Beta

by Reine, SM

  CONTENTS

  Beta

  Copyright

  About

  Dedication

  Title Page

  I

  II

  III

  IV

  V

  VI

  VII

  VIII

  IX

  X

  XI

  XII

  XIII

  XIV

  XV

  XVI

  XVII

  XVIII

  XIX

  XX

  BETA

  Book Two of

  War of the Alphas

  SM REINE

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  This book is sold DRM-free so that it can be enjoyed in any way the reader sees fit. Please keep all links and attributions intact when sharing. All rights reserved.

  Cover model photos sourced from Taria Reed at The Reed Files.

  Copyright © SM Reine 2015

  Published by Red Iris Books

  1180 Selmi Drive, Suite 102

  Reno, NV 89512

  SERIES BY SM REINE

  The Descent Series

  The Ascension Series

  Seasons of the Moon

  The Cain Chronicles

  Preternatural Affairs

  Tarot Witches

  War of the Alphas

  Want to know when I have a new book out?

  Sign up for my new release email alerts!

  ABOUT BETA

  Deirdre Tombs has lived most her life as the weakest of shapeshifters—an Omega who can’t turn into any animal. Now the terrorist known as Everton Stark has made her his Beta. He wants her by his side when he defeats the Office of Preternatural Affairs, kills Rylie Gresham, and becomes Alpha of all shifters.

  The faeries from the Winter Court have an offer to make Stark’s domination easier. They know where to find a cursed sword that can kill anything, and they’ll give it to him…for a price.

  Deirdre’s the only one who can keep Stark from getting this powerful weapon—if she wants to. But as brutal as Stark may be, he’s also the only one who can give Deirdre what she wants.

  Vengeance.

  And Deirdre doesn’t know where her loyalties lie anymore.

  For those in the AIC, who have talked me off the ledge way too many times this year. Thanks ladies.

  —I—

  Working a new moon at the preternatural detention center was a real treat, rumored to be as good as Christmas Day or the two times a year Reuben Wheatley’s wife would have sex with him: his birthday and their anniversary.

  It was supposed to be that much fun, anyway. Reuben didn’t know. They only activated the maximum-security measures at the detention center for three reasons: full moons, new moons, and breakouts.

  But nobody ever broke out of the detention center—their layers of security made that impossible—and Reuben worked day shift, so he never got to turn their security measures on.

  He always heard the guys talking about it, though. They said how much fun it was to engage the electrified bars on the prison cells and watch fur fly. The stink was supposed to be awful (“you’ll want to burn your uniform by the time morning rolls around!”), but the hilarity was worth it.

  Plus, guards on the moons were issued silver-plated batons, and witches were allowed to cast any spell they wanted. Everything short of murder was considered “justified force.”

  When was the last time Reuben had gotten to throw a good fireball? It must have been years.

  Now he’d finally, after a long decade of service, been assigned to a night shift on the new moon.

  It wasn’t as interesting as he’d hoped. At least, not in the early hours.

  Everyone had gotten whiny around dinnertime, but that was nothing new. The prisoners were lifers. They knew they’d never see anything outside the detention center again, so they whined constantly, day and night.

  Reuben got to smack a guy around in the dinner line, though. He’d whipped the baton across his face and watched the blisters emerge on exposed skin and felt a tingle.

  That had already been a highlight of his week, and it was just beginning.

  A couple hours later, everyone was back in their cells, and there was no activity on the security monitors that justified Reuben throwing fireballs, so he was kicking back to enjoy a little lunch.

  Pastrami, sauerkraut, and provolone on a nice crusty rye. His wife sure treated him right.

  He peeled the paper off of his sandwich as he watched the monitors. Cellblock D was looking rowdy. Those were mostly werewolves.

  Pack critters were worst on the full and new moons. They wanted to be with others of their kind so much it drove them crazy well before the change actually hit.

  Reuben hoped one of them would go moon-sick before the change so he could execute them.

  He took a big bite, relishing the flavor of his sandwich. The prisoners had eaten some weird meat loaf that night that had been made of offal ground into slime and baked into patties. None of Reuben’s charges had eaten anything as rich and peppery as pastrami since they’d been detained.

  Knowing that made his sandwich even more delicious.

  Mayonnaise dripped onto Reuben’s breast pocket, sliding down the silver pentacle pin.

  “Ah, for the love of…”

  He bit back the curse as he scrubbed at his uniform with a napkin. He’d already gotten written up twice for looking “unprofessional” on the job, and if he got caught with lunch decorating his chest, that’d be a third write-up for sure. Reuben would never work another moon.

  Reuben was searching for a clean napkin when he noticed the blinking orange light on his panel. It indicated that exterior defenses were no longer electrified.

  He sucked pastrami grease off of his forefinger and tapped the light hard.

  Malfunctioning?

  There was no way anyone would have disengaged the exterior defenses on a new moon. Most of the prisoners were two hours or less from shifting.

  But there was that orange light, just blinking away.

