Shifter Romance Box Set

by Unknown

  He eyes her meaningfully.

  “You don’t want to be a statistic, Shannon.”

  “I am not a statistic. I am involved. Look, Jared, if you don’t want to get involved, I’ll understand. Just leave me at the Chatterly’s and lend me your car.”

  “My car? No way!”

  Her glare cuts short his protest.

  “I’m only kidding, sis. There’s no way I’m not behind you in all this. But I think you should just let the boys deck it out and sit down and wait for the last one standing.”

  She says softly, “How can I be with someone who killed someone else I loved?”

  Jared’s expression is one of amused understanding.

  “You’re taking bets now on the victor?”

  “No. I love both of them. I don’t know who I love more. I have come to understand the two of them in ways that no one else possibly can.”

  “Of course.” He barks a short laugh. “You’ve slept with both of them.”

  “No. It’s more than physical. I understand their minds intimately and why they choose to do the things they do. In many ways, both of them are victims of their birthrights. Neither of them particularly relishes the roles they have been thrust in, and yet they do what they must to keep the equilibrium. Both of them are good men in their own right, and I can’t help but love both of them equally.”

  “You can’t love people equally, sis. Just as parents don’t really love their children equally, you can’t do the same. You think you do, but you really don’t. There’s going to be one of them you marginally prefer over the other. One you will be subconsciously rooting for to win.”

  He raises his eyebrows.

  “Do you even know who that is right now?”

  His question takes her aback.

  Who does she love more? Does she even know it herself?

  Is it the passionate and volatile Lucien, who is giving up everything for her – his family, his fortune, the world he has known and lived in for so long?

  Or is it the measured and matured do-gooder Kirk, who rebels against his shapeshifter nature but does what he does admirably to keep the peace, and who loves her just as fiercely in his own right?

  They draw up to the parking lot of the Chatterly – just in time to see Lucien’s Mustang exit and go down the other direction.

  “Oh, no. It’s started,” she says. She looks at Jared mutely.

  “OK, OK, I’ll follow him. He doesn’t know this car. But I don’t think it’s a good idea.”

  Please, she prays,

  Jared is a good tracker. It comes with being a shapeshifter. On the hunt, he has to tread carefully after small animals, many which are swift of foot and sensitive in hearing. So if he wants a kill, he has to be even quieter than they are. He keeps the Ford a distance away, sandwiched behind two or three cars, but never losing sight of his quarry.

  Besides, Lucien seems to be in too much of a hurry to notice anyone behind him. Or maybe he is not expecting anyone. Or so Shannon hopes.

  Lucien finally veers off the main road into a lane leading to the forest. Jared hangs back, not wanting his tracking to be too obvious to Lucien.

  “There’s only one road in anyway,” he confirms. “This path leads to a dead end. It’s a wood trail from then on for hikers.”

  “How do you know?”

  He glances at her deadpan. “Do you have to ask? I know every forest trail here.”

  Of course. It is the only thing that could be expected of a shifter.

  Just as Jared said, the lane terminates in a dead end. Lucien’s Mustang is parked there, and the tall blond man is nowhere to be seen.

  Jared gets out. He starts to unbutton his shirt.

  “You sure about this?” he asks Shannon.

  “Yes.”

  She is surer of this than anything in her life.

  * * * *

  Once Jared has transformed into the huge black panther, it is easy enough for him to track Lucien, who is on foot. They keep to the shadows of the trees, staying out of sight while keeping Lucien on their radar. They have to go on quite a bit in this stealthy manner.

  Sometimes, Shannon gets a glimpse of Lucien through the trees, though not often because Jared is staying back. His superior sense of smell allows him to follow Lucien on scent alone. Lucien’s golden head catches the sunspots dappling on the forest floor now and again, and his hair gleams like a bright jewel. She thinks he has some sort of long weapon hitched to his back, but she can’t be sure.

