“Some of our bears were targeted when the Templars came to town,” Starlight said. “The Templars were the ones who recruited Beckett. Freak hunters. An old religion.” He licked the tip of the pine branch and grimaced, tossing it aside. “Sap,” he explained as he pawed at his tongue to remove the sticky residue. “Anyway, he hasn’t received a warm welcome. And he refuses to shift. That’s mostly why Armor didn’t want you fighting him.”
I stared at the man across the clearing, noting the warning signs for the first time—the tightly balled fists and the way his muscles seemed in a constant state of tension, like a prize fighter the day before the bout. What I’d mistaken for anger was, in fact, a man at war with his nature. The other bears sensed it, too, their eyes averted as if avoiding the powder keg sitting at the center of the room. Because he would blow, eventually. No shifter could fight their beast indefinitely. At least none that I’d ever met.
“What d’ye suggest?” I asked Starlight.
“Suggest?” The little bear cocked his head at me, quizzically. “I was just trying to tell you that you made a dumb decision. Have fun!” Starlight waved and sauntered off.
I glowered at his retreating back.
“Bears!” Armor called, for the second time.
“No theatrics,” Beckett yelled, before Armor could go on. “Let’s get this over with.” He marched towards me. “I heard you asked for me, personally. I’m flattered,” he snarled, self-loathing dancing in his eyes.
I didn’t bother responding. Anything I said was guaranteed to make him angrier, and I didn’t want that. Usually, I would welcome a pissed-off opponent; anger blinded most fighters, leaving them vulnerable. But someone who was on the verge of shifting for the first time?
That would be like poking the bear.
I crack myself up.
What I needed, instead, was to drop Beckett before he could Hulk out on me. My field would protect me from his werebear form, of course, but a shifter’s first time could be unpredictable. He could end up getting himself seriously hurt, and maybe me, too—even Regulars can do some crazy shit when their adrenaline is up.
Unfortunately, Beckett seemed to have the same idea.
The former cop broke into a run, charging me, dropping his shoulder to catch me at the knees. Fighters called this practice “shooting,” because the whole goal was to lift your opponent and bring them down. Hard. Fortunately, I’d seen men use the same approach time and time again whenever they sparred with a woman; men always tried to grapple first, hoping to overpower the woman and end the fight without throwing a punch. Which is how I knew to splay my legs out wide like I’d been trained, using gravity and my own bodyweight to prevent him from lifting me off the ground.
We collided, and I brought my elbow down, solidly connecting with the back of his head. He grunted, fell to one knee, and rolled away, probably choosing to distance himself from me and come up with a new strategy.
But I wasn’t about to let that happen.
I rushed the man before he could get to his feet, kicked snow up into his eyes to blind him, and then swung my other foot across his face. The thick edge of my rubber boot slammed against his jaw, and blood hit the snow.
I aimed another kick at his exposed midsection, except, this time, Beckett was prepared. He caught my foot, trapped it, and rolled, sending me flying face first into the ground. I flipped over, prepared for another exchange, but Beckett had already scrambled away. He rose, tonguing his busted lip. I did the same, groaning, my knees aching.
I was getting too old for this shit.
“Ye shouldn’t have let me up,” I said, brushing powder off my jacket.
Beckett shrugged. “Ready to go again?”
I fell back into a comfortable stance, my legs akimbo, arms bent. “Aye, whenever ye are.”
Beckett approached with a lot more caution this time around. He feinted in like a boxer, dipping to his left and firing a stiff jab that I slapped away. He sidestepped again, trying a one-two combination—another jab and a straight. I knocked those away as well. I could tell he was testing my reaction time, trying to get me to open up, but I’d been in too many fights for that tactic to work. Beckett smirked, feigned a punch, and fired off a kick aimed at my thigh. I took it. Then, as quickly as I could manage, I dropped to one knee and blasted the poor guy right in the crotch with a jab of my own.
Beckett crumpled, groaning as he clutched his family jewels.
A collective grumble greeted me when I stood—I guess even bears despised low blows. I waved and bowed a little, then flashed Callie a thumbs up. Her eyes were wide, as if she hadn’t really expected me to punch him in the nuts, but she returned the gesture, although very discreetly. Beckett, meanwhile, had risen to his knees, coughing.
