Linda O. Johnston

by Alpha Wolf

  He shook his head curtly. “Not without clearing it with me.”

  “Then some poor, ordinary dog may be the target.” She grabbed the phone off the bedside table. “I’m calling the cops.”

  She was nearly frantic by the time Angus Ellenbogen arrived in a convoy of cop cars with sirens blaring. Drew had called his own troops, who were also on the way, and hadn’t stopped swearing at himself for not bringing a battery of armaments. He made it clear how badly he wanted to go outside, do a recon of the area, see what evidence—tangible and sensory—he could find, but when Melanie played poor scared woman in need of protection, he stayed with her.

  And she was scared. Especially about the idea of him getting hurt again.

  When the authorities arrived, the next hours were a jumble of questions and accusations and people who interacted but failed to mix well. Thank heavens Melanie’s infirmary was empty, since caring for patients was impossible. With Carla’s assistance she rescheduled the patients she was to see that morning.

  “Come with me, Melanie,” Angus told her. His crime scene team had already interrogated Drew and her. A different group had gone outside to figure out what had happened.

  She had apparently been wrong. No animal had, fortunately, been shot. But one silver bullet was embedded in the rear wall of her house, another couple at the clinic.

  “Looks like a warning this time, from whoever doesn’t like that you treated supposed werewolves.” The sad-faced police chief rolled his eyes.

  “But Grunge was shot last week,” Melanie protested. “So was Drew. The moon isn’t full, and there weren’t any stray dogs around that I’m aware of. Why do this?”

  Angus turned toward Drew. “Don’t suppose you remember seeing anything when you were shot besides what you told me, do you?”

  Drew shook his head. “Wish I did. Maybe we could put an end to this once and for all.”

  “You didn’t run outside this time when you heard a noise?” Angus asked. A logical question, Melanie figured, recalling the story they had devised to explain why Drew, and not a dog, had been shot. He’d stayed here night last night, which bolstered the story. But it also let people believe she was sleeping with him.

  Okay, she was—but she wasn’t comfortable with the world knowing about her personal life.

  “Didn’t hear anything this time till shots were fired and hit the building,” Drew explained. “Besides, I learned my lesson.” Sure, he had—as long as Melanie reminded him.

  “Figured that,” the chief said.

  Melanie accompanied the men toward the front of the clinic, only to find that the media horde had descended, as they had on the morning after Grunge was shot. But why? This time, not even a dog was hurt.

  She learned the reason quickly. Mike Ripkey, head of the SSTs, had apparently called a press conference, damn him. Right by her clinic. Again.

  He stood at the front door, facing the reporters, clad in jeans and an SSTs T-shirt. And he wasn’t alone. A woman, maybe mid-thirties, stood beside him. Almost as tall as he, she wore a gauzy top over a short skirt, with black leather boots climbing her calves.

  They faced a large group of tourists Melanie recognized from the City Hall meeting, some townsfolk including the mayor, Angie Fishbach and her waitress Crystal, and a lot of reporters.

  Go away, she wanted to shout. But that would be useless.

  Standing on the periphery of the group were some of the guys from Ft. Lukman, dressed inconspicuously in casual civilian garb. Jonas Truro, Seth Ambers, Patrick Worley were there, along with an older man Melanie didn’t recognize.

  “That’s General Yarrow,” Drew whispered at her question. “He’s been stuck in D.C., so I’m a little surprised to see him here. He wants to meet you—and I figure he also wanted to see this nonsense for himself.”

  Standing by themselves were Melanie’s technicians Astrid and Brendan. They seemed scared and upset, and Melanie hoped they wouldn’t quit on her.

  “Glad you’re all here,” Mike shouted, drawing Melanie’s attention. “I wanted you to see Sheila Graves. She was attacked by a werewolf last week and lived to tell about it.”

  It was Melanie’s turn to roll her eyes. She listened to the reporters shout questions. The two people were soon joined by Nolan Smith, who also leapt in to talk about the werewolf legends and how lucky Sheila was. Carla exited the clinic and, after an obvious glance at Patrick, stood near Nolan.