  He pressed the button on his radio. “Hey, sector four, are you with me? This is Wheatley in the surveillance room. I’ve got an alarm here that says our defenses aren’t electrified.”

  When he released the button, there was nothing but static in response.

  Reuben tried again.

  “This is Wheatley in surveillance. Are you there, sector four?” Still silence. “Sector two?”

  They were all quiet.

  He stuffed the last of his sandwich in his cheek and stood, wiping his hands on his slacks. Forget looking unprofessional. He’d been looking forward to a night of beating up shifter scum, not a real problem. If the defenses went down, then any shifter who broke out of his cell could make a break for it, and he didn’t even want to think about all the paperwork that would lead to.

  Reuben opened his locker, grabbed the silver baton.

  When he turned back around, all of the lights on the security panel were orange.

  He nearly choked on the last bite of sandwich.

  “What the…?” He stared at the labels as each orange light turned to red, one by one.

  Exterior defenses. Internal defenses. Electrical in Cellblock A, B, and…gods above, all of them.

  Red everywhere.

  The cameras turned off last. Every monitor went dark.

  “We’ve got a serious problem,” he said into his radio, though he now feared that there was no response because there was nobody left to respond.

  The door to the security room slammed open.

  A man strode in, flanked by two others. The leader was broad and square in stature. H
is beard was trimmed short with bolts of red on either side of his mouth, and his hair was buzzed. A tattoo marked the side of his neck. And his eyes were gold.

  Those details made him look like any of the prisoners contained in the detention center.

  Carrying a gun and wearing tactical gear separated him from the cattle, though.

  Worst of all, Reuben had seen his face on the news a few times, and never for good reasons.

  Everton Stark.

  The terrorist who had been using shifters to murder mundane humans in major cities all across North America. A radical who rejected the Alpha werewolf’s control and wanted to disband the Office of Preternatural Affairs, including the detention center that Reuben worked for. A monster of a man who had executed people on camera to get his message out.

  That Everton Stark.

  “Get down!” Stark roared as he entered.

  Every spell Reuben had learned at basic training flew right out of his skull.

  He only knew one thing: if he “got down,” he’d be dead.

  Dropping the baton, Reuben whipped the notebook out of his back pocket. The crisp pages had never been used before. They were stamped with the OPA logo, and each had a rune containing powerful battle magic.

  Reuben yanked the first page out. Flung it into the air.

  He spoke a word of power.

  Two things happened at once.

  The first thing was that magic unfurled inside Reuben, drawing off of the crystals embedded in the walls of the security room and channeling through the rune that was printed on the page. The rune was instantly glowing. His attackers wouldn’t be able to see it—they weren’t witches—but to him, it was blindingly bright.

  The second thing was that Stark squeezed the trigger of his gun.

  Pain exploded in Reuben’s foot. The bullet passed through his boot and embedded into the linoleum underneath.

  It was so bad that Reuben couldn’t process the pain at first. His body numbed with shock. It was probably the shock that saved him—because he kept shoving all that magic straight into the rune.

  The spellpage ignited.

  The guard’s forearm flooded with heat, like a blowtorch leading from his elbow to his fingertips. Brilliant red flame lanced through the air.

  The lockers shuddered with the force of the magic, metal popping, walls groaning.

  At last. A fireball.

  Stark leaped out of the way of Reuben’s spell.

  The man on his left didn’t react as fast. The fireball engulfed him. He slapped at himself as he screamed, trying to put it out.

  “Stop, drop, and roll, moron!” shouted the third person. She shoved her flaming companion to the ground, smothering the flames with her jacket.

  Reuben hadn’t given her much of a look when she’d come in. Stark was a lot more interesting than the curvy black would-be biker chick at his side. But he couldn’t help but notice that she was hot, really hot—like the kind of hot where his wife would slap him just for looking.

  He looked a little too long. He didn’t see retaliation for the fireball coming.

  Stark smashed into Reuben.

  His momentum forced both of them against the control panel, cracking the glass plate protecting all those blinking red lights. The sheer speed of it made Reuben’s mind whirl. He’d seen fast prisoners—they were all fast. But this guy was something else.

  “Get off of me!” Reuben said, ripping another page out of his notebook.

  Stark grabbed his wrist and slammed it into one of the security monitors. The protective glass shattered. Reuben’s knuckles scraped through and punched the plasma screen on the other side.

  “Oh gods!”

  Stark gripped Reuben’s jaw in one hand, surveying him coolly. The shifter was even more intimidating up close. He was so damn relaxed, even though one of his compatriots was still on fire behind him and he’d shot Reuben in the damn foot.

  “I need keys,” Stark said.

  The feeling was returning to Reuben’s foot. And it was not a good feeling.

  “Keys?” Reuben asked. His whole body was drenched with sweat from the pain and adrenaline and the flow of magic.

  “For every door in this place. Keys.”

  Stark wanted to let everyone out of their cells.