  Her stomach cringes at the thought of the weapon that he means to kill Kirk with. What is it? Some sort of magical wand? Or is it a sword? She doesn’t know what modern witches use or whether all the tropes of ancient witchcraft are true.

  That is how much I know about Lucien.

  They soon come to a clearing near the mountain range. Here, the wind is cold as it sweeps down from the range, rustling the tops of trees. Shannon’s cheeks burn with the chill. As agreed upon with Jared, they keep back within the forest fringe. Lucien may not be able to sense them, but Kirk in his werewolf form certainly will if they don’t keep out of his scent radius.

  You want to watch? Then stay behind the battle lines, Jared had said, or I’m out of here.

  She had promised not to intervene, whatever the outcome.

  Why is she compelled to watch then? It is akin to a mother going to the Roman gladiatorial ring to see her two sons being pit against each other in a fight to the death. And yet she is compelled to watch. To be a living part of it.

  The werewolf is already there. His hackles are all raised and he is growling softly, dangerously. Something glistens around his neck. It is a collar of some sort with an amulet hanging from it. It is too far for her to make the amulet design out, though she reckons Jared would probably be able to see it.

  Shannon has never seen Kirk wear any sort of collar or necklace, and she wonders if this confers him some sort of protection.

  The werewolf paws at the ground. His growls rumble in his chest. They are now like thunder.

  Shannon’s heart beats fiercely within her own chest, and the pain of what must happen within the next few minutes is almost visceral throughout her body. She will bleed when they bleed and cry in despair when one of them is felled. This is a no win situation. At the end of this, she will be in sackcloth and ashes.

  Please, she prays without knowing what she is praying for.

  Lucien stands still as he faces the werewolf. The air is charged with something that Shannon has never experienced, but the smell of burnt iron is rampant. Menace is in every particle, every blade of grass, every shaking leaf that adorns the area around them.

  Lucien removes the covered stick from behind his back. He unsheathes it. It is a katana – a samurai sword that catches the sunlight and gleams as brightly as the sun.

  Shannon’s breath catches in her throat. She has not expected a witch to be wielding a katana.

  Lucien removes something else from his jacket. It is a silver handgun. He aims this at the werewolf, who begins his acceleration towards the blond witch.

  Silver bullets!

  Shannon clasps her hands to her mouth to keep her from crying out.

  Lucien pulls the trigger, and successive blasts go off. The bullets whizz into the air and strike the werewolf, who visibly is impacted. But no blood stains smear his golden fur and he keeps on picking up the pace towards the witch. Shannon wonders if that is what the amulet is for.

  Lucien seems ready for this as well. He drops the silver gun and grasps the katana with two hands, the way it is meant to be wielded.

  The werewolf leaps into the air for Lucien’s throat. He thrusts the katana upwards towards Kirk’s chest.

  “Noooooo!” screams Shannon.

  An explosion of light and sound erupts from the katana. The air sizzles and pure blinding light strikes the trees and area in a wide radius. Shannon’s body is thrown back from the blast, and she thinks: God, that hurts.

  She smells the burning of the t
rees but hears nothing as her world crowds in and vanishes into a pinpoint.

  THE OPENING

  “Shannon? Shannon?”

  She tries to open her eyes, but it is such an effort. Her entire body is numb and she cannot feel any of her limbs. Her vision swims and she sees two anxious faces peering down at her.

  Lucien!

  And Kirk!

  Kirk is in his human form and he is naked. His hair is wild and flowing, and his body wears dirt marks and bruises and scratches. He is bleeding from a wound on his side, but this does not seem to perturb him. He is more concerned about her. The collar and amulet at his throat are missing.

  Lucien is just as anxious. His shirt is torn and bloodied at the collar, baring a lot of his chest. His blond hair is disheveled. His lower lip is smeared with blood and his hands are singed.

  She whimpers, but no voice issues from her throat.

  Jared? Where is Jared?

  She wants to keep her eyes open, but her lids shut on her. Now all she can hear is voices.

