A pinch at the back of his neck sent cold liquid through his body. His joints went soft; he grew heavy and fell into the feathery darkness. His vision narrowed to the flickering orange firelight overhead with deep shadows wavering at the edges. The only sound now was the crackle of burning wood. His body was paralyzed. He couldn’t swallow to bring moisture into his dry throat.
They were up under him and moving him. The heat pressed like a blanket and then the air rippled. The silence was deeper, swallowing the sound of the metallic, clicking legs. The new atmosphere was sulfuric, but it wasn’t hot.
His animal spirit was aware of deep rooted pain at the base of his neck. He focused his energy on the werewolf, but it didn’t touch the surface. He couldn’t change. His body wouldn't respond. He had to fight to open his eyelids.
The tiny creatures stopped moving and the pressure at the back of his neck released, followed by a warm sensation that tingled down his spine. They wiggled out from underneath him and his body pressed into the stone wanting to become one with the floor. The ceiling was laid out in front of him, painted like the sky with roaming clouds. The edges of the ceiling were trimmed in gold. The rest of the room escaped him. He couldn’t turn his head.
"What did my couriers bring me, a werewolf?" A female voice broke the silence. It echoed in his head.
A Mission Leader, lying dormant to unknown danger, was unheard of. He was a warrior. He fought to the death. Still, his body wouldn’t move. He lay staring up at the ceiling, aware of the new arrival.
Many sets of heels clicked on the floor, stopping just out of his peripheral vision. There was evidence that something corporeal was present, yet incenses and oil were heavy in the air, masking her individual scent. The sulfur stench burned his nose.
She exhaled, sending strands of his hair into his face. She chuckled low. “A Skin Walker; this is better.”
She remained out of his line of sight. He gritted his teeth, determined to get his mouth to move. His tight jaw made his temples ache.
His connection with the moon was still severed. On a spiritual level, he was familiar with transcendence. He had traveled along the edge of the ethereal and corporeal world, but not even his spirit had exceeded this far into the non-corporeal world.
Her laughter was dark and wispy; everything he’d expect from something non-corporeal. She leaned in; blocking the light and it took a minute for his eyes and brain to correlate what he saw. Her skin was deathly gray and waxy. Her eyes were empty, black sockets in her head. Her nose was gone, leaving the hollow ridges of a skeleton.
The desire to scream drew his mouth open, but his vocal cords wouldn’t tighten. She pressed her bony lips to his. Her tongue breeched his mouth, flicking its dry, serpent length deep into the back of his throat. Every deep breath she took, stole his air. His lungs squeezed painfully in response.
Heat washed the edges of his eyes and down his cheeks. Tears. He never cried. She pulled back and the paralysis left him. He curled onto his side, sucking air into his lungs.
“You’re not ready yet,” she said. “We will wait for the full moon.”
The words no sooner reached his ears before everything went black.
oOo
A fire truck with blaring siren barreled through the intersection, followed by two ambulances. Mercer straightened. They were heading in the same direction as him. Helicopters caught his attention. The fourth one gaining height was an emergency helicopter. Tension tightened his gut.
He turned off the music and stopped at the red light, watching clouds of black smoke rise above the tops of the buildings. His phone rang. Flipping it open, he expected Hota to change their location.
“What is your current location?” Tristen’s bark lacked bite. Tension was thinly disguised in his tone.
The background noise was deafening. He gripped the phone tighter, but it didn’t make Tristen’s words any clearer. Police had the next street blocked and were redirecting traffic. News crews circled like sharks.
“I have to park on Carol Avenue and walk, but I won’t get far. The police have everything blocked.” He drove his car down the first residential street, mindful of the gawkers. The street was already crowded with cars, forcing him to park farther down than he wanted.
“I’ll meet you,” Tristen said.
