Ice Wolf: A Shifter Romance

by Jane Godman

  She wondered why no one, when telling her about Wilder, had mentioned the obvious, and she supposed it wasn’t the sort of thing people just came out with. Oh, by the way, he has the same weird coloring as you. What’s that all about? Had they really just completed a thirty-minute drive without either of them mentioning it? It had been on the tip of her tongue the whole time. So why hadn’t she just come out and said it? We’re both Arctic werewolves, how cool—excuse the pun—is that? The words just wouldn’t come, something totally outside Jenny’s sphere of experience. It was Wilder. He put up these insurmountable barriers that didn’t allow for normal conversation, let alone anything approaching familiarity.

  What had happened to make him that way? Arctic werewolves were sociable, not solitary. Jenny was not alone by choice. She had barely reached her teens when the rest of her family had been murdered by hunters in the Canadian tundra. Coming south, becoming Jenny Piper, had been her only means of survival. She missed the land of ice and snow. The midnight sun—the true midnight sun—still called to her. We both chose the Arctic as our field of study, Wilder and me. Like artists with a muse. We can’t escape who we are. Although Wilder seemed to be making a pretty determined effort.

  Jenny pulled into her driveway. She’d lived here a few months. It was a new development, an attempt to re-create village living on the edge of town. The houses were pretty log cabins with panoramic windows that made the most of the spectacular views over the surrounding hills. Fall was on its way, so they were in the grip of a long Alaskan twilight. She had chosen this place because of that time of year around the summer solstice when it was almost twenty-four-hour daylight. It made her feel less homesick. Don’t get me started on winter. Near permanent darkness? She sometimes wondered if the trade-off was worth it.

  Once inside, she wandered into the kitchen and eyed the contents of the refrigerator gloomily. What was it about meeting Wilder that had lowered her mood so dramatically? Made her miss her home and her family and long for all the things she knew she could never have? Worse than that, made her ache with a restless, burning longing that couldn’t be fulfilled?

  Meeting Wilder had reminded her of what she was missing. Although Alaska was the ideal environment for several other species of werewolf, the sparse population meant they rarely came face-to-face. Werewolves who chose to live among humans tended to be successful. Their wolf traits—intelligence, loyalty, determination, and intuition—all worked in their favor in business and in society.

  Jenny had heard of werewolves in other states and other countries who managed to have thriving social lives, meeting in groups and maintaining a pack presence unnoticed by humans. But it was different for Arctic werewolves. We need to be close to the midnight sun. Arctic werewolves who chose to live human lives settled close to the Arctic Circle. It was a trade-off. They needed that unique, magical light, but they also needed to make a living. Jenny had chosen Alaska. Others settled in Canada, Russia, Norway, Sweden, Finland, Denmark, or Iceland. The key was always the midnight sun, but it was a lonely life.

  Taking a vacuum-packed caribou steak out of the fridge, she opened it and cut the meat into thin strips with a filleting knife. Taking a skillet down from the rack over the stove, she paused for a moment, then replaced it. Kicking off her shoes, she took the plate of raw meat into the den. Sitting cross-legged on the sofa, she flicked on the TV and proceeded to eat the bloody meat with her fingers while she watched the news.

  Feeling rebellious, Jenny licked the last drops of blood from her fingers, and gave a satisfied smile. Okay, it’s not the most rebellious thing I wanted to do with my night. I really wanted to follow that gorgeous Arctic male up to his apartment, lick him all over, then let him bend me over the back of a chair and bury his cock deep—and I mean deep—inside me.

  Squirming at the feelings her thoughts aroused, Jenny forced herself to concentrate on the TV screen. State budget cuts were causing hardship. An escaped prisoner had been recaptured. Breaking news just coming in focused on a disturbance in the downtown area close to where she had dropped Wilder earlier. It sounded like gang warfare had broken out, but this was Fairbanks, Alaska, for God’s sake. She hoped Wilder was okay. He’d said something about today being a bad day. Total chaos on the streets outside his apartment wasn’t going to lighten his mood.

