“Best entry point?” Peter whispered beside him, drawing his mind from the changing weather.
Declan frowned. “South. Under those low branches of the fig tree growing on the fence line.”
Peter nodded, and even in the darkness Declan saw his face tense and his grip tighten on his gun.
“Remember.” He gave Regan’s brother a hard look. “Wait until you hear my howl before going in. You won’t stand a chance if…”
“If I go in before you distract the guards,” Peter finished, voice sharp. “I’m not stupid.” He quickly checked the chamber of the ornate double-action revolver in his hand. “Fuck, I wish we had more of these,” he muttered, the wind almost snatching the words away.
Declan didn’t know if he meant the weapon or the ammunition nestled within. Either way, he agreed with him. Loaded in the archaic gun was a single hollow-tipped silver bullet, both items appropriated by Peter with a quick flash of his badge from a very unconventional antiquities dealer on the way. Declan didn’t ask how Peter knew the dealer had such an unusual weapon. It didn’t matter. But one look at the guy behind the counter told him it was the real deal. Ancient tattoos covered the man’s sunken cheeks and skinny arms, tattoos designed to ward off evil spirits and demons. Declan had seen his type too often in Europe, although he’d never expected to come across it in Australia. Losers dreaming of being heroes. Submerging themselves in the paranormal and occult—enough to believe, not enough to know better. Hunting werewolves and demons and vampires. Pissing themselves when they finally came upon one.
Just as this man had done, although it had been Peter’s police badge, not Declan’s lycanthrope genes rupturing his bladder.
Face white, hands trembling, eyes scared and wistful, he’d handed the bullet and the gun over to Peter immediately, begging not to be arrested. One less hero in the world.
Declan felt his bile rise. One less hero? Maybe after this, the count would be three. What he and Regan’s brother were attempting was the closest thing to a suicide run Declan had ever been on. Jesus alone knew if either of them would return.
He ground his jaw. For Regan’s sake, he hoped at least one of them did.
A dull ache throbbed in his chest and he pressed his hand to the hot but healing wound there. Peter’s earlier shot back at Rick’s had, thankfully, missed his heart. Just. Even though that bullet wasn’t silver, a direct puncture to the heart was not something quick to recover from. If Peter had fired his police-issued Glock a fraction to the right, he—Declan—would be in enough pain now to adversely affect his raid on Epoc’s territory. More pain than he already was in, that was. When all this was over, he’d get Regan’s vet to work his magic again. After he demanded an apology from the guy.
A small smile pulled at the corner of his mouth. After he’d made long, passionate and tender love to Regan. A few times, actually.
Sucking in a slow breath, he studied the blackness before him. Four lycanthropes still stood guard to the east, five to the west. He’d detected their scent as he and Peter did their first perimeter sweep. All nine were currently in human form. All nine armed. He’d smelt the silver of their bullets before he’d tasted their cringing nervousness. As always, Epoc had surrounded himself with those easily controlled and dominated. It seemed being in a different country made no difference. Declan prayed to God it would bring about his downfall tonight.
He clenched his fists, letting his wolf come closer to the surface. Ready. Eager. He’d make a ruckus on the mansion’s northern perimeter, drawing the guards and leaving Peter a—hopefully—free run to the building from the south.
After that, the cop was on his own. Declan would be dealing with his own entry.
For Peter, the plan was simple. Get in. Get Regan. Get out.
Declan’s plan included an extra element. Kill Nathan Epoc.
He closed his eyes for a second, picturing the smug man. Hate roared through him and his wolf stirred again, its strength flooding his limbs. He opened his eyes. It was time.
“Remember,” he said to Peter without looking at him. “In. Out. No heroics. Just get your sister and get her safe.”
From the corner of his eye, he saw Peter shift slightly. “Remind me to buy you a beer after this.”
Declan chuckled softly. “Deal. But it’s gotta be a Guinness. I’m not drinking any of that Fosters.”
Peter laughed, muscles bunching as he readied to spring forward. “Me either. Real Aussies don’t drink Fosters.” And then he was gone. Into the blackness, devoured by the night.
