A Shifter Christmas Carol
Shifters Unbound
Jennifer Ashley
JA / AG Publishing
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Author’s Note
Also by Jennifer Ashley
About the Author
Copyright
Chapter One
“Dylan isn’t coming.”
Glory’s voice floated up the stairs from the kitchen to the bedroom where Dylan packed the few belongings he’d need.
He heard her simmering rage from their hours-long argument they’d had in the back yard, Glory letting forth at the top of her voice. Dylan had answered more quietly but just as adamantly.
He hadn’t won the argument—exactly. Glory had simply stalked off, every gorgeous inch of her tight with fury. She’d learned when to give up on Dylan.
One day, Dylan knew, she might keep walking and not come back. Or at least kick him the hell out. He lived in her house.
He stashed small knives and other sharp objects into his backpack among his clothes. Dylan rarely relied on weapons, as his Shifter cat was a better weapon than anything forged, but sometimes the enemies he faced fought dirty, and he didn’t always have time to shift.
“Not coming?” Andrea, Dylan’s daughter-in-law, asked in surprise. “To the Yule celebration—none of it?”
“He’s heading to New Orleans.” Glory spoke steadily, but Dylan heard the effort that took. “Contacts to see. Arrangements to make.”
Sean, Dylan’s son, broke in. “He can’t be meeting Shifters, then. They’ll be at their own Yule celebrations.”
“You heard me.” Glory’s heels clicked as she moved across the room below. “He’s your dad, Sean. You know better than most he does what he damn well pleases.”
Andrea broke in. “Do you want me to talk to him?”
Dylan quickly threw the last of his things together. He could easily stave off Sean, and even his oldest son, Liam, technically Dylan’s clan leader now, but Andrea was a different matter.
Andrea was a half-Fae, half-wolf Shifter, and when she looked at Dylan with her clear gray eyes, he felt her power, the deep magic of her Fae ancestry. Andrea was a gentle soul and would hurt no one—that is, no one except any who threatened Sean or her son—but she had a way of getting inside a man’s head to make him speak the truth.
“No,” Glory said sharply. “Let him go. I don’t give a shit what he does.”
Sean and Andrea went silent. They’d learned not to interfere in an argument between Dylan and Glory. Fur would fly—literally.
Dylan hoisted his pack, zipped his thick jacket, and left the room, moving swiftly down the stairs. The bungalow had an open floor plan, so he couldn’t depart by either front door or back without being seen. Only climbing out the window would let him leave surreptitiously, but Dylan was in no mood for scrambling across roofs.
He felt four pairs of eyes on him as he stepped off the stairs and headed for the front door—Glory, Sean, Andrea, and Sean and Andrea’s cub, Kenny, who was all of two years old. They watched him in silence, the adults in various stages of anger, Kenny without expression.
Kenny, Dylan’s beloved grandson, could be as unnerving as his mother. He was one-quarter Fae, three-quarters Shifter, and had inherited Andrea’s dark hair and gray eyes.
They were wolf’s eyes. While Shifter cubs of mixed ancestry did not show their animal forms until they were about three years old, Dylan had no doubt that Kenny would be wolf. Sean and family were Feline—black-maned lions—but Kenny already had the unnervingly patient stare of a large gray wolf.
The lad seemed to know about things before they happened and could look at a man with a canny understanding far older than his physical age. The next moment, he’d be a normal cub, running with his cousins and screaming as loudly as any of them.
“I’ll be back as soon as I can,” Dylan said to the silence.
“Do you need me to come with you, Dad?” Sean asked. He was offering backup, in case any of Dylan’s contacts turned violent. Sean knew better than most what kinds of beings Dylan had dealt with in the past.
“And have Andrea tear out my guts?” Dylan answered, not entirely joking. “Glory’s already in line for that, and I need some of my insides to stay with me. Don’t worry, son. Ben will be there.”
Sean relaxed slightly and gave him a nod. Ben was the best kind of backup. “The Goddess go with you.”
