Wild Wolf

by Jennifer Ashley

  “Where is he?”

  “You mean Granger?” Graham asked. “He couldn’t come.”

  “I want him. You were supposed to bring him.”

  “He was busy. I came to get Misty. If she’s hurt, I’m going to kill you and not worry about it. We’re a long way from town—the humans won’t find your bodies for a while.”

  “Yeah, it is a long way, isn’t it?” the gang leader asked.

  Something was wrong. This guy, whoever he was, didn’t look scared enough. He took in Graham’s Collar and Dougal’s. “Two Shifters. I only need one.”

  A growl formed in Graham’s throat. “Need one for what?”

  “I wanted Granger too,” the man said. “But, oh well, I’ll just grab him later.”

  What the hell was he talking about? Misty was inside the shack, Graham knew. He scented her in there, even over the fuel smell of the bikes and the rank odor of humans.

  Flowers and spice. That’s how he always thought of her. Sweet and sassy.

  “Get out of my way,” Graham said.

  The gang leader touched the end of the pistol to Graham’s nose. “No.”

  “I warned him, right?” Graham said to Dougal. “You saw me warning him? When Eric gives me crap about this later, tell him I warned him.”

  “You’re funny, Shifter,” the gang leader said, even as Dougal gave Graham a serious nod.

  “Yeah, I’m a tub of laughs.”

  Graham ripped the gun out of the gang leader’s hands and smacked him hard in the face with it. The gang leader went back with a surprised grunt, hands going to his bloody mouth. As the other men started forward, Graham called the strength of his wolf and twisted the pistol in half. Pieces of metal and bullets rained to the ground.

  The gang leader lifted his head, his nose and mouth dripping scarlet blood. “That was stupid.”

  “But fun.” Graham grabbed the man by his shirt, hoisting him high. Then he stopped being civilized and went for it.

  He threw the leader into the knot of his men. They scrambled either to grab him or get out of the way, and Graham was on them. He punched, elbowed, jabbed, swept his boot across ankles to send the men to the ground.

  Dougal joined the fray, laughing. Dougal had a lot of anger in him, and he loved the chance to work it off. These dumb-ass humans were the perfect targets. Let the kid take it out on them.

  He heard Misty yelling from inside the shack, and thumping as she kicked the wall. Not in terror—she was pissed off, probably bound and trying to get loose. You go, baby.

  Graham punched and kicked, spun and jabbed. He didn’t bother becoming wolf or his in-between beast—it was a pleasure to kick ass without even shifting. His Collar sparked, driving pain into his neck, but he didn’t care. He’d care later, but not now. Pain didn’t slow Graham down; it galvanized him.

  He heard the boom of a pistol, and then blood was running hot down Graham’s side, soaking his shirt. Damn.

  The man who’d shot him looked up in terror as Graham bore down on him, half shifting as he went. Graham tasted blood as he tore into the guy, and the pistol became a pile of broken metal.

  Howls filled the air behind Graham, but not howls of pain. Dougal had shifted, his wolf furious that someone dared wound the only parent he’d ever known. Fur flashed by Graham as Dougal, now a huge black wolf, charged the remaining humans standing.

  They never had a chance to shoot. Dougal fought like a whirlwind, his Collar throwing sparks into the bright morning light. Graham slowed, his side hurting like hell, and watched as Dougal clawed and bit until the tough inner-city gang boys were pools of whimpering terror.

  The leader managed to limp to the pickup parked behind the shack. Graham went after him, but the pain of the shot slowed him. The leader got into the truck and had it started up while Graham was still a few yards away.

  “You’re screwed, Shifter,” the man said. Then the truck leapt forward, spun a little on the dirt, and rocketed down the track toward the road, leaving his yelling gang boys behind.

  What an asshole. He’d just run out on his own men.

  The humans left didn’t waste time standing around being mad. They ran for the motorcycles, Dougal’s and Graham’s included.

  Graham spun and tried to intercept them, but one guy punched Graham in the side, right where the bullet was. Pain blossomed in Graham’s body, his Collar biting deeper agony into him. Graham grunted as he fell to his knees, and the guy managed to twist away and keep running.

