Battle Cry (Loki's Wolves Book 2)

by Melissa Snark

  He flashed a quick grin. "I prefer knives, thanks."

  The dark-haired girl stepped onto the far edge of the porch. Sawyer recognized the teenager as a member of the Storm Pack, although he wouldn't have remembered her name if Victoria hadn't said it.

  "Morena, are you okay?" Victoria whispered.

  "When you said we were meeting someone, you didn't say it was him." A low growl accompanied the words. Morena skulked against the porch railing, looking anywhere but at Sawyer. She held her limbs tightly against her body, and her shoulders slouched. Even though the girl stood a full head taller than Victoria, she seemed smaller.

  "It doesn't matter who we're meeting," Victoria said, severity coloring her tone. "Do you need to wait in the car?"

  The teenager stiffened. Her head jerked up, and her face set in pure determination. She stared straight at Sawyer and edged around her Alpha to face him.

  Victoria remained where she stood, allowing the younger wolf to confront him on her own terms. As much as he disliked being turned into a lesson for an adolescent werewolf, he understood the dynamics of what was happening.

  His hunter's instincts warned him to remain still, since even a flicker of muscle might set the wolf girl off. Instead of reaching for his gun the way he wanted, he held her stare and waited. Tension thick enough to taint the air gathered, a frozen moment in time.

  Morena tilted her head back so her chin jutted. Her bright eyes were full of anger and accusation. "You murdered Rand."

  "It was war, not murder." He strove to keep his voice neutral, free of any inflection that might allude to the bloodthirsty wrath that had driven him then or the regret he carried in his heart. Victoria's people understood the rules governing battle in black and white terms. He now regretted leading the ambush that had taken the life of the werewolf, Rand Scott, and two of Sawyer's fellow hunters, but nothing he did could change the past.

  "Liar! I hate you!" An angry howl escaped Morena before she launched a clumsy attack, stabbing at him with her fist.

  With a nimble step backward, he evaded her attack. She took another swing at him. Her movements were slow and unpracticed, and he suspected she was too young to change shapes without a dominant wolf's assistance. He caught the girl's wrist in his hand and yanked her off-balance, so she stumbled.

  Arms wind milling, Morena crashed into the cabin's wall and slid to the porch. He reached for his gun, but Victoria's hand brushed his, firm but gentle. Scowling, he looked at her.

  Victoria bent to intercept Morena as the teenager struggled to her feet. As she caught the girl's elbow, a blast of cold air hit the porch, a gust of wind that seemed to come out of nowhere. Riding the gale, a big black raven descended from the sky and landed on the low-hanging branch of a nearby pine.

  Sawyer pulled his coat closer, sparing a precious second to eyeball the bird. Morena's attack hadn't surprised him. She had plenty of good reasons for holding a grudge, but that didn't make him any happier with the current situation.

  "If Sawyer were that easy to kill, I'd have done it months ago," Victoria said with an easy smile. "You have a lot to learn before you're ready to take on an experienced hunter."

  "I don't understand why you don't kill him." Eyes bright with unshed tears, Morena shot him a hateful glance. "He murdered Jasper in cold blood! He set off the explosion that killed your mom and dad!"

  Color drained from his face, and the accusation hit like a sucker punch to the gut, leaving him gasping for breath. Self-hatred and guilt had been his constant companions for months. The weight of his sins sapped his strength. His choices were resignation and damnation, or to keep fighting and hope for an impossible absolution.

  "Look at him!" Morena shouted. "It's on his face! He reeks of guilt!"

  Fine features frozen in shock, Victoria looked at him with glittering eyes. Her irises expanded, eclipsing the whites, and a wolf stared back at him.

  He could tell by her expression that she was considering the girl's words. His hand closed in a death grip on the stock of his pistol. It required all of his discipline to keep the .45 holstered, but he placed shaky faith in Victoria. She didn't want a lethal confrontation any more than he did... Or so he hoped.

  Victoria fixed her unwavering gaze on him. "Sawyer, did you kill my parents?"

  Looking into her eyes, he believed her perfectly capable of killing him despite their fragile truce. His pulse throbbed against his eardrums. His heart pounded his ribcage. Sweat trickled down his back, but he forced himself to calm. He relaxed his tensed muscles, opened his hands, and released his hold on his gun.

  Wolves smelled lies. He had to tell the truth. Of course, if she asked the wrong question and he gave a truthful answer, she would kill him anyway, but it might be very well what he deserved.

  He swallowed against a tight throat. "I regret all of the death I've caused, so yeah, I'm sure I smell guilty. The responsibility for your parents' deaths resides with me, but I didn't kill them."

  "He's lying." Morena hiccupped, tears coursing down her cheeks.