“Oh, c’mon,” I said, patronizingly, “I didn’t even hit ye that hard.”
“I appreciate the restraint,” he said, between gasps.
I started to respond, but was interrupted by Beckett’s headbutt, his forehead slamming into my abdomen with a surprising amount of force. I fell back onto my ass, gasping, holding my poor stomach. We both lay there for a minute, gathering ourselves. I wondered what we looked like to the bears—probably ridiculous, us fighting with our fists like Neanderthals.
Together we staggered to our feet. I eyed Beckett, acknowledging his speed and general wiliness; it took balls to headbutt someone while cradling your…well, balls. From our brief exchanges, I knew I wouldn’t catch him napping, which meant I had to hit him hard, and often, if I wanted to win. I waved him forward. “Anytime, pretty boy. Just be sure to protect those stones, or I’ll serve ye another helpin’,” I quipped, playing on the policeman’s motto—to protect and serve.
Low blow, I know.
Beckett’s eyes flashed.
Sadly, making him angry didn’t seem to make him any less capable. He rushed me, leading with a series of punches—jabs, hooks, uppercuts. Anything to keep me off balance. It was a good strategy; if even one connected, I’d be dazed enough for him to finish the job. It helped that he was disciplined, drawing his forearms back after each punch to protect his head. But if there was one thing I knew about fights, it was that the longer they went on, the sloppier you became—and Beckett had spent an awful lot of time and energy on offense.
Which meant it was my turn.
I began trading punches, leaning back to dodge a hook, then springing forward to land a body shot. When Beckett brought his arms down to shield his ribs, I struck with a hook of my own, twisting my torso and hips so hard I almost slipped in the snow. Thankfully, my new boots had plenty of tread and I was able to stay upright. Beckett, however, took the shot right on the temple and dropped to one knee, reeling from the blow. I dug my fingers into his hair and, savagely, rammed my knee in his face. He fell back, bleeding from his shattered nose.
I danced away, massaging my knee, cursing under my breath. I always found it ironic how action movies portrayed fights, especially the one-sided brawls where the main character whoops ass, takes down like ten people, and goes on about their day. The truth was, contrary to what most people think, even winning a fight like that comes at a cost. Tomorrow, my knuckles would be swollen and my knee bruised—you can’t hit anything that hard without consequences, after all. Hell, I routinely woke up with bruises I couldn’t explain even when I hadn’t gotten into a fight. Of course, that still meant I’d be better off than Beckett, who was only just now coming to.
“Oy!” I called, scanning the crowd until I found Armor. “D’ye t’ink that’s enough?”
Armor nodded, curtly, and began to speak, but was cut off by Beckett, who sat up with a groan. “I’m not done yet,” he insisted. He thrust one leg forward and stood, listing a little, then raised his fists. “Come on, then.”
I frowned, but Armor didn’t seem inclined to deny the man—he actually looked pensive—so I did as Beckett wished. I took two quick steps forward to cover the distance, dodged a lazy kick, and blasted him with a straight cross, knocki
ng him flat on his ass yet again. Before I could step back, however, he grabbed hold of my leg, pinning me in place. I brought my heel down on his chest. Once. Twice. He finally let go, his right eye swollen shut, nursing a few shattered ribs, blood spilling out of his mouth and nose. I turned to walk away.
“I’m…not done,” Beckett said, leaning on one elbow. He managed to get onto all fours. “Finish it,” he said, voice cracking. When I didn’t make a move, he propped himself back onto his knees, his fists hanging limp at his sides. “Do it!” he screamed, blood and spittle spewing from his mouth. “Come on!” He fell forward, panting, glaring up at me out of his good eye. The clearing was eerily silent, and a brief look around confirmed that every single bear was now paying very, very close attention.
A man on a ledge will always draw a crowd.
“Are ye sure?” I asked. “Ye look like shite.”
