The All Consuming: A Shifter MC Novel (Pureblood Predator MC Book 4)

by Ellis Daniels, May

  This carnage. Usually it would soothe me. But tonight only one thing will soothe me. My alpha brother Vuk must Become.

  Tell him he’s being hunted, Rodas said.

  The memory makes my wasps form in a massive cloud around me. I dive low, swoop over the city, snatch a terrified Skin woman in my forelegs and shred her in two.

  Then a thought strikes me. Perhaps my alpha is not who I believed he was. Perhaps my weakness against Rodas stemmed from my allegiance to Vuk.

  My wasps buzz and whirl and dive.

  A treasonous thought forms in my mind.

  A deadly treasonous thought.

  Perhaps I am the Emperor of Discord.

  The All Consuming.

  Am I stronger without my brother Vuk? He needs me and my packmates to Become. Isn’t that weakness?

  I think about Lachlan. The Fallen’s heir. When my brother arrives I will lose rank to the boy. I who have sacrificed…everything for my brother. Why should Lachlan rise in my stead? I imagine taking commands from Lachlan when he ascends. Lily’s own blood lorded over mine.

  The thought makes me grind my mandibles together.

  The boy is a threat.

  If I murder the boy and refuse to kneel to his father, Vuk will need Anik, Rodas and Lily to fully Become. That will never happen.

  I will rule the Age of Discord.

  My animal hums with delight. She is a wasp queen.

  She is destined to rule.

  ***

  I settle my swarm on the summit of the unfinished pyramid and resume my human form. Hot wind ruffles my hair. In the valley far below the Skin slave camps are extinguishing their fires. Soon they will lie for rest. They will wake before dawn to begin their labor. The Stricken slave-masters will whip and beat their slaves into submission. Many will die. But the pyramid will be a marvel. That is the nature of all greatness. It requires suffering.

  Murdering Lachlan myself would be foolish.

  Vuk will scent his son’s blood on me.

  As will the bitch Lily.

  No. It must be someone else. But who? Carlos Collazo is too weak, as are the Minions. Only a Risen can defeat the boy. And it must happen before the Fallen becomes. Anik is too far away and possibly still loyal to Lily. That only leaves—

  Rodas.

  Lachlan craves power. He will leap at the opportunity to offer the Spotted Stalker a blood challenge. Especially when he discovers Rodas defeated me and I failed to bring him to the pole-pyramid altar. Lachlan will see it as an opportunity to assert his dominance. The boy wants nothing more than to please his father. Murdering the traitor Rodas will raise the boy in the eyes of his father.

  Can Rodas defeat Lachlan?

  I believe so. I underestimated the Spotted Stalker. I should never have returned his amulets. Rodas has been warring and murdering for millennia. Lachlan is a child. The first sight of his blood might freeze him with terror.

  If Lachlan triumphs?

  We drag Rodas to the altar and summon the Fallen.

  I assume my place at the bottom of the pack. For the time being.

  But if Rodas defeats the boy and kills him, Lily will murder Rodas in her grief and fury. The Fallen will never Become.

  I will rise in his stead.

  Now I need only convince Lachlan to issue the blood challenge—

  ***

  I find the Fallen’s child sitting beside the pole-pyramid altar, his knees hugged tight to his chest. He’s wearing the loose burgundy robes of the Fallen’s priestly order. The boy looks crumpled in on himself. Clearly his father’s absence weighs heavy on him—

  I approach silently, then sit close beside the boy. So close our shoulders touch. Lachlan flinches away without lifting his head to look at me. I consider asking what’s wrong, but hold my tongue. He’ll only resent the weakness such a question implies. I remind myself that I am to play the weak one in this conversation. That it is Lachlan who must be made to believe he’s all-powerful. Pride and vanity and power-lust run strong in the child.

  He is his father’s son.

  “I failed,” I whisper.

  Lachlan glances at me out of the corner of his eye.

  “The Spotted Stalker defeated me.”

  “Then why do you live?” Lachlan asks suspiciously.

  I force a heavy sigh. “My brother has changed. He travels with a Skin woman. He seems to…feel something for her. Love, perhaps. He lacks the courage murder requires. He defeated me, and he…released me.”