  Dougal’s jeans lay forlorn on the ground near the bikes—easy for one of the men to lean down and scoop up Dougal’s keys. Graham leveraged himself to his feet, but the two men had reached Dougal’s bike, starting it up. As Graham staggered toward his own bike, the second man on Dougal’s motorcycle aimed his pistol at Graham’s Harley and shot it again and again.

  Graham had to watch his motorcycle, the Harley Softail he lovingly worked on every day of his life, become as wounded as he was. The gas tank punctured, fuel poured onto the ground, and more bullets lodged in the engine.

  The man driving Dougal’s bike moved it out, following the others, leaving them stranded.

  Graham folded his arms over his stomach, trying and failing to draw deep breaths. He was in excruciating pain, and their way out of the desert plus all the water was racing toward the highway, a thin spiral of dust rising in its wake.

  • • •

  Misty kept tugging at the handcuff that held her to the one beam in the shack that looked stable. She’d been pulling and yanking to no avail, her wrist raw. She’d feared to pull too hard in case the whole shed came down on top of her.

  She heard the vehicles roar away, and then the drawn-out howl of a wolf. “Graham!” she shouted.

  Another howl came, holding a mournful note, and one of fear. Shifter wolves were supposed to be strong and terrifying, but this one sounded lost and alone.

  “Graham!”

  “I’m right here, baby.”

  Graham yanked open the door to the shack. His eyes held deep pain, the skin around his Collar was black, and blood oozed from behind the hand he pressed to his side.

  Misty tugged at the cuff again. “Oh my God, you’ve been shot!”

  Graham’s voice was as strong as ever. “Stop screeching. You’re hurting my ears. And you—” He turned and yelled over his shoulder. “Quit with the howling. I’m not dying. Not yet.”

  “I’ll stop screeching when you call nine-one-one,” Misty told him.

  “Already tried. No signal.”

  Graham kept his hand on his side as he moved stiffly into the shack. He latched his fingers around the cuff that bound Misty’s wrist, yanked once, and broke the handcuff.

  Misty lowered her arm in relief. “Can you ride? I might be able to drive your bike if you help me. I’ve never ridden a motorcycle before.”

  “Nope. The assholes shot up my bike, and took Dougal’s, and their fearless leader took off in his pickup. They left us out here without water, transportation, or phones that work.”

  He sounded so calm. “And you’ve been shot.” Misty touched his arm, finding his skin hot and slick with sweat.

  “Yep. But don’t worry, sweetheart. I’m used to it.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  Misty started to shake. “Oh, right. Don’t worry. I was sitting here tied up, and you get shot, and you don’t want me to worry.” She swallowed, her throat dry. The thin-walled shack with its many cracks was like an oven. “You’re a shithead, Graham.”

  “That’s what everyone tells me.”

  Misty couldn’t move her hand from his arm. She felt his strength beneath her grip, comforting her even now.

  Graham was a big man, loud-voiced and full of arrogance. Other Shifters were afraid of him, including his own wolves—his Lupine pack, he called them. Humans backed away from him, and even Shifter groupie
s only watched him from afar, too scared to approach him.

  Misty, though, couldn’t bring herself to be afraid of Graham—or at least, not terrified of him. She remembered the first night she’d met him, in a Shifter bar called Coolers. She’d found herself sitting on a barstool next to him, Graham all banged up from a bout at the Shifter fight club. He’d looked disgruntled, angry, and very lonely. She couldn’t ever forget what she’d seen in his eyes that night, a man searching for something, though he didn’t know what.

  Not that Graham had ever showed Misty his softer side. But he’d let her see a hint that maybe he had a softer side—deep, deep, deep down.

  Graham turned from her, and Misty’s fingers slid away from him. “Dougal!” Graham bellowed as he banged out of the shack. “Stop whining. You need to take this bullet out of me.”

  “No, you need a hospital,” Misty said, following him. “Maybe we can make it to the road, or at least close enough to find a cell signal.”

