Dire Wolves of London

by Carina Wilder

  But much as the men were beyond appetizing, the fact remained that she was still a prisoner. Still wearing a collar around her neck, like she was a pit bull to be controlled for fear that it might attack someone.

  She reached up to feel it, her fantasies fading away to smoke the moment her fingers made contact with the cold metal.

  “We can probably get that off for you,” Cillian said, seeing the grimace that set itself on her face. “It’s ridiculous that you should have to wear it at all.”

  Sinead shook her head, wincing with pain as the metal pinched her. “No. It’s all right. I’m lucky enough to be sitting here, in this beautiful house, because of you two. I don’t want to get you into any more trouble than I’ve already been.”

  “You haven’t been any trouble, Lioness,” said Brigg. “Quite the opposite.”

  “Thank you.” She shot him a quick smile and pressed her neck against the couch for a second before speaking again. “Hey, Cillian,” she said, “Why don’t you tell us about your childhood?”

  The man to her left shifted in his place, turning his body to face her and Brigg.

  “Ah,” he said. “That’s a long story, but not a very interesting one. I was born in Ireland—hence my very Irish name. My parents, who were shifters, had heard about a group of Dire Wolves—very famous ones, at that—in Trekilling, in Cornwall. I mean, Cornwall’s only a leap away from Ireland, so it seemed like a clever move. So they brought us over thirty years ago.”

  “Us? How many?”

  “One sister, two brothers. My brothers are in the pack back in Trekilling. My sister long since moved back to Ireland. She’s got a mate there. A Wolf. They have a bunch of feisty Irish cubs running about, the fertile sex fiends.”

  Sinead laughed. “And your brothers? Are they as handsome as you?”

  As soon as she’d spoken the words, she felt her cheeks heat up. Fucking hell, did I really just say that? It was the sort of thing a drunken middle-aged woman would have said to one of her son’s friends. Cillian would probably take it as some sort of come-on, a hint that she wanted him to take her robe off.

  Not that it would be so bad…

  Fortunately, he let out a chuckle. Apparently he just thought she was being cheeky. “My brothers,” he said, “are far more handsome than I am.”

  “Ah. Well, then, I have another question.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “What about your tattoos? What do they say?”

  Cillian bent his elbows to reveal his forearms. On the left one, Sinead read the words:

  Keep your face always toward the sunshine

  and on the right,

  And the shadows will fall behind you.

  “Whitman,” said Cillian. “A quote I read when I was young. One of my brothers told me it suited my character. I tend to see the glass as half full, and I’d like to keep it that way. The words remind me not to become a cynical arse.”

  “I like it,” Sinead replied, glancing down at the empty vessel in her hand. “Unfortunately, my glass is most certainly empty. I suppose I’m the pessimist in this scenario.” She leaned forward and reached out to lay it on a large glass coffee table that sat before them, then pressed back into the couch again.

  “This is the first time I’ve hung about like this since I was about eighteen,” she said, closing her eyes. “With two boys, at that. Not that I can really call you boys.” She smiled to herself.

  “What would you call us, then?” asked Brigg, leaning in close. She could feel his body heat enveloping her. Something in his voice had changed a little; a hint of hunger lingered near the surface.

  “I’d call you something that I can’t say out loud,” she replied, “because it would get me into trouble. Of course, I’d simply blame the wine for that and move on.”

  “Oh?” said Cillian. “How convenient. Well, if we’re allowed to blame wine for things that come out of our mouths, then I suppose I should be allowed to mention that you’re the sexiest woman I’ve ever seen.”

  Sinead opened her eyes and turned towards him. She could have told him to stop, to keep his thoughts to himself. She’d scolded Brigg upstairs for less. But that was before she’d begun to trust them, to relax in their presence. It was before she’d allowed herself the frustrating admission that they were both bloody wonderful.

  “Thank you,” she said softly.

