Beast of All

by J. C. McKenzie

  “How many what?” she asked.

  “How many innocent lives did I take?” The words burned my mouth. I’d killed before, but not innocents, not knowingly. I had to know the truth. Did I even deserve protection?

  “Well…” Christine hesitated.

  My eyes popped open to find her calculating gaze trained on my face.

  “No one’s sure—”

  “None,” Wick interrupted.

  We swiveled to find him standing at the end of the hall. His formidable frame tense, his hands on his hips.

  “None?” I sucked in a breath.

  “You caused a lot of property damage and scared the shit out of people, but you harmed no one.” He paused. “Well, aside from your attackers. You annihilated them.”

  An invisible weight lifted off my shoulders, and air rushed out of my lungs.

  “There must’ve been enough of you left to stop the beast from outright chaos.” His chocolate gaze flicked to Christine. His jaw clenched.

  Christine stiffened beside me, and her thin lips compressed.

  After an awkward silence and whatever cerebral conversation Christine and Wick had through their pack bond, Wick nodded at both of us and walked away.

  “Whatever,” Christine muttered, more to herself than to me. She flipped her perfectly coiffed hair. “Personally, I don’t see why we’re helping you. They say we need you to stand against the Pharaoh, but I just don’t get it. Why should we fear him? He killed Lucien, and set us free.”

  The Pharaoh was also responsible for the deaths of a lot of people, many not guilty of anything besides being in the wrong place at the wrong time. The Pharaoh’s control over the area instead of Lucien’s did not bode well for anybody, including the Werewolves. Christine was too short-sighted to see the big picture.

  “Sleep well.” Christine smirked, probably knowing perfectly well the nightmare-riddled rest I would get tonight.

  I watched her bony ass saunter down the hall to follow Wick.

  What she didn’t know was I would find a little comfort tonight. The darkness still plagued me, but at least I wasn’t a true monster.

  No, I hadn’t joined the ranks of the truly deplorable, but I still planned to cut my enemies down.

  All of them. Every. Damn. One.

  Chapter Eight

  Reality check

  “How is it one careless match can start a forest fire, but it takes a whole box to start a campfire?”

  ~Charles R. Smith

  Strong fingers slid through my hair, coming to rest on each cheek, cupping my face.

  “Beautiful,” a silken voice whispered. A purr rumbled through the air and vibrated against my body. “Beautiful.”

  My eyes popped open, and the intensity of Tristan’s sapphire gaze bore into my soul.

  “Tristan,” I breathed.

  His lips tugged at the corner.

  “Tristan…” My face heated. The tender expansion in my chest, the one I associated with my love for the Wereleopard Alpha, grew, almost painfully, and pushed against my ribcage. The pressure squeezed my lungs.

  Tristan’s smile froze. The corners dipped down. His eyes widened.

  I wrenched back. My arms morphed into my beast limbs, black and scaly, cradling a broken, dying man. Oozing with blood, cold against my beast lap, his body racked with each shuddered breath. Would this be his last?

  Please Feradea, No.

  “Andy…”

  A sob bubbled up my throat.

  “Andy. I love…you.”

  And just like that, the warmth of sunlight I had grasped for only a brief moment slipped through my reach. Tristan’s last breath shook through his body, his purr now gone, his warmth forever leached away. With the sweet air expelled from his mouth, his citrus and sunshine scent, the one laced with honeysuckles, the one that reminded me of sex on the beach, faded…faded and turned to something dark, something morbid and sad. Death.

  “No,” I whispered.

  The beast pushed.

  “Noooooo!” My talons dug into his dead flesh. The beast flowed through me, over me, everywhere, as fury slid to replace the overwhelming sadness. The beast took over.

  My resistance gave way as I surrendered to her.

  I stepped within myself, sealed the steely doors on my loss and let her reign.

  Together, we roared.

  ****

  Jolting awake, I bolted upright in the foreign bed. Warm hands squeezed my bare shoulders and gently pushed me into the bed.

