Weregirl

by Patti Larsen

  The pack retreats, the white wolf and the alpha the only two remaining. I sniff the air, stiffening myself, a low growl escaping my jaws as I catch an odd scent. The ocean mixed with something bitter and almost putrid, hidden by the salt smell of the surf. I turn to the two wolves, only to find them gone.

  A chill runs up my spine as I feel a pack approaching. No great surprise more weres are on their way. But these feel off, odd and unusual, enough my wolf inside forces me to back up and tense as a group of werewolves flow into the clearing.

  There are only about twenty of them, but that is enough. Their unusual scent washes over me, silencing the few birds overhead still chirping, sending the last of the tiny creatures of the forest scrambling for cover. I hold my ground, feeling the approach like an assault on my body, though they offer me no physical aggression as they form up into a pack and observe me.

  A giant gray leads them, his ears at least a foot over mine, shoulders so broad I wonder what his human shape looks like. He shows me a moment later, perfectly formed body morphing to tanned skin covered in thick, black tattoos. I keep my eyes on his face though he is fully naked, my inner wolf pacing, unsure if she is attracted or repulsed by this werewolf.

  He takes a step toward me, as casual and unconcerned as though he were fully clothed on a city street. I secretly admire his confidence and the pure masculinity exuding from him even as I shudder from the odd sense of wrongness I smell on him.

  “You,” he says in a voice deep and cold, “must be Charlotte.”

  Anger snaps a rubber band, a flash of sparking rage forcing me into human shape. I stare him down, icy exterior well practiced and perfectly flawless in the face of his arrogance.

  “You have the honor,” I say with chill disapproval, “of addressing your heir, Princess Sharlotta Moreau of the werenation.”

  He grins at me, teeth flashing white against his tanned face, the scruff of his dark beard. He’s shaved his head close, stubble showing the perfect shape of his head.

  “Your Highness,” he says as though he doesn’t mean it as an honorific.

  I will tear his heart from his chest and devour it before his dying eyes. But we are no longer alone, his pack gathering behind him, shifting to human form, watching me with contempt and what I feel is some secret deceit as the pack of suitors who followed me finally catch up.

  The new leader observes them as they crowd around me, only a dozen or so, but more than enough to give his pack a fight. I have no doubt he would fight them, if I allow it.

  Who is this were and why does he smell so strangely?

  “I am Cicero Caine,” he says, gesturing behind him. “My pack. We heard the summons to compete for your hand,” his smirk tells me what he thinks of his competition as he looks at the panting weres behind me, “and I have come to win you, Princess.”

  “You have wasted your trip.” I know already he will never touch me, not with my consent.

  “We’ll see.” He shrugs his wide shoulders, tribal tattoos rippling. “We’ve come all the way from California. Surely you won’t send us back without at least the chance to pay our respects to our king.” Caine uses the word like it’s a joke, as though my grandfather’s position amuses him. Irrational need surges, the desire to leap on this were and rip his throat out with my teeth so strong I shudder.

  He may be handsome on the outside, one of my wolf’s prerequisites, but internal beauty is just as important to her, and this Cicero Caine is rotten to the core of his being.

  I don’t know how I know, only that I do. The more time I stand here, smelling his funk, feeling the contempt of his pack, watching him stare at me with eyes holding nothing but hunger, the deeper my antagonism grows.

  I would love to send him packing, right here, right now. But I know my place. This isn’t my job to fulfill, but my grandfather’s. I will ensure, however, Oleksander knows exactly how I feel. And will personally escort Caine and his people out of Ukraine. By the scruff, if I have to.

  I really hope I have to.

  Caine’s grin is feral, and yet amused at the same time. “Give me time, Princess,” he says. “You’ll come to appreciate I’m your best choice for a mate.”

  The werewolves around me growl their unhappiness at his affront.

  I finally allow my anger to win, turning my back on him. “You’ll have to catch me first.”

  And, in a surge of renewed agony, I embrace my wolf and run back the way I came.

  Just let him try.