The ladies and Kenny said nothing at all. Glory, dressed in skintight black pants and a silver top, turned her golden head away and wouldn’t look at him. Andrea and Kenny kept up the scary gray-eyed stares.
“Goddess go with you,” Dylan said to them all, and left the house.
He stashed his pack in the saddlebag of his motorcycle and straddled the seat. Liam came out onto the porch next door in a T-shirt and jeans, barefoot. It was in the 70s today, December 20, though it was supposed to drop into the 40s tomorrow and possibly snow. That was Austin for you.
“This is important, is it?” Liam asked. Even he didn’t know what the meeting was about, but he accepted it with a bit more understanding than the others.
“It is.”
“Yule is sacred, you know.”
Dylan did know that, but their enemies didn’t give a rat’s ass what was sacred to Shifters. “It was now or never, son. I’ll try to make it quick.”
Liam didn’t believe him, any more than Glory had. The meeting Dylan had set up might lead to more, which meant he could be gone for a week, or weeks.
But that was the way things were. Dylan was fighting a war—a war Shifters had to win or they’d be wiped out of existence. His family didn’t always understand exactly what Dylan had to do to keep them safe. And it was better they didn’t—knowing too much would be dangerous for them.
Dylan’s days as clan leader, and Shiftertown leader, were behind him, though he’d never walk away from protecting not only his family but all Shifters. Glory knew that, and his priorities sometimes made her bitter. Dylan was surprised she’d stayed with him this long—she was constantly pissed off at him.
Dylan started the motorcycle, lifted a hand to Liam, who returned the gesture, and rode from the driveway to the quiet Shiftertown street.
Evidence of the coming Yule celebration met him everywhere—streamers hung from trees, white lights twinkled on houses, small bonfires had already begun in open areas. On one corner, Ronan, in his Kodiak bear form, had harnessed himself to the giant Yule log and was dragging it toward the common area where they’d decorate and light it.
Ronan’s bear face wore irritation, because every cub around had jumped onto the log to catch a ride. Spike, the all-tattooed jaguar Shifter, guided the log, but didn’t chase the cubs away. Spike’s mate, Myka, seemed to be giving directions, and both men were growling. Not that this disturbed Myka, who was used to wrangling stubborn animals.
Dylan rode past without stopping. If he was pulled into conversation with every Shifter he passed he’d never get free of Shiftertown.
Was that what he wanted? He rode out of the open chain-link gate, exited Shiftertown, and made his way past the bar to Airport Boulevard. Freedom from Shiftertown?
Of course he did—he wanted all Shifters to tear off their shock Collars and live anywhere they pleased, not only in the mandated housing in Shiftertowns. To work at any job they liked, travel anywhere they wanted without having to obtain permission. But Dylan also wanted Shifters to stay together, as clans, families, friends. They were stronger together.
So why did he always breathe a sigh of relief when he was
alone on the open road?
Because out here no one questioned him, second-guessed him, or tried to stop him. Dylan had to make hard choices, unpopular ones, but they were necessary. Easier to make those decisions on his own, far from his family and almost-mate, Glory. Sean and Liam could argue the hind leg off a donkey. Dylan was glad he’d raised strong sons, but Goddess help him, they defied him right and left.
There were things Dylan had to do. Ugly things, violent things. Dylan did them because no one else would.
He crouched over the bike and opened it up when he hit the highway out of town. Sweet release. The wind had turned cold by the time he reached the junction of the I-10 and headed toward Houston, New Orleans waiting beyond it.
The house a few miles outside New Orleans, where the strange being who called himself Ben waited, was haunted. Or at least, that was the rumor. The house pretty much decided what it wanted people to think about it.
Dylan arrived well after dark. He’d stopped only once on the road to relieve himself, and he was due again—so he pounded rather impatiently on the door.
“Come on, lad.” Dylan put his hand on the doorframe when all his knocking produced no results. “I’m not growing any younger out here.”