A haze settled over the neighborhood, thick due to the nearness of the fire. It leaked through the car’s vent and immediately dried his throat. He raised his shirt to his face to block the worst of the air, but his eyes still watered. Forest creatures had the good sense to put distance between themselves and danger. The humans didn’t share that knowledge.
He stepped out of his car and into the soot snowing from the dark sky. With his phone in hand, he fought the wolf’s desire to search for Tristen. It left his limbs and torso stiff where his transformation fought for control. The hairs on the back of his neck hackled as he passed the humans. This close to the full moon, he needed to be on his farm and away from people.
Life buzzed at the barricade. Reporters swarmed anyone who passed onto the civilian side of the yellow tape. He kept his distance, watching the madness and trying to understand his sense of apprehension. The wait was far too long; time dragged. He respected Hota, but it was Tristen that had his stomach clenching.
He spotted Tristen at the far edge of the tape, where the roving police lights didn’t quite break the shadow. At six-two, built like a linebacker and wearing a black tailored suit in the middle of a summer night, he would be hard to miss. The news reporters never spotted him.
Despite his lack of relationship with Hota, the anxiety grew, seeing Tristen alone. “Where’s Hota?”
Tristen’s chin was down, his body tense, ready for a fight. His dark eyes held a silent warning. "You're thirty minutes late. Where were you tonight?"
That was a question Mercer had no intentions of answering. Hota broke his jaw and shoulder after finding him with a man. He’d been damn careful to keep his personal life from Tristen. “That sounds like an accusation. Where is Hota?”
Being a few inches taller than Tristen, didn’t make him any less daunting. This was the man who trained him to be an alpha. There were no kid gloves with Tristen, but he was fair. He kept his anger firmly controlled. Still, there were secrets he wasn’t prepared to share.
Tristen’s frown deepened. He was covered in soot and there was a sway in his stance. “Why did you choose this location?”
“Is Hota still in there?” He didn’t wait for an answer. He sidestepped Tristen, who grabbed his arm and yanked him back.
Tristen let him go, but remained in his face. "Your strained relationship with your father isn’t a secret and no one in the Mission will forget you’re the only one that survived the massacre on Sergeant Ezekiel’s unit.”
Mercer gave Hota the details of the massacre and his reaction was as strong as it had been when he caught Mercer in the forest with his boyfriend. Hota didn’t want the truth when it involved a potential up rise of a dead species. He didn’t repeat it when interviewed by the other Mission Leaders. With due cause, the lack of details left them suspicious.
“You think I did this? That I planned this whole thing? Burning down the district is a little extreme. I’m not a coward, Tristen. If I wanted him dead, I would’ve fought him in a death match.”
Tristen jerked him away from the bystanders; anyone smaller than Tristen would’ve found it a difficult feat. Every pound of Mercer’s weight was solid muscle. They both glanced over their shoulder at the crowd, to make sure they hadn’t gained unwanted attention. No one paid them any attention.
“I served under Sergeant Ezekiel. I didn’t plan his murder or the murder of the unit and I didn’t plan this fire,” Mercer said.
It was the bone quivers that saved his ass from being executed for the death of twenty-five werewolves. It was unlike anything the Mission had seen. They were hesitant to believe faeries still existed, but they did believe that the bone quivers weren’t made by a werewolf.
The aggression eased from Tristen’s body. “Hota informed the Mission he was here to see you. It looks questionable. I need to know where you were tonight. I can’t help you otherwise.”
The timing of this conversation was wrong. Tristen was obligated to tell the Mission Leaders anything they asked and this wasn’t a topic Mercer would disclose.
“Let’s see what we can do about this situation first. If there are no other options, I have a witness on where I was tonight, but right now, I’m not ready to discuss it.”
Tristen’s brows rose with interest, and then lowered as something crossed his mind. “This is a serious matter. The penalty for the homicide of a Mission Leader is steep. If you can’t prove you’re innocent, you will be killed.”
Mercer glanced at the police manning the press and keeping people back. The news reporters were adamant about staying. He doubted they received more than vague answers. From all the fire trucks present, the situation was clearly not under control. It would be a long night for everyone.