  A knock on her front door startled her. She wasn’t expecting anyone. For a brief moment her heart beat faster with a flare of hope. Could it be Wilder? Not unless he’s an oddball stalker who somehow managed to follow you home.

  Jenny went to the door, looking through the spy hole. The wide-angle view showed her a man. Another Arctic werewolf, but definitely not Wilder. At this rate, we’ll soon be forming our own pack. He was staring directly at her, as though he could see her as clearly as she could see him. She shook her head.

  You’ve lived here so long you’ve forgotten your Arctic roots. He can scent you. Probably hear your breathing, too.

  “Jenny Piper? My name is Gunnar. May I come in?”

  Chapter Two

  When Wilder turned away from watching Jenny drive off, it took only a second for him to register the presence in the shadows. A second that took him four hundred years back in time to that night in Jotunheim. This time it wasn’t a flashback or a dream. He knew before he turned his head that Santin was right behind him.

  “Nice.” That drawling, familiar voice made Wilder’s hackles rise. Made the Arctic werewolf inside him fight for supremacy, even though darkness was falling and the midnight sun was an ache in his memory. “Arctic bitches are not my usual style, but that one is something else. Don’t worry. As a kindness, I’ll fuck her senseless before I rip her throat out.”

  The rumble deep in his own chest was something Wilder had almost forgotten he was capable of. He welcomed it as he would an old friend and turned to face the embodiment of his nightmares. “Touch her, you Siberian bastard, and there won’t be a corner of hell dark enough for you to hide yourself.”

  It was the wrong thing to say. As soon as the words left his lips, Wilder knew he had just made sure Jenny Piper was even more interesting to Santin.

  “Well, well.” Santin’s eyes were like chips of blue ice in the mingled light from the dwindling sun and the street light. “So Gunnar’s little pet has found himself a mate, has he?”

  As Santin pushed away from the wall where he was leaning, Wilder could see the Siberian wasn’t wearing his signature fox-pelt coat and, despite the evening chill, his feet were bare. It was signal that he was ready to shift. Wilder braced himself. Arctics were more than a match for Siberians. Wilder was as swift and strong as Santin, and he was a whole lot bigger. But he was at a double disadvantage. He hadn’t done this since the last time they’d faced each other in the mystical realm of Jotunheim. And, while Santin could shift any time he chose, Wilder needed the midnight sun. This would be man against wolf. Why the hell didn’t I listen to you, Gunnar?

  Wilder had spent four centuries suppressing his instincts. More than that, he’d done all he could to avoid anything to do with werewolves, lycanthropes, and shifters of any description. Legends, stories, books—and later, magazines, comic books, and movies—any hint of a werewolf and Wilder was out of there faster than an arctic fox coming face-to-face with a polar bear. Only once, about ten years ago, had he been unable to avoid getting caught up in a lighthearted debate. One of the faculty secretaries had been reading a magazine and he’d walked into the office just as she was involving her colleagues in a quiz. Is there a wolf in all of us? That had been the title. Although Wilder had steadfastly refused to answer any questions, he remembered the giggling comment that followed him out of the room.

  “I’ll just bet he has a wolf inside that ice-cold exterior, and I’d like to be the one to let it out.” The feminine laughter—accompanied, if his memory served him right, by some good-natured howling—had followed him as he hurried along the corridor.

  There was no one who embodied his inner wolf quite like Santin. Sleek a
nd dark, with an inch-wide streak of white in the center of his ebony hair, lean features, and those ice-chip eyes. Man and wolf in perfect harmony. Santin’s lean, sinewy body had a coiled menace; a sense of latent energy held in check until the moment was right to pounce.