The latch clicked, and the door creaked open. Dylan slid quickly inside, ignoring the door that slammed itself shut, bolts sliding into place on their own.
He ran lightly up the stairs and to the bathroom, tossing his pack into the bedroom he’d used before. By the time he’d washed up, running a hand through his dark hair to tidy it—avoiding looking at the gray in it—he realized how empty the house was.
“You here, Ben?” he called down the silent corridor, but he knew he was alone.
The house smelled empty, missing Ben’s unique scent—a bite of mint and brimstone that Shifters often mistook for Fae. Ben was a creature who’d originated in Faerie, but he definitely wasn’t Fae, and made sure everyone knew it.
Dylan let out a noise of irritation and moved down the hall to the kitchen to put together a snack from the well-stocked refrigerator. The kitchen was on the second floor, because the first floor was a perfectly preserved antebellum house, shown to tourists several days a week. The woman who owned the house, Jasmine, now the mate of a Shifter, allowed Shifters to use the place anytime they wanted, as long as they kept it clean. Ben, who loved a good haunted house, had moved in to be its caretaker.
Dylan ate his sandwich, washed down with a bottle of Guinness, checked the house for security—it had locked itself up tight—and went to bed. He’d have a long day tomorrow, and he needed to be rested to face the beings he’d agreed to meet.
The silence and darkness was unusual. Dylan’s life abounded with noise—Sean and Andrea laughing and talking, arguing or making up; Glory either raging or in high spirits; Liam, Kim and family walking into the house any time, with Dylan’s grandson Connor who couldn’t stay silent if his life depended on it. Sometimes they’d bring Tiger and his voluble mate, Carly, along with their cub and now the daughter Tiger had discovered he had only a few months ago.
The quiet pressed on him. Dylan ignored it. He needed the peace to gear up for tomorrow. No interruptions. No yelling. No humans from Shifter Bureau showing up to make snap inspections. No noise at all.
He drifted to sleep.
He woke when the ceiling above him plunged downward, coming straight for him, led by the heavy iron chandelier. Dylan was halfway out of the bed with the speed of his wildcat, diving to the floor.
Too late. The bulk of the ceiling, weighted by the chandelier, crashed down on him, crushing him whole.
Dylan lay faceup and paralyzed, not breathing, not living, but curiously not dying either.
As his brain tried to figure out what parts of his body, if any, still worked, a giant, misshapen hand wrapped itself around one of the heavy beams and tossed it aside.
Chapter Two
The hand shrunk into a human shape, three of its fingers tattooed with letters that spelled out Ben.
Dylan tried to let out a breath of relief and realized he couldn’t. His chest had stopped moving, his heart had ceased beating. Yet he could clearly see the square face of Ben and his liquid brown eyes peering over the rubble.
“Sorry about this,” Ben said as he moved another beam with unholy strength. “Happens sometimes. Sucks, but it does.”
“Ceiling falling in?”
Dylan heard the question, but his lips hadn’t formed it. His voice echoed outside his body, and Ben heard it too.
“Suspended animation,” Ben answered. “You’re meant to stay put.”
“The house did this?”
“Who the hell knows? All I know is you’re here and you’re stuck with me while I take you on a journey.”
“What journey?” Dylan scowled, or attempted to. “We’re meeting the zilithal tomorrow. If I don’t show up, a year of planning goes down the drain. I need their intel.”
“Yeah, well, if it was up to me, I’d be in the kitchen downing beer and watching TV. I’m behind on The Crown.”
“Go watch. I’ll sleep—once I get out from under this.”
“No, my friend. You aren’t going anywhere.”
Dylan topped Ben by a foot—when Dylan could stand. Even in his three hundredth year, having borne three sons who had children of their own, Dylan had more strength and fight in him than most Shifters. He battled at the fight club to keep himself in shape, and he could beat all but a few.
