He wasn’t sure why, other than the fact that they weren’t human. But he’d never understood any organized religion. He’d fought in the Crusades not just because he liked to fight, but also because he liked the idea that everyone deserved freedom.
Well, most everyone. The weretrappers had to get over themselves. Centuries was too long to hold a grudge.
This vendetta on the part of the trappers wasn’t about what the Dires once did to humankind centuries earlier and, hell, they’d paid for it with the Extinction of nearly all their kind. Over the years, the Dires had saved a thousandfold more humans than their packs had killed. It seemed like it would never be enough. But he’d be damned if he let those fuckers use the wolves to kill. Bad enough the trappers had convinced witches to get into bed with them—although not literally, which Vice would’ve understood. Now the human trappers had all kinds of black magic on their side, thanks to a master witch named Seb.
Because of that, the hunt for the witch who could kill Seb and save Rogue was on. But it was more complicated than that, since killing Seb might also save their asses from the Dire ghost army Seb had raised, made up of the Dires’ dead parents and various other friends and family. And if that ghost army didn’t die with Seb, Rogue, who could communicate with spirits, would be able to take the ghost army down.
That was some crazy shit the witch had conjured. Vice and Jinx had seen them only once, but that had been more than enough. Jinx hadn’t been able to contact the Dire ghost army since—and the Dires didn’t content themselves that it had been disbanded. Seb was no doubt rallying the troops for a destructive march, trying not to give away his hand too early.
Now the sky remained unnaturally dark, as it had been for days. The supernatural influence pulled at all of them, made them uneasy. Growly. Shifty. The pull would get more intense as the full moon neared.
The supernatural storms that had invaded the town weeks earlier had receded, but they were all still vigilant, awaiting their return. The weretrappers weren’t about to give up this easily.
Vice, especially, was getting tense—his shifts from one extreme to another would happen so fast his own head spun, and although he was never even close to being politically correct, the shit that came out of his mouth was worse than ever.
And Jinx was getting nowhere, except more pissed that he couldn’t find the witch he’d been tracking, even though he claimed he felt her—and that she was close.
Stray had been getting more and more agitated as his brother got closer, and Vice kept having to trail him as he left the house constantly during the daylight, as if searching for something.
Between that, training Liam, the young wereking, and ghost hunting with Jinx, Vice barely found time to get into any trouble of his own. And hell, that in itself was too unnatural for him to deal with for much longer.
“Fucking witches,” he muttered.
“Tell me about it,” Jinx said. “Stray’s coming—he just shifted.”
They watched him turn from wolf to human form about thirty feet from them, still covered by the surrounding foliage.
“You’re sleeping out here with him?” Vice asked.
“Yeah, think I will.” Jinx motioned to the covered porch. “We’ll be all right.”
Vice didn’t think any of them would be, but for once, he managed to hold his tongue.
*
Vice and Jinx were waiting for him. Neither said anything when Stray walked back to them with blood still smeared on his chest. They were all predators who believed in survival of the fittest and enjoyed the hunt as much as he did. Wolves were meant for this, and as long as they were taking down animals and not humans, they were well within their rights.
Doing so kept their predatory instincts at bay—they’d all learned long ago how important that was, but no one more than him.
You’re a beast. His mother’s words echoed in his ear. Why would she be surprised at that? Why would his nature be so bad when they’d been created in Hati’s image?
All he knew was that he didn’t want to be locked up again. Couldn’t bear it. And he hated the old surge of panic that rose up in him, a sign that the street mutt inside of him had not been exorcized.
If he thought too much about it, his scar began to ache fiercely. His heart beat a tattoo against his rib cage as he ran his hand over the long, knotted swath of tissue that ran diagonally across his chest, starting just above his heart and traveling downward, as though someone tried to flay him open.
Someone had, just to see if he would die.
The only scars that won’t heal on a Dire were scars made by another Dire.
Hell, dying would’ve been the easy part.
“Good run,” Rifter said with a smile and a hand clamped on Stray’s bare shoulder. He’d been behind the gazebo with Gwen, who still hadn’t gotten entirely used to being completely naked in front of all the men. She already wore a T-shirt, but the rest of them were bare-assed naked.
The Dires didn’t get moon crazed like Weres did, but his brothers had grown up in a time when hunting prey had been easier and more acceptable.
For as long as he could remember, he refused to be the prey, and outran and outgunned most anyone or anything that dared to come near him.
“Stray, this thing with your brother … how much of a fucking freak is he?” Vice asked without prelude.
Stray’s way of answering was to jump toward Vice with a growl. Jinx got in between them.
“Guess I’ve got my answer.” Vice stared at Stray over Jinx’s shoulder. “We need him, so don’t screw this up.”
“Glad you agreed not to fuck with him,” Jinx muttered, his hand shooting out to hit Vice across the back of the head.
Stray turned from them to look up at the sky as the two tussled next to him.
The moon wasn’t ready to relent her hold on the world just yet. These last few hours of dawn were some of Stray’s favorites, the in-between time when most creatures were quiet and everything seemed at peace.