  "He's telling the truth." A warning growl rolled from her throat.

  The girl dropped her gaze and fell silent.

  "What about the explosion?" Victoria asked.

  "I wasn't at the airfield that day," Sawyer continued. "I didn't have anything to do with the explosion. Neither did my father."

  Victoria's expression softened. She blinked, and when her lids lifted, her features were human once again. "I believe you. But why weren't you there?"

  His pride balked at disclosing the truth. The words stuck in his throat. He remained stubbornly, stupidly silent.

  Victoria stepped closer to him, studying his face. She rose on her toes and reached for him, index finger extended. Her fingertip brushed his chin and traced a slow path downward along the carotid artery. Her touch was gentle, sensuous, not remotely threatening. A seductive lie. In the blink of an eye, her human hands could become claws tipped in nails sharp enough to slice his throat clean open.

  "Sawyer?" Victoria coaxed, low and seductive.

  Abruptly, he realized she'd been playing with him, and anger replaced his hesitation. "My father called me a loose cannon, all right? He kicked my ass to the curb for shooting at you instead of listening to find out how Daniel died. He arranged the meeting on neutral ground with your pack and told me I had to sit it out until I could get my head on straight."

  "He smells guilty," Morena protested.

  Victoria turned to stare at the girl and spoke harsh, clipped words. "If guilt is any measure of culpability, then I deserve to be drawn and quartered for what happened to Daniel."

  "I didn't mean to imply—" Horror contorted the girl's face, and she flinched. She looked away, closing her mouth.

  "It's okay, Morie." Victoria approached Morena and settled a comforting arm about the girl's shoulders.

  Once on the gravel, Victoria turned to face him. "Tell your father we'll talk, but I want the meeting to take place outside Sierra Pines. The last time your father got too close, a child of my pack paid with his life. I don't want hunters in my territory."

  The reminder made him wince. "How far?"

  "Say, fifty miles."

  He considered for a few seconds. "Truckee is fifty miles as the crow flies. We have a contact up there who owns a dairy farm."

  She stared at him as if trying to see into his soul. After a hesitation, she said, "That'll be fine."

  "What time?"

  "High noon?"

  "All right," he said. "I'll arrange it. I'll text you the address."

  "Sounds good," she said in parting.

  Sawyer waited until the women were gone before he went inside. Gathering his belongings as he prepared to leave, he reflected on volatile emotions, explosive tempers, and the potential for further bloodshed between wolves and hunters. His father would call the situation classic FUBAR. Fucked Up Beyond All Recognition...

  Sawyer would have agreed.

  Sawyer parked his 1970 Chevelle SS 454 at
the farthest corner of the lot to keep one of the many pickup trucks and SUVs occupying the gravel parking area from banging its doors into the convertible. The classic muscle car was red with two black racing stripes down the hood, and it had a white leather interior.

  His father had rescued the Chevelle from a junkyard when he and Daniel were just kids. For years, the painstaking restoration had been the weekend and evening project of father and sons. Sawyer had spent just as many hours in the hot garage as Daniel.

  Yet, on Daniel's sixteenth birthday, Jake had handed him the keys. "She's yours now, Son. Take good care of her." Sawyer still recalled the sharp sting of jealousy, the bitter taste of burning envy.

  After Daniel's funeral, Jake tossed Sawyer the keychain. "Take good care of her, Son. She's yours now." Except she wasn't his, and never would be. She'd always belong to Daniel, and he'd give anything to have his brother back.

  Sawyer followed the dirt path toward the main concentration of buildings. The whole dairy farm stank of cattle, dung, and dirt. His steps stirred up a cloud of dust that left him sneezing.

  Sawyer located his father on the front porch of the main house along with two of Jake's men: Henry Hedford, AKA Skinner, and Andy Chart. Skinner acted as the Hunter King's second-in-command and right-hand man.

  The three men faced each other in a loose circle, speaking in hushed voices. A dozen paces distant, five more experienced hunters gathered. Sawyer recognized every man present as trusted members of his father's organization.

  The thud of his boots on the wooden steps announced Sawyer's arrival. The other hunters turned toward him. Jake dipped his head in a slight nod. "Son."

  "Dad." Sawyer tipped his head toward the men even though the unanticipated presence of Andy Chart grated on his nerves. What the hell was the man doing here?

  "Sawyer," Chart said in a grim voice.

  "Hal, how've you been?" Sawyer stepped toward Skinner and offered his hand. "How's Tonya?"

  "We're good, but I hear you've gone bat-shit crazy off the deep end, boy." Skinner grasped his forearm and pulled Sawyer off balance, dropping a slap onto his back. The burly African-American man had a shaved head and many intricate tattoos. Despite being on the high side of fifty, he was one tough SOB who outstripped Sawyer in both height and weight.

