Creature Comforts

by Creature Comforts (lit)

  There it was. Elusive. Spicy. Dangerous. The psychic Hunter’s magic scent as he used his gifts to find his quarry. India stayed very still while the faint tingle of magic teased her skin and the psychic’s own healthy male scent filled her nose. As silent as possible, she climbed to the top of the boulder.

  Overconfident, the muscular man passed blindly below her. Why didn’t his infamous Hunter’s senses find her out? Was it a trick? She found herself both impressed and repulsed. This man, the murderer of her people made her instincts scream predator. His clothes blended well with the terrain. Her senses to track him wanted to skitter away and focus on some other random sound.

  Poised, she focused on the spot where neck meets shoulder. She pounced, suppressing her growl of fury. Her feet landed square on his back, propelling the Hunter face first into the ground. Arms flailed, the weapon had landed out of reach in the sandy gravel. His hand groped at his belt. He grunted in pain, trying to twist around to face her. Fairness or mercy had no place in her heart. This man had hunted down and killed twenty of her packmembers. Her father, the Canis Pater, her stepmother the Matra, the wardens. Pups and breeding females received no quarter. This monster had shot with silver, gutted, and poisoned India’s people as he found them. She lived on barely suppressed fury.

  She sank teeth into the hunter’s exposed neck and bit down. Weeks of hiding and running ran through her mind and snagged on the memory of very pregnant Clara’s mutilated body. She bit down harder, not feeling the crunch of spine beneath her powerful jaws. The warm rich flavor of blood filled her mouth, feeding the grief. Tearing away, she spat out the chunk and backed away, watching as the body twitched and bled out. There would be no second chance for this psychic. Her saliva, which would heal and Change one of his kind to one of hers, could not compete with a missing neck.

  A numb calm descended over her as she barked at her pack to return to her. The three of them slunk in on low bellies. Fear had their tails tucked between their back legs. Weeks of running had left them thin and hungry. Too bad, India couldn’t allow them to touch any of the Hunter’s possessions. Not the food. Not the weapons. She couldn’t chance that when the other Hunter’s found them that they’d be able to use their gifts to discover more about his death. Then another would take his place. Despite being the product of a wolven/psychic mating, she knew almost nothing of what psychics could do. The less she gave her enemies to work with, the better.

  No, she wasn’t an Alpha. But she was Alpha enough for today.

  * * * *

  Chase slid out of the high end SUV, every sense on alert despite having to sneak out of Shortcake’s apartment at Oh-God-thirty this morning. He didn’t like these trips, but gave up trying to argue his bud out of making rounds of the surrounding counties’ shapeshifter population. Tank excused doctoring the Weres by claiming he was furthering research on the other supernatural species. Chase knew better, but wouldn’t bust his bud’s balls over being a softie. Just as he suspected their Alpha turned a blind eye to Tank’s ‘research’.

  The driver’s side door slammed shut on his thought while he waited for the bigger wolven. Tank, old-fashioned doctor’s bag in hand, paused and raised one arched eyebrow. He looked every bit the high dollar doc he’d been raised to be. Both of them had come a long way from the roots. For better or worse, Chase had no idea. A little of both, he conceded. “This pro bono shit is a load of crap.” His snarl encompassed the entire run down trailer park. “How many times have we had to fight our way out?”

  “Unknown. I have not kept a tally.” Tank’s gaze took in their surroundings, no doubt noticing details that even the most wary warden would miss. “However, territory disputes would not be an issue if pack membership were based more on loyalty than on species.”

  Chase snorted his feelings on that topic. That particular conversation would not be initiated by him. He’d leave all the thinking up to Tank. Chase liked his life nice and simple. Politics, religion, none of it mattered much to him. He prized loyalty, knew his job, and did it well. When his bud said they had rounds, Chase bitched and moaned all the way to the Weres’ lair. Then, he did his part by keeping his mouth shut and watched Tank’s back in case the ungrateful wretches turned on them. Again.

  The stink of Were and cat burned his nose. Great. Just great. The hair on the back of his neck crawled. In the half-and-half classic movie monster dueling form or full wolf, he’d have his back up and hackles rose as instincts older than time warned him off. Now, wasn’t he the smart one?

