Wolf's Cross: Book 4 (Loki's Wolves)

by Melissa Snark

  Kinkaid fired her pistol—hit one in the head. The wolf staggered. Shouting, she unloaded her clip and advanced toward it, not a hint of hesitation or fear.

  The second wolf leaped toward DNR. The young man jerked his weapon, tracking the moving target, but his shots missed. He threw up his arm. The wolf descended and bit the hunter, sinking its teeth into his forearm.

  DNR's agonized shriek split the air.

  Victoria started to the hunter's aid, but then pulled up. Now that she had her bearings, she sensed Sawyer's location to be in the opposite direction, on the other side of the cabins. The pack bond pulsated with the hunter's red-hot rage but also conveyed his pain. He'd been injured.

  The bear rumbled again.

  The attacking wolf ripped a chunk of flesh from DNR's arm. Blood sprayed. The hunter went down beneath his attacker. Her breath gusted from her lungs and she made the selfish decision—she chose Sawyer. She swiveled, reversed direction, and charged across the yard. As soon as she emerged from between the buildings, she came upon the scene.

  Sawyer lay on his back, covered in blood and dirt, pine needles matted in his hair. Even messed up as he was, the maddening man aspired to a higher standard. The man made fucked-up-beyond-all-recognition look sexy as all hell. He gripped his shotgun against his chest, cradled like a lover. As grim as a reaper, he reloaded the weapon with steady hands.

  A few feet away, an enormous grizzly reared on its hind legs. Gunshot wounds covered its body. Blood splattered like graffiti on its hide. Wrongness defined the bear, the same as the wolves. Scabrous brown fur, lumpy in the gut but loose in the thighs. It stank; a repugnant cologne of astringent chemicals and decay. Vile magic.

  The bear would reach Sawyer before he finished reloading. Shouting to attract its attention, Victoria rushed at the grizzly. She closed from the side with the intention of distracting it until the hunter reloaded and recovered his feet.

  The ruse worked. Still standing, the bear swung around and advanced toward her. It swayed with each step, the result of its injuries, comically resembling a drunken sailor in gait. Deliberately, she retreated but slowly, her voice lifted in challenge. She heckled the grizzly and lured it until her back came up against the side of a building and she could retreat no further.

  The grizzly towered over her, and she fell into its shadow. Victoria grasped the dagger's hilt in both hands and held Vanadium out before her. The bear's boulder-sized paw rose skyward and hovered, eclipsing Victoria's view of the sky. Wicked claws glistened like the points on a maul, daggers coated in Sawyer's blood. Fat droplets fell from the tips and splattered her face.

  The grizzly's arm dropped; certain death descending. Victoria braced and held steady. Her sword was her shield. The shimmering blade caught the bear's paw. Vanadium rippled and shimmied, a faint vibration traversed its length.

  The bear bawled in agony. The severed paw struck her chest and a fountain of blood caught her full in the face. The hot fluid hit her open mouth. A wolf at her core, Victoria gulped and hungered for more. Blinded, she made an opportunistic snap for the bear's stump but her jaws closed on empty air.

  She glimpsed motion in the corner of her eye—her only warning. The bear's remaining claw walloped her shoulder, long claws gouging severe lacerations. She got knocked off her feet and thrown through the air until the A-frame roof of a cabin stopped her flight. The impact knocked her senseless. Her world tumbled, head over heels. The ground rushed to greet her.

  Blackness engulfed her.

  She had no idea for how long she lost consciousness. Maybe seconds, maybe minutes. Her awareness of intense physical injury returned before her vision started to come back. Light and darkness; no color. Everything was smooth and round, lacking distinct lines and sharp corners. All edges resided within her—jagged discomfort and stabbing aches.

  The blurry bulk of the grizzly lumbered over her. Thick huffs of musky breath pouring from wide nostrils, regular puffs as though produced from a laboring steam engine. It heaved toward her, and her wolf's survival instincts kicked in. An adrenaline surge jolted her back to cognizance.

  Panicking, Victoria flexed her fingers but her hand was empty. When dropped, Vanadium vanished and returned to its astral sheath. She thrust her arm over her head, groping for the dagger's hilt. Her reflexes were beyond sluggish and she feared there was no way could she reach her weapon in time.

