And Jericho Burned: Toke Lobo & The Pack

by MJ Compton

Lucy fought her encroaching panic. The scrabbling she heard was just the last of the winter vegetables shriveling. Or rats.

  Oh, God, don’t let my mind go there.

  She would not give Randy Butler the satisfaction of screaming again. She couldn’t call Stoker for help, and her finger felt broken, her entire hand smashed where the gun stock had persuaded her to surrender the transmitter ring. She couldn’t even make a fist.

  Gulping in deep breaths of air only increased her light-headedness. She whimpered, and tried to convince herself the agony shooting up her arm caused the sound. Not the darkness. Not the cramped hole in the ground.

  She pulled her knees to her chest and buried her face against them, muffling the sobs she could no longer contain.

  Stoker slunk through the dark compound, searching for Lucy’s scent among the many lingering on the cooling dirt.

  The stench of death, deep and ripe, rich with the preliminary stages of decay, overpowered every other aroma.

  Hank nipped his hind leg then stopped, ears perked forward as he listened to the quiet of the night.

  Stoker strained to do the same. Although his hearing wasn’t as good as Hank’s, it surpassed that of humans.

  Hank turned toward a lean-to propped against a slight rise in the land. His ears twitched, signaling Stoker that something–or someone–was inside.

  Stoker lifted his nose. The chilly air felt good, but scents didn’t carry as far as they would had it been warmer.

  Fear. The aroma of terror and someone’s struggle against it, filled his nostrils.

  Lucy. What had Butler done to her?

  He loped toward the shed, but a low growl from Hank stopped him. His ruff rose as he flattened himself against the ground.

  The duo of guards walking a circuit through the compound should be killed, not evaded, but Stoker kept very still until the humans disappeared behind one of the ramshackle buildings. His belly brushed the dirt as he crept toward the lean-to.

  Lucy’s terror overpowered her natural scent.

  The padlocked steel door was merely an inconvenience. Hank followed him as he nosed around the base of the tiny structure, looking for a likely spot to dig. Quiet sobs made his paw throb, as if proximity to Lucy intensified the pain.

  Here, the smell of death wasn’t as pervasive. Instead, the stench of rotting vegetation mingled with Lucy’s fear.

  Hank chose a spot in the hard packed dirt mounded against splintered planks and started to dig.

  Stoker heard a hitch of breath inside, signaling that Lucy was aware of their efforts. He fought the urge to shift so he could reassure her. Steeling himself against the shafts of pain shooting up his foreleg, he worked beside Hank.

  Screaming wouldn’t help. Lucy repeated the mantra as she huddled as far away from the scratching as she could get.

  Something was trying to get in, trying to get to her.

  She peered in the direction from which the digging came. Groping in the dark for something to use as a weapon wasn’t an option, not when she was so leery of what she might encounter.

  Dirt spattered against the wall.

  She tried to quiet her breathing, but ended up merely holding her breath, which added to her dizziness.

  The silence was sudden. The only noise she heard was the frenzied thrum of her heart.

  Her claustrophobia was gaining the upper hand. She imagined the air pressure inside the shed changed. She swallowed to pop her ears. The flash of heat was a new symptom.

  “Lucy?”

  She knew that voice. “Stoker?”

  Before she could draw another breath, she was in his arms, crushed against his broad chest. She clung to him as he peppered the top of her head with kisses, while whispering a combination of curses and endearments.

  “You’re okay! Your head . . . how did you find me?” she asked. “Randy stole the ring.”

  He kissed her, silencing her doubts. He held her so tightly she thought her ribs might crack.

  Minutes passed before she realized her hands gripped bare flesh. That chest hair tickled her cheek. That he was fully aroused. He was stark naked. And warm. So warm compared to the chill dank air around them.

  “Let’s get you out of here.” He was barely audible, almost as if he spoke not aloud, but inside her head. His presence made the walls recede, and she could breathe again.

  “I can’t. I can’t see. How can you? The door is locked. If I really were a butterfly, I could–”

  “Hush. You’re perfect the way you are. Follow me, but you need to be very quiet. There are guards patrolling, and Hank is right outside. Luke and Ethan are waiting near the fence.”

  “Restin sent a rescue squad?”

  “No.” He sounded annoyed. “I brought my pack mates.”

  Wolves. He meant there were wolves outside, wolves who would turn into Hank and the others.

  “I don’t know if I can crawl. I think Randy broke my finger, maybe my hand, when he—” Her explanation broke off with a yelp as he seized her wrist.

  He muttered an apology before bringing her fingers to his mouth and–licking them.

  Part of her went eww, while another part savored the heat of his tongue, as if it were a hot water bottle for an earache or heating pad for cramps.

