Linda O. Johnston

by Alpha Wolf

  “Enjoy your meal,” she said curtly. “Oh, and if you think that little game you played before will change anyone’s mind, Dr. Harding, you’re wrong. You just had the wrong guy take off his shirt.” She turned her glare on Drew, then Patrick. “You want to strip for us, too, Patrick? You know what was said about your mom and dad.”

  Patrick had been sliding into the booth, but he stopped. His glare was a blowtorch of fury. “You ready to tell me who shot them, Angie? You’re one of the most outspoken believers around here in shapeshifters, and you don’t even bother to hide your hate. You’ve got to know a lot more than you’re saying. Maybe you even shot my folks yourself.”

  “You’d better leave, Patrick,” Angie spat. “This is my place. I won’t be accused here of killing anybody—even if they deserved it.”

  Drew did not try to quash the angry conversation. He, too, figured Angie knew more than she had ever told the authorities. Could be, if they got her even angrier this evening, she would spill something helpful.

  Melanie, who had slid into her seat, glared at Angie. “I just don’t get any of this,” she retorted, anger flashing in her brilliant blue eyes. “Would you please send someone sane over to take our order?”

  Drew could have kissed her—and the thought stirred a primal reaction from his body. She’d no idea how helpful her angry response might be to him and his men, but her apparent characteristic forthrightness acted as an aphrodisiac.

  But she didn’t—couldn’t—know just what she was actually in the middle of. Explaining wasn’t an option. Listening was. And then, if necessary, he’d perform damage control.

  “Sane?” Angie shouted. “One of you accuses me of being a killer, and now you’re claiming I’m crazy?”

  “What else can I think?” Melanie demanded. “First you accused me not only of being a liar, but of protecting werewolves, of all things. Werewolves! When I bought my veterinary practice I’d heard of the legends but thought they were just fairy tales that people around here liked to tell. I had no idea so many of you were credulous enough to take such silliness seriously. I don’t suppose you know, do you, who shot Grunge? Or who’s been making threats…Never mind. I’m not going to accuse you or anyone else.” Although Drew figured she just had, or had at least implied that she believed Angie was involved. And no one had mentioned the threatening phone call Melanie had received, but he was sure that’s what she was referring to. “But I’m not going to run away, either. And I won’t waste my breath by demanding that you apologize—or you, Patrick—but let’s drop this ludicrous subject and pretend we’re all friends. I want my dinner.”

  “Sounds like a plan,” Drew said mildly. He appreciated what she’d said, even if she hadn’t gotten her facts anywhere close to being correct. And he certainly had enjoyed hearing her talk while Angie’s expression grew increasingly angry. At least Patrick knew better than to pursue this any further. Drew had warned the obviously furious lieutenant with a commanding officer’s glare. Of course, if it were proven to be true that the owner of the diner had something to do with his parents’ deaths—well, Patrick would be entitled to help ensure she paid for it. And if Melanie’s insinuations were correct, and Angie was involved with the current goings-on, she’d have to answer for them, too. “You want some beer to start with?”

  “Yes,” Melanie said with no hesitation.

  “Great. Make sure the guys outside with Grunge get what they want to drink, too, Angie. And eat. It’s on me. Let’s make our meal tonight memorable.” He’d intended that they all enjoy it—while learning what they could by listening to surrounding conversations. His men knew that.

  But what he didn’t know was how memorable it would become.

  Considering the incomprehensibly odd way the evening had started—the even weirder way the past few days had been—Melanie had a wonderful time at dinner, once she had calmed down. She joined her two male companions in enjoying another steak, with Crystal as their server again.

  Melanie had gotten to know Patrick Worley a few months earlier as they’d discussed his sale of the clinic. He seemed a Renaissance man, with knowledge about many subjects, including veterinary medicine, Maryland’s Eastern Shore, the U.S. Army and, of course, local legends.

  He was cute, too. His hair was light and cropped, his face long, and he had a cleft in his chin. During their negotiation, he sometimes had his own military K-9, Duke, with him—a large shepherd-wolfhound mix. But him, a werewolf? After what had happened to his parents, Melanie hadn’t been surprised at Angie’s oblique accusation earlier, but she’d shaken her head at the absurdity of it.

