by KH LeMoyne
But could he trust this alpha? He waited for a gut feeling and had to admit, for once, he didn’t feel numb from the choices before him.
Deacon turned back. “Decision time.”
Yes, it was.
Breslin rose and moved before the two at the window. Without hesitation, he sank to his knees and angled his neck. His pride hurt. His body would also after the alpha took his blood payment out of Breslin’s throat. But it didn’t matter. This option bought him time. “I pledge my life and service to you, my alpha, and my clan.”
The words didn’t stick in his throat as much as he’d expected. In fact, a small part of him warmed to the new opportunity.
Deacon rested his hand on Breslin’s crown and forced him to look at the floor. A tingle started with the hair along his nape and worked its way along his body. Heat, fire, and a sizzling energy he’d never experienced seized him and then eased every muscle in his body.
No fangs tore at his neck.
No blood dripped from an open wound to feed the alpha’s power.
No part of his soul died. In fact, the paralyzing chill he’d come to accept in his old role was gone.
Puzzled, he remained where he was, waiting.
After a few moments, Deacon removed his hand and moved back. Breslin blinked and lifted his head in time to see his alpha smile.
“I accept your oath, Breslin Taggart. We will do great things, you and I. When the time is right, I believe you will take Karndottir’s most valuable possession and have your justice. I promise.”
Dear readers,
Thank you for reading BLOOD OATH! I hope you enjoyed Gillian and Callum’s story and if you’d like to leave a review please feel free to add one HERE.
Keep reading and you’ll find a bonus story, FIGHT NIGHT, followed by an excerpt of from the next in the Shifters Unlimited series, HIDDEN.
Best wishes.
FIGHT NIGHT
A Shifters Unlimited Novelette
1890 - Seattle, Washington
Main Street
The sunlight vanished, and a quick, bitter scent of chewing tobacco wafted in the air—Deacon’s only warning. He turned as sharp heat exploded from his left shoulder and, on instinct, punched his right palm upward. With a grinding crunch and a resounding low, dull gong, a cast-iron pipe landed safely beside the open construction pit intended to house the city’s new water system.
Blinking away the pain, Deacon glanced toward his coworker. The pipe had grazed Kincaid’s head. Solidly built and formidable from farm living, the man could take heavy punches without flinching. Their after-hours hobby in the fight rings proved as much. But no matter how resilient his body, Kincaid was only human. Blood trickled from a raw scrape over his eyebrow, a swelling lump already distorting his forehead. He sagged like a wet rag against the dirt wall.
Snapping his fingers before Kincaid’s face, Deacon tuned in to the canine frequency range of his hearing and listened for erratic heartbeats. Instead, a steady lub lub echoed against his eardrums. “Hey, wake up. Come on. Open those big cow eyes of yours.”
“Piss off, Deacon,” Kincaid muttered. He swiped at Deacon’s fingers, missing by six inches.
“You guys okay down there?” Two hazel eyes topped by a mop of brilliant ginger hair stared at them from the street level, twenty-two feet above. “I worried that might’ve flattened you both.”
“We’re still in one piece, Browning. Could use some water, though.” Deacon waited until the young man was out of sight, then shrugged his shoulder to gauge his own injuries. He bit back a curse. The damned pipe was an upgrade after the recent fire and guaranteed to withstand more than Seattle’s previous charred and useless wooden water pipes. A necessity, but even slow contact with several hundred pounds of moving iron packed a wallop. At least, he had some warning.
“How’s your vision?” he asked.
“Bad. There’s two of you. Like I needed to see more of your ugly mug.” Kincaid laughed and then groaned, grasping his head. “Just need a few minutes.”
“There’s gratitude for you,” Deacon responded as he squinted at the winch and pulley above. The loose ropes dangled from the crossbars. A-frame support systems ran the plumbing circuit’s length. Each segment held a chained section of pipe, except for the ones targeted for today’s installation. His gaze narrowed as he took in the ropes’ ends, no longer lashed through the winching mechanism. Several strands appeared frayed, but the rest bore a clean edge—no chance of an accident. With the weakened rope, severing the hold would have taken one quick swipe. Others would probably dispute his conjecture, but he didn’t intend to announce his suspicion or seek consensus.