  “He did this to you? Butler?”

  She nodded. “When he took the ring.”

  “He hurt you, and stole my great-grandmother’s ring?”

  The fury in his voice sent a chill through her.

  “Let’s get out of here.” With his hands on her waist, he guided her through the darkness. “The crawl space is here. You should be able to squeeze through, although it might be tight.”

  “What about you?”

  “I’ll be right behind you. Remember—absolute silence.”

  She appreciated his warning that he was going to turn into a wolf and that Hank, in animal form, waited on the other side of the wall.

  She nodded. She either had to squeeze under the wall or spend the night in the tomb-like structure. No question that she would take advantage of Stoker’s rescue mission. It wasn’t every day a woman had a team of werewolf ATF agents liberate her. Someday, maybe she and Michelle could share a good laugh.

  She hoped.

  Kneeling at the edge of the gap, she used her good hand to measure the opening and wondered how she could ever fit through such a tiny space. How had Stoker, even as a wolf?

  She dropped to her belly and tried to slither, but she wasn’t a snake or even a caterpillar; and she wasn’t a government secret agent-type with camouflage make-up and the ability to crawl under barbed wire while bullets flew over her head. She was Lucy Callahan–Smith–butterfly wannabe with a damaged hand.

  Bolts of pain shot up her arm. She bit her bottom lip to keep from crying out. Stoker placed his hands on her bottom, squeezed, then shoved her out of the cellar.

  She gulped in the sweet night air, so fresh compared to the cloying decay in the root cellar. She lay on the ground, perfectly still, waiting for Stoker.

  Outside was nearly as black as the interior. The difference was in the stars overhead. Angels, her mother had once explained, watching over us. If Lucy ever needed a guardian angel, now would be a great time for one to show up.

  Stoker nudged her, his nose wet and cold against her arm.

  She shook her head, not understanding what he wanted. He’d said Hank would be waiting, but she saw no sign of either the man or a beast.

  The wolf–Stoker–lifted his muzzle, as if scenting the night air. His ears pricked forward and his head swung from side to side. Then he nudged her again.

  What did he want? She didn’t even know in what direction the escape route lay. Recalling his incredible night-vision, she mouthed a single word: what? Accenting th
e question with a shrug, she hoped he understood her body language better than she read his.

  He jerked his head in response, as if to say, that-a-way.

  She swallowed, her parched throat muscles scraping against each other. This wasn’t a game. She couldn’t pretend she was a butterfly flitting from spot to spot. Randy’s guards had guns. They had access to more guns than they could use. There were warehouses of ammunition to go with the weapons.

  Stoker had told her the silver bullet legend wasn’t true. He could die here, too.

  As her vision adjusted to the night, she realized there was no moon. No celestial beacon hung in the sky to illuminate her path–or betray her escape.

  She didn’t even know if she should crouch, crawl, or run.

  Slowly, she clambered to her feet, watching Stoker for any sign that what she did was wrong.

  He limped past her, his fur grazing her thigh.

  She followed on stumbling feet.

  Twice he stopped, flattening his body against rough wooden walls. She did the same, knowing that as long as she followed his cues, she’d be fine.

  “Wolf!”

  They’d nearly reached the far corner of the compound when the cry she’d been dreading rang out.

  She crouched under a window, not even breathing for fear that sound or motion would betray her. If she could have stilled the gallop of her heart, she would have, because it pounded loud enough for anyone to hear. Yet the running footsteps seemed to be headed away from her and Stoker.

  Hank.

  He hadn’t been waiting outside the root cellar as Stoker had promised, but she couldn’t worry about him. He was an ATF werewolf. They must have trained him in evasive maneuvers.

  Stoker glanced back at her and dipped his head. She sprinted across the open expanse between the furthest building of the compound and the fence. In the distance, the commotion grew louder, as sleepy soldiers were rousted from their beds.

  “Wolf!” The cry echoed from several areas of the compound.

  “Impossible.” Randy’s booming tones carried through the night. “How could a wolf breach the fence?”

  Idiot, Lucy thought, as she followed Stoker along the perimeter. She nearly stumbled into a shallow pit.

  Stoker butted her with his head, far more forcefully than he’d nudged her. She didn’t need to be told twice. Again, the attempt to slither through a space that barely accommodated her backside panicked her until she was on the other side. Stoker was right behind her.

  He’d warned her that Luke and Ethan would be guarding the escape route, but she still had to swallow a shriek when she first saw the two wolves.

  With a low growl, Stoker picked his way down the rocky slope of the ravine on whose edge Randy had built his nation. She peered into the inky depth and shuddered. Maybe a wolf could manage that steep drop, but she’d probably slip on the loose scree and break her neck before she hit bottom. She wasn’t a wolf, didn’t have a mountain goat ancestress, and wasn’t about to risk her neck pulling a pack-mule maneuver.