  One thing Wilder had not been able to avoid was the popular culture myth that shifting involved a long, drawn-out process. No matter how hard he tried, he’d been unable to escape the onscreen images of young men contorting in pain as their bodies underwent grotesque changes before they emerged in their wolf form. It doesn’t happen that way. He’d wanted to laugh at the TV shows and movies that held the world enthralled with this myth. And also dispel another popular fantasy. If you ever meet a werewolf or a vampire in real life, believe me, you will not be around long enough to join the team or buy the T-shirt. Instead, he’d remained silent, avoiding the inevitable speculation. You know the professor, the strong silent one? The one with the muscles? The one who doesn’t date? Seems he has a thing for horror movies . . .

  No one knew better than Wilder how it worked, which was why he was prepared when Santin shifted within the blink of an eye. The Siberian’s clothing hung in tatters from his fur and the wolf shook himself free of the reminders of his human form with an impatient movement, crouching low and fixing Wilder with a calculated stare. Allowing himself a brief moment of surprise at the realization that he felt no fear—was there even a tiny thrill of elation?—Wilder decided the only way to do this was to seize the initiative away from Santin.

  Wilder’s Arctic werewolf, suppressed for so long, gave a silent, triumphant howl as he crouched before launching himself at Santin. Leaping high into the air, he closed the distance between them, landing on the back of the huge Siberian wolf. Wilder might not be able to shift, but his fighting instincts remained those of the wolf. His hands formed into claws, digging deep, bringing Santin down as they rolled on the ground, face-to-face, teeth bared. Santin was strong but, even in wolf form, he was nowhere near as powerful as Wilder. Nothing had changed since Jotunheim. Whatever Santin had been doing during his captivity, he hadn’t been working out by fighting other wolves. A fact for which Wilder spared a moment to thank Angrboda, High Priestess of the Iron Wood and Mother of All Wolves.

  Even so, it took every ounce of Wilder’s strength and ability to prevent his adversary from sinking those huge canines into his throat for the death blow. He twisted and turned, bit and clawed as he rolled around in the street with a wolf alternately above and then below him. This was so not the way he had planned to spend his night.

  Santin’s frustrated growls turned to roars as his anger mounted. The noise drew attention to them. People started pouring out of nearby shops and apartment buildings to see what was going on. Cars were pulling over and a crowd gathered on the sidewalk.

  “Sweet Lord, is that a rabid dog?”

  “A dog? That size? Are you crazy?”

  “Can’t we do something?”

  Shit. Santin was slipping from his grasp, the wolf’s sinewy body twisting and turning in an effort to break free. The whole time those huge canines were snapping close to Wilder’s forearm, threatening to break it in two. With a final lunge, Santin sprang free of Wilder’s grip and ran toward the watching crowd. Screams ran out as the huge wolf tore into those nearest to it. Blood sprayed in its wake as people scattered in panic.

  Wilder rose to his feet, Gunnar’s words ringing in his ears. He will get to you by harming those closest to you. He’d dismissed the statement, taking it to mean friends and family. I have none of those, so I thought I was safe. He should have known better. Santin was prepared to make anyone a hostage, attack anyone who was nearby, knowing that Wilder wouldn’t—couldn’t—stand aside and let it happen.

  Wilder viewed the scene. The carnage on the street was being filmed from passing cars and second-floor windows as the huge beast—over six feet of pure muscle when it rose on its hind legs—dragged an unconscious woman into the street and straddled her, preparing to rip away chunks of flesh from her throat with bloodied fangs. Santin was putting on a performance, all the while daring Wilder to stop him.

  At the same time, Wilder’s worst nightmare started to unfold on the street corner opposite. A terrified young mother, cradling her baby in her arms, attempted to sidle past and into a shop doorway. He tried to signal to her to get back, but it was too late. The wolf caught her scent and looked up from his prey. With a glance over his shoulder to make sure Wilder was watching, Santin crouched on his haunches, preparing to launch himself at the woman and her child.

  Fuck.

  Wilder moved with lightning speed, covering the ground between them and throwing himself at Santin as the wolf was in midleap. His fingers dug like claws deep into Santin’s hind leg, bringing the wolf crashing to the ground. A round of applause told him he had an audience and was probably being filmed. The chances of not being recognized? Slim to zero. Students existed in an unforgiving social media frenzy. He would be an Internet sensation by midnight.