  ***

  Chapter Thirteen

  I hear them all chasing me, not just Caine, ignoring them in the effort to run as fast as I can. For all I know, the Californian pack leader hasn’t taken the bait, but I doubt it. The challenge is something no were of his arrogance could possibly ignore.

  I pour everything I have into that run, my wolf howling in my head as I reach for depths of speed I’ve never tested, almost flying as I skim the floor of the forest. No were will ever catch me, not unless I want him to.

  The pack falls behind, their panting and barking fading into the rush of the wind blocking my ears. And though this run has a certain purpose, I begin to enjoy it, the way my body responds to my need for more power, how my wolf legs move without effort, the power flowing evenly throughout me, driving me on. I’ve never felt such strength before, the call of true wolf form almost enough to tempt me. But I know better. The enticement of allowing myself to transform fully will only lead to the loss of my humanity. No were who has given in to the lure of the wolf has ever returned from it. Our half-turned shapes are our only option.

  A flicker to my far right startles me, breaks my stride for one instant and shock replaces the fierce joy of my run. His gray shape paces me, liquid mercury flowing over the ground as Caine whips through the trees as though he knows this forest as well as I do. This is impossible. There is no way he can have caught me and yet, there he is, grinning with his sharp teeth, eyes flashing in the light shining through the leaves.

  More power. I never thought I could run this fast, let alone add more speed to my paws. But I have magic he does not, the power of the werenation to feed and fuel me, and I will not let them down, fail them, by allowing this creature come out of nowhere to defeat their chosen heir on her own turf.

  I pull away from him as the magic responds, my training with Syd waking the power within more fully than it ever has. Fear sparks, mingles with breathless excitement as the wolf call becomes stronger, luring me further into shape. I can tell Caine is startled by the way his scent changes, the grin gone from his jaws while I open myself to the energy tied up in the freedom of all weres. I even feel his energy adding to mine as I outdistance him by a few feet, then ten, stretching outward and pushing myself so hard I worry I might damage myself if I don’t stop.

  Or be pulled, at last, into full wolf form. So tempting, the enticing draw like a drug in my veins. I understand now why some weres give in to it. Delicious, the feeling of letting go and becoming the pure animal form. But I’ve made my point and I didn’t have to give in to Caine or to the wolf to do it.

  It’s only when I feel his rage, so in tune with my wolf—more than I’ve ever been before—I realize I’ve encountered the touch of this werewolf before. No, perhaps not him specifically, but the odd taint of him, yes. Twice, now. Both times in Wilding Springs. He or one of his people watching Syd’s house the night of the shower. And that same touch followed me to Sage’s dojo.

  A terrible fear grips me, jerks me to a halt to confront Caine. What was he doing there? And how did he make his way here so quickly? He stops a few feet from me, but I’m moving again, in his face, slamming him against a tree with a roar echoing through the woods, raising an anxious flock of pheasants.

  “Why were you watching me?” I don’t give him a chance to deny it. He seems cocky enough not to, though he does nothing to hold me off as I press him into the rough bark of the tree, my werewolf’s snout lisping over the question, the magic Syd has taught me to use crushing him tight. My i
nner wolf retreats as anger takes over, weakening my magic slightly, a fact I find infinitely frustrating.

  Caine bares his fangs at me before turning his head ever so slightly, exposing his throat. It is a faint effort at respect, but I accept the gesture. “I only wanted to know who you were,” he growls. “To see if you were worthy of me.”

  Worthy? I lower my jaws over his throat, ready to bite.

  “A lovely family of witches you have there,” he says without a trace of fear.

  My hackles rise. “Mind your own business.” I think of Sage and my fear increases. Syd and her coven are perfectly safe. I can’t imagine someone like Caine being a threat to them. But Sage… he’s normal, unprotected. How much did Caine see? How much does he know about the sweet young man to whom I gave my heart?

  I snap my teeth close to Caine’s throbbing jugular, claws digging into his arms. “Stay away from my friends.” He grunts as the power hits him hard in the solar plexus. “If I find you near Wilding Springs again, I’ll gut you and feed your liver to the crows.”