Declan’s eyebrows shot up—Jesus, he’s a fast bugger—before he too, took off, leaping over the sixteen-foot, spear-topped iron fence in a single bound. Heading north across Epoc’s manicured lawn. Vengeance boiling in his veins.
*
A loud howl cut through the air, rising above the wind, long, savage and angry, followed by the sharp report of a fired handgun. Another, and another. Epoc lifted his head, turning from the appealing sight of the female’s bruised lips, a smug smile stretching his own wide. Running his tongue over them, he tasted her fear and spirit. Delicious.
He bared his teeth at the hovering Yolanda and McCoy in a gleeful grin. “He’s here.” He dropped his gaze back to the human bitch, chuckling at her hate-filled glare. Tracing a claw along the line of her full bottom lip, eager to taste it again, to feel warm blood beading on its soft surface with his teeth and tongue, he raised an eyebrow. “I told you he would come. As predictable as ever.” He let his finger score a line over her chin, down her neck to the little dip at the base of her throat, pushing the tip of his claw at its sensitive, delicate surface. “Are you ready?”
Another howl rose over the wind. Closer. Louder. Angrier.
A twist of apprehension knotted in Epoc’s stomach, unnerving and completely unexpected and before he could suppress it, a worried frown creased his forehead.
Regan Thomas looked up at him, a perceptive light suddenly flaring in her ice-green eyes. “I’m ready, Epoc,” she said, voice steady and unafraid. Knowing. “How about you?”
*
He ran, paws barely touching the ground as he did so. Behind him he heard the other wolves. Chasing him. Gaining on him. Nine different scents. All fired with nervous excitement. They may be submissive mongrels to Epoc’s Alpha, but the Eudeyrn werewolf guards took their job seriously. They were out to catch Declan and bring him down. He smelt it in their radiating stink. He heard it in their yips and snarls.
Opening his gait, he headed for the northern boundary, forcing more speed into his sprint. They’d transformed shortly after realizing they couldn’t intimidate him with bullets. Declan knew Epoc wanted him alive, which meant his guards would be under strict orders not to shoot him. After the fourth bullet buried into a tree trunk, they’d discarded their weapons and shifted. It hadn’t made it easier for him, however. Shaking nine adrenaline-charged werewolves was never going to be easy.
Fighting them would be harder.
He needed to enter Epoc’s home on his terms, and to do so, he needed to shake the pursuing guards, not be taken down by them. Which meant he needed to clear the high fence, draw them away from the property and into Peter’s hastily organized trap, an anonymous tip-off to the local Animal Control authorities about a pack of savage dogs roaming the area. The officers wouldn’t find any dogs, of course, but hopefully the threatening distraction of men and guns would send Epoc’s guards running far enough away to transform back into human form, allowing Declan to slip back into Epoc’s territory without notice. If the plan didn’t work…
His claws dug into the warm soil as he pushed another burst of speed from his legs. For Regan he’d fight the devil himself.
Isn’t that what you’re about to do, Dec?
He snarled silently, teeth and tongue wet with exertion. Yes. To his kind, Epoc was the Devil.
The growing wind rippled through his fur, ruffled its length along his spine. He weaved through the trees, knowing the guards almost snapped at his
heels but loath to run any faster. Not until the north fence-line came into view, at least.
After that, even a cheetah would be humbled by his speed.
The gusting, hot wind shifted, blew into his face, flattened his ears to his head, and with it came the strong scent of the Eudeyrn Alpha. Anger roared through Declan. At the exact moment the northern boundary came into view.
Behind him a wolf howled, an ear-shattering alarm that their target was about to escape.
Declan creased his muzzle in a wolfish grin and he finally let his full speed surge through his legs. Come and get me, you flea-bitten whelps. With an image of Regan smiling and laughing in his mind, he vaulted the fence, hind legs clearing the razor-sharp steel points a heartbeat before Epoc’s Beta guard tried to snap his jaw shut on them.