But whenever Ben lost his stupid grin and pinned you with his dark stare, you felt his power. Dylan had never attempted to best him, and he didn’t want to try now.
“I’m obviously going nowhere,” Dylan said. “Do what you want.”
“OK.” Ben reached for him. “I have to hold your hand. Don’t take it the wrong way.”
Shifters didn’t have a problem with touch—they needed it, in fact, to survive—but Dylan jumped when Ben’s hand contacted his. Ben’s power sparked and sizzled, showing Dylan that this ancient being had far more to him than anyone understood.
“You might want to close your eyes for this,” Ben said as his fingers clamped down. “I know I do. Makes me motion sick. No? All right then—here we go.”
Dylan regretted in the next second that his eyes refused to close.
The world spun, the house vanishing to be replaced by whirling stars and freezing cold. Nausea bit at him, bile rushing to his mouth. His uncooperative throat wouldn’t let him release it or cough it back down.
Darkness consumed them, and the cold only built. Damned unfair that Dylan could still feel when he couldn’t move. His only contact with reality—if it was reality—was the warmth of Ben’s hard hand.
After what seemed hours, the earth slammed up into them, and the spinning ceased.
The cold worsened, and Dylan understood why in a few seconds. They were no longer in southern Louisiana.
Damp coated the dark air, bringing a chill that penetrated to his bones. The ground was soft, the sort of ground that never quite dried. Dylan scented peat, mud, mist, and grass—scents he hadn’t smelled since …
“What the fuck are we doing in Ireland?”
Dylan’s mouth moved that time, and his lungs worked. He breathed out, coughing at last, and spit bile into the grass.
“Is that where this is?” Ben glanced around with interest. “Looks dark.”
“Shouldn’t be, if it’s well past midnight in New Orleans. Six hour time difference.” Darkness lingered at the winter solstice, of course, but they should at least glimpse a dawn sky.
“Doesn’t mean we’re here at the same time, if you catch my drift,” Ben said.
Dylan yanked his hand from Ben’s and straightened up, stretching his back. His bones didn’t feel broken or even bruised. Out-of-body experience? Dream?
This felt too real to be a dream. He’d lived in Ireland for nearly three hundred years—knew the texture of its ground, the scent of its air, every hill and valley, river and pond. The air had
a briny tang to it—they were near the sea.
When his eyes adjusted to the misty dark, moonlight penetrating through tatters in the low-hanging clouds, he saw a ruin on a rise to his left. Stark stone ended in a jagged parapet that had been destroyed centuries ago in some forgotten battle.
“Shite,” he whispered.
Why had his dream, vision, astral projection, whatever the hell it was, brought him here?
He started for the hill topped by the ruined castle. Ben, without question, followed, his footsteps silent, his presence palpable.
As Dylan neared the ruin, he saw lights. Not firelight but the harsh glare of electric lanterns, headlights, the laser gleams of scopes.
No …
Dylan began to run. Ben, behind him, breathed hard. “Hey, slow down,” Ben called. “I’m pushing a thousand and fifteen. Not as young as I used to be.”
Dylan wasn’t either, but he might have been a cub just past his Transition for the energy that boosted him up the hill. He sprinted the last few hundred feet and halted abruptly, seeing … himself.
A black-maned lion growled ferociously at a ring of soldiers and police that surrounded him and four other figures. The lion lunged, only to be halted by a shock stick that sent him to his belly, but he didn’t cease his ground-vibrating snarls.
One of the soldiers had a younger man in a chokehold, a gun pressed to his forehead. The lad, who looked much like Dylan—blue eyes, midnight hair—was Dylan’s youngest son, Kenny, whom Sean’s cub had been named for. Kenny struggled and cursed, spitting blood, desperately trying to reach the soldier who held a terrified but snarling young woman. Her belly was swollen in obvious pregnancy, very near her delivery.
Dylan raced forward, but Ben’s strong hand yanked him back. “You can’t interfere.”
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