  “I’m not walking anywhere, sweetie. I have a bullet stuck in my side, and it could lodge in a bad place if it doesn’t come out now.”

  “Can’t you shift . . . ?”

  “Sure. Then I’ll be a wolf with a bullet stuck in my side that could lodge in a bad place. Dougal can take it out. He knows how.”

  Misty didn’t know much about Graham’s nephew, Dougal Callaghan, who lived with Graham. Graham had said that Dougal’s mom died giving birth to him—bringing him in, Graham had called it. Dougal’s dad had deserted him a long time ago, back before Shifters had been rounded up and put into Shiftertowns. Graham had never been able to find the dad, who’d probably gone feral, whatever that meant. Graham had raised Dougal himself, and apparently, Dougal had been a handful.

  Dougal came running to them, in his human form now and stark naked. Misty’s face went hot, and she spun around and faced the shack’s sun-bleached wall.

  “She’s human,” Graham growled at Dougal. “She expects pants.”

  “Goddess,” Dougal said in disgust then ran off again.

  Graham said nothing, making no apology. He leaned against the shack’s doorframe and closed his eyes, his face losing a little color. Misty turned and laid her hand on his arm again, wishing she could do more.

  But she wasn’t an ER nurse, or a doctor, or anything useful like that. She ran a flower shop. She knew everything about flowers—their names, types, and popularity; how they were cultivated; traditional meanings of each flower; which ones were appropriate for what occasion; how to arrange them; and which ones sold the best. Great information for running her business, nothing that would save a Shifter who’d been shot.

  Dougal returned, jeans on and belted. The morning had turned hotter—August days generally reached the triple digits. Clouds were forming over the mountains as well, signaling a monsoon storm that would be ready to come in during the afternoon. If the three of them were out here then . . . Storms had deadly lightning, high winds, and hail, not to mention the flash floods that tore along the washes and overflowed their banks. The three of them could be cut off until the washes ran dry again.

  Dougal ducked under Graham’s arm and helped him around the tiny shack to its shady side, where Graham stretched himself out on the ground. There wasn’t enough room for him to lie inside the shack’s small interior, especially when its floor was covered in rusty bits of metal.

  Dougal peeled Graham’s shirt from him, Graham grunting as the cloth came unglued from his skin. Graham’s six-pack abs were covered with blood, which continued to seep from the slash in his abdomen. Dougal used Graham’s shirt to wipe off excess blood then he stretched Graham’s flesh apart and started to reach inside to pull out the bullet.

  “Wait!” Misty cried.

  “Can’t wait,” Dougal said. “He’s going into shock. You have to help me.”

  Misty’s head spun, but she knelt beside Dougal. “What do I do?”

  “Hold this open.” Dougal indicated the lips of the wound. “It’s going to be messy.”

  “Not to mention not sterile,” Misty said.

  “We don’t have a choice. Don’t worry, I’ve done this lots of times.”

  “Really?” Misty put her fingers where Dougal guided her. “Graham gets shot often, does he?”

  “Not always Uncle Graham. But other Shifters. Hospitals were too far away from our old Shiftertown, and hunters liked to take shots at us.”

  Graham gave another grunt. “Hunters and old Craig Morris.”

  Dougal snorted a laugh. “Yeah.”

  “Who was he?” Misty asked. She pressed down as Dougal showed her and spread the wound. More blood poured out, which Dougal mopped up with the T-shirt.

  “Old Shifter,” Graham said. “About three hundred years old when we were rounded up. He hated living so close to other Shifters—he should have stayed in the wild and died with some dignity. He’d been alone a long time, and bringing him in and giving him the Collar was tough on him. He used to shoot anyone who came too close to his house. His eyesight was going by then, so his aim was usually off, but once in a while, he got lucky. Shit.”

  Dougal had dug his fingers into the wound. “Press down hard,” he told Misty. “We have to keep him still. This is going to get bad.”

  “Don’t worry.” Graham’s words were tight and faint. “I’ll try not to kill anyone.”

  “That’s what you always say.” Dougal put his hand on Graham’s shoulder as he started fishing around for the bullet.

