair, searching black eyes, and sensuous mouths. Callan was mated and his female had recently gone into heat. He looked tired but bore the typical smug, satisfied expression of all Weres with mates in the midst of breeding frenzy.
Sylvan strode to the center of the gathering. All eyes turned to her.
“Our adolescents were attacked in a city park last night. They report their attackers were rogues. Misha was the target.” Sylvan tempered her fury, needing her war council clear-headed. The mere mention of their young being attacked had them on edge, and her anger could easily stir their battle frenzy. They were seasoned soldiers, all of them, but they were wolves. Not just any wolves, but the most dominant wolves in her Pack. Their instinct was to fight. She turned to Max, who was the intelligence officer on the council. “What is our current count on the rogues?”
“We have no good accounting of their numbers,” Max said. “As you know, they are largely disorganized and rarely form more than the most rudimentary Packs. Two or three living together. Many lone wolves.”
“Estimates?”
“Within the urban territory? A few dozen at last count.” Max frowned. “But things have been uncharacteristically quiet for several months—no petty turf struggles, no gang rumbles.”
“Callan,” Sylvan said, “has Fala reported anything unusual?”
Callan’s mate was one of many Weres in law enforcement, a job that provided a natural outlet for Were hunting instincts. Humans couldn’t detect Were scent at crime scenes, but the Were police officers could. Fala was the conduit for Were officers to report such incidents to the Pack. At the mention of his mate, Callan rubbed his chest lazily, his canines emerging and a bulge growing behind his fly.
“Focus, Callan,” Sylvan barked. “You can think about breeding her later.”
Callan straightened and ducked his head. “Apologies, Alpha.”
Sylvan waved him off. He wasn’t to blame for his instincts. There was no stronger call for a wolf than a mate in breeding frenzy, except the call of their Alpha. Callan would do his job.
“Fala mentioned the number of bodega thefts and car break-ins by the rogues have declined,” Callan said. “I didn’t make anything of that at the time.”
“If the rogues aren’t stealing for food, how are they surviving?”
Sylvan said.
Niki said, “Maybe they’ve hired out as mercenaries or have formed a Pack.”
“If there are more of them than we think,” Max said, “or they’re banding together, we could have a real problem. If they start preying on humans—”
“We’ll be lucky if we all don’t end up in cages,” Val muttered darkly. More than most Weres, who instinctively feared confinement, she couldn’t tolerate being restricted. She hadn’t been born into the Timberwolf Pack—she was one of the rare viable offspring of a female Were and a human male. Her mother, a lone wolf, had hidden her Were nature. Fearing exposure when Val had shifted as a pup, Val’s mother and her human mate had caged Val. Eventually, she had escaped and staggered, half starved, into Timberwolf territory after having run wild in wolf form for weeks. Even as an adolescent, she’d been a ferocious fighter and had damaged several of the sentries who tried to subdue her. Ursula, Sylvan’s mother, had been forced to drag her down by the throat and thrash her until Val lay panting, her belly exposed for the kill.
Then Ursula had nudged her up and taken her into the Pack.
“No one will ever take your freedom,” Sylvan said quietly.
Lara leaned down and kissed Val, who closed her eyes and nodded silently.
“We need to impose order before we have humans injured…or any reports in the media,” Sylvan said. Rogues congregated in warehouses and abandoned buildings, and were usually quick to run from any show of force. If the rogues were organizing, they might resist, and what had once been a nuisance could become a serious threat. Human gangs had become commonplace in the public awareness, but gangs of roving Weres? If the human population learned of the rogues, political sympathies could quickly change.
“Couldn’t Misha’s attempted abduction just have been sexually motivated—rogues looking for a female for sport?” Callan said.
“Maybe, but we need to be sure.” Sylvan let her wolf rise and the others tensed. Niki growled. Sylvan’s voice thickened with rage.
“Either way, we need to send a message that our young are not targets. Tonight—Max, Andrew, and Val—you’ll be with me. And we’ll go hunting.”
“Alpha,” Niki protested, straightening and striding forward. “I should go.”
Sylvan shook her head. “I need you here. You’re the second.”
“Let me go in your place.”
