by Naomi Clark
Dark Hunt
Naomi Clark
QueeredFiction
Durban
A QUEEREDFICTION PRESS BOOK
First published by QueeredFiction in 2011
Copyright © 2011 Naomi Clark
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
Any characters and events in this publication,
other than those clearly in the public domain,
are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons,
living or dead, is purely coincidental.
All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored
in a retrieval system, or transmitted—in any form
or by any means—without the prior permission,
in writing, of the publisher. Nor may it be otherwise
circulated in any form of binding or cover other
than that in which it is published.
DARK HUNT
First Edition
ISBN 978-1-920441-16-6 (Paperback)
ISBN 978-1-920441-17-3 (Electronic Book)
QUEEREDFICTION PRESS
Gillitts, Durban
Republic of South Africa.
www.queeredfiction.com
Book Design by Jemstar eBook Services
Acknowledgements
Thanks once again to James, a marvelous editor and all-round fabulous person to know. Thanks also to Anjena Damodar, who checked my French for me. Any mistakes are mine, not hers! As always, I’m grateful to Different Star and Cally Beck for beta reading duties, as well as Andrea Blythe, who offered invaluable advice on treating burns. Finally, big thanks to Kyle, who keeps me fed and watered while I write, and to my parents, who tell everyone they can about my books. I love you all!
Testimonials
“Wow. Clark’s wolves are compelling and real.”
Sherwood Smith
“[M]akes you breathe the air of another world, feel all the pleasure and pain of another being, and stirs the heart.”
Lark Neville
DEDICATION
For everyone who read and enjoyed Silver Kiss.
Thank you for embracing Ayla and Shannon and making it
possible for me to write more of their adventures!
One
My first view of Paris was a McDonald’s across the street from the entrance of Gare du Nord train station. I’d expected can-can dancers and mimes and couldn’t help but feel a little disappointed. “Surely we didn’t come all the way to France to eat Big Macs?” I asked Shannon, tugging on her sleeve.
She was busy snapping photos of the impressive Gare du Nord, angling her camera up to take in both the pale blue sky and the massive statues at the corners and center of the roof. “I could murder a Big Mac,” she replied absently. “I’m starving.”
I grimaced. I’d spent the train ride from London to Paris day dreaming about veal tartare and Boeuf de Chalosse. I could have stayed in England and eaten Big Macs. “Shall we go find the flat then?” I asked, setting my suitcase on the pavement so I could pull my street map from my coat pocket. “It should be within walking distance.”
“In a minute,” she replied, still snapping pictures. “Did you know all these statues represent different cities? I’m trying to figure out which one is London.”
I turned to scan the row of stately statues and couldn’t see anything that conjured up images of red buses or Big Ben. Leaving Shannon to it, I surveyed the street once more, inhaling deeply to see if Paris smelled any different to home. Ignoring the familiar greasy smell of burgers and fries, I took in the scents of fresh lilies from the flower vendor nearby, the smoke of cigarettes, and the lingering odor of the train station—a weird mix of sugary pastry and coffee from the coffee shop near the entrance—and metal from the trains. My wolf wagged her tail at the new smells. It was like England but different. I felt myself relax, suddenly conscious of how glad I was to not to be at home.
Shannon, apparently satisfied she’d found London, tucked her camera away and picked up her own suitcase. There was a steady flow of people entering and exiting Gare du Nord, and we were jostled on all sides as we exited the station. My wolf, normally so prickly about crowds, took it with good grace. We were both excited to be in a new city with our mate, ready to have some fun and adventures. I had my priority firmly fixed in my mind; I’d find a street mime this week if it killed me.
“Okay, which way?” Shannon asked as we crossed the road to stand outside McDonald’s. “Maybe we should just take a taxi.”
“No! If we walk we’ll find our way around the city better.” There was no way I was getting into a cramped car after three hours on a cramped train. I glanced around to get my bearings. I’d only just put the map away, but already the route from Gare du Nord to Montmatre had faded from my head, pushed out by the sights and sounds of Paris. Music drifted from an open window overhead, fast-paced French vocals that were wonderfully exotic to me.
A little old man, wrapped up in an overcoat and battered beret despite the warm March weather, shouted out news headlines from a newspaper stand a few feet away. I remembered enough French from school to pick out a few words—Morte and Mystère and maybe something about downstairs. I grinned, loving the musicality his rich accent gave the words.
“Ayla,” Shannon said patiently, tapping my arm. “Stay with me.”
I shook my head. “Sorry. Flat. Right.” I pulled out the map again, twisting it around to get it lined up with the street we were standing on. “If we go this way, we should end up on Rue d’Amsterdam.”
Shannon peered over my shoulder at the map, a frown on her lips. “Are you sure?”
I shrugged. “It doesn’t matter if I’m not. We’re on holiday, we’re exploring.”
