Hour of the Lion

by Cherise Sinclair

  'Start with that table.'

  A few feet away, she stopped and frowned. The damn man had the unconscious authority of an officer, one that assumed others would do as ordered. She snorted. They probably did. Just look at the way she‘d reacted.

  Of course, she‘d been in the military for years. Her obedience didn‘t surprise her—but never before had a commanding tone made all her girlie-bits tingle.

  *

  Alec wandered into the Wild Hunt about eleven that night. A cold beer would go down good right now.

  He‘d have arrived earlier if two human teens hadn‘t stolen Devlin‘s beloved Mustang for joy-riding. Dev had jumped into his pickup and pushed them off the road, unfortunately denting the Mustang‘s door. Alec had arrived just in time to keep him from shifting into cat form.

  Herne help him, it had been a close thing. There was a reason Daonain lived only in small towns or villages—they rarely had enough control to live in a city. Tynan O‘Connolly was one of the few living outside shifter territory, and most people figured he was a little crazy to go play cop in Seattle.

  Far better to be the sheriff of a sparsely populated, mountain county. Smiling, Alec pulled open the tavern door and was engulfed by the scent of fresh popcorn and the sound of Rosanne Cash. Every table was taken; a normal crowded Friday night. In the clear space by the jukebox, three college-aged women tried to linedance, their boots so new the toes still gleamed.

  When he saw a couple snuggling on the fireplace couch, envy washed away his pleasure.

  When was the last time he‘d shared the enjoyment of a crackling fire with a female?

  As he raked his hair back, he puzzled on it for a moment. Sex during Gatherings was just sex and didn‘t count. There had been that time with Tina, but she‘d merely wanted to warm the sheets. He fingered the ridges still healing on his neck; a screamer and a scratcher—she might as well have been in cat form. That wasn‘t what he called snuggling by a fire.

  He shook away the unreasonable loneliness and decided Calum‘s new waitress would be an excellent diversion. Not only a pretty female, but one who‘d aroused his curiosity. He glanced at the barmaid‘s station. The adjacent stools were occupied by two men in their twenties. Red eyes.

  Acrid stench. Obviously stoned as well as drunk. Now, would Calum be annoyed at losing paying customers?

  Alec grinned. He hadn‘t pulled his littermate‘s tail in a while. Assuming his favorite I‘m-a-bad-ass-sheriff expression, he crowded into the men‘s personal space. As a cop, he knew the risk, but hell, he hadn‘t had a good fight for days.

  The man nearest the barmaid station scowled without turning around. 'Get lost, asshole.

  His friend puffed up belligerently, and then caught sight of the sheriff badge. And suddenly, Alec had possession of two fine bar stools.

  'You should be ashamed of yourself,' a husky voice said just behind his shoulder.

  He turned with a grin, already knowing who spoke. 'Me? I didn‘t lay a hand on the lads.'

  She frowned at him, pushing her full, dark red lips together, luring him into running a finger over her lower lip. Velvety soft and—

  There was nothing soft about her glare.

  'Oops,' he said mildly and stuck both hands into the air. 'No excuse for that, Ms. Waverly, but it does bother me to see you frown. Your mouth—' No, not a good topic. 'You‘re a lovely woman, and you do pull at a man.' A shame he couldn‘t add that her forbidding expression didn‘t match the fragrance of her attraction to him. A person‘s scent didn‘t lie, and hers was pulling him to her like a dog on a leash. Odd that a human‘s scent could be so attractive.

  However, he really had overstepped the bounds of politeness. 'I‘m very sorry, ma‘am.'

  She made a sound in the back of her throat, almost a growl. 'Call me Vicki. You make it hard to stay pissed off, you know.'

  'There‘s a mercy. I‘m Alec.' He took her tray and set it onto the bar, then patted his newly acquired stool. 'Take a break. Give your feet a rest.'

  'In this crowd? Fat chance.'

  After glancing at the orders on her tray, he slid the tickets down the bar to his brother.

  Calum gave him a narrow-eyed look, but held silent.

  'It‘ll take him a few minutes to make those fancy wine coolers up,' Alec said. 'Must be from that bunch of yuppies by the window.'

  'Dead on.' She eyed the stool with such longing it broke his heart. Forgetting she wasn‘t Jamie, he moved to pick her up and set her there. She knocked his arms away with a pair of hard cross-blocks.

