Cougar's Courage (Duals and Donovans: The Different)

by Teresa Noelle Roberts

  Five of the things. Two more than there were of the good guys, and she was pretty much out of commission.

  Jack and Rafe had already shifted, so quickly she hadn’t registered the moment when they went from man to cougar. The cat who must be Rafe was already attacking, despite the fact that a cougar in a toque looked more silly than fierce. Jack—he’d been standing closer to her, and besides, he was still wearing, more or less, his buckskin jacket and a necklace—stood guard over her. He bared his fangs, looking damned furious and not like something she’d want to mess with.

  Shouldn’t Jack get busy kicking monster ass? She didn’t need to be hovered over. She was a cop, not a girly little thing who needed to be defended.

  Never mind that her head was spinning and throbbing, one arm was pretty much useless between the bullet wound and the damaged wrist, she was in wonking amounts of pain, and she couldn’t stand. There had to be something she could do.

  There was.

  Cara hadn’t meant to bring her Glock with her to Couguar-Caché. But the first night of their travel north, she’d dug in her pack to find her toothbrush—and the gun and holster and several boxes of ammo were there, as if they’d packed themselves. Inexplicable in her old world, but as a proto-shaman, she figured the inexplicable meant something. So she’d strapped it on when she left the last vestiges of civilization behind.

  And this morning, without even thinking about it, she’d strapped it on again.

  Now she drew it.

  Focused.

  Pushed the cosmic junk in her head aside by sheer force of will. Whatever these creatures were, they looked to be flesh and blood—and flesh and blood could be shot.

  Rafe looked like he could use some help with the two he was fighting, but she couldn’t trust herself to shoot into that snarling mass of fur, fangs, claws and muscles and not hit Rafe.

  So she rolled over, despite real pain from her not entirely real injuries, and took aim.

  And shot one in mid-leap toward Jack.

  It thudded to the snow, close enough that the cougar jumped like a startled cat, his fur puffing out so he looked even larger. The wolflike creature twitched and abruptly changed into a naked—and clearly dead—man, with the half-rotted shell of what had once been a wolf beside him.

  Oh shit.

  She’d worry about it once she took care of the next wolf-thing. Even if it was an insane dual or something, it was attacking and needed to be stopped.

  Especially since it was practically on top of them. And it had friends.

  She said a quick prayer to a deity she couldn’t name and squeezed off two more rounds, then a third to be sure.

  “Go…” she muttered to Jack as the creatures fell. She couldn’t tell if she’d killed them, but they weren’t going anywhere fast. “Help…Rafe.”

  The forest became noisy and painfully bright. No, both were in her head. It was cloudy, overcast, and she shouldn’t have been hearing a cacophony of voices, screams and drumming. Maybe echoes of the shots and ringing in her ears, but not all this other madness.

  Her strength ebbed. It took all she had to look toward where two cougars were fighting two…whatever the heck they were…and clearly winning.

  Rafe still had a toque clinging to his feline head, and Jack still sported the tattered remains of his jacket. Even as a cougar in human clothing, he looked good.

  The pain in her head kicked up a few notches, and her body decided this might be a good moment to pass out.

  Chapter Nine

  She woke in a room lit by oil lamps, one near the bed, the other on the far side of the small space.

  Her cabin, though it took a long time to process that.

  Maybe that was because Jack Long-Claw was taking up half the space and three-quarters of the air.

  He sat in a chair he’d pulled up next to the bed, still dressed in the tatters of the clothes he’d had on when he shifted, with a red-and-black-plaid blanket wrapped around him like a toga. He made it look dashing. Must be magic, she thought groggily.

  “How are you doing?”

  She thought about putting a brave front on it, then decided against it. Jack would know that though her wounds had vanished again, they’d hurt like bloody fury. On top of the exploding-brain sensation and bad-acid visual effects, it had left her drained. “I feel,” she said with all the dignity she could muster, “like ass. Worse than usual after one of these episodes. Everything’s still funny colors, and my head hurts. Usually it clears up by the time I’m conscious again.” She hesitated. “Is that bad?”