He pounded into the night. Heading toward the distinct and belligerent scent of the Animal Control officers, his blood roaring, Peter’s bullet wound a burning throb in his chest. If the cop’s trap failed…
Let’s hope Animal Control in this country know how to do their job, Dec.
Nine different growls followed him over the fence. Filled his ears. Close. Very close.
Too close.
Ears flat, Declan pushed forward harder.
Jesus, please let the Australians know what they’re doing.
*
Peter moved through the dim hallway, revolver raised, nerves tight. His gut churned, telling him everything was wrong. O’Connell had warned him they were walking into a trap, that Epoc would be waiting for them, but he’d expected something other than empty, quiet hallways. Where was everyone?
The sound of his footfalls on the marble floor echoed off the richly-painted walls, and it seemed to Peter the eyes of the massive portraits hanging on them followed his progress. Sharp, almost animal-like stares weighed down on him, each subject wearing a look of arrogant contempt, as if they knew who and what he was—mere human—and only waited now to witness his impending death. It was complete rubbish, of course. He’d seen enough B-grade movies to know about the “ubiquitous stare” phenomenon but knowing didn’t make walking under the ancient paintings any less disconcerting. For fuck’s sake, until an hour ago he hadn’t believed in werewolves. Now he was raiding one’s house to save his sister. Who knew if the eyes of the paintings really were just pigment and linseed oil?
He moved his stare from the portraits, studying a collection of swords hanging from the wall in an ornate display. Long, bronze and obviously heavy, each bore engraved images of wolves in their shiny blade, wolves who looked like men. A chill rippled up Peter’s spine. Those swords seemed to radiate death, as if countless men had lost their souls to their wicked edges. Wielded with lethal grace by those not entirely human. Waiting to taste blood once more.
Peter ground his teeth and raised the revolver closer to his shoulder, disgust roaring through him. Jesus, you’re getting yourself worked up over—
“Hello, Detective.”
He spun, gun raised, heart thumping.
Yolanda Vischka stood behind him, her lush, sensual body encased in snug, black leather. An unreadable, blue gaze studied his face, a small wry smile pulling at her full, blood-red lips. “You are planning to shoot me, yes?”
Peter aimed the revolver at her left breast. “Yes.”
Her smile turned sad and for a moment her eyes seemed to shine with tears. And then she blinked and the same lofty expression she’d worn for most of the day returned. “’Tis a pity. After everything we have shared.”
Peter’s blood turned hot. He glared at her, anger and self-contempt stringing his nerves tight. “After the way you played me for an idiot, you mean? Perfect reason to shoot you, if you ask me.”
She shrugged, but a flash of what looked like sorrow crossed her features. “If you must.”
Keeping the heavy revolver leveled on her heart, he closed the distance between them. “Just who the hell are you, Yolanda?”
“I work for Nathan Epoc.”
“No shit, Sherlock.” He shook his head, disgust coating his mouth. “How could I have been so stupid?”
Indignation flared in her eyes and her shoulders snapped straight. “I think it had something to do with your cock.”
Fury thumped at Peter’s chest. He rammed the gun against the swell of Yolanda’s breast, his pulse a rapid tattoo in his neck, his gut a churning mess. The urge to shoot her was powerful. His gut told him to do just that. To make her pay for her deception. To make her suffer the way Reggie may be suffering now. But his heart…His heart wanted him to throw the gun he’d taken from the antiquities dealer away, crush her to his chest and demand an explanation for her behavior. Demand an apology he would accept, before kissing her passionately until both their heads spun. He bit back a curse. Christ. He was more screwed up than he thought. “Where’s my sister?” he ground out, hating himself as much as he hated the woman before him.
Yolanda met his level gaze. “Being used as bait.” A shadow fell over her face—sad, regretful—and she took a slight step back. “As am I.”
Peter narrowed his eyes. Gripped the revolver harder. “What do you mean, ‘as am I?’ Bait for who?”
“You,” a deep growl sounded behind him. Seconds before a weight like a wrecking ball crashed into his back.
