Blood Oath (Shifters Unlimited Prequels Book 1)

by KH LeMoyne

  From the box containing his shirt, suspenders, and boots, he extricated a rag and wiped his face. His eyes narrowed as he scanned first the crowd and then the fighters straddling benches and chairs at the tent’s edge.

  Browning was nowhere to be seen, and he rarely missed a fight.

  More peculiar, not one shifter existed in the thick swarm of human bodies, a coincidence unusual enough it sent a chill down the back of his neck. Mature and seasoned shifters typically kept to themselves in discrete, small groups. But these fights enticed young shifters keen on sharpening their skills against human muscle. A few even sensed his beast and mistakenly targeted him for conquest. He’d engaged them briefly, long enough for them to understand how a tiger played with a mouse, and long enough for them to fear for their safety.

  Fear was good. He had no issue with instilling a healthy, life-saving measure of fear in a reckless young shifter.

  Movement at the opposite end of the room caught Deacon’s attention. Arms crossed, Stromer stood before Vendrick. As the larger man turned away, Stromer poked him in the arm with his finger and leaned in closer. Deacon didn’t need to see Vendrick’s expression. The rigid bunch of muscle across his back said enough. Sun-bleached hair flying, Vendrick spun toward the ring. Storming like a conquering Dane, he shouldered his way through the crowd as he searched through the sea of faces.

  A patron moved, offering Deacon a view of Kincaid. He stood motionless at center ring, blinking as if plagued by poor vision, the large bruise from his earlier impact with the water pipe now an angry red splotch above his temple.

  Damn it. Deacon lunged forward, pushing through the tightening crowd.

  Vendrick had a standing rule. He didn’t fight anyone less qualified. Period. He’d walked away from fights in similar circumstances before, which was why Stromer worked so hard finding qualified candidates. He’d located a formidable opponent in the South American strongman. The indentured servant from the South Pacific had matched Vendrick for several minutes as well. And the intense betting and huge dollar amounts wagered always made Stromer’s efforts worthwhile.

  A win for Vendrick because he didn’t hold back in a fight, requiring a human opponent with exceptional strength and stature. A win for Stromer because Vendrick’s bouts paid ten times the profits of opening fights between even the fiercest human challengers.

  So why match a midranked farm boy against one of his top-ranked fighters? That Vendrick didn’t quit the fight implied something more important than his rules was at stake. Deacon’s guess—Stromer threatened Kincaid if Vendrick left. But the combination of Kincaid’s earlier injury and Vendrick’s barely restrained fury spelled a tragic outcome.

  “Move aside. Now.” The unmasked hostility in Deacon’s voice carved a path before him. Sliding beneath the ropes, he caught Vendrick’s frozen expression and Stromer’s annoyance. “If anyone takes on the farm boy, it’ll be me.”

  “Wagers have been taken,” snapped Stromer.

  “Wagers can be changed.” Deacon faced the crowd, his hands raised over his head. He turned until he located a familiar image: platinum curls, generous curves, an expensive satin gown, and unblinking attention. Mrs. Amelia Danger sat on the raised viewing stand beyond the first ring of bystanders. Her title of missus alluded to a husband no one had ever seen and most believed had never existed. She attended every fight with a younger male companion. With an eagerness for watching the combat, a detectable lust for blood and sweat, and a keen business sense for wager and risk, she energized the betting for her favorite fighters with a fervor that reached carnal intensity. No doubt she expected her winnings to buy her freedom from Reichert.

  “Patrons, astute men of chance, distinguished guests. Do you want a show?” At their cheers, Deacon shouted to the crowd, “Parting with your money for this uneven match won’t satisfy your needs.”

  More cheers echoed around the ring. He kept his gaze fixed on Amelia, relying on the excited gleam in her eyes to fuel the others into clinching his objective.

  “Choose me to entertain you.” He tilted his head ever so slightly in invitation to the woman.

  “I appreciate his offer.” She stood, her lips curving. “I, for one, need more than a fleeting second of entertainment.” As bawdy laughter swept the room, she raised her voice. “Let Deacon fight.”