He continued giving me the evil eye, his face locked in a grimace of pain and hate. But I knew now it wasn’t me he hated—not really. This whole show wasn’t Beckett being a tough guy, it was a man in pain, whose self-loathing had grown to the point that he felt he deserved to be punished. The disgraced cop wanted me to play judge, jury, and executioner.
Most would have walked away…
But I was from Boston, not the Midwest.
I obliged him.
I whirled and fired off a side kick, driving my foot into Beckett’s shoulder, connecting with enough force to send him sprawling on his back. But I wasn’t done; if Beckett wanted to be punished, then I was prepared to go as far as I had to. I mounted his upper body, fending off his feeble attempts to grab me, and punched him in the face. Then again. And again. Eventually, his arms fell limp. I finally drew back, my knuckles bloody, shaking.
Beckett, on the verge of losing consciousness, stared blearily up at me from a face so mangled it no longer looked human. He smiled through blood-stained teeth. “You punch…like a girl,” he rasped.
I snorted. It was now or never. “Shut up before ye pass out, ye idgit. Ye know, if ye don’t shift soon, your face will stay like this,” I said, jerking my chin towards his broken mug.
Beckett grimaced. “No more magazine covers for me, I guess.” He started to laugh; I could feel his body shaking beneath me. Except it didn’t stop. His eyes rolled back, and blood frothed at his mouth. His limbs began to twitch and spasm.
“Claire!” I screamed. “He’s havin’ a seizure!”
I felt something tug at my pant leg and realized Starlight was by my side. “He’s not seizing,” Starlight explained. “He’s shifting. He can’t hold it at bay any longer. Too much damage…but I suspect you knew that would happen,” he said, studying the torn skin of my knuckles. “Come on.”
I followed him, crossing over to where Callie stood, her expression smug. A small contingent of polar bears fell in to the space we’d left, circling around Beckett as he twisted and turned, shifting in pieces. I could tell it hurt. “Is it always so violent?” I asked.
“He’s fighting it, still,” Starlight replied, shaking his head sympathetically. “He’s suffering a great deal.”
“Good,” Callie chimed in.
Starlight swiveled his head around, eyes narrowed. “You’ve seen the detective’s soul, Callie Penrose. Have you forgotten what you saw there? Can you so easily cast the first stone?”
Callie grunted, her expression haughty—disdainful even. “I would never betray my friends. Not like that. Besides, no one uses me and gets away with it.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure,” Starlight said, enigmatically. “We all have our limits. Our flaws. Like seeking vengeance,” Starlight said, nodding at Beckett’s writhing form. “Or forsaking mercy.”
Callie started, lips parting wordlessly for a few seconds. Then she spun on her heel and marched off. Starlight didn’t even bother watching her leave. Instead, we watched as Beckett tottered like a baby deer in his brand-new form: a sun bear, barely clearing five-feet, his chest covered in a U-shaped patch of golden fur like a super hero.
He was…adorable.
“Well, that’s unexpected,” Starlight said, after a moment’s hesitation.
“Well, at least now ye aren’t the only height-challenged bear, here,” I quipped. “Maybe ye two could start a club.”
Starlight thumped me with his staff. “Alright, show’s over. Let’s go get you cleaned up and see what twisted things you have floating around in your head,” he said.
I cringed, remembering why I’d opted into this fight in the first place. As I followed the tiny bear, I found myself praying my subconscious wasn’t as messed up as Starlight suggested.
As if.
Chapter 24
Claire met us on the fringes of the bear’s refuge. Starlight and I had walked for what seemed like an eternity, weaving between the trees in silence, leaving me plenty of time to dwell on whatever was about to happen. I had no idea what the bear had in store for me—some form of hypnosis or psychotherapy that would bring my subconscious to the fore, maybe—but I wasn’t eager to figure out what had been waking me up in a panic the last several weeks. Some nightmares were better left alone. Still, I needed a good night’s rest something fierce, and I wasn’t going to get it by chickening out now. I’d had to break a pretty man’s face just to get here—the least I could do was stick around to see what I’d paid for.