“No. This is my territory, and I will make sure they don’t forget again.” Sylvan turned abruptly, flung the heavy doors open with a blow from her outstretched arms, and strode outside. She shifted and streaked off into the woods, heading for her den. The lassitude left from her time with Francesca still lingered, and she wanted to sleep while she could.
Once she set out to hunt, there would be no rest.
———
Becca sat at a small window table in a Starbucks on Lark Street, ignoring the pedestrians passing by the window as she transcribed her notes into her laptop. She hadn’t really expected the ER doctor to give her much of anything, but she’d been pleasantly surprised when she’d gotten a genuine quote-worthy response. She glanced at the photo of Sylvan Mir and Drake McKennan, wishing she knew the true story behind that encounter. The passion almost jumped—
Her cell phone rang and she dug it out of her bag. “Becca Land.”
“Were you able
to determine if the wolf had slipped her leash?”
“If we had this discussion face-to-face,” Becca said, “we’d both probably get a lot more out of it.”
“As I explained earlier,” the slightly muffled voice rejoined, “I’m not currently able to reveal my interest in the developing situation.”
“What exactly is the situation?” Becca asked, fishing a pad of paper and pen out of her bag one-handed. She hastily noted the date and time.
“I thought I made that clear earlier. Humans are being contaminated, infected, perverted by these…creatures. And America’s new darling—the beautiful, Ivy League-educated Councilor Mir—is the worst animal of them all.”
Becca’s skin literally crawled, because this person did not sound crazy, if she didn’t actually listen to what was being said. Though indistinct, the voice was cultured and well modulated. She could imagine its owner sitting behind a desk in a multimillion-dollar highrise office building or sipping brandy in a private club. Nothing overtly insane or extreme. But the venom curdled her blood.
“There doesn’t seem to be any proof of this…contamination,” Becca said. “If you know something, then give me a lead. Someone to talk to.”
“There will be more. Soon.”
“Where…”
The caller disconnected.
“God damn it,” Becca fumed, scribbling madly. The mysterious caller had contacted her at five that morning, urging her to look at the early morning edition of the city rag. When she asked why, the answer was that the Weres were hiding a secret that could threaten human existence. The implication was Sylvan Mir was on the verge of losing control of her animals, as the caller put it.
Becca was an investigative reporter. She followed a story, no matter how slim the lead, and if there was anything at all to this story, she had a hunch it was going to be big. She sipped her cold coffee and thought about her next move. She didn’t have one. But she hadn’t gotten to this point in her career by sitting back and waiting for the breaks to come to her. She made things happen. She picked up her cell phone, scrolled through her contacts, and pushed a number.
“Gates,” a smoky voice said. “Praetern crime division.”
“Becca Land, Detective.” Becca wondered how the decorated detective felt having been shunted from the elite Crimes Against Persons division to the hastily formed PCD when her father had come out as a Vampire, dragging Jody Gates into the light with him. So to speak.
“I’m busy, Ms. Land. I’m afraid I don’t have any sensational news for you today.”
“I’m an investigative reporter,” Becca said, trying and failing not to be annoyed by the always annoying detective. Why it bothered her that she got no respect from this one detective when she had a good working relationship with other detectives on the crime beat, she didn’t know.
“If you say so. I’m still busy. Goodb—”
“Wait! What do you know about some kind of Were infection getting out of control?” Becca said hastily.
Jody was silent for a long moment. “Are you telling me that you know something about it?”
“How big a problem is it?”
“You’re fishing.”
“I’m in the right pond, aren’t I?”
Jody sighed. “I don’t have anything for you. But if you know something, I need you to tell me.”
“You see,” Becca said conversationally, “the way this works is that you help me out and I help you out.”
“Why would I want to do that?”
“Because we both want the same thing, Detective. We both want—”
“You want a headline with your name underneath it,” Jody said, and the sting was back in her voice. “I want to prevent senseless deaths.”
“You sanctimonious bastard,” Becca said, losing the reins on her temper. “You don’t know me or what I want.”
“No, I don’t,” Jody said in her infuriatingly icy-calm voice. “But allow me to give you a piece of advice, nonetheless. If you keep fishing, you’re likely to pull up something that you can’t handle.”
“Oh please,” Becca snapped. “Are you trying to frighten me now?”
“If I wanted to frighten you, I can think of much more pleasant ways to do it.”