“What happens next?” Mercer asked.
Tristen drew a hand over his tired face. “The Mission needs to be informed on Hota’s status. Expect someone to call you shortly. I suggest you go home and rest. The next twenty-four hours will be rough.”
The noise was ruthless and the fumes toxic. Still, his adrenaline wouldn’t permit him to go home and sleep. “I should stay with you and meet the Mission head on. Going home will look suspicious and I’m not a coward.”
His eyes drifted towards the police tape. There were a number of fire trucks down the street trying to control the blazes. Axel, one of his more aggressive betas, was among them as a firefighter.
“It’d be in your best interest to go home and think about what you’re going to tell the Mission if you don’t wish to disclose what you were doing tonight,” Tristen said.
It almost sounded like Tristen believed Hota was dead. He couldn’t accept this. There were lessons he still needed from Hota, like the history of the Skin Walker. There were so few Skin Walkers among the werewolves; though similar, the Skin Walkers knew how to wield earth magic beyond transformation. His talent needed work.
The police manning the barriers were determined not to let people through. He couldn’t imagine leaving Hota behind when every part of his training was centered on complete loyalty to the Mission. Still, he was exhausted and there were duties at the farm he needed to finish. His pack needed him and he needed to get his affairs in order, in case the Mission finally found something they could execute him on. “Do you need a ride?”
“I’ll wait,” Tristen said.
Mercer gave a weak nod and started walking away when curiosity stopped him. “What did Hota want?”
Tristen’s jaw tightened. “He submitted your name as his benefactor and replacement on the board in case something should happen to him.”
Hota had far more faith in him, than he did. His stomach tightened, urging his late dinner to purge his stomach. He pushed it down. He refused to vomit in front of Tristen. “Jesus, that’s crazy. I can’t take his place. I’d be the youngest werewolf serving on the Mission.”
He could see how the fire looked suspicious. He was tempted to ask the details, but it didn’t matter. The Mission was chomping at the bit to lay blame on him for Sergeant Ezekiel and his unit’s death. This would provide the fuel they needed; that’s if Hota was dead.
But if they didn’t fry him for this, than he’d take his spot on the committee as a Mission Lead. He wasn’t ready to be a leader of the United States werewolves when he barely served as an alpha for a much smaller group. Yet, Hota always got the last dig.
"The Mission Leaders are in town for your agitation. They are going to request council with you," Tristen said.
Mercer nodded, ready to take Tristen’s advice and go home. If he failed to prove his innocence, a competitor family could step in and challenge the next capable member of the Long Horn family for the open spot as a North American Mission Leader. He wasn’t sure if it was family pride that made him want to keep the position in the family or if he was stubbornly territorial, but once in, he was sure he could find one of Hota’s children worthy of the arrangement.
THREE
Mercer drove with the windows down and the radio off. The city passed in a blur of lights until it gave way to the country road. The trees moved in as the paved road narrowed to two lanes. Beyond his headlights, the world was dark. If he were among the night in werewolf form, the moonlight would brighten the atmosphere.
The forest smell typically brought comfort. He knew the scent of every tree and flower in bloom during the summer. This was his territory and it stretched for miles. Unfortunately, the smoke that saturated his clothing and hair killed his inner peace.
He slammed his open palm against the stirring wheel. “Damn.”
It was just like Hota to make drastic changes to his life without consulting him. He was an adult. He didn’t need Hota pushing events faster than they need to be. Working with the Mission was a responsibility he didn’t want.
He turned down the dirt road that leads to his farm, kicking up earth. The lights reflected against the dust, making his tired eyes strain. He could park the car anywhere on this road and run, but it wouldn’t ease the tightness in his chest.
Seven miles down the tight path, the sky blue Victorian farm house came into view. Every light was on, pressing through the closed curtains. The second home, converted from the old barn, couldn’t be seen until he was in the driveway. Both homes were conjoined by the kitchen, which gave the large household a place to gather.