A faint smudge of soot coated the pulley. A fingerprint? He inhaled deeply, certain he could identify the lingering tobacco scent if he came within several yards of the perpetrator.
The question was who and why? Everyone on the multiple projects around the harbor focused all their energy and time on rebuilding Seattle, not derailing the process.
He leaned back against the wooden supports and closed his eyes in the cool shadows. His bruised bone and torn muscle would heal in a day or two, thanks to his shifter strength and metabolism. Faster, if he had the luxury to release his inner wolf and absorb the energy of the surrounding woods tonight. But living among humans required discretion.
“Too close,” Kincaid added, staring at the pipe’s tip still visible over the edge of the pit. “Pipe could have taken out my head instead of just clipping it, Deacon. Not sure how you worked that, but thanks.”
“My body’s blessed with brawn over beauty.” His comment brought a chuckle, but the truth showed in the long scar down one side of his face. A scar earned with equal parts courage and cowardice, but dwelling in the past was a waste of time.
“I didn’t even see it coming,” Kincaid continued. He rubbed above his temple and winced, then eased his hand to the back of his head where he’d taken a hit against the support boards for the pit. “We don’t have many options in this tiny rabbit warren. I can’t believe you weren’t injured.”
“I got winged a bit too.” Deacon ran his gaze over Kincaid for any other indication of trauma as he puzzled over which of them was the intended target. Speed and a powerful response had saved their lives at the risk of revealing his shifter identity. Not an action he regretted. But the reconstruction effort hadn’t claimed a life yet, and he didn’t plan on himself or Kincaid being the first. “Since we’re all right, I can signal for the foreman to haul another pipe into place.”
A long, wailing blow of the shift whistle pierced the air.
Kincaid shrugged. “Not much sunlight left anyway. We’ll make it up tomorrow.”
“Deacon,” called Browning from above, two ladles dangling from one hand and the water bucket in the other.
Deacon took several long gulps as Kincaid drank from a second ladle. Then, grasping the edge of a rickety ladder, Deacon made his way to the makeshift sidewalk above. He pivoted and sat with his legs dangling. For a brief, peaceful moment, he hung his head and inhaled the sea air.
“Too tired for a match tonight, Black?”
He didn’t turn at the annoying nasally voice. For a human, Stromer radiated weasel qualities as if shifter-born with them. He also edged himself between Deacon and the ladder, pulling it up and away, leaving Kincaid stuck below.
“Same place?” asked Deacon. Not that the venue ever changed.
“The only tent in town with the action,” drawled Stromer.
“We’ll all be there,” chimed in a deep baritone behind them. Deacon restrained a smile as Stromer jumped at the softly spoken words.
Deceptively calm, the response issued more like a command than an acceptance. Vendrick Harbard reached an arm around Stromer, forcing him to retreat several steps, then lowered the ladder and squatted, offering Kincaid his hand. He hauled Kincaid from the pit as if he weighed no more than a feather. Granted, Vendrick stood several inches over Deacon’s six-foot-four height and carried added muscle. B
ut Kincaid matched Deacon in muscle weight if not height. Lifting him was no small feat for a human or a shifter.
Deacon sniffed for a clear scent on Vendrick and frowned. Like all the other times he’d sought to isolate the man’s specific shifter species, he found only a strange absence of any scent. Not human, for certain, but if Vendrick did contain a beast beneath his human flesh, Deacon couldn’t decipher which one. Based on Vendrick’s strength and endurance, he carried a powerful animal within him.
Fortunately, he also lacked the vibration that signaled an oath bond to this territory’s alpha, Corbin King. For that reason alone, Deacon should have given him a wide berth. Unpledged shifters were considered rogue. But cowardice wasn’t Deacon’s way. He didn’t care who pledged to King since he hadn’t done so himself. He might be a rebel, but at least he wasn’t a hypocrite.
Vendrick kept his history to himself, offered a consistent if distant camaraderie, and picked on no one smaller than himself, which was just about everyone. Acceptable and respectable qualities.