  “Just Trickster’s way of saying, fuck you, cowboy. You were heading into full-blown crisis, and you fought it off long enough to do what needed to be done, so now the magic’s getting you back. It sucks, but it’s nothing to worry about. Nella’s already checked you out—she’s the best shamanic healer around and she’s not even related to me so I can say that—and she says that physically you’re as well as can be expected. I was more worried about here.” He touched his own chest, at the heart. “Since the rabid animal you shot turned out to be the human kind.”

  “Wish I hadn’t had to, but they attacked. If someone was going to end up dead in the snow, better them than us. I may freak out more once it really hits, but right now I’m glad we’re all alive.”

  He shook his head. “You’re pretty cool about it. Not cold, but cool.” His eyes narrowed with suspicion. “And that was some impressive shooting under pressure. How did you learn to do that?”

  Although her head would have preferred her to stay lying down, she made herself sit up before she answered. “I’m a Toronto cop.” She figured that if Gramps knew, everyone would, but apparently he’d kept his mouth shut.

  Jack’s expression softened. “Must be a damn tough job. I wouldn’t want it.”

  “I love it, but yeah, it’s tough. Before you ask, I’ve never shot anyone, but you know it’s a possibility. So you think about it.”

  “I’d never killed anything sentient before either. I hunt, of course, but that’s different. I can’t decide if I want to scream or puke or do a happy dance because we survived. It sucks.”

  Which pretty much summed up what she was feeling.

  Up until now, she’d managed to avoid thinking about what had happened, but now memories flooded her, ragged almost-wolves changing to ragged men.

  “What were those? Duals gone nuts?”

  He shook his head. “Not duals. If a dual dies animalside, the body stays animalside because both sides are equally us. They were either skinwalkers or loups-garous. Grand-mère and some of the other elders are trying to figure out which. Basically, either one is a magic-user who’s gone far into dark magic, enslaving an animal form for his own use, like a shell over their real bodies. Skinwalkers are corrupt shamans. Loups-garous are sorcerers who traffic with demons, but it’s the same notion.”

  “That kind of thing happen a lot around here?”

  “That’s the even spookier part. Most people can’t find this place unless they’re supposed to be here. We were outside the village boundaries, but the protections should have warned them off. And another thing?”

  She nodded, trying to hold all the bits of information in her head in hopes she could piece them into a coherent whole, or at least a usefully chaotic one.

  “They shouldn’t have been working together like that. They’re not a wolf pack. They just look like wolves. Someone got them organized, someone strong enough to organize either shamans or sorcerers. Shamans aren’t joiners, and sorcerers are too pigheaded for teamwork.”

  “Word.” They’d had one sorcerer on the force, in the paranormal crimes division. Great investigator, methodical, brave and something close to a genius, but he’d ended up quitting and becoming a PI because he couldn’t work as part of a team. And he’d been a good man. The not-so-good sorcerers were probably even less cooperative. “Any ideas?”

  “We’ll talk it over with Rafe and his family. Rafe was a cop in the States, and Jude and Elissa�
� Well, they don’t just think outside the box. They jump up and down on the box, use it for kindling and dig the ashes into the garden.”

  Which, she reflected, was a metaphor that could only exist in someplace like Couguar-Caché, with its strangely comfortable blend of eighteenth- and twenty-first century.

  Jack’s face contorted and he turned aside, racked with coughing. Suddenly he jumped up, ran to the door, opened it on an icy blast of air and, as far as Cara could tell, threw up.

  Concerned, she rose from the bed. As soon as she stood, a wave of dizziness struck. She sat down abruptly and called out, “You okay?”

  “Hairball,” he said when he could talk again.

  “Seriously?” It hadn’t taken too long to figure out Jack was a tease, and despite, or even because of, the dark mood, she wouldn’t put it past him to make up something absurd.

  “Seriously. Shifted too soon after grooming. I felt dirty after that fight. Still do, in fact.”

  “Me too,” she admitted. “I didn’t even touch those things, but I could use a bath.”