Expanding the house had been a consuming project. The original farm house had six rooms, which left most of the pack bunking in overcrowded and small spaces, or sleeping out in the yard. Neither situation encouraged the pack to come home during the full moon, which was an option Giordano, the alpha before him, had given his pack. It wasn’t an option Mercer bequeathed. Giordano’s pack was unruly and disobedient. It took years to get them under control, using techniques he’d been hesitant to repeat from his years of training under Sergeant Ezekiel.
The five young brothers had been some of the more difficult members to train and gain full trust and loyalty. Now they were his steadfast betas. He trusted them in a fight, something he couldn’t extend to some of the older members of the pack who were still heavily influenced by Giordano’s lax leadership. With his betas helping reinforce his standards, the pack came home. He expected the mass number of cars in the drive way. There were spots for all of them so no one was block in, but what he didn’t expect was a cherry red convertible in his parking spot.
He pulled up behind the extended portion of the house and parked, then walked back towards the front, inspecting the new car. Unfamiliar scents lingered around the door frame; definitely alpha and female. This close to the full moon, it was clear what uninvited female alphas wanted. Their pack hunt was less than four days. The yearning to bond would be strong for all of them. It was his lack of desire for the females that kept him from waking up in the morning with a female mate. Luckily, as a werewolf, he still had enough control not to wake up bonded at all.
It was time to face the interlopers and send them packing. He started towards the house as Daxtin came around the corner. His hands were covered in fresh turned dirt and he held a small, handheld shovel. Dax liked digging in the dirt as a teenager. It wasn’t a surprise he still played in it as an adult. The smell of wet earth and vanilla mixed with the smell of his sweat.
Mercer came back down the steps. “It’s a little late to be poking around the green house.”
Dax pushed back his bangs with his arm, smearing wet dirt over his forehead. His brown hair had grown over the winter and he’d failed to cut it once summer hit. It curled with sweat, making him shaggy. “Patience wanted vanilla beans for the kitchen. I went all over town for plants that were already sprouting pods. This is a fickle plant and I have five of them to place.”
He didn’t w
ant to force Daxtin off his project, but with Hota potentially dead and the Mission wanting council, he needed his best fighters to keep any of Hota’s angry personal at bay. He required the men who helped enforce his laws, which meant phone calls to bring the betas home. Dax was a good person to start with.
“Who came in the car?” he asked; mentally preparing for a much smaller, but nasty battle with a female alpha.
“Hot, double trouble right through that door,” Dax said. His deep brown eyes held a glint of mischief, much like all the Lemke boys, except Rider, who rarely smiled. “I could try to handle the situation for you. I’ve been without a girlfriend for a few years and this gardener is starting to get lonely.”
Gardening was one of Dax’s hobbies. The Game and Fish Ranger spent most of his time on government owned land, making sure campers and hunters abided by the laws.
“I’d gladly take you up on that if I didn’t need you to go get Rider,” he answered. There were more important things to deal with than alpha females demanding he adhere to mating laws.
“It’s going to be difficult dragging him from his perimeter check this close to the full moon,” Dax said.
He was right. Rider Lemke, second in command, rarely left the farm. There was a hint of madness in Rider’s obsession to protect. He’d double check the barbwire fencing that sectioned off the werewolf territory, every day and night until the full moon. The barbwire was meant to discourage trespassers. They had few problems with campers, but hunters were a constant threat. The weekends were the worst for drunken men and loaded gun. The woods were vast and thick and though the pack had a keen sense of smell, they’d lost one member to an unexpected huntsman.
“I need my team tonight, Dax,” Mercer said.
Dax straightened, dropping the miniature shovel, switching from gardener to aggressor. His eyes narrowed when he sniffed the air. “What happened? Did you go to an amateur barbeque?”
Werewolf Forbidden Page 2