  Caine’s wolf eyes glare, tongue noisily licking over his snout before he nods once.

  I step away, accepting his acquiescence for now. But the moment I’m free of him, I must reach out to Syd and warn her to be wary. And find a way to suggest she check on Sage without alerting her to the fact I actually care.

  Maybe I should have told her about him, about us. But I could never bring myself to do so, knowing she would only look at me with sadness and understanding. She, of all people, would see just how big a fool I’ve been giving my love to someone I could never keep.

  Growling breaks my tense anger and I turn to find my wolf pack, the real wolves of this wood, oozing from the trees. The white wolf and her alpha hunker low, manes bristling, tails low, teeth bared. Caine snarls back at them but the pair of wolves refuse to retreat, inching slowly closer.

  “You have an odd collection of friends,” Caine says.

  I don’t answer, gesturing to the pair of wolves to back down. “They don’t like you,” I say with flat coldness. “And neither do I.”

  The white wolf snaps at him, lunging forward at his leg before pulling back. He swipes at her, a lazy motion I know could have snapped the wolf’s spine had it connected.

  “We’ll see how you feel about me once you get to know me,” he grins at me. “Once you marry me, I’ll even let you keep your little pets.” He laughs this time, chilling, utter confidence making my stomach tighten, my bile rise.

  The others catch up before I can attack him, the desire to silence him forever a primal need. I’ve never felt so much hatred, not even for those who once owned me when I was a girl. Caine just stares at me, muzzle open, tongue hanging out as though he’s laughing at me.

  I turn and run for the palace, the wolf pack fading back into the trees as my suitors follow me, Caine’s people fanning out, flanking us. They seem as fast as him, as powerful and I wonder where their strength comes from even as I worry getting rid of them won’t be as simple as I first thought. If Oleksander admires their ability and the other packs bow to their dominance, I could be forced to stand against my people in rejecting this werewolf as my mate.

  No, I can’t believe it will come to that. Surely the other weres will sense the wrongness in them and back my rejection of their entire pack.

  My history of shattered hope and trust tells me I need to prepare for the worst.

  ***

  Chapter Fourteen

  I retrieve my clothing, well in the lead of the California pack and my suitors, and hurry to the palace. I’m still pulling on my shirt, settling it over my shoulders before swinging on my leather jacket as I cross the threshold into the main foyer. I feel the other weres following me, wondering why Caine doesn’t barge his way in past me.

  Oleksander is on his throne, as usual, when I stride up the aisle with my heart hammering in my chest. At times, I think my grandfather must sleep there, since it’s the only place he ever seems to be. I let him feel my distress and see him sit up straighter as I hurry to his side, coming to a halt on his right, one hand on his shoulder.

  Grandfather, I send. Caution.

  I understand Caine’s slowed pace as he and his pack enter the throne room. One of them must have been carrying the group’s clothing, because they have somehow acquired some. Caine takes the lead, in full human form. My pulse thuds uncomfortably in my ears as I observe the gathered werewolves—all from other packs—fall back from him and his people.

  I’m not the only one who feels it, then. That truth offers me some relief. Oleksander stiffens under my hand, his power pulsing around us as he calls on the magic of the werenation.

  Caine comes to a halt at the base of the dais, grinning, dressed in black leather pants and an open vest, showing off his tattoos. Two of his pack flank him, a hulking brute of a were with long scar down his face and a thick, black braid over one shoulder, paired with a tall, whip-like woman with the same features, feminized, and the same black braid. Both are as tattooed as their leader and the female seems intent on murdering me with her furious black eyes.

  Jealousy, I can only guess. Well, she can have Cicero Caine, if that’s her issue.

  “Your Majesty.” Caine attempts a bow, manages to nod his head, still smirking. The weres guarding the throne frown at the weak attempt at respect, but my grandfather waves them off.

