Table of Contents
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Copyright and Disclaimer
Copyright © 2017 by Lauren Lively
In no way is it legal to reproduce, duplicate, or transmit any part of this document in either electronic means or in printed format. Recording of this publication is strictly prohibited and any storage of this document is not allowed unless with written permission from the publisher. All rights reserved.
This book is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is entirely coincidental. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Facebook: Lauren Lively
Contents
Copyright and Disclaimer
Mated to a Bear
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Optorio Chronicles Collection
Legends of Black Salmon Falls (Series Preview)
No Such Thing as Dragons (Series Preview)
Special Invitation
More from the Author
Mated to a Bear
Legends of Black Salmon Falls | Book 3
Lauren Lively
Prologue
“I'm tellin' you, I heard it was some government testing facility.” he said. “Heard they was doin' all kinds of horrible shit out here. To bears, no less.”
Peter looked over at his friend, Tim, and smirked, shaking his head. “You are way dumber than you look,” he said. “You know that?”
“What?” Tim asked, gesturing to the landscape around them. “You got a better explanation for this shit?”
The night was dark and most of the land around them was covered in dark, inky shadow. They were sitting on what was left of a wall that had once been a building – little more than charred concrete and bricks at this point – at the edge of a giant crater. The ground was scorched – as was the treeline immediately surrounding the crater.
To Peter, it looked more like something big had exploded out there – something big enough to reduce the fragments of the building they were sitting on – to nothing but charred ruins. He took a long pull from the bottle of whiskey they were sharing and then handed it over to Tim.
Peter shrugged and chuckled. “I don't know,” he said. “Meteor?”
Tim cackled and slapped his thigh. “Now, who sounds like a dumbass?”
“The simplest explanation is that this building blew up,” he said.
Tim took a drink, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “This building was an abandoned warehouse,” he said. “Owned by the Q'lapa Clan. That's Asher's family –”
“If it's Asher's family who owned the place, how could it have been some damn government testing facility?” Peter asked.
“That's a damn fine question,” Tim said, pointing at him like he'd scored some major point.
“So, let me get this straight. You're tellin' me Asher – our Clan Chief, mind you – is conspiring with the government to kill us?” Peter asked, laughing. “How does that make any sense, ya moron?”
Tim shrugged. “I don't know, man,” he said. “Maybe the government bought it through some black budget shell company. You know all that shady shit they do. Or maybe, since it was abandoned, they was operatin' out here and Asher didn't even know it. All I know is this place hadn't been used for anything in years. So, what was in it that could have made it explode, huh?”
Peter shrugged. “Hell if I know,” he said. “Maybe somebody was out here using it as a meth lab and blew it up or something. That shit happens all the time.”
Tim shrugged and passed the bottle back. “If it was just some crackheads out here, why is everything so hush hush about it?”
Peter took another drink. “Hush hush?” Peter laughed. “What are you even talking about right now?”
“Do you hear anybody talking about it?” he asked. “Asher and Mariana haven't said a word about what happened out here. You ask me, I think they're keepin' somethin' from us.”
Peter held the bottle up and laughed. “I think you've had too much of this shit,” he said. “I'm cuttin' you off.”
Tim joined him in laughter and swiped the bottle back. “The hell you are.”
“Think about it, numbnuts,” Peter said. “If it was some crackheads who blew the place up, what was there for them to tell us?”
Tim sat back, leaning against what was left of a concrete wall and took another drink, seemingly lost in thought.
“Okay, that's a fair point,” he said. “But what about the news coverage, huh? Damn news said it was a military cargo plane crash.”
He had a point. But that didn't mean that Asher was conspiring to keep them in the dark about anything. And the fact that Asher's family owned the warehouse wasn't proof of anything – let alone proof of a cover up of some dark conspiracy. At least, a conspiracy being carried out by their Clan Chief.
“Okay, genius, tell me this,” Peter said. “Why would Asher cover this up? What does he stand to gain?”
Tim shrugged. “I dunno,” he admitted. “Whatever people in the rulin' class gain from keeping secrets from the lower classes like us.”
“You've been spendin' too much time in a bottle,” Peter said, shaking his head and laughing. “And watchin' too much conspiracy theory TV, man.”
“Think what you want, man,” he replied. “But there's somethin' goin' on. And I don't trust that Asher to tell us what it is.”
“Maybe because there's nothin' worth tellin'.”
Tim shrugged. “Maybe. Maybe not,” he says. “I'm just puttin' some pieces together and ain't likin' the picture I'm startin' to see. I'm thinkin' that maybe it's time we had us a new Clan Chief.”
“You're drunk.”
“There's a damn good chance of that,” Tim laughed.