  Graham roared, fingers sprouting claws as he reached for Dougal’s throat.

  “Grab him!” Dougal yelled. “Hold him down. No matter what happens, hold him!”

  Misty caught Graham’s wrists and quickly laid herself across his chest and shoulders. She knew she wouldn’t have the strength to grapple with him, so she used her weight to keep him down.

  Graham growled, his body rippling beneath her. Misty felt him change. Fur burst across his bare chest, his face elongated into a muzzle, and his eyes went silver gray.

  “Don’t shift!” Dougal shouted at him. “Hold him, Misty.”

  Misty pushed her face at Graham’s terrifying wolf one, which was emerging from his human’s. His eyes were white gray, and full of pain, rage, madness.

  “Stop!” She tried to sound firm, but everything came out shaky.

  “I’m touching it,” Dougal said. “Just . . . trying . . . to grab it.”

  Graham’s growls grew more fierce. Blue snakes of electricity arced around his Collar, the sparks stinging Misty’s skin. She pressed him down, her head on his shoulder.

  “Hang on,” she said. “Almost done.”

  More snarling, but she felt Graham strain to hold himself back. All that strength—he could snap her in half and Dougal too, but he didn’t. Graham’s hands balled into huge fists, claws jabbing into his own skin.

  “Hang on,” Misty whispered.

  “Got it!” Dougal lifted his hand, coated with gore, and held up a piece of metal. He whooped in triumph, then grabbed the T-shirt and jammed it over the wound.

  “Keep pressure on that,” Dougal said to Misty. “I’ll try to find something to help patch the hole.”

  Misty pushed down on the cloth, which was already red and sopping. Graham’s face gradually returned to human, and his Collar ceased sparking. But his skin was sallow, his breathing rapid.

  Graham opened his eyes to slits, the silver gray of the wolf shining through. “Was it good for you?” he asked, his voice a scratch. “’Cause it sucked for me.”

  “It really sucked for me too,” Misty said, giving a breathless laugh.

  Graham reached for Misty’s hand. She slid hers into his, his fingers barely squeezing.

  “What do you know?” Dougal said, returning from inside the shed. “Duct tape.”

  Graham let out a chuckle, closing his eyes again. “One human invention th
at’s useful.”

  “Lots of human inventions are useful,” Misty said, babbling while Dougal peeled off pieces of tape and ripped them from the roll with his wolf teeth. “Cars, for instance.”

  “Paved the world and clogged all the clean air with crap,” Graham said. “Destroyed Shifter territory and made us vulnerable to humans.”

  “Thanks, Graham.”

  “Sure thing, sweetheart.” His eyes opened again. “Are you going to tape me up anytime soon? Like before my guts fall out?”

  Dougal wiped the wound as clean as he could with the soaked T-shirt, then Misty helped him hold Graham’s skin together while Dougal taped it closed.

  “This will hurt like hell when you pull it off,” Dougal said.

  “Yeah, well, it hurt like hell going on,” Graham said. “Now you need to get out of here and look for a spot with a cell phone signal. If you have to go all the way back to Shiftertown for help, do it.”

  Dougal stared. “You want me to go?”

  “Yes, you. Misty will never make it across fifty miles of desert on foot, without water. Right now, I’m a wuss because I’ve been shot, had a hand dug into me, and am being held together with duct tape. That leaves you.”

  Dougal gazed out at the empty land, his fingers picking at the roll of tape in his hands, his face almost gray. Dougal, though in his early thirties, was considered barely an adult by the Shifters. Graham had told her Dougal had come through his Transition—whatever that was—and had been an adult for about a year. But though in years Dougal was older than Misty, in many ways he acted like a scared teenager.

  “Your wolf can do it,” Graham said. “Follow the scent trail back to the dirt road. Call Reid, tell him what happened. And for the Goddess’s sake, don’t tell Eric.”

  Dougal nodded, but numbly.

  “Promise me,” Graham said. “Not Eric. I don’t want him all up in my face about this. He’ll blab all over Shiftertown that I’m hurt, and we can’t afford for some of my wolves to know that. Understand?”