A tree branch snagged at Einar’s shirtsleeve, tearing the fabric. He hissed, jerking his arm free. He hated this place, this land. The spirits of this place denied the supremacy of the fae, refused to kowtow to their right to rule all that was natural. As soon as the thylacine and the dire wolf were gutted and skinned, he would leave the place for good. There may be other creatures here worthy of the kill—yowies, bunyips and the elusive Lungkata—but he would not hunt them. He’d had enough of Australia to last him another five centuries, maybe more.
The gentle breeze that had been playing over his skin picked up, blowing harder into his face and he grinned. Jacqueline Huddart’s perspiration drenched the air. He could taste her sweat in his mouth. Saliva coated his tongue as he tasted something else, something far more potent and musky. She was not only close, but naked and still in human form.
Perfect. What better way to torture Rourke than to sample the delights of his lover before killing her.
Hurrying his step, he pressed his right hand to the still-seeping wound high on his thigh. His spit-bath had not had the result he’d hoped for. The poison of his blade still lingered in his blood, weakening him. The werewolf would not have been able to take him by surprise, beaten him so badly, if he’d been free of its lethal magick. The thylacine bitch definitely would not have driven him to the floor if he’d been successful in cleansing it from his system. He narrowed his eyes and continued walking up the slow rise, heading for the slight hill directly in his path. He would stab Detective Huddart in the leg first, sinking his blade into the muscle surrounding her thigh bone, slicing into it with slow relish. She would buck and thrash beneath him, but he would hold her down and watch her face and revel in the pain and defiant hate he saw there.
His heart pumped faster at the intoxicating thought and he moved quicker, lifting his nose to the wind, sucking her scent into his lungs. Around him, the trees creaked and groaned, their branches swaying in the rising wind, their leaves rustling against each other in an increasing roar. A wild, raucous laugh shattered the air, each loud note punching at his ears. He snarled, glaring up into the closest tree at a large grey and brown bird. A kookaburra. A perversion of nature almost as vile as the very creatures he hunted. What kind of spirit gave birth to a bird that laughed?
As if aware of his stare, the kookaburra ceased its infernal noise and swung its head toward him, studying him from the safety of its branch. If he didn’t hunt larger prey, he would pluck it from its perch and wring its neck.
The kookaburra threw back its head and laughed again, the sound rising above the roar of the trees.
Einar gripped the hilt of his knife harder, turning away from the galling bird. Perhaps he would stay a moment longer in this backward, perverse country. Long enough to kill at least one laughing bird. After that, he would deny the proclamation of the Im’oisian elders and return to the realm of the fae, find a virgin and bleed her dry, dissolve the poison in his blood and then resume his existence in the human world. He’d heard of a pod of selkie in the Scottish Highlands. Perhaps, after ending Rourke’s life, he’d head north. The humid heat of Australia really wasn’t pleasant. A change of climate would do him good.
But first, the thylacine.
A gust of wind slammed into him and he stumbled back a step. The very air was ripe with Detective Huddart’s scent. She was so close. He could smell her fear in her sweat, taste her adrenaline in her exhaled breath. His dick stiffened, the thrill of the hunt flooding it with hot blood. This was why he did what he did—yes, the existence of such creatures offended him in every way, but it was the hunt he lived for. The epic battle for life between two beings of strength and purpose. A battle he won every time. A battle finishing in the sweetest way with the loser’s life force seeping from its body, its heart slowing, slowing until the organ pumped blood no more.
Einar’s mouth filled with fresh saliva and he slipped his way through a clump of prickly bushes. Jacqueline Huddart was in his nose and on his tongue. His grip on his knife tightened. The hilt thrummed against his palm, almost a living thing, forged in the pits below the realm of the Im’oisian to perform one duty and one duty only—butchering all he hunted. An extension of his arm.
Twigs and branches snagging on his clothes, the wind lashing at his face and hair, he stopped at the edge of the scrub and cast his gaze around the clearing before him. The thylacine was here. Somewhere. He slid his stare to the large outcrop of craggy rocks to his left. He narrowed his eyes, studying the formation. Was she hiding there? He pulled in a breath, but the wind whipped around him in a wild maelstrom, confusing his sense of smell. Dropping into a loose crouch, he studied the ground, looking for any signs of her progression.