  “I want to say one thing,” Nolan finally shouted. “We’re here because someone shot silver bullets at the Mary Glen Veterinary Clinic early this morning. Of course all of us who understand the truth of the legends know how dangerous these creatures can be, but shooting property won’t help. We need to be certain that silver bullets are used correctly, aimed at the shapeshifters while in animal form. Aimed at their hearts, of course, to be sure to kill them.”

  As the reporters hollered questions involving hunting laws and licenses, as well as the legends, Melanie carefully kept her gaze expressionless, centering it on the three people on her doorstep. She would learn the reactions of the military guys later, but didn’t want any attention shifted toward them, not even hers.

  The most vocal reporter was, unsurprisingly, June Jenkins. The tall woman from the Maryland Reality Gazette, in a fuchsia suit that day, towered over most men and women. Her microphone was clasped in her hand, and she seemed eager to goad the interviewees into guessing who had fired the shots—suggesting it could even be one of them.

  “We don’t discourage the disposal of werewolves,” Mike Ripkey said solemnly. “And it’s not the same as shooting real game, so licensing laws don’t apply.” Yeah, sure, Melanie thought. “But if you’re accusing us, you’d better back up your story with proof unless your paper is interested in defending a lawsuit for defamation, Ms. Jenkins.”

  That only deterred June Jenkins for a moment, and then her bombardment of questions and innuendoes started again.

  Eventually, Angus and his cops apparently thought they’d allowed enough freedom of speech, and began dispersing the crowd. Most reporters left first, excluding the persistent June Jenkins, who hung out with the SST group when they stayed where they were.

  Drew introduced her to General Yarrow. The dark-haired officer shook her hand firmly and stared into her eyes, as if assessing whether she could be trusted. She stared right back and said, “Good to finally meet you, sir. And I’m glad to be of assistance at Fort Lukman—in all ways.”

  His brief smile suggested that he got her underlying message. “I’ll see you around, Dr. Harding.”

  Next, Melanie assumed a cordial attitude as she met Sheila Graves and expressed pleasure that the woman had survived the mauling…or whatever. Melanie wasn’t about to get into a debate.

  Carla clung to Nolan’s arm as the man shook his head. “It’s not your fault, Dr. Harding, that there are werewolves around here. No one should take it out on you.”

  “I agree,” Melanie said. “With the last part, at least. The legends? Well…”

  “We hope we got our point across,” Mike Ripkey said. “Sheila’s doing as well as possible, but the creature that hurt her is still loose. We don’t want you harmed, Dr. Harding, or anyone else unless they’re helping these evil beasts. But if you did, you didn’t know any better…before.”

  “Is that a threat, Mr. Ripkey?” Drew demanded, stepping closer to Melanie, fists clenched at his sides.

  “Of course not,” Melanie said, wanting to defuse the situation. “But I’d rather you tell your group, Mike, that no one’s person or property should be shot at, for any reason. Not animals, either. I didn’t like having to extract a bullet from a poor dog who might, in the darkness, vaguely resemble a wolf. And I absolutely hated that Drew was shot for no reason at all. Besides, even if the legends were true, which I doubt, and there are werewolves around here, no one has the right to take the law into his or her own hands—hunting licenses or not. Right, Chief Ellenbogen?”

  “Sure thing, Dr. Hardin
g. Add that to your story, Ms. Jenkins,” he ordered the reporter. “Got it?”

  “I heard you, Angus,” June Jenkins said. “And I’ll keep it in mind.” She grinned and left.

  Melanie watched TV news and read local newspapers over the next days. The stories resulting from that pseudo press conference were, unsurprisingly, all over the map as far as reality was concerned.

  June Jenkins’s article that Friday afternoon quoted Chief Ellenbogen as saying that his department should be contacted if anyone believed they saw anything unusual around their homes or businesses—such as a shapeshifter.

  Other stories that day and over the weekend made fun of the legends, often in what appeared to be an unbiased report. The fact that most well-respected media took that position soothed Melanie’s fractured nerves just a little. Maybe some of the loonies would now stay away from Mary Glen.