  “Shhh…Andy, you’re having a nightmare. You’re safe.” Wick’s whiskey and cream voice rolled over me and soothed the goosebumps prickling along my limbs. His scent soaked into my skin and settled my rattled nerves. “You’re safe, and you’re okay.”

  “There’s nothing okay about any of this.” My voice quivered. Weak. Pathetic. My stomach churned. I promised myself never to be a victim again. Yet, here I was, drenched in sweat, stuck to sheets while the remnants of my nightmare slipped away and left me drained. Soothed and comforted by my ex, whose heart I’d essentially ripped out and stomped on, made my self-loathing all the more poignant.

  Wick’s kind gaze widened as I turned to him.

  I didn’t need his pity. I didn’t need, or want, any of this. “What are you doing here? Picking up the scraps?”

  Wick recoiled. Something tender and vulnerable flashed across his gaze before it darkened. The burnt cinnamon of anger rolled off his body. His hands flew off my bare skin as if acid leached from my pores instead of sweat.

  “I know you’re hurting, Andy,” Wick said, gaze hard. “So I’ll forgive you for that, but don’t forget who the real enemy is.”

  I sucked in a deep breath.

  “Everyone will be here in an hour to discuss a plan. Get dressed. Things changed while you were gone.” He jerked up off the bed and stomped away. The door shut softly against his palpable anger.

  ****

  Stan, Lucus, Veronika, Wick, Christine, Mel, and a few more of Wick’s pack sat around the living room watching me, some with smiles, and some with scrutiny. I had an epiphany of what zoo animals must feel like. Clint also made an appearance, but he stood off to the side, sneering at his non-premium whiskey. Of course, Wick had the good stuff; he just didn’t share it with Lucien’s former human servant.

  Apparently, Sid told the Witches not to call the “big gun” until it was time for action. Or maybe he intended his comment solely for Veronika.

  Hard to tell with that one.

  I ignored Christine’s glare and Wick’s anger; choosing instead to focus on Stan’s face as he talked, and Mel’s warm presence beside me while she held my hand.

  “So, I’m fired?” I asked Stan. My lungs constricted. Sure, I’d slaughtered a number of mercenaries in my apartment before going MIA for two months. Obviously, that warranted some sort of disciplinary action with the Vancouver Police Department. To fire me without notice seemed a bit too efficient for a VPD termination process. They loved paperwork.

  “Not yet. But if or when she gets her shit together…” He deepened his voice and added a little sauce.

  “Direct Lafleur quote?” Lafleur was the precinct’s chief, and he’d taken a huge, unprecedented step to hire me for my supernatural skills. The first known supe hired by the VPD since the Purge, which occurred over eighty years ago. And I’d blown it. Fuck.

  Stan nodded. “There’ll be some sort of disciplinary hearing. But I wouldn’t get my hopes up.”

  My mind raced. Maybe there was a way to salvage my career. I was part goddess, after all. Surely, that could impress a few of the upper brass.

  “I’m not sure any amount of sweet talking can convince them to keep you.” Stan eyed me as if he read my thoughts.

  Wick cleared his throat before commenting. “Being sweet is not exactly your strong point.”

  I winced, catching his tone and his reference to our earlier conversation. “I’m not sure I can return, even if I wanted to…”

  Mel squeezed my han
d. Christine smirked. Most looked away.

  “Well, your nature is no longer a secret.” Stan shifted in the large chair. He looked ready to spring up the second any of the Werewolves snarled at him.

  I bristled at his words as unease crept up my spine.

  “Like, at all,” Mel piped in.

  Stan nodded. “After you thrashed around like some hopped up wrecking ball, the experts started researching and appearing on the news. And then…” He trailed off, and his face pinched inward.

  Not good. “And then?”

  Stan took a deep breath. “And then the documentaries started. You’d already disappeared by then, but the crime scene at your apartment and the path of destruction leading away from it not only gave away your connection and identity, but the…cause of your fury.” He looked down at his laced fingers, obviously uncomfortable referring to Tristan’s murder.

  Or maybe the inhuman growl rippling through my throat made him twitchy.

  “You’re somewhat of a celebrity now,” Jess, a female Werewolf in Wick’s pack said. “Weirdos hold vigils outside your apartment, waiting for your return.”