The wind gusted at him, blowing topsoil, leaves, twigs and dead grass across the empty stretch before him, lashing around his ankles, whipping him with tiny particles of dirt. He squinted as dust scratched at his eyes. There were many tracks on the ground, but none of them made sense. Animal tracks, to be sure, but what kind? And where did they go? It was as if a cursed zoo had crossed this very way but a few moments ago.
He squinted, scraping his thumb pad over the bottom edge of his knife. He hated this country. “I know you’re here, Jacqueline,” he murmured, returning his attention to the four granite rocks before him. “But are you where I think you are, or is that just what you want me to believe?”
He stared hard at the rocks, pressing his fingers to the ground. Feeling the earth beneath him, seeking vibrations, seeking—
Something bit him. He jerked to his feet, glaring first at the tip of his middle finger and then at the ground where he’d placed his hand. An ant larger than any he’d seen scurried toward his foot, rust red in colour with pincers large enough to see clearly from a standing position. He raised his foot and twisted the ball of his boot against the ground, mashing the ant into the soil. “Fucker.”
Lifting his head, he watched the rocky outcrop and stepped back deeper into the scrub. Every nerve in his body told him Jacqueline Huddart was in the dark alcove, most likely nursing the dying werewolf in her arms. He could draw her out, wait her out or—
An animal padded out from the bushes to his left, its sleek golden-brown coat glossy in the pale morning sun. The dark stripes on its back and tail were like bands of wet ink painted on its fur.
Einar froze, watching the thylacine raise its head and sniff the air. He drew the essence of his presence back into his body, holding it to him. Erasing his existence from the very world around him. The creature would have no knowledge he was here, even if the cursed wind blew at his back. Until he chose otherwise, Jacqueline Huddart was unaware she was being watched.
His lips curled into a slow smile. Perfect.
Caressing the blade of his knife with his thumb again, he redistributed his weight further onto the balls of his feet. She could not outrun him. He’d tested her speed earlier. She may hit like a lightning bolt, but she wasn’t as fast as one. And with the wind blasting at him from behind her, she would not hear him coming at her. As soon as she lowered her head or turned away, he would be on her, his knife ready to sink into her back leg, severing her cruciate ligament, returning the wound she’d given him in kind. Just as he promised he would.
His smile stretched wider. After that, he’d track down his deceptive, secretive ex-partner, suspend him from the nearest tree and begin the fun. His cock grew stiffer.
The end of a hunt was sweet. The kill, sweeter. And this hunt, this kill, was the sweetest of all.
The thylacine lowered its head to the ground, sniffing the dirt near its front paws, tail wagging in lazy swipes.
Einar adjusted his grip on his knife and grinned. Now.
He shot from the bushes in a silent sprint, stare locked on the unsuspecting creature, knife raised. Elated rapture surged through his veins.
He screamed in furious disbelief when the thylacine lifted its head and transformed into Jacqueline Huddart, a cold smile curling her lips.
Jackie leapt
at him. Crashing into his chest, driving him backward. He snatched at her hair, swinging his knife at her side, his eyes wide and burning with shocked contempt. She threw herself sideways, taking him with her, blocking his strike with her elbow as she rolled them both across the ground. She’d taken him by surprise. She was at her strongest, her animal and human soul as one for the first time. The spirit of the land, her land, her home flowed through her. If she was ever going to beat him, to make him suffer for what he’d done to Delanie, what he’d done to Marshall, it was now.
The wind lashed at them both, the trees roared, the sound growing wilder, louder. He writhed on the ground beneath her, fighting for his feet, the wicked silver of his knife blurring in deadly arcs in the corner of her eye. She ducked a savage swipe, smashing her forehead into his nose. She didn’t have much time. He would disappear on her soon. Turn tail and vanish the second he believed she was bettering him.
She had to finish this. Now.