Chapter 14
Declan padded on silent paws up the marble staircase leading to the entryway of Epoc’s mansion, the sound of wolves howling, men shouting and gunshots firing a faint smudge in his head. His right hind leg ached from a bullet graze, a testament to the skill of the Australians. He’d been lucky to escape with just the one. The men from Animal Control had been on him before he knew it, guns tracking his mad, darting sprint. If it hadn’t been for the snarling arrival of Epoc’s guards—all still in wolf form—he’d probably be hiding under a tree somewhere in excruciating pain, waiting for his body to deal with multiple bullet wounds. No good to Regan, whatsoever.
Heart thumping, head low, he nudged open the heavy, steel door with his nose and slipped through, leaving the sounds of the guards and Animal Control behind him.
Immediately, the smell of Epoc assaulted him. Dominant. Arrogant. Violent. He bared his teeth in a soft snarl, hate licking through his blood. The man’s scent had haunted his dreams for a lifetime. He drew another breath and his hackles rose. Threaded through the scent, like cheap dime-store incense, was an underlying tinge of McCoy. Cold contempt crashed over him. He looked forward to meeting the Scottish son of a bitch again. Next time, he wouldn’t stop with just breaking his neck.
Tail motionless, he walked deeper into the cavernous foyer, tasting the air, trying to detect any hint of Regan.
Nothing. Wherever she was in the building, she hadn’t been here.
A faint whir tickled Declan’s senses and, ears pricked, he froze.
The sound was high. Mechanical.
He lifted his head, spotting a small security camera fixed high in the far right corner of the vaulted ceiling. Pointed straight at him.
Wherever Epoc is, he knows you’re here now, Dec.
Declan stared at the camera for a still moment. Felt cold, golden eyes staring back at him through the lens.
And he’s watching you right at this very second.
Crossing the foyer, he sniffed at an ancient Celtic armoire standing below a moody painting of the Austrian Alps. Once. Twice. Staring straight into the camera’s lens, and with a thump of his tail, he cocked his leg on the beautiful piece of antiquity and urinated. A primitive act. A simple message that clearly said, I am not afraid of you.
Tail wagging again, he padded out of the foyer, his mark seeping into the old wood behind him, staining it forever, the soft whir of the camera following him as he left.
He let a low gnarr rumble in his throat. The last of the Onchú is back, Epoc. And I’m going to wipe your existence from the face of the planet.
* * * *
A dark and surreal thought flashed through Peter’s head—not again—seconds before he
crashed, shoulder first, to the floor.
Thick, strong hands knotted in his hair, yanked his head backward and whacked his forehead into the cold marble tiles underneath him. Bright pain consumed him, ripped down his spine into his chest.
“You’ve got to be the lassie’s kin,” the man mashing his face to the floor growled, pushing down harder on the back of Peter’s head. “You share her same tempting scent.” The fingers in his hair tugged, and a pair of glowing red-gold eyes stared into the side of his face. “Not that I’d fuck you, mind. Your sister however…”
Fury roared through Peter. He bucked backward, throwing the heavy man off him. Leaping to his feet, he spun about, glaring at the leering bastard. “Your dick goes anywhere near my sister and I’ll rip it off and feed it to you. Followed immediately by your balls.”
The man—a fucking giant—raised eyebrows the color of cayenne pepper, leer stretching wider. “O’Connell obviously didn’t fill you in, lad. About who I am and how well I know your delightfully spirited sister.”
Peter’s fingers closed tighter around the revolver and he barely controlled the desire to shoot the werewolf there and then. “I know all about you, McCoy,” he said instead.
Those red eyebrows shot up further and McCoy chuckled, the deep sound reverberating through the room. “So we can dispense with the pleasantries then.”
And he lunged forward.
Peter sidestepped him. Just. Nails like talons shredded his left sleeve, the material ripping as loud as a gunshot. McCoy twisted, an angry snarl rumbling in his throat as he threw himself at Peter again. Peter ducked, punching his fist up into a barrel-like chest harder than steel. A low oof burst from McCoy and he swung his arm downward, his bunched fist smacking against Peter’s temple with a solid crack.
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