The solitude was what Stray enjoyed the most. He knew Jinx understood that the best, as they were the only two who consistently slept in wolf form, because for Jinx, it blocked out all the ghosts who constantly needed his help.
For Stray, it wasn’t that easy. His ability had been developing at an alarming rate once he left the Greenland pack. At first the other wolf’s emotions had to be really strong in order for Stray to hear his thoughts. Now, if he tuned in, he could hear just about everything—from Dire, Were and human, and maybe even witch—and it made him feel like he was going nuts.
Hell, maybe he was.
Chapter 2
“Tell me what you remember,” Kate Walters urged the young woman named Josie, who sat across from her on the couch. “Start anywhere.”
“His hands,” Josie blurted out. “They were … hairy. God, of all things to remember.”
“Keep going.” Kate spoke gently as the picture began to firm up in her mind. She didn’t want to see the face of the man who’d hurt Josie, but she was able to see him the exact way Josie had. The back of his hands, unnaturally furred, the face, unmasked. That wasn’t always the case.
Kate concentrated on the attacker’s eyes first. Windows to the soul—or lack of one. They were blue—dark—close set. Bushy brows.
The graphite pencil flew across the page as Josie talked, voice tremulous.
Eventually, Josie would find herself staring at a replica of her attacker—the man who’d also killed her best friend, Sue, in the woods early this morning, when they were walking back from a town bar to their college campus through a popular shortcut. Josie’s reaction would be hard to judge—she might cry, scream or shake. The stoic ones affected Kate the most because they would simply sit there, hands balled tightly in their laps, and nod that the picture was right.
Kate wanted them to have a crack in their armor, a chip, wanted them to do something, because not reacting would come back to bite them in the ass.
It had for her. The fact tha
t she got up daily and confronted her fears by helping others who’d lived through a violent crime was her only recourse.
And that’s why, even though she much preferred to do this in the police station, she would go to the hospital and even the victims’ homes if that’s what it took to keep them comfortable. That was why she was at Josie’s apartment instead of the hospital, where Josie had spent the better part of today.
The ultimate irony was that Kate couldn’t remember the face of her own attacker no matter how hard she tried. It happened nearly three years earlier. The detective who’d helped her when she was attacked in the woods several towns over from where she currently lived had been the one who’d gotten her this job. And while she was grateful for it, some days she felt she could never—would never—escape the victimology that surrounded her.
Today was one of those days. She’d spend a long time in the shower when she was done here, trying to wash away the brutality of the attack on the woman across from her, as well as her own.
At twenty she’d already lived through what she thought was more than her fair share of tragedy. But then she was attacked and realized that there was no limit to the amount of pain someone could be forced to endure during their lifetime, no magic number that would allow them to live the rest of their life unscathed. Sometimes tragedies multiplied upon tragedies.
She’d worked with enough victims to realize the solid truth behind that.
She kept talking, small affirmations so Josie would think she was still listening. But she didn’t need to. She wouldn’t stop sketching until she’d made a near-perfect reenactment of the man’s face, and she wasn’t there by any means.
She was always exhausted after she completed these sketches. Light-headed, like she’d left her body and was having a problem with reentry. Technically, she supposed a part of her had left to delve into another person’s mind uninvited.
For a good cause, she reminded herself, hating to think she’d invaded a victim for the second time.
It’s not like she could ask; they would think she was crazy, and she’d left all those people who’d once called her that behind. She wouldn’t put herself in that position again.
The glass on the table next to her began to vibrate. Kate kept her head down, pencil moving with furious scratches, knowing all the while that she was causing the glass to move.
Josie was distracted by it, looked around nervously, because the Catskills wasn’t exactly the epicenter of earthquake activity.
“Keep going,” Kate urged, flicking a quick gaze on the woman. The pictures on the walls shook with Kate’s nervous energy that had no other outlet. If she didn’t hurry with this drawing, the woman’s apartment might just explode.
This was exactly why she preferred to do her sketch interviews at the police station. No one noticed the shaking vibrations she caused when she was agitated. It was too crazy in there for anyone to notice much of anything.
At first she’d thought she was haunted. It took a psychic to tell her that all of this was a part of her, inside of her. She had informed Kate that she was more powerful than she knew and that she needed to utilize her strengths. Somehow that news hadn’t been comforting at all. She knew there was something violent and dark inside of her, and she refused the psychic’s offer to help her reach her potential. Instead, Kate hoped that by helping people to exorcize their demons, she could rid herself of some of her own.
It helped a little, at least in the moment.
Concentrate, she told herself, and the image came back. Josie was still talking, but Kate wasn’t paying attention to what she was saying. Instead, she focused on the picture in the woman’s mind, the one she was trying so hard to relay to Kate.
It would’ve been impossible if Kate couldn’t read her mind. She was able to capture the predator’s sharp cheekbones, the cold, dead eyes, the scar on his neck that Josie didn’t even remember. Identifying marks helped the police. They didn’t have time or manpower for a lot of these cases. The more help Kate could give them, the better off the victims would be.