  Chase followed Tank up the walk to the long metal rectangle of faded blue mobile home. Neat trimmed grass and tire turned flowerbeds told the same making-the-best-of-it story as so many others the two of them visited. Framing the door, a tidy little porch enclosed with durable vinyl lattice. Above, tacked to the cross beam, were gold address numbers. Chase kept his lips zipped and his eyes open while Tank knocked. Still, he wondered how in the hell you got trailer one hundred and twelve out of about fifty some-odd lots.

  A small, exotic female opened the door. Not young. Not aged and stooped either. Her dark skin and features revealed ancestry rooted in places where jungle cats originated. Almond eyes and lush lips graced a striking high-cheeked face and soft cocoa skin. If the place didn’t stink so much of cat, he might have thought her attractive. Her eyes narrowed to yellow green slits that passed over the bigger wolven to focus on Chase. He tried giving a reassuring smile that he imagined Tank would use.

  “Kasi said one doctor. Don’t need the likes of you messing wit’ the kits. We doan need you.” Eyeing Chase, she glared as if he would eat her babies. No fool, she knew where the real threat crouched today. If the Were tried harming Tank then damn skippy, Chase would become one hell of a threat.

  “You must be Sheeva Stevens, Kasi’s mother.” Chase could feel the smile in his bud’s words. Comfort and trust practically oozed from his aura, a leftover from the old days, before they’d been bitten. Tank was a doctor to the core, had always been. He had a supernatural bedside manner even if following him in a conversation required a PHD.

  Chase figured his presence kept the werecheetah guarding the door. “Yeah. Kasi’s at work. And we still doan need you.” Tough. He wasn’t leaving Tank’s back unprotected.

  Tank’s multitude of beaded braids clicked as he dipped his head in very real compassion. “I understand you have taken care of generations of cheetah kits, Sheeva. Childhood diseases rarely affect the supernatural.” He dared touch Sheeva. She stiffened, then relaxed as Tank’s own brand of magic soothed her. “Your input would be greatly appreciated. Especially, as the kits in question are your grandchildren.”

  The hot werecheetah was a grandmother? That cooled his jets.

  Sheeva sniffed and leaned against the door, guarding the entrance to her lair. Her antagonistic scent shifted to curiosity. “Them’s my great-grandkits. Lena, Kasi’s kit, dropped ‘em and took off quick as you please. Girl has the morals of a tom-cattin’ male. Ain’t seen her since.” She opened the door, allowing Tank access before stepping in Chase’s way. She did the two-fingered point at her eyes, then with a graceful wrist twist, pointed at his chest. “I got my eye on you, boy.”

  Chase bobbed his chin once in acknowledgement. He forced himself not to meet the female’s eyes, but darn, he wanted to. Dominant in his pack, it galled him to give over. This was her territory, her lair, and respect for her position won out. Grinding his teeth, Chase trailed behind to a small room at the end of the shotgun hallway. The sour scent of sickness and sweat overlaid by disinfectant pervaded the small mobile home.

  Both children, dark skinned girls who favored their great-grandmother Sheeva, lay listless while Tank prodded and poked at them as gently as possible. In the end, no amount of supernatural doctoring would be able to help the wheezing, feverish kits. Chase saw sad defeat in Tank’s eyes. Felt emotion in the heaviness of his friend’s heart. To accept this felt too much like quitting. Tank’s helpless anger licked between him and Chase. Like many others t
hey’d visited, the fever burning up the little ones would to win. While Tank took bottles of stuff out of his bag that might allow the children to keep some fluid down, Chase took Sheeva Stevens, the werecheetah aside.

  “They’s not goin’ to make it.” Painful acceptance etched deep lines in the females face. Premature grief stooped her shoulders. “Tell it to me true, wolf.”

  “Tank will do everything he can.” Chase hedged. If there was life, there was hope. Wasn’t there? If not, then they were all doomed before the fight began. “He’s the best doctor any supernatural has.”

  “But he cain’t fix this, can he?” she whispered. The tears swimming in the female’s eyes ripped at his guts. Instead of answering her question, he turned away.