  Melanie’s mind inevitably slipped to her suspicion: Angie’s accusations might be a poor attempt to mask her own involvement in some recent events. The threatening phone call had been from a man, but Angie could know who it was. And she might even have shot Grunge herself.

  That evening, Patrick took the lead in their conversation, focusing on training of K-9s—or at least what he said wasn’t classified. She found it fascinating.

  Drew listened more than he spoke—and not just to the conversation at their table. His interest in what was going on around them should have been a turnoff. But it was just the opposite. Somehow, she appreciated his quiet watchfulness, maybe because she understood it. Even if they weren’t talking about that dumb werewolf legend now, maybe others were. And some of the most outspoken aficionados from the town meeting sat nearby.

  Maybe he would hear something about Grunge. Or her.

  She wondered, not for the first time, exactly how old Drew was. The silvery strands in his otherwise dark hair made him appear older. Distinguished. Yet his facial features were well defined without deep crevasses or wrinkles. She guessed him to be around her age—early thirties—but wasn’t sure.

  Well, heck, she could always ask him.

  Melanie was taken aback when, as they finished their meal, some other patrons rose from their tables and approached. One was her assistant, Carla, sashaying toward them beside Nolan Smith, curls bobbing as she looked up adoringly into the man’s face. She’d been sitting with people Melanie mostly didn’t know, but they’d been among the first to cheer when Mike Ripkey and Nolan took the microphone. A couple of technicians from the clinic also sat with the group: Brendan and Astrid. Carla and the rest did their jobs well and seemed to care for the animals. But were they on the werewolf loonies’ side?

  “I know you believe we’re the nuts around here, Dr. Harding,” said Nolan Smith, his smile baring white and uneven teeth. His small, dark-rimmed glasses had a prescription strong enough to make his blue eyes appear fuzzy.

  Carla clutched his hand…and looked often at Patrick Worley, as if making sure he saw whom she was with.

  Interesting dynamics, Melanie thought. Or they would be, if everything around here wasn’t so offbeat.

  “Please try to keep an open mind,” Nolan continued. “Things aren’t always what they seem.” He stole a glance toward Patrick. “I don’t want to point any fingers, of course, but, well, despite what I said to the crowd earlier…”

  From over his shoulder, Mike Ripkey, self-proclaimed head of the ShapeShifter Tracers, called gleefully, “I’ll point fingers. I’m always so excited to be in the presence of someone who’s probably a hereditary shapeshifter, like Lt. Worley. I know how you lost your parents. A shame, of course. But—”

  “Excuse me.” Crystal muscled through the crowd. “Here’s your check.” She slammed it on the table. Melanie noticed that Angie stood, arms folded, near the kitchen door, and suspected she had sent Crystal over to keep the peace.

  When the group didn’t dissipate, Drew started to rise. Although there was no overt menace in his expression, she saw his fingers tighten into fists, the muscles in his arms tauten. He drew his wallet from his pants pocket and pulled out his credit card, waving Melanie’s away when she offered her own.

  And still the crowd surrounded them. Uneasy, Melanie sought an escape route but found none…until Chief Angus Ellenbog
en serendipitously entered the restaurant. As he headed toward their table, people made way. “Okay, folks. Time to finish eating and clear out. All of you.” His glare at the milling throng seemed to cause them to back off.

  “Thanks, Angus,” Melanie said.

  “Yeah, well, I’d just as soon not have a riot on my hands tonight. But rumor’s been spreading that you’ve called all these lunatics, lunatics. That right?”

  Melanie managed a smile.

  “She did a damned fine job of it,” Drew told the chief. “But I was just about to call a military escort for her.”

  “I thought I had a military escort,” Melanie contradicted.

  “Could be.”

  By the time they headed outside, the crowd had obeyed Angus’s orders and dispersed. “You want me to have some of my guys go home with you, check out your clinic tonight, Dr. Harding?” Angus asked.