  This madman, this radical shifter who wanted to take over for the current Alpha—he wanted to release a few hundred angry prisoners on the night of the new moon.

  “We don’t have keys,” Reuben said.

  Stark reached into Reuben’s mouth. His fingers tasted like gun oil.

  He snapped a molar out of Reuben’s gums.

  Pain erupted up the side of his face. The taste of blood flooded his mouth.

  This time, the string of curse words that came out of him were muffled by all the fluids on his tongue, which he spit onto Stark’s face. Not on purpose—Reuben wasn’t that stupid. But the shifter didn’t even flinch at the spray of blood.

  “Keys,” Stark said.

  Any loyalty Reuben might have felt to his job was gone. Long gone. Like, in the land of the dinosaurs gone.

  “There’s another security room. It controls all the doors. We don’t have any keys!” He wasn’t certain that Stark could even understand him spluttering through the blood. Reuben could barely understand himself.

  He was in so much pain, more pain than he’d ever felt in his life, even worse than when he’d fought the demons coming out of Hell’s fissure in 2014. And he’d gotten impaled on one of those awful blunt swords during that war, too. Still had the scar and everything.

  Stark was setting a new bar for pain in Reuben’s life.

  “Take my associate to the other security room.” Stark shoved Reuben into the arms of the female shifter.

  She gripped his collar and held him at arm’s length, lip curled as though she found all the blood repulsive.

  “Where is it?” she asked.

  Reuben raised a trembling finger and pointed at the wall, indicating the hallway beyond.

  “We’ll reconvene in the mine shaft, Tombs,” Stark said. He lifted the burned shifter off the ground with one fist and patted him on the chest, as if to tell him to man up and get on his feet. Weirdly, it worked. Probably because his melted flesh was already healing.

  Shifters. Damage sponges, all of them.

  As a witch, Reuben didn’t have the ability to heal rapidly without the assistance of magic. It would be weeks to heal his foot and jaw. He was feeling lightheaded.

  The woman dragged him out of the security room.

  Two of his coworkers were dead in the hallway, slumped against the wall with neat bullet holes airing out their brains.

  Comfit and Lovejoy. The two of them had wives. One of them had kids.

  Both of them were dead.

  Oh gods. Oh gods. Oh gods.

  “Point me,” the woman said.

  Reuben tried to speak. His left leg warmed from the thigh down, and he realized that his bladder had released.

  The indignity of it would have been bad enough if he hadn’t peed himself while such a smoking hot woman was inches away.

  “Point me,” she said again, shaking him hard.

  He gestured weakly up the hall. It was in the opposite direction from where Stark was walking.

  She marched him along the path he’d indicated. Reuben tried to keep up with her despite the limp, his rapidly cooling left leg, and the throb of pain diffusing through his skull.

  As soon as they got past the boiler, the woman shoved him. His back slammed into the wall. Her elbow dug into his throat.

  She pressed a forefinger to her lips, indicating that he should be silent, and leaned around the boiler to watch the other members of her team walk away.

  As if Reuben was stupid enough to draw Stark’s attention to him again.

  Stark and the other shifter headed to Cellblock A as if they’d been there before and knew where they were going. Once they rounded the corner, the woman’s elbow eased up on Reuben’s throat.<
br />
  “Is there a security override in here somewhere, Reuben?” she whispered, reading the name off of his badge. “Can we reengage the electricity on the individual cells?”

  He stared at her. Was she insane? Wasn’t that the exact opposite of what Stark wanted?

  “Don’t kill me,” he said.

  “My name’s Deirdre,” she said. “I’m not going to hurt you. Don’t be afraid.”

  It was one molar and a busted foot too late for that. “What do you want from me?” Reuben asked. His gums were clotting, but blood still trickled out of the side of his mouth when he spoke.

  “I want a security override,” she said patiently.

  Surprise dawned over him, slow and unpleasant.

  This woman was a traitor to Stark. Not just a shifter—one of the most worthless creatures on the planet—but a stupid shifter, and probably suicidal to boot.

  “There isn’t one in here,” Reuben said. “I don’t even know how you disengaged everything in the first place.”

  “Stark has an ally in your maintenance crew and there’s a separate electrical system for your security defenses. All it took was a well-placed EMP on the right generator and…” She snapped her fingers. He flinched at the sound.

  “If you’ve fried the generator, then there’s no override that can bring it back.” It took Reuben’s brain a second to catch up with his mouth. “Oh my gods, there’s nothing to bring the power back. Everyone’s going to break out. All these filthy silver-suckers—”

  She slapped him.

  It was probably a light slap, considering how strong shifters were. But it made his head ring. Fresh blood flowed through his mouth.

  “Lucky for you, there’s no death penalty for being a prejudiced dill weed,” Deirdre said through gritted teeth. “That means I want to get you and the rest of the staff out of here alive. What’s the escape plan when things go south?”

  There was a disaster recovery plan. Reuben had reviewed it recently. He couldn’t think of any escape routes or meeting points where they might be able to convene with surviving guards.