“I’m counting on all of you.” Stromer shot a less than pleased expression Kincaid’s way but turned toward Deacon. “The boss already has a big payout for tonight’s fight, so eat well.”
“What, so we can lose our dinner in the ring?” Kincaid shook his head, his fists on his hips.
With a brisk nod and a satisfied smirk, Stromer added, “Mrs. Danger’s girls will be there as motivation for the winners.”
None of them responded. Browning frowned, turning away as Stromer sauntered to the next group of workers.
Kincaid nudged Browning’s shoulder. “You coming tonight, kid? I promise you’ll make your money on us. Maybe get something for your sweet girl.”
Blushing to his roots, Browning blinked and cast a quick look at Deacon. “She’s—it’s not like that. We haven’t—”
“Kid, he’s teasing. Though the pretty little blond at the end of the street is staring holes through your back,” said Deacon. He lurched backward as Browning whipped around to stare, the spray from the water bucket drenching them all. The young man didn’t stop for apologies, dropping the bucket as he strode, then trotted toward the smiling girl in question.
Vendrick shook his head, a puzzled look on his face. “Got it bad, doesn’t he?”
“Might as well enjoy it while it lasts. Lust and love never killed anyone.” Kincaid wiped the water on his chest, flinging droplets from his fingers. “But I’m not sure the fights are a safe courting place for Browning’s girl. Stromer might take it into his mind she’s someone he could leverage.”
Deacon scrubbed at his face and exhaled. “Doubt Browning will let her get close enough for that. He’s smart enough not to trust Stromer. But with us there, her safety shouldn’t become an issue.”
“You never know. Stromer lives for drama,” said Vendrick. “Evidently, he doesn’t consider blood enough entertainment for the spectators. He likes everyone stirred up. Hungry.”
Then Stromer would be waiting a long time. Deacon’s survival instincts controlled his hunger, food and fight managed in precise balance by sharing command with his inner beast. No amount of Stromer’s riling would ruin Deacon’s fight. He’d eat just fine and win his fight tonight as he had those of the past few weeks. As fight headliners, he and Vendrick probably gained more attention than they needed. Still, money was money, and a good fight placated his beast.
Just a few more fights and he’d drop back into obscurity. A reputation wasn’t the reason he’d picked Seattle for his next job. After the next week or two, the city water lines would be finished and the new hydrants installed. Each individual property would handle its own plumbing needs from that point on.
He’d be long gone by then, finished with his reconnaissance of the local shifters and their loyalties and weaknesses. No need to bond or become memorable. He’d be better off in a new town with a new job, no ties, and secure with the knowledge that few people knew of his past and fewer still cared.
Which brought him back to Stromer’s unveiled offer of Amelia Danger’s working ladies as a prize.
The idea left a sour taste in his mouth. Oh, he patronized her establishment, as did most of the transient workers in town. But he only visited when he could ensure the blood lust didn’t crawl beneath his skin. Keeping his treatment of the ladies respectful and being mindful of their pleasure, he indulged only in those who approached him without fear. He didn’t consider their emotions of no consequence or their bodies as disposable property. They deserved fair treatment.
Life was hard, and he found the ladies good company, not that he’d ever slept with the same woman twice. Sexual urges seemed to affect humans differently but, despite his longer shifter lifespan, one satiating turn with a woman had always been enough to satisfy him and curb his beast.
“Stromer and Reichert aren’t doing the girls any favors by treating them like prizes. Doesn’t seem like a business tactic Amelia would endorse,” said Vendrick.
Kincaid kicked at a popped nail on the sidewalk. “Rumor has it Reichert owns the paper on Danger’s establishment. Bought it from the bank just before she was free and clear, and raised the interest.”
Deacon lifted a brow toward Vendrick. “A deceit harsh enough to make even the most gracious business woman mad enough to kill.”
Vendrick halfheartedly slugged him in the shoulder, almost ditching him back into the hole he’d worked in for the last ten hours. “She’s tough. She’ll stick it to him every chance she gets. Meet later as usual?”