  “I’ll make sure she gets home safely,” Drew said from behind her.

  What about what she wanted? “Thanks,” she said to Angus. “But I’ll take the major up on his offer.”

  She felt even more appreciative when the others from the base, including Grunge, walked her back to her clinic and inside, to ensure there were no unwanted visitors. Then they walked her home. When everything checked out, Seth, Jonas and Patrick said goodnight and led Grunge away.

  “You sure you’ll be okay here alone tonight?” Drew asked as they stood inside, near her closed front door.

  “Are you offering to stay?” She poured irony into her tone even as her body ignited with the idea of this man staying the night. What if he said yes? Would she agree?

  That could only lead to trouble.

  “Do you want me to?” he countered.

  “No.” The word erupted from what was left of her good sense.

  “Fine.” But he didn’t leave. Instead, he looked down at her. His amber eyes seemed to stare through her, to her soul. Setting it on fire.

  Setting her on fire.

  Or was that a factor of the searching heat of his lips as he bent and touched them to hers? The penetration of his tongue into her mouth as she returned his kiss, hard and hot and suggestive in its slow thrusts and parries. One of his firm hands cupping her breast, he moved a thumb back and forth against her nipple until she nearly cried out with wanting more.

  Did she want more? Did she even want this? She couldn’t think. Reason had been replaced by the ache for his touch elsewhere. Everywhere.

  Except…he suddenly pulled back.

  His expression had gone cool. Distant. “Goodnight, Dr. Harding,” he said. “Sleep well.”

  And then he was gone.

  Locking the door after him, Melanie felt anger mix with frustration. And confusion. What had caused his abrupt change of mood?

  She stifled the urge to open the door again, just so she could slam it and symbolically banish Major Drew Connell from her evening. From her life.

  She’d treat his injured dog, if needed. Of course.

  But after that, she vowed never to see him again.

  Chapter 9

  D rew’s head hurt. Plus, it spun as if he had chugged an entire bottle of vodka. Rotgut.

  Not a good way to be driving. Especially on twisting country roads, in the dark. Accidents happened here. Fatal ones, and not just the one that had killed Angie’s husband. A local died only a year ago, soon after Drew had arrived in the area.

  Things would be pretty damned bad now, if he didn’t make it back to the base soon.

  He leaned forward to watch the pavement shimmer and bounce as his SUV swerved slowly from side to side.

  Too bad he wasn’t simply drunk on sharing that explosive kiss with Melanie. He wished he could have continued. Allowed things to progress. Let his body rule his mind. It argued with him all the time to do that anyway.

  Good thing Melanie didn’t know who he really was yet. What he was. He’d never have engaged in a battle of lips with her. Battle of wits? Whatever.

  She’d have doubted her own sanity. And he’d have backed off. Way fast. Wouldn’t trust her. He didn’t trust any regular, normal woman. If there was such a thing. They didn’t keep secrets. They wanted to profit from secrets.

  As a tree walked into his path, he slammed on his brakes. Oh, yeah. Something was definitely wrong.

  Not only was he dizzy, his bladder felt suddenly and extremely full. And every noise around him was amplified from its usual loudness into a sharp, keening blade that sliced at the inside of his skull.

  He scowled at the tree. It stayed where it was as he pulled around it. Drove slowly off.

  And within another five minutes saw the welcoming entry to Ft. Lukman.

  He pulled up to the guardhouse. Dropped his wallet on the floor as he fumbled for his ID. Good thing the guard recognized his car. And him. Drew’s vision was too blurred to make out who was on duty that night. “Go on in, Major.”

  Fortunately, his place was not far from the entrance. He saw the officers’ quarters building loom to his right. In duplicate. He carefully drove into the parking lot and found a spot—two spots?—and pulled his SUV in.

  And sat there, holding his head, for…how long? Not even the first time he had gone through the transformation had he been in such agony. And that hadn’t been any picnic.

  When next aware of what he was doing, he fumbled with his key in the lock to his digs—a nice-sized apartment allotted to officers of his rank. Where had the key come from? Probably his pocket. Had he changed, then come back? He studied his hands. No indication they had been anything but human tonight. No telltale strands of hair. No curving, like paws, to be straightened.