  Wilder didn’t have any further time to mourn his lost anonymity. He was too busy holding on to Santin. Retaining his grip on the wolf against the odds, he managed to straddle the Siberian and get his hands around his throat. Santin writhed furiously, his lethal claws slashing into Wilder’s side. Flaring pain followed by the warm sensation of blood soaking through his down-filled jacket told Wilder the wolf had done him some damage.

  Approaching sirens were the most welcome sound he’d heard in a long time. Leaning over so that his face was inches from Santin’s, Wilder stared directly into those cold blue eyes.

  “Neither of us wants to stick around for the explanations that go with this, but next time we meet it will be on my turf. Once we are under the midnight sun, you will never walk away from me again.”

  Two police cars screeched to a halt as Wilder released his grip on Santin. The wolf loped away, seeking the shadows, before disappearing into the deepening darkness. Only Wilder, his vision heightened by his inner Arctic wolf, saw him shift back into human form and stroll, nonchalantly, and completely naked, to an empty car. Smashing the driver’s-side window with his fist, Santin slid inside. Seconds later, he drove away.

  * * *

  “Please forgive this intrusion.” The man called Gunnar stepped into Jenny’s hall and waited while she closed the door behind him.

  She led him through into the den. “Coffee?”

  She didn’t usually invite strangers into her home and offer them refreshments, but the day was already surreal. Meeting two male Arctic werewolves within the space of a few hours couldn’t be a coincidence.

  Gunnar shook his head. As he took a seat, Jenny noticed he had a very realistic-looking prosthetic right hand. He confused her. It was impossible to judge his age—we don’t age—but something in the way he moved, and the courtliness of his manners led her to believe he was much older than anyone—Arctic or human—she had ever met. Although he had all the traits of an alpha wolf, she didn’t get any sense that she should be subservient to him. Maybe she had been away from pack dynamics for too long. Her instincts were all off kilter.

  “You must be wondering what I’m doing here. It’s to do with a man you met earlier. His name is Wilder . . .”

  The TV was still blaring out its news story and Jenny picked up the remote. “Let me get that.”

  “No, wait.” Gunnar stared at the screen and Jenny followed his gaze.

  Shaky footage, clearly taken from a slow-moving vehicle, showed a huge beast preparing to attack a woman, its jaws bared as she lay in the middle of the road. A shocked newsreader explained that experts had identified the creature as a Siberian wolf, although it was much larger than most examples of the breed.

  “Santin.” Gunnar breathed the word, his nostrils flaring as though he could scent the wolf through the screen.

  The next clip was clearer. Shot from above, it showed a man—a man whose light-colored hair gleamed silver under the streetlights—hurl himself onto the wolf as it was
in midpounce. Sounds of applause and cheering from the watching crowd could be heard as he pinned the wolf down and brought it under control.

  “It’s him.” Jenny turned to look at Gunnar, her eyes wide. “That was Wilder, wasn’t it?”

  “We need to go to him. Now.”

  His authority was such that she was snatching up her keys and slipping on her shoes before she even stopped to ask. “Who are you?”

  His smile was infectious. “Good girl.” He nodded approvingly. “Prepared for action, yet cautious. I knew I was right to come in search of you. Can we talk while you drive?” He flexed his prosthetic hand. “It’s new and I haven’t got the hang of using it to steer.”

  They didn’t speak again until they were on their way to Wilder’s apartment. “I get the feeling you didn’t seek me out to be your cabdriver for the evening, Mr. Gunnar.”

  “You’re right. And it’s just Gunnar.” Jenny turned her head, a question in her eyes. “No ‘mister.’”

  “Mind telling me what’s going on?”

  “That wolf we saw on the TV is called Santin. Until recently, he has been in prison. That situation should have continued for eternity. He escaped and, as you have just seen, has come looking for Wilder. I warned Wilder earlier today, but he refused to listen to me.” He smiled reminiscently. “He always was stubborn.”