She kissed my cheek and smiled. “Okay then. Let’s go.”
We only got lost twice. Each time Shannon just smiled and shook her head and let me mess around with the map until we got back on track. It wasn’t really like her. Normally she’d insist on taking the lead, being the practical one in the relationship. But ever since the events with Sly last month, she’d treated me differently. Like I was fragile, breakable. I wasn’t sure how I felt about the kid-glove handling. After all, I was the werewolf, she was the human. If either of us was breakable, it was Shannon.
On the other hand, dealing with Sly and Silver Kiss—a drug that turned werewolves into ravening beasts—had certainly thrown me in danger’s path. I’d escaped lightly compared to some of the other Pack members; Moria Clayton still needed physiotherapy after Sly broke two of her legs. Molly Brady, a cub Sly and Alpha Humans had forced into fights as part of their sick game, was still withdrawn and might never fully recover from her ordeal. And Eddie, one of our alphas, had lost his life trying to bring Sly down. I’d never agreed with Eddie’s methods, his blackmailing and bullying, but nobody deserved to die like that, shot between the eyes defending his Pack.
So yeah, I understood some of Shannon’s behavior. Sometimes at night I still woke up in a cold sweat knowing I could have died. It could have been me instead of Eddie. Then I’d roll over to huddle closer to Shannon, soaking up comfort from her warm, sleeping form, reminding myself that I was okay. I was alive.
It didn’t help that we’d been going through a rocky patch during all the trouble with Sly and the Alpha Humans. The extra strain had pushed us both almost to breaking point. While I was out helping my Pack alphas hunt down the drug-dealing feral and his wolf-baiting ring, Shannon was at home helpless and frightened. It had given her too much time to think, too much time to regret our move from the north of England to the south. We hadn’t spoken about that recently—there’d been too much else going on. Sly’s trial was scheduled to start in the summer. We’d both spent endless hours giving statemen
ts to the police, going over the whole ordeal again and again.
The issues, I knew, would come up again. Sly’s arrest and impending trial had forced us to put our lives—and our problems—on hold, but that wouldn’t last forever.
That was why we were in Paris now, blundering our way up and down Rue de Clichy looking for the Moulin Rouge. The holiday was going to help us sort out our problems, help Shannon and I get back on solid ground. At least, I hoped so.
“You didn’t tell me Joel’s place was in the heart of the sex district,” Shannon remarked as we walked past yet another seedy-looking porn shop. This one had sailor outfits in the window. “Doesn’t seem like him.”
“It’s his parents,” I corrected. “I think technically it’s in the Opera Quarter.”
“Hmm. Doesn’t seem like them either.” Shannon lingered outside a classier looking adult shop with swirling pink writing on the window, advertising videos, toys and more. “I like those shoes.”
I pulled back to look at the towering black heels. “Glory would love them.”
“Do you think people can actually walk in those?” She seemed fascinated and I had to drag her away from the shop. I hadn’t come to Paris to look at shoes.
“We’re not far now. Let’s get settled at the flat and then you can come back and look at shoes, okay?”
Shannon let me drag her away, indulging me. I wondered if I ought to be taking advantage of this new, pliable Shannon and demanding some kinky sex, breakfast in bed or something. I saved that thought for later. It was midday, I was starving and I wanted to dump our luggage so we could go eat somewhere fancy and French.
The Moulin Rouge appeared as if by magic as we walked up the street, the red windmill unlit but still just as enchanting as I’d imagined. It looked so out of place amongst the crepe vendors and sex shops, yet somehow it also made these things more glamorous, touched by the promise of glitter and dance. We lingered outside to take photos and check the prices for shows.
“It’s expensive,” Shannon said doubtfully.
“But worth it. We could do a meal and a show one night. We should. We can’t come to Paris and not go to the Moulin Rouge! Glory would never forgive us.”
She smiled. “We’ll come back later.”
I nodded and we headed away from the Moulin Rouge towards the flat. It was all uphill from there and by the time we’d clambered the stupidly steep sidewalk—past the cheese shops, bakeries, and boulangeries—I was so hungry I could have cried. My wolf, cooped up too long, wanted release. She wanted to break free and race through this new city, explore all the corners, learn all the secrets. I tipped my head back to stare at the sky. It would be a new moon tonight. I wondered if the Parisian werewolves would be welcoming.
Joel’s parents had holiday homes in Barcelona and Rome as well as Paris, but as far as I knew, they never used any of them, preferring to holiday in Scotland. It baffled me, but I wasn’t going to argue their choices. It meant we had free access to a beautiful flat in the Opera Quarter for as long as we wanted.
“This is gorgeous,” Shannon said as we stood outside, getting our breath back. “I can’t believe they don’t just live here.”