  “Bathe in straight bleach to try and kill any contaminants,” he answered. “Don’t save any keepsakes. Burn everything in this place. Even your clothes.” Pulling a thick envelope wrapped in a plastic bag out of his jacket, he passed it over. “Open this inside out after everything is gone. Then burn the bag.”

  Sheeva clutched the envelope. The pride in her face said that she’d rather throw it in his face. Instead, he turned to watch Tank from a safe distance in the doorway. Very soon, her pride, and maybe her granddaughter Kasi would be all the werecheetah would have left. The paper mask over his bud’s worried Chase more than a little.

  * * * *

  “Here.” Chase stuffed the last used wipe in the biohazard bag and waited for Tank to close it properly. Just looking at the sealed bag gave Chase the willies. “You don’t think any of our pack is going to come down with that, do you?”

  “Unlikely.” Tank’s answer didn’t give him the sense of safety he was looking for. His expression must have conveyed that, because his friend dropped an arm across Chase’s shoulders after sealing that damned biohazard bag away in a special coated disposal box. The innocent package gave him the heebie-jeebies too. Chase was cool with not knowing how Tank got rid of the thing. “Take your vitamins. The formula is specialized for our species needs.” Tank advised. His white teeth shone in the dark chocolate of his face as he took pleasure in Chase’s grimace. “Take them and be healthy. Or I may be forced to mention your dietary needs to the Canis Matra.”

  “That’s low, man. Real low.” Chase pulled away. “We’re supposed to have each other’s backs when it comes to food.”

  “Vitamins are not classified as a food source.”

  “Yeah? Well, my classification of food includes anything edible,” Chase grumbled. “And chalky vitamins, mushy tofu, and whatever the hell soy is, doesn’t make that list.”

  Commandeering the driver’s seat, Tank fell silent, lost in his own complicated thoughts. This suited Chase fine as he struggled with the image of Sheeva Stevens in the side mirror. She picked up the sealed care package they’d left in the driveway, clutching it to her chest. Inside, she’d find everything she’d need to purge the mobile home after the kits passed plus bleach and clean clothing to walk away in afterwards. Her head bent over her burden, prayer style with her eyes closed. She turned, one foot in front of the other as she slowly trudged back to the mobile home.

  Claustrophobia rode Chase hard. He’d rather be riding his bike, feeling the wind in his face, the hum of the machine under him vibrating through his body cleansing him on the inside. They may have traded the freedom of riding with the Hell Hounds for the security of a pack, but he still had his bike.

  Chase closed his eyes drifting, lulled by the steady sound of the engine and tires. Tank’s silent presence was his real security. The Alphas, Adam and Diana, were secondary but still necessary. At least she was. Behind his eyes, Chase saw her again for the first time. Not Diana Weis, Matra Canis of the Texas, Anderson County wolven pack. Behind his eyelids, time rolled backwards. Diana, a sweet lush goddess in a short shimmery black dress. Her psychic scent perfumed the air, calling to them. Her woman’s scent raised a beast’s lust in them all.

  Whether or not Diana's parents intentionally named her for the goddess of the hunt, she’d done her namesake proud. He and Tank had been lost the second they pulled their bikes into the deadly circle where Diana stood proud and tall, trying to bravado her way out. She had been gorgeous, fucking amazing, as she held the Hell Hound’s leader, Dog, off with her own awakening gifts and a single high-heeled shoe. Her aim and the shoe had been the more powerful. They’d killed Dog and the rest of that group of the outlaw werewolves, hiding what was left of the fight before she woke up.

  And for the second time in his life, the woman who held Chase’s heart chose another. Again, because Tank wanted him too, he hung around. Chase didn’t have anything better to do at the time. Parting ways with his best friend was a no-go. In his mind, Adam Weis ranked higher than just being the lucky SOB who got the girl. Turned out, the Alpha was a damned good leader, mate, and father. A lucky break, since Chase had no aspirations of becoming Canis. Yeah, they could have done a hell of a lot worse than hooking up with the Anderson County pack.

  His thoughts slipped into sleep. For a change, he dreamed. He wasn’t the badass warden anymore. No pack of wolven, humans, and pups to protect. He was nineteen and his parents were out of the country again, leaving him alone with the servants. The huge monstrosity of a house echoed with the telephone ringing. In real life, his father’s secretary had always answered before he could.