  Her broad-shouldered and immaculately dressed companion rose beside her and lifted his voice with the same demand.

  The chant from those around her grew. By the count of ten, the air shook from the vibration of Deacon’s name.

  Satisfied with derailing Stromer, Deacon didn’t turn as Vendrick brushed by him with a growl.

  Stromer paused, leveling a surprisingly satisfied look, and muttered, “You think you’re so clever now, but you’ll regret this, Black.”

  Not bloody likely, but Deacon didn’t have time for whatever petty retribution Stromer planned. Kincaid stood in his corner, a vacant look on his face, the muscles around his mouth strained and taut.

  Deacon hadn’t worked beside the man for weeks to miss the one thing that mattered to Kincaid—hours measured by the dollars he needed to finally bring his family west to join him. So why take such a risk now?

  Stromer excelled in aggravating emotional wounds and pressuring the weak, but pitting Kincaid against Vendrick was a death match. Hardly a result aligned with Stromer’s self-serving desire for wealth and power. A fatal outcome would steer the local militia’s attention to the fights, put a price on Vendrick’s head, and leave Kincaid’s family with only an epitaph. A death in the ring would send the high-stakes customers to safer, closed-door operations and bury the nightly fights.

  With a cost so high, only Reichert could order Vendrick into a match with Kincaid. But why would the man pulling Stromer’s puppet strings end the lucrative venture in the fight tents?

  Deacon retreated to his corner, rolling his shoulders and shaking his arms in a display of loosening muscle, ratcheting the crowd’s anticipation. Whatever Reichert’s reasoning, it didn’t matter right now. Only showmanship and grandstanding would get him through the next several minutes without harming his human coworker. Unfortunately, reassuring Kincaid was also out of the question. With everyone watching, Deacon spread his arms, leaned against the corner post, and gripped the ropes, intending to lock down his beast.

  The bell sounded, and a rush of current surged beneath his skin, tightening his muscles. Deacon snapped his teeth as he spun toward the center of the ring. Damn bad time to have the wolf inside challenge for control. With a silent assurance, he coaxed his animal back. They never waged this internal struggle in true battle. But the distinction between actual threat and paid entertainment was lost on the wolf experiencing the attack. Wasting precious minutes, Deacon lifted his fists to shield his face and murmured a command. Both man and beast needed control to safely take Kincaid down. Too little of his shifter power, and the fight would draw on until one fighter or the other became exhausted.

  From the strange light in Kincaid’s eyes, it seemed he didn’t intend to give in. But time wasn’t on his side. There were no time limits on the rounds, and exhaustion led to miscalculation and fatal choices. A highly questionable rule and one most fighters here understood. The point was to make money from your fight, not put your opponent in the ground.

  Deacon continued muttering as he moved closer. The risk of delivering too much of his power posed the bigger threat. With one swipe, he could turn Kincaid’s head enough to rattle his brains and snap his neck.

  Unaware of the danger of his situation, Kincaid opened with a blow to Deacon’s face.

  Deacon sidestepped and crouched, avoiding the follow-up attempt.

  Sweat already dripped down Kincaid’s face. His mouth pressed into a thin line as he shadowed Deacon’s movement and quickly countered with a glancing blow to Deacon’s injured shoulder.

  The wolf inside snarled at the bite of pain. Deacon shrugged it off and moved backward in double time, avoiding Kincaid’s next punc
h. Determined to make a quick end of this mess, Deacon tucked down and pivoted, hammering a quick series of punches to Kincaid’s midsection. The resounding grunts echoed a successful delivery.

  Now he just needed him off guard. He lunged forward, targeting the jaw. If he reined in his speed and power, the capping blow would take Kincaid to the floor without rendering his brain a mental bowl of mush.

  Instead, heat, power, and pain smacked Deacon in the face, sending him staggering backward several paces. As if a third fighter had entered the ring, a fierce, alien grip of power scraped at Deacon’s skin, seeking entry.

  Kincaid managed a quick shot, a fleabite compared to the hot, burning pressure against Deacon’s will and beast.

  Wrestling for control, Deacon bent over, one hand braced on his knee as he sucked in air.