  From out of nowhere, a gale-force furry comet descended from the sky. Fully wolfed out, Logan slammed into the bear, burying all four claws in its back. He snarled and sank his teeth into the thick throat. Yowling, the grizzly reared and twisted, attempting to reach the werewolf.

  Rallying her wits, Victoria rolled onto her side, tucking her limbs to safeguard against getting trampled. Nausea slammed her. Bold, deafening in her head, hazing out coherent thought. Swimming queasiness in her stomach—retch in mouth seasickness. She longed to vomit but wasn't strong enough for even that.

  Back on his feet, Sawyer fired point blank. A crimson blossom appeared dead center on the bear's chest. Squalling in agony, it stomped its huge feet and tilted, undertaking another abrupt change in direction. Logan rode the grizzly, zealously digging into his target with fang and claw. Chunks flew through the air, discarded clods of flesh and fur. Squalling in agony, the bear bucked and dropped, dislodging the wolf from his perch.

  Molten silver seared her nostrils. Victoria gasped and coughed, struggling for air. Her eyes burned, tears splashing down her cheeks. She dug her fingers into the packed dirt, clawing for purchase. Self-recrimination ravaged her confidence. She knew better than to enter into combat while pregnant. The risk of severe injury, the threat to her life, but more importantly, her child's, was substantial. Peril she couldn't afford. The odds were good her presence presented more of a liability than an asset. Trouble was—always—that it went against her nature to stand aside while others put their lives in jeopardy.

  The fight moved away from her—passage marked in guttural resonance. Snarls and growls. Gunfire—the roar of the shotgun and then then crack of Sawyer's .45. An inane motion whizzed through her mind and she strangled on a giggle. How ironic was it that her intimacy with the hunter extended to identifying his guns by their voice?

  With a heroic effort, Victoria got herself upright, kneeling in the dirt while the world performed crazy loop-d-loops. She hurt from head to toe. Queasiness unabated. Groaning, she settled on bent bare toes. She'd lost her sandals somewhere. She rapid-blinked her vision into focus. She grabbed for raw power, drawing from the wild magic of the land, and used it to boost her own regeneration.

  On all fours, the infuriated bear barreled straight at Sawyer. It ran with a limping gait, favoring its injured limb. The enormous creature gathered slow but unstoppable momentum, bearing down on top of him. Unwavering, the hunter fired steadily and stood his ground. The grizzly rammed Sawyer and knocked him over. He smashed to the ground, flat on his back. The bear trampled him. A huge paw smashed his chest and Sawyer’s limbs flailed. Wicked claws raked terrible gouges.

  Sawyer's anguish screamed along the empathetic bond he shared with Victoria. A shout of rage and denial tore from her throat. She summoned power, healing magic. Brilliant light flowed from her palms, haloing her hands. Her first steps wobbled but she plowed onward, determined to reach him at any cost.

  The bear's course had carried it far past Sawyer. It still faced away from them and its movements were ponderous. Prominent injuries littered its mangy hide. Blood puddled in its footprints.

  Sawyer was as still as a corpse, mutilated beyond recognition. His throat was a meat mash. Her stomach somersaulted and she averted her gaze, unable to look at him. He still lived—she sensed his vitality within the dual bonds.

  "Not again, buddy. I'm not resurrecting you again." Victoria fell toward Sawyer, dropping to her knees. She placed her hands on his chest over the severest wound, channeling raw healing magic into him. No finesse, only brute force.

  The grizzly's rumble grabbed Victoria's at
tention. She looked up in time to witness its plodding turn as it swung toward her and Sawyer again. A fresh adrenaline spike reduced her to a quaking mass.

  "Logan!" She howled his name—demand and appeal, expectation and need.

  He answered in the primal call of the wild, the storm's thunderous boom, a protracted song proclaiming his supremacy and prowess. He promised protection and vowed the obliteration their enemy. Wolf song resounded with epic dominance—harkening to their ancient ancestor, a beast borne in legend, Loki's son, Fenrir. His cry resonated from somewhere above, resonating high and wide as though he were in flight.

  The bear paused. Lifted its head skyward.