  “Me too, even after grooming. Of course we might have to share. Heating up water’s a lot of work this time of year.” He leaned closer.

  He’d dropped the blanket when he bolted for the door. Technically, he was dressed—at least, all the most interesting bits were covered—but the shredded jeans and exploded shirt exposed a lot of velvety bronze skin and sculpted muscle.

  Cara tried to look away.

  He gently but firmly pushed her face back toward him. “If you want to stare, stare. Lesson number two: denying harmless impulses makes good chaos turn bad.”

  “The trick is figuring out which impulses are harmless.”

  His hand was burning her face. She’d have a print of Jack’s hand on her jaw before long, from the heat of his touch.

  She moved his hand away with her own, the one where she still wore her engagement ring. She tried to focus on the ring. Phil had been dead less than six months. Her body might be ready to jump into something, but it was too soon. Wasn’t it?

  The contact surged through her like a jolt of electricity—a cliché, but it seemed appropriate. Every cell in Cara’s body went on alert. She heard distant music. Not angels singing, more like the bom-chicka-bom-bom soundtrack of a vintage porn movie, but it fit the erotic promise in that simple touch that, she suspected, hadn’t been intended to convey more than generic, instinctive flirting.

  Moisture gushed between her legs. Her nipples perked painfully.

  Her willpower and morals were out drinking whisky until their panties melted, and the pale memory of a dead man looked at the big, handsome, vividly alive man in her company and decided to join willpower and morals at the bar.

  “Oh Powers,” Jack whispered, no trace of teasing in his voice now. “Did you feel that too?”

  Before she could answer—before she could deny what she certainly shouldn’t be feeling, manage a last-ditch effort not to do something dumb—they were kissing.

  Cara was doomed.

  Chapter Ten

  No, she’d been doomed even before he wrapped his arms around her, guided her to her feet and pulled her against him with a groan. Doomed before she got a good noseful of his scent, pine and fresh air, wood smoke and, despite being in wordy form, fur. Doomed before his mouth took hers, nothing polite or tender or gentle about it, but sheer, wanton need.

  Doomed from the instant she woke to see him sitting next to her bed, looking like where he really belonged was in it. Doomed as soon as she’d laid eyes on him along the road. Doomed perhaps, as soon as she’d had that first erotic dream.

  It wasn’t right, she dimly knew, to blame fate or magic or anything other than her own weakness and Jack’s for impulsive behavior. His hands gripped her ass, cocking her hips forward so her heated sex pressed against his rock-hard thigh, while his lips and tongue and even his teeth did things to her mouth that sapped her common sense. The surprising heat of his body embraced her so she felt like she wore his aura of feline and magic. Her body, and perhaps their magic, made the choice for her.

  Maybe for him too, because Jack, big, beautiful, arrogant Jack, was trembling against her like a teenage boy in the heat of his first time. His hands shook as they worked their way under her layers of clothing. They were cold on her skin, but only for a second. Then they turned hot, as if leaving trails of fire behind them as they journeyed up her body.

  He broke the kiss only long enough to pull the sweater and thermal over her head and eliminate her bra.

  She could have stopped him then. She could have stopped him any time, but she didn’t, and there was no excuse.

  A kiss was a kiss, and bad-idea kisses happened. Relief over not having been eaten by a skinwalker or zapped by sorcerers or both could go to your head. Cara had heard other officers talking about how serious brushes with danger could make you horny and stupid.

  But in an ideal world, you came to your senses, said, No, bad idea, and walked away.

  Except she couldn’t say no. Couldn’t say anything. Couldn’t do anything except react.

  Jack kissed her again, savagely, one hand grasping the back of her neck and the other her ass as if he feared she’d escape. Her back arched as he tried to press more of her against him and she did her best to oblige.

  The strain added to the heightened sensations pouring through her.

  Phil always touched her like she was fragile and might break, even though they were the same height and she could bench-press more than he could.

  Jack could probably bench-press two of her. He was several inches taller than she was and solid as a big cat. Yet he seemed to take it for granted that she could handle anything he dished out, from love-bites to a bruising grip.