  “My pleasure.” Cillian reached forward, grabbing the lapel of her robe, and slipped her fingers inside. The backs of them swept over the curve of her right breast, sending a jolt of desire through her body that ended between her legs, a hard, delicious throb setting in.

  “Fuck,” Cillian murmured when he found her nipple. Sinead closed her eyes and embraced the sensation as he pinched it between two fingers. She wanted to howl, to tear her robe off. To tell them both that the night would get better if they would only agree to let her have her way with them.

  Okay—since when had she ever fantasized so much about a threesome? The very idea of it seemed so wrong. So oddly disloyal.

  Too bad it felt so right.

  Cillian, seeming to sense her confusion, pulled his hand away and crossed his arms as if to assure her that it wouldn’t happen again.

  Sinead, suddenly exhausted, leaned her head to the right, wordlessly pressing it into Brigg’s massive shoulder. He tightened under her touch as though she’d caused him some kind of discomfort. But after a moment he seemed to settle, his muscles loosening under the pressure.

  “Tell me a story, one of you,” she said softly, closing her eyes again. “Tell me anything. I want to fall asleep to the sound of a voice.”

  “The Owl and the Pussycat went to sea,” began Brigg, “in a beautiful pea-green boat…”

  Within a few seconds, Sinead had drifted off.

  14

  The next morning at ten, Sinead awoke to find herself in the large bedroom that Brigg had provided her. She had no idea how the men had gotten her there without stirring her awake. How they’d managed to tuck her in so tightly.

  What she did know was that she’d just had the best sleep of her life. She’d never felt so comfortable, so at home, so at peace, anywhere in the world. Not even in her earliest recollections, when she’d lived with her parents.

  After lounging in her luxurious bed and taking a long, hot shower that seemed to wash any remaining sleepiness away, Sinead wandered downstairs around eleven to find Brigg and Cillian sitting at the kitchen table. Both men were staring at the screen of a laptop, expressions of concern set deep into their features.

  “What’s going on?” she asked, slipping behind them to take a look. Immediately she could see that her question didn’t require an answer.

  A photo filled most of the screen of hundreds, if not thousands, of humans rioting in London’s streets. Shop windows were shattered, cars overturned. Police officers looked baffled and terrified, as though they were standing square in the middle of a war zone.

  “Was that last night?” she asked.

  Brigg nodded. “The news story must have gone out early,” he said. “Some people weren’t happy to hear the rumours about shifters being rounded up. But others, it seems, feel that we should all be hanged. They think the task force isn’t doing enough. The two sides have decided to battle it out in the streets.”

  “So, we’ve got allies and enemies both, it seems,” said Cillian. His tone was grave. “Fucking hell. You predicted this. It doesn’t look good, and it certainly doesn’t help our cause any to have shifters associated with more violence. I was hoping for peaceful protests, not all-out rioting.”

  Sinead reached up and pressed her fingertips to the steel collar that still encased her neck. “No,” she said, “this isn’t good. I don’t suppose we can stop it, but maybe we should find a way to help.”

  The men turned and looked at her. “What do you mean?” asked Brigg.

  “You said I could help you track shifters. Warn them, and so on. Well, now’s the perfect time, don’t you think?” She g
estured towards the screen. “Shifters tend to think they’re strong. Invincible, even. They might not take this threat seriously. They need to know that these are dangerous times. One false move could amount to a declaration of outright war against our kind. It’s one thing to grab us one by one, but an entire military out in force hunting us down in the streets would be ugly, to say the least.”

  “You’re quite right” said Cillian, turning to Brigg. “Would you be willing to drive into the city?” he asked.

  Brigg nodded. “Of course. Word has it that there’s another protest planned for Trafalgar Square at one o’clock. We should head in that direction.”

  “Right then,” said Sinead, who was already spinning around to dart back upstairs. “I’ll go get dressed.”

  When they’d driven into London’s core, Brigg headed straight towards Trafalgar Square.