  “Then he’s an idiot,” Lachlan sneers. “He deserves the death my father will grant him.”

  “He does deserve death,” I agree.

  “As do you.”

  “I’m terribly afraid,” I lie, hugging my arms around my chest. “I never imagined I would fail your father. His anger will be…unmatched. You are new to him. His son. But I’ve seen his wrath. It’s beyond reason. He lashes out at anyone near…”

  Lachlan tenses a little.

  “But that is as it must be,” I say, my voice distant. “Failure must not be tolerated. The One War has arrived. Your father’s Age of Discord.”

  “My father didn’t assume the vessel on Lord’s day,” Lachlan says, almost pouting.

  “He will. In time. When we have the three.”

  “This is your doing,” Lachlan says, his voice rising to a near-yell. “You’ve failed us, Shiori. Time and time again. Anik is not seeking his sister. Rodas has defeated you. You have good reason to fear my father’s wrath.”

  “I know,” I say, my voice a bare whisper.

  “She’s corrupting you, Lachlan.”

  Pimniq.

  Bitch-fuck. I forgot about the girl cocooned in the altar behind us. Quickly, before she can say another word, I send several wasps to seal her mouth closed.

  Lachlan casts me another suspicious glare.

  He doesn’t trust me.

  But he’s not ready to challenge me. Not yet.

  “The girl will say anything to drive a wedge between us,” I say with a shrug in Pimniq’s direction. “It proves her desperation.”

  “Why do you have to hurt her?” Lachlan asks, shuffling a few inches away from me.

  “You know why. Anik senses her pain. It’s a magnet drawing him to us.”

  Lachlan fidgets with his hands, then says, “I will demand my father release her.”

  You will demand nothing of the Fallen, I think. But I say, “You are his son. You will be named his second. He will listen to you.”

  Lachlan’s chest swells with pride.

  “If he Becomes,” I say.

  “He will,” Lachlan says. But his vehemence reveals the depth of his doubt.

  “Yes. Certainly.”

  I let the words hang in the night air. The Blood Moon’s low on the horizon, brushing against the unfinished pyramid across the Avenue of the Dead. Lachlan must believe the idea is his alone. If I suggest it…he will suspect a self-serving motive.

  The boy opens his mouth to speak, then slams it closed and gives his head a slight shake. He’s afraid of Rodas. He’s considering the fact that Rodas just defeated me, and he knows how powerful I am—

  “You traveled with my mother?” Lachlan asks, his voice halting.

  I blink. Lachlan and I have never spoken of Lily. I have to tread carefully. My suspicion is he still loves her. There’s a battle brewing in the child, a test of loyalties between mother and father. Right now father is firmly favored. But that could change—

  “I did,” I say, keeping the hatred from my voice.

  “Who is she?”

  “Your mother.”

  “No. I mean…as a person?”

  I give a silent thanks I’ve stopped Pimniq from speaking and remind myself the girl’s mouth must be sealed at all times. Then it hits me. That’s why the boy is here. Alone on the pyramid. He wasn’t only fretting over his father’s failure to assume the vessel.

  He was speaking to Pimniq.

  A flash of anger makes a buzzing growl escape my lips.<
br />
  The honey-tongued bitch has been working on the boy’s loyalty.

  Trying to turn him against his father.

  She’ll be the first I murder when I assume the throne. This pathetic, simpering heir-child will be forced to watch me consume Pimniq’s heart. Then I’ll turn on him—

  “As a person?” I repeat, stalling, trying to find the right words. I need to turn Lachlan from his mother without seeming to speak poorly of her. “I think she lived too long among Skins.”

  “You mean she’s weak.”

  “No. She’s strong. You met her. You sensed her animal. But she no longer understands—”

  “Natural law.”

  I smile. Vuk has spent long hours in Connor Lerrick’s body, counseling his son, convincing him of his mother’s failings and why the father deserves to rule.

  After a long silence Lachlan says, “Tell me something else about her. Something that has nothing to do with…this.”

  “This?”

  “Our animals. My father. The One War.”