  Maybe not.

  Melanie decided not to make an issue out of Carla’s relationship with a ringleader of the furor, Nolan Smith. If she fired Carla, Nolan could claim on his Web site that believers in the legends were martyrs as well as the only clear thinkers.

  If he only knew.

  Over the weekend, Melanie didn’t see many patients, so it was a good time to visit Ft. Lukman, ostensibly, as usual, to check on the health of the K-9s. Melanie was, in fact, getting to know and adore them.

  And the shapeshifters?

  Well, first and foremost, there was Drew. She didn’t need to go to the base to see him. He spent each night at her house to bolster their cover story. And their extraordinary lovemaking? An added benefit.

  To Melanie’s pleasure, she was becoming good friends with Lt. Nella Reyes. Nella couldn’t thank Melanie enough for helping her stop vomiting and allowing her to change back to human form after her disastrous bout with the latest formula.

  Nella changed once more, on Sunday afternoon, in a controlled experiment with Melanie present. Her lynx form’s estrus cycle had ended, which undoubtedly helped. And Nella was determined not to let the testosterone-governed shapeshifters do better than those who had estrogen instead.

  Melanie sucked in her continued amazement and incredulity, and watched the woman change into a beautiful lynx who proceeded to prowl the lab area.

  Then there were the werewolves, including Patrick Worley and, of course, Drew.

  She was present during several weeknight evenings, as they discussed the latest version of the drink that caused them to change. She learned about its contents that allowed them to choose when to morph into animal form, then back again. About the light that simulated moonlight when turned on to the optimum intensity, the needed catalyst for the tonic to work.

  She stayed near them, even communicated on some level with the large, highly intelligent dogs they became. Yes, they actually retained their human awareness, as Drew had told her. They howled now and then, whether out of pure joy or just to freak her out she didn’t know. But they didn’t attack anyone or anything.

  When she checked them over, using her veterinary skills, they obeyed her. Even teased by anticipating which paw she wanted them to lift.

  Weird. Unreal. And very unsettling, Melanie told herself over and over, even as she observed canines’ fur recede into lengthening skin as they turned back into nude men before her eyes. Good-looking, muscular men—Drew the most gorgeous of the bunch. Those she didn’t know as well seemed self-conscious at first, but she was careful to remain clinical and professional, and to ensure that there were sufficient sheets and other coverings to protect their modesty.

  Not so with Drew. His eyes invariably caught hers as he changed, and she went hot all over as his sexy human body returned.

  She was now part of the group. Her official top-secret clearance was still in process, but it was almost superfluous.

  She felt as if she lived a dual existence—a regular veterinarian most days, a mad doctor participating in incredible experiments during evenings and on weekends.

  And nights? Well, they were of course incredible in a different way. Drew always came to her home, bringing Grunge. She’d had an enhanced security system installed at both the clinic and her home. Her medical practice was such that most nights her infirmary was occupied. She had to ensure the safety of any pets entrusted to her care whether overnight or otherwise.

  Her employees didn’t seem to recognize her semi-schizophrenia. Carla had her pert little head in the clouds, since apparently Nolan and she were growing closer. Talking marriage someday, if Carla’s happy hints had validity.

  Which gave Melanie an opportunity to discuss Nolan’s beliefs with him on Thursday afternoon.

  The tall man had come to take Carla to lunch. As always, he wore his belt with the silver wolf buckle to hold up his frayed blue jeans. He had a peculiar gleam in his eyes, behind his glasses, every time he got on the subject of werewolves—the first thing he brought up when he spied Melanie in the clinic’s reception room.

  “How are you today, Doc?” he asked. “Saved any shapeshifters lately?”

  “Of course not,” she said with a straight face. Seen any, yes. Saved any, no. “Nolan, I’d really like to understand what got you so interested in the legends. Are you just trying to make money from sponsors who buy ads on your Web sites, or do you genuinely believe in them? And if so, what makes you think they’re evil?”