She smashed her forehead into his nose again, his blood wetting her face, stinging her eyes. She growled, the sound purely her thylacine, and struck him again, forehead to nose. Again. Again. Again. He bucked beneath her, thrashing against her body. Wailing. Screeching.
And then, blood gushing from his nose, he grabbed at her neck and drove his thumb into the small wound at its base. She snapped into a violent arc, agony spearing into her chest, down into her heart.
“Every prey has a weak spot, Detective Huddart,” he snarled, driving his thumb in deeper, scraping at her flesh from within. “I thought yours was the human cunt and the werewolf, but I was wrong.” He pushed her backward, thumb gouging at the wound his knife had caused but a few hours earlier, teeth flashing at her in an insane grin. “You just. Don’t. Like. Pain.”
He thrust his body upward and slammed her back into the ground, gouging his thumb deeper into her throat. Choking her. Suffocating her.
Killing her.
He lowered his face to hers, his lips pressing to the side of her face. “But here’s the thing,” he whispered, voice bloated with triumph. “There’s going to be a lot more pain, and no amount of subterfuge will stop it.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t say that.”
Einar snapped his stare to the left, staring at the naked man standing but a few feet away. “No!”
“Looks like you’ve been fooled once again,” Marshall drawled, just as Jackie shoved her knees up to her chest, planted her feet on Einar’s chest and shoved him high into the air.
Marshall leapt—transforming mid-arc into a black wolf the size of a grizzly bear—and smashed into Einar, muzzle snapping shut around his neck. He drove him to the ground and pinned him there, front paws rammed against his shoulders, teeth buried in his flesh.
“No!” Einar screeched, thrashing underneath the wolf. Blood gushed from his neck in glistening rivulets, spurting onto the wolf’s black muzzle. “No!” He writhed and bucked, arms flailing. “No!”
Jackie climbed to her feet, staring at the wolf, her thylacine howling, growling with ancient rapture. She stood motionless, the wind slipping around her like a fading caress, watching the wolf sink its teeth deeper into Einar’s throat.
And then a sudden downward blast hit her and she looked straight up, squinting at the sleek black helicopter hanging above her. A helicopter she recognized all too well.
Hillerman.
The wolf raised its head, looking down at the gibbering man. Blood dripped from its whiskers onto Einar’s chest. The glaring morning sun turned each drop into a glinting onyx bead. With a shudder of its body, the wolf was Marshall once more, his fists pinning Einar to the ground, his face etched into disgusted contempt. “You don’t deserve to live, Einar,” he snarled. “But you don’t deserve an easy death either.”
He straightened to his feet, glaring at Einar still lying on the ground. “Don’t bother translocating, elf. P.A.C. have a lock on your true DNA now.” He stepped back, closer to Jackie, bending at the waist to reach for Einar’s knife. “Your hunting days are over.”
Einar hissed. “Not yet, they’re not.” He threw himself forward, straight at them both, his skin turning pitch-black, his eyes glowing red. He struck Marshall first, human façade gone. Large black hands wrapped around Marshall’s throat, choking him, strangling him, talon-tipped fingers sinking into his throat.
And then Einar froze, his eyes growing wide, his mouth falling open.
Marshall’s nostrils flared, his stare locked on Einar’s face. “I beg to differ,” he said, seconds before Einar crumpled to the ground with the hilt of his knife jutting from his armpit, blood oozing from the entry wound in a steady flow. “But what do I know? I’m just an old dog, aren’t I?” He stared down at Einar, his expression impassive as the elf’s body shuddered with one spasm, two, three, before going limp. Still. “Or is that a weak, gutless fool? I never can tell?”
Jackie let out a harsh breath and, before Marshall could raise his stare from Einar’s lifeless form, she stepped up behind him and slapped him on the shoulder. “I told you not to move.”
He turned, arms protecting his head, a wide grin on his lips. “No, you told me not to die. There’s a difference.”
She swiped at him again, and he laughed, snatching her wrists and tugging her closer to him. “In fact, I think you threatened to follow me to the—what did you call it, other side?—and beat me senseless if I did.” He folded his arms around her, and she let him, pressing herself to his lean, hard body, resting her cheek against his heart. It beat with a steady pace, strong and sure and she smiled, burrowing closer still.