  I think for a moment, then say, “This is not my first language. So I listen carefully to learn. You’re mother used a word I don’t understand. When she was frustrated, she said, ‘shitballs.’ I heard her say that many times.”

  Lachlan laughs, and suddenly I hear the child in him, the yearning to be free of responsibility, the innocence and fear, and then he says, “Shitballs?”

  “Yes. Is that for some reason funny?”

  He nods. A tear slips down his cheek. I quickly avert my eyes, pretending not to notice. The battle in his heart is worse than I hoped. He’s uncertain. One false action or word could push him to his mother—

  “She asked me to forgive her,” Lachlan says, his voice hardening. “At grandfather’s hospital? She said I could choose to let the hurt go.”

  My breath quiets.

  Perhaps he’s already turned—

  Lachlan lifts his clenched fist, then slowly opens it so his empty palm faces upward. “I tried. I tried to just…let it go.” He slams his fist closed, then slowly opens it again. “But I can’t do it. I can’t just wish the hurt and anger away…what my mother did…”

  Lachlan goes quiet. After a while he says, “You have failed to draw Anik to us. You failed to return with Rodas. I will not fail my father as you have.”

  Triumph buzzes through my blood.

  Lachlan stands, takes a running leap off the edge of the pyramid. I watch the black vulture’s silhouette arc across the glowing Blood Moon.

  Lachlan or Rodas.

  One of them will die tonight.

  Either way benefits me.

  I stand and face Pimniq. “Hatred is powerful, little one. You see how it strengthens Lachlan’s resolve. Firms his will. I understand you hate me. You have reason to. The weak live in impotent hatred. Your brother is the same. Cultivate the strength hatred provides. Maybe one day you will become strong enough to avenge the suffering I’ve caused.”

  Pimniq’s eyes are glazed with pain.

  But I know she hears.

  These seeds I sow. They grow in darkness.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  AARON

  MY WORLD BECOMES a mad blur of blood.

  I rage from enemy to enemy, clawing and cutting and biting until the red hate-haze in my eyes becomes so thick it nearly blinds me and my limbs grow so heavy I can barely lift them.

  I’m shot through with bullets.

  Bleeding from a dozen different wounds.

  I’ve got a burn from one of the Minion tigers that refuses to heal.

  Thank fuck I’m so jacked on adrenaline and kill-lust I can’t feel pain.

  I feel something weighing on my leg and look down to see a small monkey, barely larger than a housecat, latched onto my leg. The fucker’s chewing into my thigh, tearing out gobs of flesh and swallowing them down. I snap its neck and hurl its body at a charging Stricken bull. The monkey blinds the bull and it veers off course, then stumbles over a corpse and crashes head-first into Tate.

  Tate’s loosed his Komodo. I watch, my blood pounding in my ears, as the Komodo leaps onto the bull’s back and begins snapping at its head. The bull rears on its hinds legs, desperate to toss the Komodo, but Tate clamps his claws into the bull’s ribs and drags him down—

  An RPG slices through the air from behind one of the dead elephants. My reflexes have never been faster; the RPG looks like it’s moving in slow motion. I snatch it out of the air and stuff it down the throat of a roaring Stricken bear. The thing chokes, looks at me, eyes wide with horror.

  Poor fucker knows he’s a goner.

  I pat him on the belly.

  Take a running leap behind the elephant carcass while the bear explodes into splatter. The shithead who fired the RPG is a skinny little weasel asshole. He makes to stab me with a hunting knife. I snatch his wrist, break it, then tear out his heart and feed.

  My wolf’s going wild. I’ve fed more during this battle than I have in the last year. He’s becoming harder to control. I keep thrusting him down, showing the motherfucker who’s boss.

  But he snarls and spits right back at me.

  Somewhere, way in the back of my mind, the urge to just let him loose is growing stronger. Fuck this weak-assed human form. Fuck the lies and deceit. Who needs it?

  Not this animal.

  Of course…doing that would mean I lose Lily.

  Whatever. Bitch ran off. Without a word.

  Snuck away in the middle of the night.

  I loose a long growl. There’s anger there, and more pain than I care to admit. She made the call. Fuck her.