That said, I was worried about Beckett. Sure, according to Callie, the guy was a world-class shitbag who had betrayed his friends and hunted down Freaks, but you get a read on a person when you fight them—an insight into who they are and what they’re about. And, from what I could tell, Beckett was a decent guy. Angry, yes. Self-loathing, definitely. But honorable, willing to let me stand when he could have attacked, even going so far as to come at me like he meant it, which few men have the guts to do. Despite all that, if he didn’t get his shit together, soon, he’d end up throwing himself in front of a bullet meant for someone else, or go charging into a no-win situation that was guaranteed to get him killed.
In fact, that’s why I’d gone after him so hard.
Sometimes the only way to make someone see reason is to blind them to everything else.
“Jesus,” Claire said, sniffing the air and noting the blood spattered across my knuckles and on my clothes—most of it Beckett’s. “What happened to you?”
“Beckett’s a sun bear,” I said, ignoring her question. “You’re welcome.”
“A what?” Claire glanced at Starlight, who’d settled next to a small campfire. Kenai lay on his side in bear form, sleeping, his snores threatening to put out the fire. When Starlight didn’t answer, Claire huffed and held out a hand. “Alright, well, let’s get you patched up.”
I shook my head. “All I need is a wet towel and some antiseptic,” I said, then glanced down at myself. “And maybe a washing machine. Most of this blood is his.”
Claire looked a little alarmed at that but decided not to comment. “Wait, so your clothes aren’t self-washing, too?” she said instead, sarcastically.
I glared at her, then cocked an eyebrow. “Ye know…” I tapped and held my finger against my shoulder and watched as it became the same shirt, sans the blood spatter.
“Oh, come on!” Claire said. “Starlight, make her share!”
Starlight leaned in to sniff my shirt, testing its material between his paws, and even went so far as to try and lick it.
“Oy! Easy there!” I said, swatting his paw away and drawing back.
Claire chuckled. “I remember when I had boundaries.”
I rolled my eyes and tapped the remainder of my clothes, discarding Beckett’s blood and returning them back to normal. “Towel,” I growled.
The bouncy blonde giggled and fetched a pack of alcohol wipes from a small First Aid kit lying next to Kenai. She tossed it to me, grinning. “All we have, I’m afraid.”
I sighed, tore open the packet with my teeth, and began swabbing down my hands. I didn’t cry. Not even once. Because I was a big girl
.
“You should stop making that face,” Claire advised, “or no one is ever gonna love you.”
“Shut it,” I hissed through clenched teeth. Starlight, meanwhile, wandered over to the campfire and began fiddling with a pipe that rested on a rock. Claire’s eyes brightened upon seeing it.
“Oh! Is that how you’re going to help her?”
Starlight nodded his furry little head, put the pipe to his lips, and took an experimental toke, the sudden aroma immediately recognizable, although slightly unique.
“Seriously?” I asked. “Your solution to me problem is to smoke me up?” I tossed the alcohol wipes and wrapper at Claire, who caught them and immediately looked sick to her stomach to be holding the bloody remains of my fight with Beckett. I grinned. “Talk about a face no one could ever love,” I quipped.
“It’s a ritual!” Claire argued, ignoring my jab as she tossed the wipes in a plastic sack next to the kit. “A sacred ritual. I swear, you and Callie can’t help yourselves. Always jumping to conclusions.”
“Excuse me?” Callie called, stepping out from between the trees. Claire stuck out her tongue, repeated herself, and thrust her hands on her hips as if challenging Callie to disagree. Callie sighed and glanced over at Starlight. “Yeah, well,” she began, “it’s a good thing I have people around who can set me straight, I guess.”
Starlight dipped his head and blew a smoke ring as big as my head. “So, are you ready?” he asked me.
“Taking Quinn on a vision quest?” Callie asked, folding her arms over her chest.
“There are things she needs to see,” Starlight replied in a mellow, distant tone.
Callie leaned in and whispered loud enough for us all to hear, “You know you have to get naked to smoke that, right?”
I gaped at her, realized she was serious, and whirled on the tiny bear. “Absolutely not!”
Claire raised her hands in a helpless gesture. “It’s part of the ritual.”
“Listen here, ye wee little pervert, I will not be gettin’ naked, ye hear?”
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