“How…?” She let the question hang, knowing she didn’t need to finish it.
Marshall smoothed his arms up her back, threaded his fingers into her hair to tilt her head back. He gazed down into her eyes, that lopsided grin she loved so much curling one side of his mouth. “Maybe there was enough left in the vial.” He touched his lips to her forehead in a lingering kiss that sent a ripple of joyous excitement down her spine. “Or maybe dire wolves are immune to elf poison.” He grinned, his hands skimming to her arse, cupping each cheek in a firm hold. “I am pretty tough, you know.”
Jackie grinned back at him. “There you go again with the sarcastic quips, Pacman.”
He laughed. “Hey, you don’t think you fell in love with me for my looks, do you?” A contemplative frown crossed his face and he tugged her hips harder to his. “Oh, wait, that’s right. You think I’m goddamn sexy.”
Jackie groaned, her heart—no, her very soul aglow with happiness.
Marshall nudged her forehead with his, his hands squeezing her butt. “Speaking of sexy,” he murmured. “We’re both buck-naked and Hillerman is just about to land that helicopter of his. You didn’t think to pack us some clothes before you so insanely rescued me?”
Jackie laughed, smiling up at him. She opened her mouth, ready to tell him what she thought of the idea of him and clothes at this point in time and stopped. Frowning, she turned to study the small, bright yellow phone that suddenly dropped to the ground beside their feet.
Marshall looked at it, his arms not moving from her body one little bit. “Huh, wonder why Hillerman is throwing his phone at us?”
Jackie frowned at him and wriggled a little from his embrace to scoop the phone up. She pressed it to her ear, a sudden lump in her throat. “This is Detective Huddart.”
“I’ve been trying to call you for the last ten minutes.”
The weak croak in Jackie’s ear stole her breath and she snapped straight, staring at Marshall. “Del?”
“Who else would it be?” Del’s voice—barely more than a rasping whisper—sounded down the connection.
“But you’re dead,” Jackie burst out. “I heard Hillerman tell Marshall you didn’t make it.”
Del laughed, a weak cackle that filled Jackie’s eyes with stinging tears. “Yeah, well I didn’t for a bit. But these P.A.C. guys are pretty bloody clever for Yanks.” There was a pause. “And cute.”
Jackie presse
d her hand to her mouth, biting on her lower lip. Oh, God, Del. She’s alive.
“Just out of interest,” Del went on in that rasping breath, “what have you two been doing? Playing fetch?”
“I see dying hasn’t made a difference to your sense of humour.” Jackie grinned, dragging her fingers through her hair as she held the phone to her ear. She wanted to cry. No, laugh. No, both.
“No,” Del croaked, “but it’s been hell on my wardrobe. Do you know how hard it is to get blood out of silk?”
Jackie laughed, her heart swelling with joy. Delanie was alive. And her same old self. “Stop your complaining, McKenzie. You got to ride in a helicopter. Wasn’t that on your list of things to do?”
Her friend chuckled, the sound like a hitching wheeze. “Talking of things to do, have you seen Agent Hillerman?” She paused, chuckling again. “I’d do that in a—”
“You definitely are better,” Jackie cut Delanie off, shaking her head. “And why do I get the feeling you’re not joking?”
“Because you know me so well,” Delanie answered. “Now tell me, how long have I got to plan your bachelorette party?”
Epilogue
Four days later.
Launceston, Tasmania. The bottom of Australia.
Jackie Huddart rolled onto her side on the massive king-size bed and smiled. She watched Marshall stalk toward her across the hotel room’s lushly carpeted floor, the sight of the man completely and utterly naked doing wonderfully strange things to her tummy. Her tummy, her heart. Her soul.
Damn it. How was she going to tell him she was leaving tomorrow?
They’d spent four days sequestered away in the most luxurious hotel room she’d ever seen, laughing, joking, relaxing. Four days of losing themselves in each other’s bodies anytime and every time they wanted. Four days of discovering what it meant to be together, completely together without fear of impending death or dismemberment.
Savage Transformation: Savage Australia, Book 2 Page 22