  It made her want to give back as good as she got.

  If she was gasoline, Jack was a match.

  He kissed and nipped his way down her body, bringing her nipples to life with his lips and tongue and questing, pinching fingers. Forceful, riding the line between perfect and too much, and right now, that was exactly where she wanted to be.

  The wind howled outside, or maybe it was her blood.

  Her jeans were already gone when she woke. Damp from collapsing in the snow, she assumed, and Jack had gotten her out of them while she was unconscious, leaving her thermals in place. He cupped her through the thermals, stroking her throbbing sex. Pushing, pushing. The lamps flared alarmingly, their flames rainbow-striped.

  Jack interrupted what he was doing just long enough to glare at the lamps and growl, sternly, “No.” They returned to normal.

  Then he slipped his hand inside the elastic waist of her thermals. His fingers burned on her belly as they worked their way down.

  Jack raised his eyebrows and smiled appreciatively as he stroked the soft, sleek curls on her mound. Then he discovered her clit and went to work.

  Her body tensed. She saw a meteor shower on a snowy night as the roof of the cabin opened, heard distant laughter that she swore emanated from somewhere in that impossible sky.

  She came hard, bucking and shuddering, tears welling in her eyes from the painful intensity of the pleasure. She’d had plenty of good sex in her life, but this was ridiculous in its speed and intensity.

  The craziest thing was that it didn’t take the edge off her desire, but pushed it higher.

  Cara had never been so glad she’d indulged in the ridiculously adorable leopard-print thermals, or so glad to get out of them as he helped her wiggle free. They’d need to be washed anyway; they smelled like twofer Tuesday at a whorehouse.

  She grabbed the ragged edges of his shirt and yanked. The remaining fabric yielded with a satisfying ripping sound, and a few buttons popped onto the floor.

  His body was as beautiful as she’d dreamed, and she couldn’t seem to stop touching it. Lean, strong, not bulked up like a guy who spent time working out in a gym, but all muscle. His skin looked smooth and felt like sueded silk under her hands. Living silk, warm and supple and so deli
cious.

  His jeans wouldn’t rip away. She had to unzip. He had to wriggle. Conscious thought was definitely involved. But most of the thought was simply, Naked. Need naked.

  She said the only words she’d managed to get out since the first kiss. “My God, your cock is gorgeous.” Not the kind of thing she usually thought, let alone blurted out, but his was so big and thick and delicious that she couldn’t help herself.

  Jack threw his head back and laughed. “Thanks, but I know the truth. Even the best cock’s funny looking.” Then his voice dropped into smoky intensity. “It’s what you do with them that makes them beautiful.”

  “Show me, then. Now.” She heard the words from across the universe, on some level knowing they were right, as if she was being guided. Though if she was being guided right now, it was by the spirit of Marilyn Monroe or Mata Hari or some dead porn star who’d really liked her work.

  Remembering the dream, she imagined they’d wind up in the bed, under the layers of blankets and furs.

  Instead, Jack leaned her against the table.

  The next part was like the dream, though. He slammed into her from behind with no hesitation, no elegance, nothing but pure sex. Hard, hot hands gripped her hips, and the table’s unfinished surface, worn smooth by years of use, sent energy through her hands, the energy of well-loved, much-used wood. Her hands looked odd on the table. That classy-looking ring wasn’t her usual style. There was a story there, a reason she was wearing it, but she couldn’t remember it.

  Then Jack did something clever with his hips, and she forgot the question. Forgot her own name and his. Forgot everything except pleasure.

  Under the forces of the fucking, she slammed into the table edge hard enough that she’d have bruises, but right now that added something, as did her nipples brushing the cool, slightly rough surface. Her pussy hadn’t recovered completely from the first orgasm, and it clenched and clamped on the hard cock ripping into her. It was violence disguised as sex or sex disguised as violence. It was just what she needed after slinking things that weren’t really wolves, and blood on the snow and the shape of a man where an animal had been.