  The crowd roared. Their rousing cries of Kincaid’s name signaled the betting shift toward the underdog.

  Control barely regained, Deacon shook his head and reassessed Kincaid. His opponent hadn’t launched an illegal kidney shot as Deacon turned his back, but the desperate, glittering sheen in his eyes and his clenched posture remained unchanged. Fists, crouch, tight position of elbows—Kincaid aimed to take him out with a determination reeking of feral—a sour, desperate scent Deacon didn’t usually detect from his friends.

  Fine. Exhaling through his anger, Deacon searched for his beast—and found emptiness. As unsettled by his alter ego’s absence as he was by the intense power still assaulting him, Deacon stepped back. He didn’t expect his wolf would consider Kincaid a threat, but an internal attack warranted attention and perhaps rage. Instead, his wolf retreated.

  Deacon shook his head again, wincing from the throbbing behind his eyes. Kincaid hadn’t hurt him. So, what the f—

  Throwing his shoulders back, he advanced.

  Kincaid danced in fast, his fists a flurry but lacking a coordinated attack. Brief hits glanced off Deacon’s arm, by his chin, and near his stomach as if Kincaid were undergoing a seizure, not executing any strategy. Deacon turned sideways, prepared for his own final assault.

  Power flashed again, thousands of pinpricks teasing, then puncturing his skin, contracting in a tight, strong pulse that threatened to rip his flesh from his bones. His wolf finally growled, less like a challenge than a question. The internal battle cost him precious minutes.

  Kincaid stepped in and landed a knuckle crunch against his jaw.

  Deacon held his ground, blinking. But the energy ties beating at his brain didn’t release, as if bent on taking control. His muscles trembled and twitched. The more he resisted, the tighter the power gripped, yet he couldn’t allow release or submission. Gasping for breath, he called for his wolf and received a wild growl back. No transformation took hold. But the bristling anger between man and wolf would have Deacon’s eyes glittering red. Hopefully a sign Kincaid would heed.

  His opponent’s eyes widened. The first familiar reaction Deacon recognized.

  Kincaid back-stepped several times as he seemed to reconsider his attack. Then his eyes narrowed, his lips pressed tighter, and he came at Deacon full tilt. No feint or slippery side assault, instead he dove in, his pummeling fists a blur.

  Good timing—for Kincaid.

  Deacon fended off what should have been Kincaid’s useless attempts as he strained against the energy gripping him by the throat and balls. Ducking his chin and avoiding an uppercut, he took the jab to his temple. Shiny black spots swam before his eyes, and he dropped to his hands and knees, grappling to remain conscious.

  A solid rush of air pressed inside his eardrums before the tempest crashing at the edges of his sanity retreated. The power’s withdrawal left him alone, his wolf silent, his years of control and training shaken. Slowly blinking as the wheat-colored sawdust shavings beneath his hands took shape again, he noticed a sterile silence.

  “Finish him.”

  “He’s on the ground. I won’t kill him.” Kincaid’s voice broke before a loud, wet smack ripped the air. Deacon felt the air stir around him as Kincaid’s body landed with a heavy thud beside him with a faint heartbeat and no sign of fresh blood. At least he was still alive.

  Deacon drew a slow breath. The power eased enough for him to wrestle back control over his muscles, though the fog before his eyes didn’t dissipate.

  “Took you long enough.” Stromer crouched before him with a sneer. Two guards behind him trained weapons at Deacon’s head. The stands were empty, the crowds gone. How long had he been out?

  Sitting back on his haunches, Deacon glanced slowly around. Kincaid wasn’t on the ground or in the ring. Stromer, backed by his personal security team of armed men and several others bearing Seattle militia uniforms, stood uneasily around him. Each man bore the same rigid composure and bright alertness in their eyes, but now, with Deacon’s return to normality, he could smell their collective fear. Several individuals held their weapons with twitching fingers, the desire to pull the trigger obvious. Not one shifter existed in the bunch, though that didn’t guarantee an opportunity for escape.

  A swift kick against his boot focused him. “Get up. Now.”