  “She’s hurt bad. Her pulse is very weak.” Kirk’s voice.

  “Can you do something?”

  “We can bring her to the hospital. But I can’t transform, damn you. What did you do to me?”

  “Reversion spell. What the hell did you do? Silver bullets can’t harm you?”

  “I’ve got my secrets, you’ve got yours. But she’s dying, damn it! None of anything else matters.”

  “I didn’t know she was here! I was trying to kill you. That’s why the spell was so strong.”

  “Thanks.” Sarcastically.

  “If you hadn’t worn that amulet, the repercussions wouldn’t be that devastating. Look at this place. All the trees are singed and broken. The rangers will be on to this for sure by tomorrow.”

  “Fuck the rangers. She’s dying! That’s all that matters.”

  A groan.

  “Is her brother OK?”

  “He’s hurt too, but he’s in a lot better shape than she is. It’s because he’s a shifter, I think. But he wasn’t protected like you and me.”

  Lucien’s decisive voice: “We’ve got to do something.”

  Kirk in a low voice: “I don’t think we can make it to the hospital in this state.”

  “Then there’s only one thing I can do, and you have to help me, seeing that you obviously know a spell or two.”

  “What do you need me to do?”

  “This is a very old spell, one that has been in my family for years. One of my ancestors was put to death for owning it.”

  “Great, thanks for telling me that.”

  The voices are fast fading. Shannon’s brain is slowing down to a trickle. She can barely think anymore. Nothing appears to be fully coherent to her.

  Lucien: “This katana is tempered with old magick. It is a conduit, a channel for concentrated energy. Stand clear.”

  A swooshing sound, like a blade being plunged into something soft.

  “What are you doing?”

  “What does it look like? Sticking the sword into the ground. Now I need your blood . . . and mine.”

  Silence.

  “OK, what do I do now?”

  “Let your blood flow into the blade, and I will let mine mingle with yours. Ours is magical blood. It will make the conduit twice as strong, thus binding us to the spell.”

  “What exactly are we doing?”

  “Nothing your medical degree has ever prepared you for. Now I need a sharp stick.”

  More silence. Footsteps rushing around. The startling snap of wood.

  “Here.”

  “Thanks.”

  “What are you doing?”

  “Drawing hieroglyphs around the focus point.”

  “Why hieroglyphs? I can read the ancient Egyptian alphabet . . . well, kind of – ”

  Something in Shannon’s fading mind stirs. She knows what Lucien is writing.

  A horned viper.

  A leg.

  A hand.

  A leaf.

  Another leaf.

  A wave.

  Another hand.

  An open mouth.

  A rope.

  An ancient Egyptian anagram. Scramble them and put the letters all together again.

  “It says . . . Forbidden,” Kirk pronounces in awe.

  Forbidden.

  The word thrills through her like an incantation of a spell. And maybe – combined with the katana and the blood and the power channeling through the earth like a roaring waterfall – it is.

  The world spins on its axis as images of ankhs and leaves and hanged witches and growling werewolves tumble in her head.

  * * * *

  This time, she can open her eyes with ease, and she realizes it is because her body is no longer corporeal. She looks around her in wonder.

  Am I dead?

  She is not alone. Kirk, Lucien and Jared are with her, and they are also looking around them in amazement. This is because the world around them has taken on the brilliant hues of the rainbow and beyond.

  Everything around them – the trees, the grass, the sky, the mountains, a slowly moving stream – is constantly changing in color, as if they are looking at everything through a rapidly moving, multicolored prism. Everything is simultaneously surreal and hyper-real. The colors blaze before her eyes, if indeed those are her eyes she is seeing through.

  “What is this place?” Jared breathes.

  “This is Pangaea, the world between worlds,” Lucien says. “Do not eat or drink anything here unless bidden.”

  “I wouldn’t dream of it,” Jared says.

  “Pangaea?” Kirk asks.