  'Ow.'

  She winced. 'I‘m sorry. My ribs are sore, and… I didn‘t mean—'

  'Who beat you up?' The words escaped before he could recall them, and damn, he hadn‘t even had a beer yet to act so addle-pated.

  She slid onto the barstool slowly, obviously stalling. 'No one. I was clumsy and had a bad fall.'

  Sure she did. 'Now I don‘t mind being told, ‗That‘s none of your business.‘ But I‘ve been a cop a long time, and the one thing I truly hate is being lied to.'

  Flushing, she turned away.

  Having made a bit of a study of liars, he appreciated that she didn‘t protest her innocence like a chronic liar would do. 'Thank you, Ms. Vicki,' he said softly.

  She shrugged, set up her tray with the new drinks, and waded back into the crowd.

  As he watched, she dispensed the glasses, each to the correct person, and took more orders.

  Her gaze danced across the room, the tables, and he could see her calculating who needed a drink, who to check on next. He‘d known from the quickness of her responses to him that she was smart, but now, he realized she was cannier than he‘d figured.

  He frowned. The expert fighting skills Calum had mentioned weren‘t easily acquired and showed she had discipline and determination. Apparently she hadn‘t been anxious about getting a job. She had no family here.

  What‘s she doing in Cold Creek?

  *

  After locking the cash into his safe, Calum walked back into the main room. Almost done for the night. Only the little human waitress remained.

  She‘d managed her first day quite nicely. As he wiped down the bar, she picked up the last few glasses from the fireplace mantle. Moving rather stiffly, wasn‘t she? He felt a twinge of guilt. He‘d had her start on the busiest day of the week. Then again, she‘d been invaluable. Rosie couldn‘t have kept up. The waitress had staggered out an hour ago, muttering about retirement in her rough voice.

  Calum drew two beers and cleared his throat. When she turned, he said, 'Let us celebrate your first successful evening. Come.' He led the way to the fireplace. A fire elemental lay curled on the glowing coals. The salamander looked up hopefully, but Calum shook his head slightly.

  He wouldn‘t be adding more wood this late.

  After setting their drinks on the table, he sat on one couch.

  She took the couch across from him and picked up her beer. 'This is a nice way to end a busy evening.'

  'Indeed. After this much activity, it can be hard to settle.' He studied her before taking a drink. 'Have you been a waitress before?'

  'Oh, I‘ve tried my hand at some of everything,' she said lightly. She had a low voice like brushed silk, pleasant to the ear.

  And he could recognize evasion when he heard it. Would she recognize persistence? 'Are you a native of our state?'

  Her eyes narrowed a little. '‗Fraid not. I was an ambassador‘s brat. Lots of states, lots of countries, lots of homes.'

  'That‘s a hard life for a child. I‘ve heard it‘s even harder for the mothers.'

  She shrugged. 'My mom died when I was young and we didn‘t have any family, so my father dragged me with him anytime he couldn‘t hire a housekeeper to leave me with.'

  Motherless, homeless—had her father filled the gap? A man dedicated to a political career.

  Doubtful. 'Then you were exposed to many cultures growing up?'

  'Exposed? That sounds nasty. But yeah.'

 
She might fit in better than he‘d anticipated. The question was how would the human-haters in town react? He picked up one of the checkers pieces and noted a spark of interest in her glance. 'You play?'

  'It‘s been years.'

  'Then it is time.' He set the game up. 'What brought you to Cold Creek? We don‘t get many tourists this time of year.'

  She shoved her first piece forward. 'I‘ve always wanted to live in the mountains.'

  That sounded like truth...but not all the truth. 'We‘re high enough that the weather here can be rather nasty.' He slid a piece forward.

  She played a canny game, surrendering pieces reluctantly, but sacrificing where needed.

  Aggressive, focused on the goal, much like Alec‘s style. Even his questions didn‘t distract her.

  But her answers stayed ambiguous. Worrisome. She tossed them off with a carefree voice, but he could almost hear her mind racing for the best response. As Alec had said, the little human was a puzzle.

  He won the game. Barely.

  'This was fun.' She tucked the checkers into the table slots. 'It was a good way to unwind.