  Prepared to pound Stromer into the dirt where he belonged, Deacon stood, then turned and halted as the guards parted. What caught his attention was Vendrick, standing docile as a house cat, a seeming hostage in the center of several more aimed weapons and guards. Deacon followed the quick flicker of Vendrick’s gaze toward the far side of the tent.

  Another of Stromer’s men waited near the exit, Browning slung over his shoulder like a sack of grain, a dark, solid circle of blood staining the back of the young man’s shirt.

  “He’s still alive,” added Stromer. “But whether he remains that way depends on how fast you follow my orders.”

  Deacon cast one more glance toward Vendrick. A brief flare of red sparked but was quickly doused, confirming obedience would last only as long as it took to gain the advantage.

  Then blood would rain.

  Deacon would have preferred walking. The ride offered no relief from the fight’s adrenaline rush still flooding his system, nor did he appreciate a hand shoving him into the back of a wagon with more guards eager for an excuse to shoot. The whiff of chewing tobacco clinging to one of them answered his earlier questions about coincidences and intent. Why Reichert had orchestrated the pipe mishap remained a mystery.

  Browning’s unceremonious dumping into Deacon’s wagon at least allowed him to listen for the young man’s weak heartbeat and reassure himself that Browning was still alive. A second wound sat high on his chest. The blood, now black in the weak moonlight, smelled several hours old, if Deacon’s nose was fully functional again. A knife wound, most likely, since a gun would have roused the attention of patrons attending the fight.

  One of the guards confirmed to Stromer that the patrons were all far enough away not to be a concern, thereby clearing up Deacon’s second question about what had happened during his brief lapse from reality. A paid visit from the militia had scattered the crowd to other venues and caused them to abandon the fight.

  Kincaid was still missing.

  The guards watched him through each rut and bump of the several mile trip, but he caught a glimpse of Vendrick inside the back of another wagon, with no better accommodations. Deacon also detected an unseasonal floral scent that swept the winds from the woods toward him every time they rumbled around another set of turns. Whoever was following them kept a safe but steady distance.

  A sudden lurch signaled their halt. Deacon swayed with the abrupt change. All the wagons stood side by side and surrounded by a half dozen horses and riders, the small army Stromer considered necessary to restrain two shifters. For Deacon had no doubt Stromer knew their secret, and had known all along.

  The militia had disappeared during the wagons’ departure, evidently no longer needed for the next adventure.

  With his wrists still tied behind his back, Deacon jumped from the wagon before his guards had a chance to push him. He braced himself ag
ainst the authoritative shove from behind and refused to march until a guard hauled Browning over his shoulder. They headed toward the gaping entrance of the abandoned railway tunnel. If he recalled correctly, this old path for the railroad access didn’t accommodate the later plans for economic expansion to the south and east and been abandoned. Glancing behind him toward the city, he could glimpse lights twinkling. No one would hear whatever Stromer had planned in the bowels of the rocky tunnel.

  Snarls and cries reached Deacon, though they produced no reaction from his guards. Vendrick, however, stumbled to a halt beside him with a low growl.

  A hard crunch echoed. “Get moving, you hell beast.”

  Vendrick turned on his guard, towering over the man. Deacon didn’t catch the interchange, but the guard backed up quickly and lifted his weapon. Vendrick turned back, muttering under his breath. “All hell shall stir for this.”

  “What is your point here, Stromer?” yelled Deacon. The distraction didn’t ease the tension around Vendrick, but at least the group started moving forward again without any shots fired.

  Stromer passed him briskly and entered the tunnel without so much as a passing glance. “Reichert will explain.”

  Light expanded around the next turn of the tunnel, illuminating rock and railroad ties. Several steps farther, the tunnel opened into a wide, high cavern. Row upon row of cages broke the clear view of the walls. Some cages appeared connected end on end across the dirt floor, with all eventually linked to a center arena.

  Creatures prowled inside the majority of the cages, but not nature’s bounty. These beings were his kind, shifters with his lineage. He recognized several from the fights Stromer organized. Hardly a coincidence. He silently wagered they’d been hunted like animals.