The Vampire’s voice slid along her spine like deliciously cool fingers on a scorching summer day. Becca tightened in places she didn’t want to tighten, especially when talking to this infuriating…
Vampire. She realized she was breathing a little bit faster just before she realized that a Vampire’s hearing was acute enough to tell that over the phone. If she hadn’t already known, Jody’s throaty chuckle would have confirmed it.
“Bastard,” Becca muttered.
“I’ll make a deal with you,” Jody said, her voice businesslike again.
“I’m listening.”
“If you get a lead on any kind of unusual condition affecting the Weres, you don’t go off investigating on your own. You call me.”
Becca snorted. “Where’s the part where I get something out of this?”
“You stay alive.”
“Not good enough.”
“That’s a very foolish thing for a mortal to say.”
“I’m not going to waste my life doing nothing because I’m afraid of dying.” As soon she said it, Becca wondered why she had. The few encounters she’d had with Detective Jody Gates had been uniformly frustrating, if not downright infuriating. Somehow, being dismissed by the elegant, always calm and cool Vampire annoyed her no end. And now, she was getting very close to revealing herself to her.
“Believe it or not,” Jody said, “I understand that.”
Becca caught her breath. She was curious. Everyone was curious where the Vampires were concerned, and by nature, she more than most. Still, she felt an almost strange reluctance to probe, which was completely unlike her. “But why would you…I mean, dying really doesn’t change things for you all that much. Does it?”
Her question came out sounding almost gentle, not like her usual in-your-face interrogation style. Gates had a way of turning her around and upside down, and Becca didn’t like it.
“Being animate is not quite the same thing as being alive,” Jody said quietly.
“Will you help me?” Becca asked.
“Will you promise not to take unnecessary chances?” Jody countered.
“I’m going to do my job, but if you promise to keep me in the loop…anything you have, I get it first. Exclusive. I’ll let you know if I hear anything.”
“And?”
Becca found herself smiling, unaccountably charmed. “And I’ll be careful. No chances.”
“Then we have a deal,” Jody said.
“Thank you,” Becca said softly. She disconnected and leaned back in her chair, knowing she was flushed and imagining cool fingers gliding over her slick skin. Shaking her head at her foolishness, she picked up her pen and focused on her notes. Such an annoying Vampire.
———
Drake had a few extra minutes before her evening shift started, so she detoured through Washington Park on her way to the hospital from her apartment on Madison Avenue. The air held the hazy yellow glow of an August twilight and smelled like freshly mown grass.
Strangely melancholic, she circled the small lake in the center of the park, watching couples stroll hand in hand or picnic with sandwiches spread out on white squares of deli paper. She tried to recall the last time she had a picnic meal. She didn’t bother trying to remember the last time she’d held someone’s hand. A group of noisy teenaged boys shoved past her on the winding path, and she watched them go, kings of their own small universe. She wondered if they were Weres, but she didn’t think so. They didn’t move with the kind of loose-jointed grace that was so typical of Sylvan and her wolves. Drake thought of Misha having been attacked in this park the night before, of the terror in her eyes, and Sylvan’s tender fury. She wondered if she’d ever see the Were Alpha again.
Sylvan hadn’t responded to her request t
o talk to her. Drake had stayed at the hospital until midafternoon, studying the charts of the patients she and Sophia suspected had succumbed to Were fever. The patients were eerily similar—so much so that the coincidences continued to nag at her mind. All girls in their mid teens, all unidentified—assumed to be runaways. Three Caucasians, one Asian. All moderately malnourished, as if they hadn’t always lived on the streets. Drake knew the look. Growing up, she’d seen plenty of street kids cycled in and out of the state home—thin bodies and hard eyes. The girls had presented to the ER at intervals of about a month, which wouldn’t have been remarkable unless someone had been looking for it. She wasn’t surprised that no one had associated their deaths as part of a pattern.
Even she wasn’t entirely certain yet that it was. If the detective hadn’t shown up that morning and awakened her curiosity, she might never have put the picture together.
She had so many questions, and no answers. Why these girls? And what was it that had killed them? How had they gotten infected?
Turning out of the park, she started up New Scotland Avenue. She probably should just let it go. The Weres—in fact, all of the Praeterns—had managed to survive without the intervention of human medicine and science for millennia. But these patients weren’t Weres, and even if they were, she didn’t care. Because she did care.