She wished she was able to erase the image from Josie’s mind when she was done, take away all the horrible memories so Josie could go on with her life.
She held the sketch up. “Does this look like the man who hurt you?”
“I can’t believe it—that’s him.” Josie put a hand over her mouth. “I didn’t think I was helping you at all.”
“You did fine. I’m going to bring this to the station now.”
“You’ll show it to Agent Young, too?” Josie pushed a business card at her. FBI Special Agent Angus Young. “He told me a picture would be important. But the police didn’t seem like they held out much hope of finding this guy. I still can’t believe any of this happened. It’s like a bad dream that will never go away.”
“I’ll make sure he gets a copy.” Kate slipped the card into her pocket, flipped the sketchbook closed and laid a firm hand on Josie’s arm. Her voice wavered a little when she said, “Listen, you’ll get through it. It’s going to take time, but you’ll be all right. Just don’t be too hard on yourself.”
Josie blinked, looked at her appreciatively. “You sound like you’ve been there.”
Kate nodded and stood. To talk about it would tighten her throat more, and she refused to show any further weakness. Her lower back burned and she fought the urge to rub it, instead saying her good-byes to Josie and exiting the apartment building using the stairs.
Closed spaces, like elevators, hadn’t worked for her since the car accident ten years ago. She liked being free. Most of the time, drawing gave her that freedom. She’d had both her artistic talents and the ability to move objects when angry or agitated for as long as she could remember, but reading minds had come only after the accident.
In the years between the accident and the attack, she’d simply hidden that new ability so she wouldn’t appear to be the freak she felt she was. After the attack, when she’d sat with a sketch artist who tried patiently to get her to remember any details, she realized she could use the mind reading thing to help others. At that point, she allowed herself to use the ability for good. The victims asked nothing of her but a sketch that could help them and Kate’s job was done.
She wasn’t sure of her rate of success, didn’t want to ask, but assumed that since Officer Shimmin continued asking her back, she must be doing a good job.
When she reached the door that led to the outside, she stepped into the cold air. She didn’t call a cab, thought Josie’s apartment was close enough to the police station to walk. But as dusk fell, she quickly realized she shouldn’t have.
Light snow swirled on the concrete, dancing around her ankles. The white dusting on the lawns and roofs made everything look enchanting, and for a moment she paused to breathe in the slightly smoky scent that always accompanied snow.
It was then that she heard the mocking laughter. The cruelty in the sound made her brand burn again.
The group of boys looked to be in their late teens. Separately she might not have thought twice about them, but together they had a menacing, pack-like mentality that made her go cold. She turned away, but not before she unwittingly caught the biggest one’s eye.
“Hey, gorgeous—looking for us?” one of them called. The others started saying things, too, that would gradually escalate to the obscene.
She was already almost a block from Josie’s. It was too late to go back inside and call a cab—those boys were now nearly in front of the door to Josie’s apartment and following closely. She started walking as she fumbled for her cell to call Officer Shimmin and noted the battery was nearly dead. Again.
She and electronics did not get along. Something in her body drained batteries, and it drove her crazy.
She managed to get a call through to him—voice mail—and left a message with her location. He’d come for her; she was sure of it. Whether or not it would be in time …
She dropped the phone, and before she could bend to retrieve it, a shape
appeared in front of her. She stepped back as a man—a handsome, tall man who had her cell phone in his hand—stood motionless, watching her.
He was an impenetrable wall of protection housed in the most ruggedly handsome casing she’d ever seen. He was well over six foot six and broad, wearing all black, with a leather jacket and motorcycle boots.
He appeared aristocratic and street at the same time—he wore both looks well.
Men like him just didn’t exist in the real world, and come to think of it, he was even larger than life than actors on the big screen. She didn’t know if she could ever truly do him justice with a sketch, but she really wanted to try. To draw him, she would need to shadow the chisel of his cheekbones, the strong jaw, the dark hair disheveled by wind.
Something inside of her both calmed and surged simultaneously. She took the phone back from him, her fingertips brushing his.
The voices behind her grew softer, more sinister, and she realized how alone she’d been. But nothing looked like it could get through her new savior, and that’s what she believed him to be.
But how could she be sure of anything?
“I’ll get you home safely.” His voice slammed through her like an unexpected orgasm. She took a few steps back, but somehow he was still directly in front of her. “Let me.”
A command, and she immediately bristled. “I’m all right—I made a call.”
“You’re not safe.”
She hated that he was right. The pack of boys had spooked her. “I’m not going home—I need to go to the police station.”
“Because of them?” His head jerked toward the boys.
“No, I’m expected. I was headed there before those boys started calling to me.” Best to let him know that, even though her body was anything but threatened by him.
“I’ll escort you there.” He wound his arm around her. When his hand touched her lower back, the brand so tender despite the layer of sweater and coat, she jumped.
He stepped away from her, glanced quickly at his hand and back at her. He looked like he was going to say something, but the young boys distracted him for the moment with their catcalls.
Dire Wants Page 3