  “Normally I’d have suggested we all hop on a train,” he told his passengers as traffic slowed to a crawl, “but this gives us a way in and out of the city without drawing too many inquisitive eyes to our faces. The last thing we want is to be crammed into a busy Tube carriage with a lot of hostile humans on the lookout for our kind. Speaking of which, you two, I want you to keep your eyes and noses at the ready. You may see some allies, but more likely you’ll be running into a lot of potential enemies. Look for hostile Grizzlies. Humans with an agenda. Either will do. The Guild and our pack need to know what we’re up against here, now that the news has begun to spread. We’re going to be working on damage control for some time, I’m afraid.”

  “We’ll keep a close watch,” said Cillian. “Don’t worry.”

  Sinead stared out the window, a knot tying itself in her gut. She was nervous, excited. Maybe even a little afraid of what might come to pass today. But she knew how important this mission of theirs was. They could save lives today. They could protect someone from the cell that she’d inhabited for far too long.

  The cell that Brigg had saved her from.

  A quick flood of gratitude raced through her, for everything they’d done. I should let them know, she thought. They deserve to know.

  “Brigg,” she said meekly. “Cillian…there’s something I want to tell you both. I…”

  But just as the words were about to emerge from her throat, Brigg slammed on the brakes.

  “What is it?” Cillian asked, leaning forward to take a look. Sinead swallowed her feelings and peered ahead. All she could see from the back seat was a crush of bodies ahead, leaping into the road and blocking traffic as they made their way slowly through the streets like a wave of flesh.

  Some of them had hand-written signs in hand; some were chanting indecipherable words.

  “The protest,” said Brigg. “It’s begun.”

  A woman ahead was holding a large placard that read

  NO PERSECUTION OF NON-HUMANS

  WE WILL FIGHT FOR THEIR SAFETY!

  “So, it’s here,” said Brigg, his tone bitter. “The war is on our doorstep.”

  “War?” asked Sinead. “Isn’t that a little dramatic?”

  “You were a prisoner of the new regime,” Brigg replied. “You tell me.”

  “Good point.”

  “Listen,” said Brigg, pulling the car over to the side of the road, “you two get out. I’m going to try and find a place to park and come find you. Don’t go too far, though. And stay together, whatever happens.”

  No problem there, thought Sinead. There’s no way I’m leaving Cillian’s side.

  As she opened her door, Brigg said, “Talk to any shifters you can. Warn them away from the Square. I have a bad feeling about this.”

  Nodding, she slipped out of the car, tentatively setting a foot down on the asphalt. She reached out for Cillian’s hand as Brigg eased the car slowly through the throng of bodies. Something about watching him leave made her chest ache. Please be safe, she thought. Please.

  “Where should we go?” she yelled into Cillian’s ear as he pushed by a man holding a sign that read:

  EQUAL RIGHTS FOR SHAPE-SHIFTERS!

  “Deeper in,” said Cillian, squeezing her hand as he led her towards the densest part of the crowd. “I want to get a sense of the mood. If you’re okay with this, that is.”

  “That depends. They can’t tell what we are, can they?”

  He twisted around to look into her eyes for a moment, his Dire Wolf’s irises flashing bright as they connected with her déor’s. “No,” he said. “They can’t, not unless we show them. Understand? We have to maintain control, no matter what.”

  She nodded. There was no damned way for her to shift anyhow, not with this fucking collar around her neck. Her Lioness was safely concealed in a reluctant, shackled body.

  Slowly they trudged ahead, Sinead holding tight to her companion, one hand in his, the other clutching tight to his arm. It felt good to touch him like this, and she was grateful to have an excuse. Her fingers wrapped around his bicep, acutely aware of each time he tensed as he pushed his way between the herd of well-meaning humans.

  Sinead wondered if Cillian could possibly have any idea how much she wanted him. How much she wanted both of them. Something in the men’s protectiveness, their concern, their care, had managed to bewitch her. She’d come so close to saying it in the car. That she was theirs, if they wanted her. That she didn’t want to spend another night alone in her bed. She wanted every night to be spent by their sides.