  Thank you.'

  'My pleasure.'

  With their empty glasses, she disappeared down the hallway. A minute later, he heard the dishwasher start up. Smart little human—only needed to be shown something once. Did she know how rare that was? He followed her to tell her so.

  Across the kitchen, she was hanging up her apron, and then, hands over her head, she stretched. Her close-fitting shirt outlined the tight muscles of her stomach, the jut of her lush breasts, her muscular biceps. The harsh kitchen light acquired a glow as it rested on her skin, emphasizing high cheekbones, full lips, and the long line of her throat.

  His pulse picked up, and his hand tightened on the door frame.

  Lowering her arms, she touched her side gingerly as if it hurt. Spell broken, he blinked.

  What was he thinking? She was human. Inter-relations were not forbidden, but wisdom dictated avoidance, both physical and emotional.

  Daonain weren‘t attracted to humans anyway—they didn‘t have the right scent. Normally.

  Unfortunately hers was bloody appealing. Not wild as a shifter‘s would be, but clean as the mountain air with a hint of flowers and feminine musk.

  He cleared his throat, and she spun around fast, almost cat-like, taking a defensive stance.

  Her eyes displayed no fear, just a readiness for battle.

  If he‘d moved...but he didn‘t. He leaned against the door frame and crossed his arms, waiting.

  'Fuck, you‘re quiet,' she spat out, easing back.

  'Please excuse me for my...silence.' He studied her for a moment. Her mouth drooped slightly, her eyes looked weary, and her fingers trembled. 'I should not have kept you up. I fear this evening has been more tiring than you anticipated.'

  She shoved her hands in her jeans pockets. 'I‘m fine. I had the flu last week so I wear out fast. Couple of days and I‘ll be back to normal.'

  'Then you are content with your employment?'

  'Are you sure you and the sheriff are brothers? You don‘t sound at all alike.'

  'Ah. I was raised in the British Isles; Alec joined relatives in the south.'

  She laughed. 'In that case, I‘m surprised you can even communicate with each other.

  Speaking of communication'—she gave him a narrow-eyed look—'next time, I get to lead the interrogation.'

  He tilted his head. He might well learn more from her questions than her evasive answers.

  'Next time we‘ll play chess.'

  *

  Tony Vidal sat at his desk. Fatigue made him feel as if he weighed several hundred pounds.

  His left hand held a pen—and trembled. He laid his right over it, pressing down, willing the shaking to stop as fear knotted his stomach.

  Parkinson"s. A slow decline into helplessness. That was not for him—Tony Vidal—who‘d crawled his way up the ladder, leaving dead bodies in his wake. Years ago, he‘d gone from being the Bull‘s most feared enforcer to slitting the drug lord‘s neck and taking his place. Then using his rival‘s little daughter as a lever, he‘d forced Garcia right out of Seattle. Hell, he‘d even given the kid back—a little scarred up, but alive. He‘d been on top for years. People answered to him, money flowed in as the drugs flowed out.

  No fucking way would he let himself turn into a drooling idiot and have some ambitious son of a bitch slice his throat. He released his left hand and it lay quiet. He didn‘t shake constantly—

  he still had time to find the answers.

  The fucking werecats held those answers. He knew it.

  He leaned back, remembering the village where he‘d grown up. All the rumors he‘d heard—

  people who changed into animals, who never aged, who never got sick. He‘d laughed at the fairy tales…right up to the time he‘d seen one of his teachers transform into a mountain lion.

  His family had moved away shortly after, and he hadn‘t thought much about it. Until his diagnosis. Until the doctor had said there was no cure for Parkinson‘s, merely a delay in the inevitable. The sickly curl of fear never left him. But he‘d known what he had to do. Become one of the beasts. Live forever without any sickness.

  If he could only find out how to do it.

  He drummed his fingers on the desk. What was Swane doing all this time, diddling himself?

  Worthless bastard—Vidal didn‘t have forever to wait. He punched in Swane‘s number.

  'Yeah,' Swane answered.

  'What‘s going on?'

  'The fire investigator could tell it was arson, and they found what was left of the old woman‘s body in the basement, but the investigation‘s stalled. We‘re clear,' Swane said smugly.

  'What do you want me to do now?'