It was a small block of flats, only three stories high. The brick was a rich cream color, with dark ivy creeping up the sides. The windows were small, with iron bars curling around the wooden frames. It was all rustic and...well, French. Like Shannon, I fell in love instantly. “Have you got the key?”
Shannon nodded. Inside we climbed the rough, creaking wooden stairs to the third floor. The building was silent; I supposed all our new neighbors were at work or out miming. I liked the silence. This would be a sanctuary for us, somewhere to chill out and put the chaos and mess of the last few weeks behind us. Shannon unlocked the front door and the scent of vanilla flooded the hall, making my nose twitch.
“Wow,” she said, stepping aside so I could enter.
Definitely wow. The flat had clearly been built with wolves in mind; it was open plan and the furniture was comfortable and simple. There was a sofa in the lounge area and a farmhouse style table in the kitchen area. Nothing you could break or ruin with a sudden, violent change. The decor was very much to Joel’s taste, lots of cream and powder blue. Off the living room was a double bedroom with an en suite, also showing Joel’s hand at work. The bedroom was decorated in plum and chocolate, the bathroom in cool greens and yellows. Joel, an architect by trade, loved nothing more than a new house to furnish.
“Perfect,” I announced, leaving our suitcases in the bedroom and throwing open the window to diffuse the vanilla. As soon as I found the source, I was binning it. I hate vanilla. Shannon snuck up behind me to wrap her arms round my waist and hug me, resting her chin on my shoulder. She was wearing new perfume, swapping her usual sandalwood and jasmine for cherries and dark chocolate. I turned in her arms to nuzzle her neck, nipping lightly at her collarbone where the scent was strongest. My wolf loved the new perfume, wanted to lick the scent off Shannon’s body.
“So what first?” she asked me. “The Louvre? Notre Dame, the Eiffel Tower...”
“Food,” I said promptly. My breakfast fry-up seemed like a long time ago. “How about we explore round here for the rest of the day and save the proper tourist stuff for tomorrow?”
We had a week and a checklist of places to visit. I wanted to draw out the experience as much as possible, savor every second of our time here. I knew that all too soon we’d be back in England, facing all the issues we’d had before we left. I was in no hurry to get back to that.
We set out arm-in-arm to explore Montmartre. Parts of the area were glorious tourist traps, the streets lined with tiny shops all selling the same tacky souvenirs, from red and yellow Chat Noire bags and socks to Eiffel Tower keyrings and an endless supply of berets. Shannon posed in one, looking so perfectly elegant in her skinny jeans and white top that I had to buy the beret for her.
After an hour or so of aimless wandering and peering into shop windows, we found a bistro and sat at one of the street tables to eat our soupe à l’oignon.
“I hate to say it,” Shannon said through a mouthful of soup, “but it puts Vince’s cooking to shame.”
“Don’t ever tell him that,” I warned, watching passers-by come and go, trying to pick out the wolves from the humans. “It’ll kill him.”
There was another newspaper vendor on the street, his booth also stocked with postcards and keyrings, and I singled him out as a wolf straight away. He had that distinctive musk of Pack, hidden under the smell of tobacco and too much cologne. Once Shannon and I were finished eating and paid up, I hurried over to him, prepared to try out my rusty French skills while Shannon picked out postcards for her parents.
“Pardonez moi,” I started.
“I speak English,” he cut in with a touch of impatience. He must get sick of tourists mangling his native tongue, I thought. “You want a paper? Keyring?”
“No thanks.” I waved away the magazine he thrust at me. “I was wondering, where do the wolves go to run round here?” It was a relief not to have to ask that in French. I figured there must be a local park for wolves to stretch their legs. The twisty streets and hills of Montmartre didn’t offer any real place to exercise and I couldn’t go a whole week without a proper run.
He looked at me a little blankly. “No park, we run on the streets. You are not a city wolf, no?”
“Well, yeah, I am, but...” I shrugged helplessly, hoping the gesture conveyed my thoughts. No park? That was ridiculous! I’d seen plenty of green spaces on my street map, but nothing significant near where we were staying. I didn’t fancy going all the way to the city limits every time I needed a proper run. “What do you do then?”
He gestured around himself, at the busy roads and bustling streets. “We have all this. Walk the streets, smell the city, hunt the rats, no? Visit the river. There are parks,” he shrugged, somehow implying that parks weren’t for real wolves, “but Paris is not about parks.”
“Oh.” I hid my disappointment and surprise. I thought I’d done a good job of it, until he laughed in my face.
“You will see. No wolves go running alone after dark anymore anyway.” He shoved a newspaper under my nose. “Le Monstre, you see? The Monster.”
“Monster?” I stared at the headline, picking out the same words I had earlier, outside Gare du Nord. Morte. Mystère. “Mystery death,” I echoed as Shannon left the rack of postcards to join me.