  I wish I could just let her go.

  Walk away from whatever we have.

  But I can’t.

  I know one thing. This push-pull, hold me-hate me bullshit’s gotta end. One way or the other. Either we try and make a go of it for real, or we call it off—

  The dust clears. I scramble onto the elephant carcass, trying to get a feel for the battle. The three Minion tiger-sisters are dead. Nash’s crew has just about wiped out the entire right flank of the Stricken army. Blue’s doing the same, although he’s battling a nasty-looking pair of giant falcons that keep diving at him. I grab the rocket launcher, get a lock on one of the falcons and blow the fucker from the sky. Then the dust descends again, blinding me.

  I sight through the shadow-wolves to see how my bloodmate’s doing.

  She’s healing, but slowly.

  The tiger-bitch really took a bite out of her.

  I command the shadow-wolves to keep her safe.

  No way my girl’s going down on my battlefield.

  Then I scent something that makes my hackles stand tall. I sniff the air, trying to cut through the reek of blood and death, burning vehicles and corpses, gunpowder. I know that scent. Or at least, I did—

  A long-buried primal instinct tells me to duck, and I’m smart enough to listen to it. Even then, the animal piles into my shoulder, knocking me from the elephant carcass and scratching its claws into my chest. I stand, spitting and raging, and find myself face to face with a massive black panther.

  Lonny.

  My bro from back in the day.

  “‘Sup, Mr. Cadillac?” I say. “How’s being a black-blooded spic?”

  The panther snarls. Paces from side to side, its blunt, powerful head rolling back and forth rhythmically, trying to throw me off—

  I remember the cult warehouse. The Stricken breeding lair. The monster Lonny consumed. How it turned his blood black. Feels like ages ago. It was my fault. I raise hand, real slow and soothing, and say, “Don’t want to hurt you, old friend. Don’t want you dead.”

  It’s bullshit, of course. Lonny’s a Stricken. Fuck all I can do about that now except make his death as painless as possible. I keep my hand raised while I inch forward, waiting for the perfect moment to strike.

  Then the panther does something weird.

  He lowers his head. Whimpers like he’s afraid.

  Then bars his fangs and sn
arls again.

  I have no idea what to make of that. Fucker’s got some Stricken mind disease, maybe. But my wolf’s telling me something different. He senses something in Lonny. Through a pack-mind. Which makes no sense, because Lonny sure as shit ain’t a packmate.

  One step more. One step and I’m on him—

  The panther plops on its haunches.

  Covers its face with its paw.

  Now. He weak. Now’s the moment of the kill.

  Strike! No hesitation—

  But something stays my hand.

  Mercy? Regret? Guilt?

  Who the fuck knows.

  But what happens is…instead of killing the Stricken motherfucker, I lay my hand on the panther’s forehead. Energy surges through me, a kind of buzzing, tingling heat that begins in my heart and flows down my arm, through my fingers and into Lonny. My heart’s racing. Sweat streams down my face.

  But my wolf…he feels calm. Peaceful.

  He feels like he does when he wakes in the mountains at dawn. Mist settled low into the river valley. The sun’s rays meeting frost crystals and sparkling like the stars slowly receding overhead—

  The panther flinches when he feels the energy in my touch, then calms when he realizes I don’t want him dead.

  I press my hand more firmly to the panther’s forehead, still unsure of what’s going on but deciding to roll with it. The energy surging through me is more radiant than electric. The panther growls as his shoulders bunch and his skin grows tight. He falls to the ground, mewling and pawing at the blood-soaked dirt, and in moments my bro Lonny is back with me, staring at his human hands in shocked incomprehension.

  “You fucking turned me, Prez,” Lonny says, his mouth open wide.

  I slide my claws through a weak-as-fuck goat-Stricken that tries to open my head with a machete, then say, “Welcome to the party.”

  Lonny looks around. “What the fuck is this?”

  “One War,” I tell him. “Stricken bitches are losing.”

  “I’m starving,” Lonny says, scenting the air. Then he looks me in the eye, grins and says, “Hey. You gunna patch me in or what?”