  Vidal scowled. Dumb fuck. However, the ex-mercenary could be trusted to carry out orders without screwing up…if the sadistic asshole didn‘t get carried away like he had with the kid.

  'Find me another creature.'

  'Like how? The traps where we caught Beastie-boy are empty. And a few are gone. Want me to move them to a new spot?'

  'Let me think.' Walking over to the huge bay windows, Vidal stared out at the drizzling rain. For some reason, the place where he‘d grown up had turned into a ghost town, but the rumors had mentioned other places with werecreatures. One was somewhere in the mountains northeast of Seattle—he‘d remembered that because his uncle lived in Seattle. He knew they were up there. Catching the boy proved that. 'Leave some traps where we got the kid. Then find the closest town and set traps around it—stay off the hiking trails though. If you need to hire someone, tell them you‘ve been contracted to trap a mountain lion.'

  'Got it.'

  'Call me in another day.' Vidal shut the phone off and scowled at the open folder on his desk. He picked up the driver‘s license lying on top. Victoria Morgan. The bitch was pretty. And clever. She‘d disappeared fucking thoroughly. But her ID had led him to the Marines, and then he‘d called in favors to get the rest of the information. She worked in a covert unit under an Agency big shot. No wonder she‘d slid through their fingers so easily.

  The CIA. Nothing he wanted to fuck with. But she‘d seen him and Swane.

  He didn‘t want to kill her though—not right away. If the cunt was alive, he‘d find out whether the bite had turned her into a werecreature. Besides, the kid might have talked to her, even told her where the creatures hid.

  If she had any information... Well, Swane enjoyed women. By the time he finished, she‘d be begging to tell them all she knew.

  *

  As Vic stepped out onto her porch, she took a long breath of moist air, heady with the fragrance of fallen leaves and snow from the mountains. Did snow have a smell? Her coffee supply was running low, so she‘d decided to walk into town like everyone else did around here.

  Her knee would tolerate an easy stroll.

  As she walked down the steps, she glanced at the tree in the front yard. A qu
iver of uneasiness wiggled in her guts like a worm. She‘d watched the branches for the past week, and no more little hands had poked out of the foliage. But sometimes the leaves rustled—against the wind.

  As if shapeshifters weren‘t enough to deal with. Scowling, she stared up. Another couple of weeks and maybe her ribs wouldn‘t kill her when she climbed up there. Then she‘d examine every fucking inch of that tree.

  And she‘d take her Glock with her.

  Nothing showed. Each day, yellowing leaves drifted down to cover the lawn, but plenty remained. More than enough to hide a squirrel or something. Something.

  She glared. Two weeks ago, she‘d have laughed at anyone talking about…nonexistent creatures. Now? 'You know, little bastard, if I knew what you were, I might leave out food for you to eat. Squirrels like nuts, right?' Or maybe it was a rat—in that case, all bets were off.

  'Maybe I should get a rat trap instead.' She slapped the tree trunk.

  As she walked away, something hit between her shoulder blades. 'What the hell?' She spun, looked around. An unshelled walnut rocked back and forth on the ground.

  A walnut? The tree was an oak. The day was calm with no wind, and she stood several feet out from under the canopy. A chill inched up her vertebrae as she had a visual of a squirrel winding up for a pitch. Nah.

  Well, whatever-it-was would have to wait until she healed up a little more. Giving the tree branches her best I‘ll-be-back stare, she sauntered away.

  Chapter Five

  The tavern had closed an hour earlier. As Calum walked Victoria to the door, he smiled at the disgruntled look on her face. Although she‘d won the first chess game last week, he had recouped and was now ahead in games. But so far, she‘d stymied him in another way—he still had no idea why she‘d come to Cold Creek. Nonetheless he thoroughly enjoyed the verbal sparring. The little human had a keen mind and a delightfully wry sense of humor.

  After opening the door, he let her out into the night. 'Are you sure—'

  'You always ask that. I can walk myself home, thank you very much.'

  'As you wish.' In spite of his better judgment, he moved closer, noting the first faint whiff of female arousal and the dusky rose color that tinged her cheek. Why did this feisty human have to be so appealing? With an effort, he stepped back and smiled down into eyes the amber-brown of sherried Scotch whiskey. 'Having witnessed you in a fight, I should be more concerned for your opponents.'