  “Man, that must’ve pissed off the boys.” The words fell out of my mouth. I froze.

  As soon as my brain recalled my Witch neighbours, Ben especially, my body stiffened. A sickening weight sank in my stomach. This whole time I’d felt sorry for myself. I hadn’t once thought of my Witch friends and what kind of trouble they might be in.

  “Andy—” Stan said, then abruptly stopped.

  Oh, Feradea! I knew. His tone and scrunched face told me everything. Ben and his den had handed themselves over to the Elders for punishment over three months ago for a botched Demon summoning and failure to report. At the time, I agreed to be patient for a month or two, but if it took longer, I promised to get them.

  “Oh, god. Oh, Feradea. I failed him. I failed them all.” Everyone. Including Tristan. “Where is he? Where’s Ben?”

  Lucus hesitated before answering. “The Elders still have the entire den.”

  I lurched from my seat and staggered toward the exit. Everyone stepped back and created a path. My head pounded. My vision swam. My heart lodged in my throat. I failed them.

  Wick’s strong hand closed around my upper arm, and stopped me a few yards from the front door. “What are you going to do?”

  “I promised him! I promised I would come for him.” I sagged against Wick. “I’ve already failed Tristan. I can’t fail… I need to get them.”

  His hand relaxed its hold, his warmth soaked into my skin. “And you will, but not like this. He’ll understand, Andy. You can’t attack the Elders in your current condition,” he whispered into my ear, and stroked my hair.

  “Broken,” I spat.

  He hesitated. “Damaged. Take the time to heal and form a proper plan.”

  Wick’s strong arms closed around me. His body relaxed and his burnt cinnamon scent smoothed away, replaced briefly by lavender and hope, before he shut it down. I clung to his shirt and his solid chest beneath, and cried as Wick continued to comfort me with his silent presence.

  After an eon, the sobs eased and the pain withdrew, not gone, but cleared so I could think. The beast pressed against the barrier and for a split second, her wail trickled through my veins.

  Had I imagined hearing her?

  Could she be reached? Had the drugs finally worn off?

  I needed her.

  Beast? You there? I called out.

  My core vibrated as if I tried to hula-hoop without the hoop, but no answer came.

  Cat? I called for my mountain lion. Only silence answered. I’d gone through this before, but some sick compulsion drove me to try again, crying and hollering for my feras, one by one.

  Red? Summoning the fox fera I’d dispelled long ago resulted in eerie quiet as well. My shoulders dropped. Surely, the drugs the SRD injected me with should’ve worn off by now. Or was this permanent?

  I swallowed another sob before it bubbled out of my mouth.

  “We’ll find out where the Witches are, and when you’re good, we’ll make a plan,” Lucus said somewhere behind me.

  I stepped back. Wick’s arms tightened briefly before releasing me. Christine’s venomous glare bore into my face from over his shoulder. She clutched her fashion magazine with a death grip, knuckles white.

  “What if I can’t fix what they did to me?” I asked.

  An ache seeded in the middle of my chest and grew outward. If I somehow managed to heal the damage the SRD inflicted on my nature, I had the means and allies to extract the Witches from the ultra-powerful Elders.

  Stan came to stand beside me and rested his hand on my shoulder. “You’ll fix it.”

  “What if I can’t?” I snapped.

  Silence filled the room. The traffic outside hummed with a constant rumble. Laughter from the nearby park trickled in, while everyone in Wick’s house remained frozen.

  The Andy they knew never doubted herself. The Andy they knew never said, “I can’t.”

  “Then we revise the plan,” Wick’s voice rumbled, he squeezed my arm before walking away.

  The group dispersed, and Clint moved from his corner toward the door. His silence for the majority of the meeting made my skin itch. I caught up to him before he escaped.

  “Why are you and Allan really helping?” I asked. Was it just because of the Pharaoh?

  He paused with his hand on the door handle and turned to me. “Maybe we just want to see your pain.”

  I shook my head. Clint was his own brand of asshat, but his words didn’t quite fit. “Not that.”