  So what was going on?

  Usually, he did a quick check of the lab on returning to base, no matter what time it was. Tonight, he’d never make it. He’d call one of the other guys to do an ad hoc inspection. Might be a good thing anyway, get another set of eyes and ears, another nose, to ensure all was well.

  He fumbled his way inside his apartment and closed the door. “Grunge?” he called. Jonas and the others, when they brought his dog back to the base, always let him into his quarters. They had the key, just for that reason.

  But Grunge didn’t come out to see him.

  “Grunge?” Drew called again. The rottenness of how he felt hadn’t changed, but now he was also worried.

  Before he could start his search, though, he headed for the bathroom. He needed to relieve himself. Badly.

  In a minute, he stumbled back into the hall. It was empty, well lit, as always at night. All doors were closed. Someone had cooked with garlic that day. The others like Drew would rag on that person in the morning. He should have known better.

  Drew tried to walk a straight line, but rammed his shoulder against the wall. Went on, then heard the door behind that wall open behind him. “Major? Drew?” The voice was familiar, but Drew was unsure whose it was. “Are you okay?”

  “Hell if I know. Need to see Jonas. Seth. Patrick. Find Grunge.”

  The shadowy, duplicated figure with him resembled one of the female officers, Lt. Nella Reyes. She was in Alpha, too. Sleek and smart, she was all feminine. Feline. And when she changed, she became a lynx.

  Her sand-toned hair was mussed now, and she wore a white robe tied about her waist. Must have been sleeping.

  Drew should be sleeping, if he could close his eyes with all the pain.

  But first…Grunge.

  “We’ll find him, Drew,” Nella said. “Get back inside, Sunshine.” She was talking to the large golden cat that appeared beside her. Or was that her?

  Drew felt her arm go around his back, and when he nearly stumbled she helped to support him.

  Jonas’s quarters were down this long hall and around a corner. Usually seemed close. Tonight it felt like a twenty-mile marathon.

  Drew made it. Leaned on the wall as Nella knocked. Waited. “I don’t think anyone’s—” She stopped, listening.

  Drew’s senses were as acute as always, despite whatever had
happened to him. Maybe more so. He heard a whimper. Nella reached into the pocket of her robe and pulled out a cell phone.

  “Security? This is Major Reyes. I’m in the officers’ quarters, near Unit 19. Send someone now.”

  Turned out they’d all been drugged—Jonas, Patrick and Seth, too. Not Grunge, at least, Drew thought as he dragged himself into the shower of his quarters a few hours later and turned the water on hot and fast so it spewed loudly out of his custom showerhead. He stood on the bland beige tile, trying unsuccessfully to wash away the night’s turmoil.

  Grunge had been with Jonas, and had been temporarily placed into the base kennel with the other K-9s when the medics showed up. So was Duke, Patrick’s dog.

  Now, Grunge was back with Drew, pacing and whining through the apartment, as if he understood that something bad had happened that night.

  Good dog, Drew thought as the water pelted his back. He lathered up a wash cloth and rubbed the rough terrycloth hard against his bare skin. Too bad he wasn’t going to change that night into his alternate form. If he did, he’d be able to communicate on some enhanced canine level with Grunge. Assure him things were all right now.

  Nella had gotten the four of them transported to the base hospital. That’s what they called their medical facility, the size of a two-bit infirmary but equipped with some of the most high-tech equipment there was. Had to be, with all that went on at the lab building way off in one forested corner of Ft. Lukman. That was where Drew brewed his concoctions, a combination of ancient herbal potions developed by his family over centuries, mixed with complex modern medications utilizing the breadth of sophisticated twenty-first century pharmaceutical knowledge.

  In the early morning hours that day, the four of them had puked their guts out, thanks to the combo of antidotes to the substances, which Nella, a doctor like Drew and Patrick, determined from the blood tests, were most likely to blame for the symptoms all evinced: dizziness. Blurred vision. Dehydration. And pain—a whole bundle of it, right where it hurt worst, their heads.