  Excitement electrified Victoria. Her wolf ascended, overtaking her psyche. She threw back her head and joined her voice to Logan's, a triumphant ballad heralding him. Magic surged, flowing like a raging river. As Alpha, Victoria was the nexus—drawing energy from her pack, the land, and even the far-flung hunters who were connected to her through Jake Barrett. She stood before the flood, the dam and the gatekeeper. She channeled the primal verve, transformed and refined, and slammed it all into Sawyer.

  Odin's son convulsed beneath her touch.

  Great black claws seized the roof ridge of the cabin. The head and shoulders of a great black wolf appeared over the pinnacle of the steeply-sloped roofline. Amber eyes shone brilliant-bright. A gaping mouthful of fangs; thick ropes of saliva dripped from his jaws. The boney knob of his shoulder joint glistened, covered in slick red, at the center of a gaping wound. Fur and flesh missing.

  Yodeling a challenge, the grizzly reared onto its hind legs and rose to a height equal to the roof. Logan snarled, his lip curling to reveal even more tooth and blood-red gums. Dagger-length talons tore into the slate, ripping out a shower of shingles. He leapt straight into the bear's one-armed embrace, splayed jaws going straight for its throat.

  The pair toppled.

  Trust was a capricious thing that Victoria had struggled with her entire life. She gave it cautiously, grudgingly, often in half-measures, and only after excessive soul-searching and deliberate, conscious choice. She doubted everyone: herself; her deceased parents; her goddess; her murdered lover; her lost mate. She even mistrusted the All Father himself.

  Victoria looked away from the struggle between wolf and bear without a question in her mind that Logan would win. Confidence flowed, as did magic. Her gaze dropped to the man beneath her hands, appraising his injuries not only with the educated mind of a trained medical professional but also, the regard of a talented healer. She lost her connection with the physical world, and submersed herself in the hunter's faded life force. At a weird space in reality, the corporeal and the spiritual intersected.

  Black slashes disrupted the passionate tones of Sawyer's aura, overlying the actual injuries on his chest. Sawyer had a gaping wound on his throat. Not just a cut; all soft flesh ripped out. More damage: lacerations and deep punctures, riddled his abdomen. Broken bones—multiple ribs, a shattered pelvis, and fractured femur. He wasn't breathing. His heart was an inert lump in his chest.

  Dead.

  Dead—no wonder the deluge of rejuvenating magic wasn't making any difference. Resurrecting a dead man exceeded her abilities. She knew because she'd tried before. She couldn't do it, not without divine assistance. The odds were nil to none that Freya would agree to help Sawyer. The goddess had already refused once before. All the energy she channeled into the hunter went to waste but even faced with that futility, Victoria couldn't accept defeat. She kept trying because denial raged in her heart.

  The jerk couldn't be dead. He just couldn't. Not again. Damn it. She cared for him, an ambiguous affection that was unclear and undefined. Maybe as a friend or brother, but quite possibly he meant far more. They hadn't had enough time together for her to figure it out. But in her heart, she knew with certainty and conviction that she couldn't stand to lose him. He belonged to her and she refused to give up.

  "Freya, please. Help me. Help him." Victoria turned to her goddess in prayer and as a priestess, opening herself to act as a divine channel. To her shock, she slammed headfirst into a wall.

  Victoria, he doesn't require your help, Freya said in a severe tone.

  "He doesn't?" She bent over the hunter, looking at him more closely. At last she identified that nagging inconsistency at the edge of her awareness—dead men didn't have living auras. Yet his flame burned bright; his spirit powerful and persistent.

  He does not.

  He's changed somehow, My Lady. I've never seen this before.

  Oh, but you have. Look closer.

  Obeying her goddess, Victoria stared deeper and gave the phenomenon serious consideration. Slow dawning realization came over her. Yeah, okay. She had seen this before. Jake Barrett, Sawyer's father, healed all wounds he sustained. Severe enough injuries knocked him down, but he always came back with a vengeance. Only a fatal blow to the heart could destroy him.

  She used her hands to remove a clotted layer of blood and dirt from Sawyer's chest, scraping clean a patch of skin, and flicked the gore from her fingers. Exposed runes writhed just beneath the surface. Bold but blurred, the arcane symbols danced.