  “It is one of the netherworlds accessible by certain portals, like the one I created with the katana and the hieroglyphs. Living people do not wander into this, except for a few who can ‘travel’ between worlds. One of my ancestors, Magda, could do this.”

  “And the dead?” Kirk says in trepidation. “Are they here?”

  “No. This is not the afterworld, although there are creatures here who would have you believe so. Also do not engage anyone in conversation unless I tell you to. The creatures here cannot be trusted.”

  Shannon takes all this in half-dazedly. Her body is too light, and she still cannot feel all her limbs. Even Lucien, Kirk and Jared are not fully corporeal. Their skins are too bright, too real. Jared’s hue is slightly dimmer.

  They are all naked.

  She looks down at herself. She too is naked. But her flesh texture is far, far fainter than the rest of them, as if she is already part ghost.

  And maybe she is.

  She is alarmed.

  “Lucien, Kirk.” Even her voice sounds strange in her ears, as if she is speaking through a fluted vessel. “Why am I different?”

  Lucien holds his hand out to her. He is clearly distressed, as is Kirk. Jared is looking around him, thoroughly baffled. She grips Lucien’s hand. His touch is barely there, as if she is already intangible.

  “Shannon.” Kirk’s beautiful face is a rictus of fear. “Don’t leave us.”

  “I don’t want to leave you!”

  But she is fading fast, winking in and out, as if she is a television image that is being interrupted by static.

  “Quick,” Lucien urges. In this place, he resembles an Impressionist painting of a blond-haired, blue-eyed angel from one of the French masters. “Bring her to the stream.”

  Together, they grip her hands and pull her to the kaleidoscopic stream. It is as if her feet are floating, they hardly touch the ground.

  “Can the waters heal her?” Kirk asks.

  “No. We need the ferryman.”

  “Where is he?”

  Lucien points downstream. “There.”

  Shannon blinks. Sure enough, she can make out a robed figure poling a barge up the stream, struggling against the current. The figure comes closer in stops and starts. She would blink, and the barge is suddenly much closer.

  “Hurry,” Kirk says more to himself, “she is very weak
.”

  They stand upon the banks of the eddying stream as the ferryman approaches. The ferryman wears a brown robe with a cowl, and Shannon cannot make out his features in the darkness of his face. But when she gazes upon his hands, she finds that they are extremely skeletal. Not quite bone, but with only a thin layer of yellowed skin covering his knobby fingers and knuckles.

  His hands curve around a wooden pole which has one end mired deep in the water of the stream. Shannon thinks she can see creatures running around in the substance of the pole, but when she stares directly at it, it once again turns into wood.

  “Ferryman,” Lucien addresses the figure respectfully. “We have a boon to ask of you.”

  The ferryman does not reply.

  Both Lucien and Kirk are holding Shannon up.

  “Please grant this one the gift of further life,” Lucien says. “It is not her turn to go.”

  The ferryman says in a raspy voice, “What will you offer in exchange for her life?”

  Lucien says, “What do you wish?”

  The air between them curls menacingly as the ferryman contemplates this.

  He says, “You, witch, have given up your heritage for this woman. You will be excommunicated from your family and coven, shunned from your own community of witches for shaming them. You have given up your considerable inheritance, which will cripple you greatly.”

  “Yes.”

  “Is she worth it?” the ferryman challenges.

  Lucien glances at Shannon, and says, “Yes. I would do it again in a heartbeat. I love her and I do not want her to die.”

  The ferryman turns to Kirk.

  “You, shapeshifter, have been transformed by this woman. You are beginning to question everything in your life and your status as the alpha in your community. You believe you have found your lifelong mate and you intend to remain true to this woman.”

  “Yes, that is true.” Kirk glances at Shannon. “I would do anything for her.”

  “Good. Because we have need of your skills, the both of you.” The ferryman’s tone is insidious as he cackles. “Additionally, your living flesh is craved by many beings here. We will be calling upon you soon enough, witch and shapeshifter, when the time is upon us. Do you agree to this?”