  One of the wolves nudged her back, as if to hurry her.

  A gunshot splintered the night, and with it, her paralysis.

  She didn’t have a choice. The bullets were potentially more deadly than climbing down the treacherous slope. Stoker had already risked being shot when he liberated her from her coffin-like prison. She couldn’t fail him now.

  Sitting on the verge of the incline, she sent up a silent prayer to whichever of the overhead stars was her guardian angel then dug in her heels to begin the slide. If something went wrong, if she smacked into a boulder or met up with a snake, she’d be a goner.

  Air whooshed through her hair and whistled in her ears as she slid through loose stones and dirt. She toppled sideways, unable to stay upright as her momentum increased. Grit gathered in the corners of her eyes and her nostrils.

  Then strong arms caught her, stopping the dizzying freefall. Strong arms clasped her against a broad, bare chest, beneath which pounded a loyal heart. Strong arms surrounded her, as if they could protect her against any and all danger. Strong arms that belonged to the man she’d married yesterday; the stranger who’d vowed their destiny was to be together; the man who’d risked his life–and those of his friends–to free her from a situation she had created herself.

  She clung to him, ignoring the agony in her hand and the myriad of new scrapes and bruises, finally free of the shackles of caution that had governed her emotions for far too long. Relief skittered through her body, and although she knew the danger wasn’t past–Hank was still inside the compound, and the others lingered near the escape tunnel–a shimmer of heat, of pure lust, flared through her.

  “How are you holding up?” Stoker asked, stroking the side of her head as if petting her.

  “Not too good,” she admitted. There wasn’t an inch of her that didn’t feel like pincers from Hell were attacking her. Tomorrow, she’d be covered with bruises.

  “We need to get out of here,” he said. “Do you think you can run, or should I carry you?”

  He’d carried her out of trouble before, but circumstances had changed. Possibilities were now realities.

  She’d always been the ‘strong’ one, the rock for her mother, the one on whom her sister had depended. After the Charles-the-Fink incident, she retreated behind the disguise with which nature and society’s fondness for stereotypes had blessed her: blond hair. “I can do it.”

  He curled his large hand around her injured one. “Are you sure? The terrain is rough. I don’t want you to twist an ankle or anything.”

  “What about Hank and the others?”

  “They’ll be okay. I’m worried about you.”

  She started to assure him that she didn’t need his concern, but the words died before she could voice them. She wanted his concern. Fiercely. She craved being so important to someone that nothing but her well-being mattered.

  The realization stole her breath. He would happily sweep her from her feet and run with her in his arms. He worried about her; not about how her actions affected him, but rather how what he did would impact her. Protecting her wasn’t an inconvenience.

  Using her free hand to clasp the back of his head, she pulled his face to her level so she could kiss him. He didn’t resist, but she knew her spontaneity surprised him.

  “I need to get you to safety,” he said in a guttural whisper a moment later. “I’m going to shift.”

  “Maybe you shouldn’t. They’re looking for wolves.”

  “It’s easier for me to blend in if I shift.” He sounded weary. “I can protect you better, too. Hank and the others will distract them until you’re secure.”

  She fervently hoped the distraction didn’t include bullets. If something happened to one of Stoker’s friends because of her, she didn’t think she could stand it. Bill’s death weighed heavily on her, and she hadn’t even liked him.

  “Are you sure you can keep up?” he asked.

  She nodded, trusting his night vision to see the movement. Every muscle in her body protested. Every inch of her skin ached, but she’d be more comfortable with a wolf than a naked Stoker. Naked Stoker gave her ideas she was better off not having until they were safe.

  He released her with a sigh she felt clear to her toes.

  The air around her shimmered and hummed, as if the particles themselves were charged with magic. She recognized the sensation now, the energy of Stoker’s change escaping the boundaries of his form. The hairs on the back of her neck rose in response, almost as if they recognized a command and tried to obey. The accompanying blast of heat pressed the borrowed T-shirt against her breasts and thighs.

  She thought she heard Stoker groan, but couldn’t be sure, for the sounds of chaos within the compound grew louder.

  He nudged her thigh with
his head, signaling her to follow him. As if she had a choice.

  Lucy stumbled, and fell hard. She tried not to cry out, but she was winded, she had a stitch in her side, the rocks were murder on her bare feet, and she landed on her injured hand.

  Stoker paused and looked back at her. Heat shimmered then blew over her, and he was no longer in his wolf form.

  “Are you all right?”

  Lucy shook her head. “Give me a second,” she said between panting breaths.