  Her eyes rounded and her breath escaped on an awed gasp. Strangling on disbelief, she abandoned her healing spell because it wasn't necessary. Thanks to the runes, Sawyer would recover under his own magic. Blowing out, she rocked back and plunked onto her backside. She couldn't stand not to touch Sawyer, so she scooched over. Sitting cross-legged, she pulled his head into her lap and stroked his long hair.

  In her roles as priestess and Valkyrie, Victoria had studied the ancient language of the gods. On paper, she knew the name and meaning of each rune, and understood its inherent power—in theory. Living magic, however, was an entirely different beast. Without struggle and sacrifice, the runes defied comprehension. When her gaze locked on a specific character and her mind reached for understanding, it altered and eluded her.

  Freya addressed her again. Victoria, you have begged me to give you a task. A penance that will allow you to demonstrate your fealty and win my pardon. I have chosen.

  "Yes?" Victoria jumped, too excited with the prospect of redemption to consider the unfortunate timing. Whatever the reparation, she'd do it. No questions asked. No chore too big or small. She desired nothing more than to go back to the way things had once been between her and Freya.

  This is your task—draw Vanadium.

  "Vanadium?" Victoria raised her hand but then faltered.

  Obey me. The command was flat and forceful.

  Blind obedience—this was the will of her goddess. Grinding her teeth, Victoria smashed her doubts and reached overhead. She yanked her dagger from its astral sheath. The mystical weapon appeared in her hand, a shimmering ribbon, as light as air, swifter than the wind. Wooziness swept over her and the world spun.

  "Now, what do you ask of me?"

  Now, I command you. Look at him.

  "I'm looking." Victoria said even though she wasn't sure what she was supposed to see—had she missed something related to the runes? Sawyer's head still rested in her lap. A mask of gore concealed the hunter's face.

  This is the man who has lied and deceived you, Victoria. Sawyer Barrett is the hunter who murdered Jasper.

  Disbelief rang through Victoria's hollow soul. It couldn't be true. Rejection fierce and feral. NO—caught in her throat. No, not Sawyer. Jasper had only been a child, a teenage boy, and his death had come close to so many others. The loss of him had dealt a wound to her heart because he was so young and bright. And the failure—the burden of guilt—all hers. He'd died while under Victoria's protection, murdered by a hunter who'd been anonymous.

  Until now.

  "I can't believe it." Hot tears dashed down her cheeks. Blood roared in her ears. She held up her free hand before her as though to stop whatever came next. The sensation of being taken against her will resonated throughout her being. She didn't want to go—dragged straight to hell. She struggled to wrap her
head around the enormity of the revelation.

  It's true. I have never lied to you Victoria. I never will. The goddess's anger swept through Victoria, a divine flame that scalded her soul. She whimpered, shuddering at the spiritual assault. Pain burst upon her in clusters, lancing along her nerve endings.

  Deep down, in her gut, Victoria knew the truth. She couldn't stand to remain in contact with him anymore—would never be able to touch him again without wanting to kill him. She dumped Sawyer's head off her lap. Off balance, she tipped and thrust her arm back to save herself from falling over. She attempted to release her bone-crushing grip on Vanadium's hilt but her locked fingers refused to comply.

  Freya pressed. He must die.

  "Goddess, I can't—" Victoria uttered an automatic protest. Without being told, she understood the purpose of the weapon in her hand. Dreadful was the suspicion.

  You can and you will. Freya went on without mercy. Victoria, you swore on your soul. You swore by my name. Now that we have discovered Jasper's killer that Oath must be fulfilled.

  "I also gave my word to Jake Barrett that this matter was settled." To her own ears, she lacked conviction. In her gut, she wanted Sawyer dead. She hungered for vengeance—for blood—exactly what she couldn't have. "I foreswore revenge."

  Jake, the bastard, had tricked her. But his deception was a matter for a different time and another conversation. She and he would have their reckoning, but not this day and not this way.

  You have made promises which now come into conflict. You cannot honor both, so you must choose. As your goddess, I demand that you keep your promise to me. This is justice—Jasper's murderer should die by your hand. Cut out the hunter's heart, Victoria.