Not everybody liked Asher. Peter knew that. Some preferred his father still. The old man was a prick, but there was no denying that he was tough as nails. He kept the other clans in line and made sure everybody understood their place in the pecking order.
Asher, on the other hand, tried to keep the peace with everybody. He gave everybody a seat at the table and listened to their bitchin' about this or that. He didn't believe that the Q'lapa should exert their dominance over the other clans and that all of the clans should learn to work together.
There was p
art of Peter that bristled at the notion of buddying up to some of the other clans. Thought they were lesser. But another part of him saw the wisdom in what Asher was trying to do. What he was trying to accomplish.
And frankly, Peter didn't really care all that much one way or the other. Certainly not enough to be as vocal about it as Tim was.
He took another drink and handed the bottle back to Tim. Clouds moved over the face of the moon, casting the world around them in even darker shadows. Leaning back against the remains of the wall, Peter looked up at the sky, letting the cool breeze wash over him. He'd had a little too much to drink and he was suddenly starting to feel a little lightheaded.
He let out a long breath as Tim sang to himself, slurring his words – obviously drunk. The sound of a branch snapping and furtive footsteps in the woods nearby made him sit upright, a sudden jolt of adrenaline shooting through his body.
“You hear that?” he asked.
Tim continued to sing sloppily, but Peter was focused on the woods. There was something out there.
“Shut up,” he snapped at Tim.
Tim fell silent, shooting him an annoyed looked. “What's your problem?”
“Listen,” Peter hissed. “Out there in the woods.”
The sound of branches breaking and footsteps through the undergrowth drifted out to them from the darkness of the forest. The two men shared a look and Peter began to feel a bit nervous. He wasn't spooked by much, but there was something sinister in the air. He could feel it and growled low in his throat.
Tim burst out laughing, slapping his leg, his voice echoing out into the night. “Don't be such a scared little girl,” he cackled. “It's probably Nick and the boys out there tryin' to screw with us.”
Peter looked at him and then out at the woods. “You tell them we were comin' out here?”
Tim shrugged. “Not me. But you know word gets 'round,” he said and then started to call out. “Yo, Nicky! Get your ass out here before you make Pete wet himself.”
Peter waited, but no reply came. Instead, there was only the sound of somebody moving around out there. Several somebody's. His sense of foreboding deepened as he sat and listened.
“Nicky!” Tim shouted, still chuckling. “Get your ass out here, man. C'mon.”
Peter lifted his head, scenting the air – and felt another jolt of adrenaline. Something was out there. Something he didn't recognize.
“Tim, shut up,” he said, his voice low.
Tim, still drunk, didn't heed Peter's words. He stood up and stumbled toward the trees, calling out for Nick. Peter stood and watched – the blood freezing in his veins when he saw the glowing yellow eyes appear in the shadows between the trees.
“Tim!” he called.
But it was too late. He watched in horror as long, pale arms reached out of the darkness and pulled his friend into the shadows. Tim's agonized screaming mixed with the unmistakable sound of growling and the wet tearing of flesh, filling the air around him with a cacophony of horror.
The blood in Peter's veins froze when three pairs of those yellow glowing eyes turned to him. They stared at him malevolently from the darkness of the forest. The sound of Tim's screaming cut off abruptly, plunging the world around Peter into an eerie silence.
Everything was still, quiet. Not a breath of wind or a stirring of leaves broke that perfect vacuum. It was as if the entire world had suddenly decided to hold its breath. Three more sets of those yellow glowing eyes joined the first three. The figures were cloaked in shadows thicker than the night, so Peter couldn't see what he was dealing with.
His heart thundered in his chest and the adrenaline coursing through him made his entire body vibrate with an energy as powerful as a current of electricity. As he stood there, staring at the creatures staring back at him from the shadows, a strange sound floated out of the darkness. It was a low, guttural chittering sound that chilled him to the bone.
Slowly, the noise began to grow louder, the pitch growing higher. It wasn't long before one voice was joined by another, and another, and another. Soon, Peter heard six voices, keening in unison. The fear flowing through him like a raging flood – violent and swallowing everything in its path.
Peter turned and sprinted away, running as fast as his legs would carry him through the darkened woods. They'd had to park on a gravel road about half a mile from the ruins of the warehouse – something he was now cursing.
He heard those – things – crashing through the undergrowth behind him, their high-pitched keening filling the air. Peter's legs were burning and his breathing was growing ragged, but still he ran. He knew if the things with the yellow eyes caught him, it was going to be game over for him.
Movement from the corner of his eye drew his attention and he turned his head. Pale bodies sprinted in the trees alongside him – three on one side, three on the other. They continued to keen wildly as they paced him.