  “And you are?” I can only one day hope to master the combination of boredom and utter disregard Oleksander embeds in every single word he speaks to Caine. I watch the visiting leader show a moment of fury, know my grandfather’s tone is exactly the right one, and curse myself for allowing my temper to show.

  Weakness. I can’t show him any further weakness.

  Caine’s anger disappears behind that crap-eating grin. “I am Cicero Caine,” he says before half-turning to his right. “My beta, Roman Knox.” The hulking were doesn’t bother to acknowledge the introduction, his eyes as dark as his female counterpart’s. He reminds me of an animal, much more feral than any other werewolf I’ve ever met. We are, as a race, a balance of wolf and human. Roman has no balance I can feel.

  “And this,” Caine turns to his left, “is his sister and my third, Viveca.”

  More silent, dangerous staring. I wonder if they have other expressions. These ones grow old quickly.

  Oleksander barely nods to them as his mind seizes on mine. They are wrong, he sends.

  They are. I push my power at him, let him feel what I felt.

  Whoever they are, he sends, whatever their strange power, they aren’t welcome here.

  I almost hug him then and there. Agreed.

  “I have come,” Caine says, back to grinning, “to claim your granddaughter as my mate.”

  “Then you have come for naught,” Oleksander says in his same calm, icy voice.

  Caine’s eyebrows shoot up, his false shock despicable. “Is it not your order,” he says, “that every eligible male werewolf present himself for just this purpose?”

  “It is,” my grandfather says. “But it is my choice, as wereking of this nation, to decide who is worthy of my heir and this throne.” He leans forward and sniffs the air while the entire throne room goes quiet. “Nothing about you appeals to me, Caine. And I don’t like your scent.”

  In any other throne room, such behavior would be shocking. But we are werewolves and blunt speech is a way of life.

  Caine’s grin fades and he shrugs, eyes locked on me. I feel the pressure of his magic as he finally shoves it toward me. The court's wereguards, formerly contracted by the Black Souls as Mafia hitmen and strong arms, wince back from the wall of magic, hardened even as they are to conflict and as fearless as any I’ve ever known. I shiver inside, ignoring how I’m feeling, drawing on my own strength and that of my grandfather.

  “Were law states I have claim,” Caine growls. “The strongest will mate and take leadership.”

  “Were law,” Oleksander says, “has changed since the healing.” My grandfathe
r’s hand settles over mine, a giant mitt of hot skin pressing over my fingers. “Not only must weres prove their worthiness—something you’ve failed to do with your arrogant nature and the stink of your being—but you must satisfy the desires of my heir.” He looks up at me. “And I can tell from her clear disdain she wants nothing to do with you.” Oleksander sits back, brows heavy over his eyes. “You are not welcome here, Cicero Caine, either as a pack leader or as a potential mate for my granddaughter.”

  Caine looks like he wants to protest, seems confused. Where did he get his information? I have the sudden feeling he’s not here alone, that he has a master of his own to whom he answers.

  “You weaken the werenation with such pathetic softness,” Caine says, his pack closing around him, glaring at the watching werewolves who pull further away.

  “You, young were, are the one who weakens us.” Oleksander’s soft tone draws my shoulders further back out of pride and love for him. “We are no longer slaves of the Black Souls. We have our own destiny to fulfill, a destiny not tied to the strength of our bodies, but the courage and conviction and heart of our people.” I feel the gathered weres begin to ease forward, no longer so afraid of and repelled by Caine’s people. “There will be no more forced matings, not for power and not for position. We have fought for our freedom and we have won. Every were,” my grandfather stands, raises his arms as if to embrace us all, “everyone has the right to choose.”

  They beam up at him, the gathered werewolves, all but Caine and his pack. They seem more confused than ever and I see Viveca whisper in his ear with a tilt of her head. I catch the word “healing” and see him shake his head.

  They don’t know of the healing? How could they not? It changed all werewolves—didn’t it? Or is that it? Did Syd and I somehow miss some of them? Was the taint I felt on Caine actually the remains of the sorcery left behind in him and his pack?