  His long features darkened into an angry scowl. “You saw Sheila Graves, Doc. Do you think some nice, kindly animal with a waggly tail leapt on her and nearly killed her?”

  “And she wasn’t the first person harmed around here,” Carla chimed in, nodding until her curls bobbed. “You’re new to the area, Melanie. You know the old saying, ‘Where there’s smoke, there’s fire.’ Around here, it’s more like, ‘Where there are sightings and attacks, there are shapeshifters.’”

  Obviously nothing would change their minds. And in some ways, Melanie admitted to herself, they were right. Perhaps there had been sightings. There certainly were shapeshifters. And there were attacks—on those shapeshifters, not, as far as she knew, by them.

  She told Drew about the encounter when he came to spend the night. “No big surprise,” he told her, sitting close beside her on her sofa as late news played on her TV. “No matter what those kinds see or don’t see, it’s all signs of what they want to believe. Far as I know, no one has ever seen any of our group changing, or even in changed form, except for the night I was shot. That was a fluke, and it won’t be repeated.”

  “I hope not.” Melanie reached down to pat Grunge’s head. “The idea of any of you getting hurt again—” She shuddered, then burrowed her face under Drew’s strong chin. She was getting much too used to having him around at night. She didn’t care about his ostensible reason for being there: to protect her, and her clinic. Oh, that part was good.

  But later, when they went to bed—that was when he really showed his abilities. Not supernatural, maybe, but really hot.

  It wasn’t only the sex, though, that kept her wanting him around.

  She had, despite all rationality, fallen in love with him.

  “I need to ask you something,” he whispered into her ear that night.

  “What?” He smelled good, all masculine, human enough to project a soft tang of shaving cream mixed with shampoo, but there was also a hint of something wild and canine—an aroma now familiar and endearing.

  “Things are going well enough that, this weekend, we’re going to conduct exercises at another military facility. We’ll be undercover, in essence playing out a scenario that could actually occur—an Alpha situation, where troops with our special abilities are used as a last resort.”

  “Interesting.” Melanie tried to sound excited. Instead, she was worried. Would the other military personnel know not to harm what appeared to be stray animals on their base?

  “Right. If this works, we’ll expand our operations, deploying to other locations as needed. But you’ve become an integral part of our work. I’d like your help. Come onto the base while w
e’re gone this weekend, check out the K-9s and spend some time in the lab to add to our cover. Pretend we’re there.”

  But Drew would be gone. And if this succeeded, maybe he’d leave permanently.

  While her services were still being used. Oh, he had worked things out so she was receiving monetary compensation. But she couldn’t help thinking of the situation that had resulted in her coming to Mary Glen.

  “Mmm-hmm,” she said brightly. “So I’d be here, running the veterinary operations, while you’re off doing…whatever.”

  “I’ll be back, Melanie, if that’s what you’re worried about.” His tone was curt. “You sound like you’re equating this with the guy who let you run his clinic while he ran around with other women.” She should never have told him about that. “This isn’t the same. It’s why our unit exists. We’re finally close enough to conduct test covert ops, and you’ve even helped.”

  “Right. And I know this is different. I hope things go great for you, Drew. I really do. But right now, I’m tired. I think I’ll go to bed.” Alone, she thought, but that wasn’t how things had been on the many nights Drew had stayed over.

  “Fine,” he said. “I’ll just sleep out here on the couch.”

  “Fine,” Melanie echoed, and she hurried down the hall to her room.

  Chapter 18

  L ast chance. Alpha Force had been called in. Only really Special Forces could pull this one out for the good old U. S. of A.

  Or so the manufactured scenario went.

  He put his nose in the air, inhaling the odors of the thick woodlands inland from the Potomac, at Quantico Marine Base. The forest creatures, who stayed far out of their way. The humid aroma of the river nearby, and the intrusion of the smells of the gasoline-powered craft upon it.

  Also inhaling the scents of his fellow Alphas. And, drawing closer, the other soldiers participating in the exercise, where the abilities of Alpha as a military unit were being challenged for the first time.