It was like they were toying with him.
When he hit something solid, face-first, Peter staggered backward, the pain in his head radiating through every nerve ending in his body. He fell flat on his back, the wind driven out of his lungs. Reaching up, Peter felt the warm, sticky blood pouring from the gash on his head. And when he sat up, he was so lightheaded, he feared that he might pass out.
Knowing that blacking out was going to be the death of him, Peter forced himself to his feet. The creatures in the woods had stopped running and hung near the trees several yards away from him. Still cloaked in shadow, their yellow eyes glowing brighter, bore down into him.
Peter glanced over and looked at the tree he'd run face-first into – knowing that taking his eyes off of the path in front of him and letting himself be distracted was a grave mistake. Possibly the last mistake he'd ever make. But he was going to go down fighting.
Throwing his head back, Peter cried out into the night as he shifted into his bear form. Standing on his hind legs, he roared a challenge – deep, rumbling, and powerful – to the creatures in the shadows. The keening grew louder as the creatures stepped out of the dark, letting him see them for the first time. They were gangly, pale, and hairless, almost alien looking.
His challenge had been accepted.
Peter roared, swinging his broad, mighty paws at the creatures as they rushed him. His paws cut murderous arcs through the air, connecting with a couple of them, knocking them aside – wounding them. But the stinging of claws cutting into his flesh, slashing him open, was excruciating.
There were simply too many of them. As big and powerful as he was, he couldn't battle them on his own. Too many hands. Too many claws.
As a group, they swarmed him. Pulled him to the ground. And then they were on him. Cutting into him. Tearing his flesh. A strange sound came to his ears – a high-pitched shrieking – that it took him a moment to realize was his screaming. Looking up, he saw blood smeared on their pale faces, bits of his flesh and body hanging from their mouths.
As the taste of blood filled his mouth, the pain strangely began to ebb. He felt himself growing colder as darkness crept in at the edges of his vision. And as he looked into the face of one of the creatures, its mouth full of what looked like his intestines, Peter gave himself over to the night. The darkness, somehow warm and comforting, pulled him into its gentle embrace.
And he knew no more.
Chapter One
Jackson
“You have both broken the peace among our people,” I say, reciting the same lines I've spoken more times than I care to admit. “Blood has been spilled. Lives have been taken. You are here to be sentenced for your crimes.”
“Do either of you have words you'd care to speak,” says Neesa.
The two men – one wolf, one bear, both chained in silver – kneel on the wooden floor of the Peace House. The name always strikes me as somewhat ironic given that the floorboards the two men are kneeling upon are stained a dirty brown by years and years of blood being spilled upon it. Oh, we have a clean up crew, of course, but blood stays in the
wood – a reminder of the price of peace to all who see it.
The two men look up at us and then at each other – with nothing but pure hatred in their eyes. It's unfortunately, a condition that goes back centuries.
Wolves and bears instinctively hate each other. And when I say hate, I mean a deep, abiding hatred. It's in our DNA. Most of us have grown up in peace though, without the ever-present threat of war looming over us. And so that instinctive hatred has died down. It's not quite as deep as it once was. But it's still there, just below the surface. And some just can't seem to stop themselves from giving into it.
Like these two morons on their knees before us. Unable to move because of the silver shackles that bound them, they did the only thing they could do – they spit on each other.
I sigh quietly to myself and shake my head. This is why we can't have nice things.
The Peace House is where the truce between the wolf packs and bear clans had been brokered many decades ago. It's an uneasy truce, but one that has held for many, many years. And the reason it holds is because we enforce the laws set forth in the treaty – swiftly and harshly.
Once upon a time, open warfare between wolf and bear was common. Blood flowed and body counts mounted. Entire packs as well as entire clans went extinct during the years of fighting. I've heard stories of how bad the bloodshed had gotten – even claiming the lives of humans. And it was when humans were being killed and shifters started to be hunted and exterminated that the two sides realized something needed to be done. Hence, the Peace House.
The truce was brokered long before I came to be. But as my Clan Chief's Moq'apo – a fancy way of saying Sergeant-at-Arms, or enforcer – it's my job to enforce the laws. And carry out punishment when necessary. It's my least favorite part of the job. In fact, it's a part of the job I absolutely detest and one I wish I could avoid altogether. But, it's my job. And my duty is to my Clan.
Not every clan has or uses a Moq'apo, it's sort of an old-fashioned practice. But my Clan, the Umpa'qa has a Chief – Chieftess, actually – who is kind of old-fashioned in her own way. Which is interesting to me, given that she's a few years younger than I am.
Mated to a Bear (Legends of Black Salmon Falls Book 3) Page 1