  “Redding residence.”

  “Charles, this is Theodore.”

  Chase snickered over the phone. “Man, only chipmunks call themselves Theodore.”

  “Be that as it may,” Tank’s parents didn’t mind a lonely white kid hanging with their brilliant progeny. Then again, with the connections Chase’s parents had, the Knights would be stupid to mind. Young Tank’s nerdspeak turned breathless. “Your grades are terrible…. I have a new National Geographic.”

  Naked women. Chase grinned. He loved National Geographic. The only thing he liked better than National Geographic and raiding the wine cellar was….

  “Is your cousin Lissie still there?”

  Tank went silent on the other end. Chase felt his palm go sweaty around the big plastic handle. He had a pretty good picture of the expression behind his friend’s thick-lensed glasses. Cautious.

  “Charles. You know that my uncle does not approve of your interest in Lissie. My aunt ….”

  “Had a fit when I asked Lissie if she would come to dinner and theater. Besides, they’re not your real aunt and uncle. Just your parents’ friends.”

  “It was not appropriate.”

  “For who?”

  Tank didn’t answer.

  Reality shifted. No longer was he Charles Weston Redding IV, nineteen and hurt because a pretty girl with dusky skin and almond eyes wouldn’t give him the time of day. He was a wolf running in the Green Wood. Everyone had his or her own description for the metaphysical forest that all his kind were tied to.

  For a species of autocratic territorial assholes, the Green Wood was the one neutral place they didn’t try to claim. To the point of not actually giving the magical place an official name. No other place like it existed, so no confusion tripped up those talking about it. And why should there be? The never-ending forest belonged to everyone who showed up. The place and the sentiments it evoked from him were profound for a guy that steered away from religion. Any religion.

  Here, unless you were aware of some cool magic trick, you arrived with or at least near your pack, no matter how many miles separated in the real world. Chase’s magic was limited to getting fanged, furry, and running in the forest.

  He didn’t mind that the dream was gone. The reality of the Wood was as solid as the vehicle his body rode in. To bad Tank was still driving the SUV or they could race. For now, away from the stink of the werecheetahs and his own thoughts, he was happy to play.

  He raced anyway. His wolf’s body was a running machine. Designed for power and speed. Chase let his feet fly over the leaf-carpeted floor of the forest, feeling the same peace creep over him that he only
found on the back of a bike in his human body.

  Scents of magic and life filled his nose, wiping away the loneliness of the dream. Another scent, musky and seductive stopped Chase in his tracks. He skidded to a halt and lifted his nose, inhaling the perfume of a female in heat. Hel-lllo. Not just love potion number nine. It was love potion number nine hundred ninety-nine times a million more. His body reacted, instantly on the alert.

  Where was she? He lifted his head and howled.

  She didn’t answer. Frustrating, but not deterred, he put his nose to work. Minutes that felt like hours later, he poked his muzzle through the underbrush. Excitement tingled through him, nose to tail. Here she was. Madonna in moonlight.

  Okay, not Madonna. Perhaps, Cleopatra the exotic goddess queen of the Nile. On thing he knew for certain, his Cleo was hot. The shiny dark fur of her back faced him as she watched the bushes before her. The silky flag of her tail lay on the ground. Cleo’s ears swiveled this way and that, monitoring her surroundings, but not alarmed. Unaware.

  Chase had been sure to be quiet. Only now, he wanted her attention. He wuffed softly. She whirled in a flash. Her teeth shown white and sharp under eyes outlined in white. Not a bandit mask, but like a woman’s makeup. Yeah, he agreed with that first assessment. Very hot wolf chick. The rich scent of her musk drove him nuts. He ducked his head a bit, ears forward as he gave a tentative tail wag. He used body language to show how little a threat his was to her. Hey, sweet thing. Want to play tag?

  She startled at his question. Her ears pricked forward. She stared at him out of those amazing black outlined by white eyes. Encouraged, he took a couple of steps closer. Without warning, Cleo blinked out of existence, leaving him alone.

  Well, damn. Chase flopped to the ground, put out. That line about playing tag had to be the worst he’d ever come up with. Then again, he’d been distracted by the pull of her scent. More than one male had fallen hard for a female in season, then regretted it once the air cleared.