“Grub from the canteen, then check out the docks,” Deacon confirmed as he rubbed his shoulder again and swept a look over the pockets of workers and militia now headed for dinner.
This morning, pallets had been stacked high with lumber, bricks, and supplies. They lay empty now, awaiting collection and refill for tomorrow.
The crews and their speed boasted a strong testament to the fortitude of the city’s founders and the compassion of its neighboring townships. The economy up and down the seaboard needed a thriving harbor and sister of enterprise for everyone to capitalize on the new frontier’s wealth. Deacon considered building western towns dependent on new railways for their commerce as much of a gambler’s game as prospecting for gold. But once the workers resurrected this city, the odds for victory increased exponentially.
To meddle with that strategy seemed pointless. But while today’s accident appeared random, Deacon’s instincts never failed him. The pipe dropping was deliberate.
He’d heard the accounts of nightly disturbances riling the migrant workers living in tents on the outskirts of town. Rumors abounded of vicious animal sightings where none should exist. People whispered of strange attacks when the moon was dark. Longevity provided him perspective—life held no coincidences. The longer you lived, the more patterns you saw. And someone was poking at the edges of Seattle’s rising success.
What didn’t make sense was why? Everyone stood to gain from the rebuild.
Deacon spent every night canvassing the neighborhood for signs of rogue shifters or even troublesome humans. Vendrick’s recent participation in the search made the job quick work. So far, whoever was causing the public hysteria remained behind the scenes. He glanced toward his sentinel partner. “Did you hear anything new regarding the troubles?”
“Wouldn’t matter, I was born to expect trouble. I expect it will find us.” Vendrick turned with a triumphant white grin, his eyes shining like brilliant blue ice chips dotted with silver. Deacon hoped he’d never be on the opposing end of that expression. “If my reading of Stromer’s poorly withheld excitement is any indication, I expect it will find us in the ring tonight and not on the docks.”
The first hit rapped Deacon’s jaw like a love tap.
The crowd roared, demanding retaliation.
Deacon smiled, jockeying from one foot to the other, flexing on the balls of his feet. The rush of sweat, blood, and testosterone swirled in a heady mix of eagerness and tension throughout his body. He raised hi
s fist and thumbed his nose at the bricklayer, who topped him by fifty more muscled pounds. All the while, his wolf growled in anticipation. Bring it—I dare you.
A second quick snap to his jaw ended his egotistic, internal rhetoric and spurred his fists into action. He lunged forward, the crowd standing around his ring a gray blur as he struck.
One swift right punch. Two undercut jabs.
Pacing and rhythm drove him as he danced the man backward across the ring. Euphoria swelled along with the heat in his muscles and the ensuing cathartic energy release.
As always, the most difficult part of each fight involved restraining his potential and reminding himself that slow and easy met his needs. He had no intention of killing the human ignorant enough to step into the ring with a man born with more strength than Hercules and more baggage than Prometheus. Deacon believed a man’s desire for the final pot of winnings shouldn’t brand him as his victim. Though the idea of only using fists provided some humorous challenge to Deacon’s wolf.
Fist bones contacted with rib flesh in a quick, tight smack.
Deacon grinned harder and sidestepped a blow. Bring it.
Responding as if he heard the taunt, his opponent dodged the next hit and pranced forward with a flurry of flying fists.
Deacon forced himself to take another one on the jaw, the orientation spinning him toward the outside of the ring and into Stromer’s view. Then he pivoted back with a responding punch. His competitor landed on the sawdust floor on his knees. After a hard gasp and a wavering bob, the man collapsed.
One down. The bell rang to clear the ring for a new match, and Deacon checked the tent’s perimeter before slipping under the rope toward the partitioned fighters’ section. The crowd parted, the previous match forgotten in favor of new bets and fresh contenders. The highly charged atmosphere pulled in many from the day crews. Big men with hard jobs in need of excitement and release, even if they absorbed it vicariously. Many were here because they worked months without their families. Some needed an outlet aside from the services of Amelia’s local ladies. A few escorted women attended as well, those who gleaned as much enjoyment from an exhibition of brawn and blood as the wealthy patrons who brought them.