  Clint shrugged. “You’ve pointed out more than once how I like to break women.”

  Clint’s previous comments and actions clicked into place. Yes, he was rough with the ladies. Even though they were willing participants, Clint held an unhealthy attitude toward women, and I despised him for it. I stepped forward. “I think you like to break women, so they don’t have a chance to break you.”

  Something flickered across Clint’s face. “You know nothing.”

  “I know damaged goods when I see it.”

  Clint snorted, but his eyes cut away and confirmed the truth. I reached out and touched his arm, which stiffened at the contact.

  “Like recognizes like.”

  Clint turned to me, and something softened at the corner of his eyes before his lips formed a hard straight line. He slowly removed my hand. “If you’re going to throw a pity party, I’m not attending.”

  “Fine. Why are you helping?”

  Clint sighed and pulled the door open. “Because you’re our best and only chance to take down the Pharaoh before he assumes control of the entire Lower Mainland and every supe within it.”

  I froze. Dangit, I kind of knew that, but his words sent my stomach twisting into a knot. Sweat broke out along my skin. Ben wasn’t the only one counting on my recovery. Everyone did.

  “Heal fast, Carus.” He walked out the door and closed it softly behind him.

  Chapter Nine

  Rude awakening

  “I liked being angry. It made me feel strong.”

  ~Johnny Ramone

  Sharp beast talons shredded through weak human flesh. Blood splattered against smooth obsidian scales and the soft black fur covering my belly. The life force of my victims trickled down my face.

  Dead. All of them dead. Ripped apart by my fury and rage. Useless guns lay strewn around their limp, ragged bodies. Their familiar scents drowned in blood and death. This group had attacked me before. The shirt of one of the shooters lay ripped open, exposing scars from a previous mountain lion attack.

  In the center of sprawled bodies, Tristan lay dying. His chest shuddered as he struggled to breathe and his Wereleopard nature tried desperately, vainly, and unsuccessfully, to heal the damage wrought by the machine guns.

  In the distance, sirens wailed.

  I stumbled to Tristan and gently collected him in my large beast arms, before shifting back to human.
r />   His sapphire eyes opened to look at me with an unfocused gaze. His mouth twitched in an attempt to smile. He coughed, and blood bubbled out to coat his lips.

  I tried to breathe. I couldn’t suck in any air. The oxygen lodged in my throat.

  Stuck.

  Smothered.

  My eyes popped open. The remnants of my nightmare slid away as my brain reeled and attempted to make sense of…what?

  A pillow-top mattress cushioned my body. Something large and soft covered my face. A familiar rosemary aroma filled the room. The scent that always smelled off, a little sour, as if her vindictive, jealous nature tainted her very essence.

  “You should’ve died that day,” Christine seethed, pressing the pillow down harder on my face. “It should’ve been you.”

  My arms flailed. I brought my legs up and kicked her off my body. She sprawled backward and fell off the bed.

  I sat up, dragging in quick, ragged breaths. My vision blurred before clearing. Christine staggered to her feet and clutched a large pillow, skeletal fingers turning white from the pressure.

  “You?” My brain clicked into gear. Mel’s warning to watch myself. Multiple attacks from mercenaries. The last attempt, laden with their familiar scents as I brought them down, one by one, beside Tristan’s dying body.

  “You!”

  Christine snarled, chucked the pillow to the side, and launched herself at me.

  As a Werewolf, Christine possessed uncanny strength for a woman who looked like a sneeze would snap her in half. As a Shifter, stronger than a norm, yet weaker than a Were, my strength was dwarfed by hers. I had training on my side though. And rage. As fire raced through my veins and red stained my vision, and we grappled on the bed, I quickly gained advantage.

  I’m going to kill this bitch, I hissed at Wick through mental communication. One Carus perk not stolen from me by the drugs.

  With a combination of hand, elbow, and knee strikes, I knocked the wind out of Christine and sent her reeling back—far enough to allow me time to stand. My chest burned as I sucked in quick drags of air. My muscles ached from lack of use in the lab. My knuckles popped. The beast pressed against the barrier. Her caged roar echoed through my bones, but the artificial barrier held.