  But if Cillian felt the same way, he wasn’t showing it right now. His face was set in the determined expression of a man who wanted answers.

  “There’s a shifter up ahead,” he said. “The young man in the blue coat.”

  Sinead followed his gaze until her eyes settled on the figure he was talking about. He was young and wide-eyed, barely more than a boy, a look of fear making his irises flash bright and otherworldly. His human side had no idea what sort of danger he was in, but his animal seemed to be in a frightened panic.

  She strode up to him and grabbed his arm, a low growl crawling up her throat. Leaning in close, she said, “You need to get out of here. It’s not safe for the likes of us.”

  The man pulled back and looked at her for a moment before nodding silently. Quickly he turned on his heel and took off in the other direction like a frightened jackrabbit.

  “There,” said Cillian, stepping up next to her. “You’ve just fulfilled your obligation to the task force. You helped me locate a shifter.”

  “He’s a child,” she said bitterly. “So harmless and confused. That’s the sort of person the task force wants to throw into a pit.”

  “Agreed,” Cillian replied. “They have no idea how many worse things there are in this world than shifters.”

  15

  Sinead and Cillian made their way deeper into the crowd, keeping to one side to avoid the risk of entrapment.

  Each time they spotted a shifter, they warned him or her quietly away, keeping watch as they fled. For the most part, the task was easy; anyone stubborn enough to resist gave in the moment Sinead described the prison where the task force had locked her away.

  The two kept close together, holding on tight as they moved in and out between shouting strangers.

  “I want to talk to a human,” Cillian said when they’d made their way to the side of the road. “Give me a moment.”

  Sinead nodded assent. She was curious, too. As much as she disliked humans, she couldn’t help but recognize that the circumstances must have been overwhelming and confusing at best, for their kind as well.

  “What are your thoughts on all this?” Cillian asked a spectator who was standing to the side of the road, watching the proceedings as they grew more and more chaotic. The man was middle-aged, dressed in a short parka and a pair of scruffy jeans, a sneer on his face that said he didn’t exactly approve of any of it.

  “Fucking soft-hearted, shifter-loving sympathizers,” he said, “they’ll protest anything, so long as they can cause a stir. These shape-shifters, or whatever the fuck they are, have be
en coming into my city and killing my people, and here we are defending them like they’re sodding puppies in need of hugs. They’re killers. Brutes. Animals, and no mistake. They don’t deserve to walk these streets, let alone live in my city.”

  “So what do you think we ought to do about them?” Sinead asked, working hard to mask the rage that wanted to creep into her voice. No doubt the bastard’s solution was to kill them all. He probably wanted what the task force wanted; to take them off the streets, lock them up, torture them.

  “Throw the whole lot in jail,” the man said, confirming her suspicions as he turned to face her. But as he did so his expression altered as if his eyes had just landed on something intoxicating. “Or…better still…finish them off…” he muttered, but his words had lost the fierce tone of commitment.

  “You think they should be killed,” she repeated. She took a step towards the man, who looked suddenly blissful to have such a woman come anywhere near him. Funny, she thought. The idiot was too aroused by her presence to think straight. Yet he was convinced that it was her kind that lacked control. Her kind that was animalistic and inhuman. Even though he was so fucking pathetic that he couldn’t utter a coherent sentence in the presence of an attractive woman. “Just because they’re not like you, you think they deserve to die?”

  “Don’t you?” he asked, sidling up to her as though expecting some intimate physical outcome to result from this interaction.

  “No I don’t,” she replied, venom seeping into her tone. She grabbed him by the collar of his coat and pulled him even closer. He had to be an inch or two shorter than she was, but she pulled him up to her eye level so that his toes dragged on the ground. “I only want to punish shite-heads who think themselves superior to everyone else in the world. I want to punish those who would kill others for not conforming to their idea of humanity.”