  The blow staggered Sawyer. He missed a step and recovered, accepting the nonverbal reprimand as what he had coming for running off halfcocked on a wild werewolf hunt. "Thanks for that."

  "Any time." Skinner's laughter boomed.

  "I'd like to speak with my son." Jake, who had reached the rank of colonel in the Marines prior to retirement, snapped out the command with the air of a man accustomed to being obeyed.

  Without a word, Skinner and Andy both vacated the porch.

  Jake turned his impenetrable dark-eyed gaze on his son. "You're early."

  "I couldn't sleep." Sawyer propped an elbow against the white rail, gazing at the grassy front yard ringed by tall trees, the barns beyond, and the stockyards full of cattle. He sniffed, unable to breathe properly thanks to his allergies. As pretty as it was, he hated the country. The dirt, stench, and pollen were everywhere.

  "Gage and JD are at home?" Sawyer's younger brothers, fraternal twins, were seniors in high school, so they normally accompanied their father on expeditions during the summer months.

  Jake's head bent in a curt nod. "I have Winnie keeping an eye on the boys while I'm gone."

  Uneasy, Sawyer surveyed the assembled hunters. He'd expected his father to come alone or with a couple men, not a whole crew. His gaze swept the assembly again, noting that most of the men carried shotguns and rifles, which he assumed contained silver ammunition, the weapon of choice when hunting werewolves.

  "Why did you have to bring a unit, Dad? Victoria will spot your men and assume this is a trap. Hell, from where I'm standing, I'd assume the same thing."

  A full minute of silence reigned. Sawyer resisted the urge to glance over his shoulder. His father's face would reveal nothing.

  At last, Jake said, "These are my top men. They fought beside Daniel and they've grieved for him. They deserve to hear what she has to say."

  "Are you sure you're not feeling excessively paranoid?"

  "Victoria is a priestess of Freya and a werewolf, Sawyer, and the last time I checked, she was very pissed off for good reasons."

  Sawyer took his father's paranoia as further evidence Jake placed no faith in his son's judgment. Heat burned through his chest. "She's going to turn tail and run."

  "That might be for the best," Jake said. "I don't know what you think's going to happen..."

  His hands curled into fists, and tension rang throughout his body. "I intend to put things right."

  Jake snorted. "You're fooling yourself, Sawyer. Too many people have died. I've tried to minimize the bloodshed, but you went off guns blazing—"

  "I know what I did." Guilt was the noose around his neck.

  "Then you know that I haven't killed Victoria, even though I'm capable of it. I've held back out of respect for her father—"

  Sawyer's fist struck his palm. "The alliance—"

  "Our alliance with the wolves has been destroyed. Hell, most of her pack is dead, and she's going to be out for blood. It's in her nature."

  Sawyer swung back to his father. "She's better than that. She could have killed me in Montana, but she didn't. She's had other opportunities since then..."

  "She's exerting too much influence over you, Sawyer." Jake directed an unrelenting stare toward his son. "She's an Alpha. She has real power. I knew her father well. I've seen what a dominant wolf is capable of."

  There it was—his father's unremitting disapproval—because his rebellious son failed to live up to expectations. Sawyer gave a shake of denial and glared. "If that's what you believe, then why the hell are you even here? You've obviously got no interest in peace."

  The older man's expression softened. "I'm here for you, Son. Because you need me."

  A red haze of anger clouded Sawyer's vision. One thing was certain—Victoria and his father were cut from the same cloth. Both wolf and hunter seemed to share the stubborn insistence that current wrongs could not be righted. Anger fed his determination. The she-wolf and Jake would sit down and talk even if he had to force them at gunpoint.

  Silence descended. Not an uncomfortable quiet, but a familiar one. His mother's death from breast cancer two years before robbed the Barrett family of conversation beyond the minimum necessary for survival. All the joy and laughter in their lives passed with Sarah.

  Jake seemed to take Sawyer's reaction as a rejection. An expression of sorrow crossed his weathered face, making him look years older than his actual age.

  Sawyer's throat hurt, but he had no comforting words to offer. Instead, he glanced out over the yard, surveying the assembly of ruthless men, busy with firearm maintenance and gear preparation. He had trained and hunted with them for years. Every man present would kill or die on his father's word.

  "I'm taking this seriously, Sawyer. I pulled Skinner and these men from a post in Tucson to be here," Jake said.

  The change of topic made him take a step back and refocus his priorities. "How bad are things in Arizona?"

  "Bad," Jake said in his no nonsense way. "Things have never been worse. The undead are overrunning Tucson and Los Angeles. We're fighting a losing battle."

  His teeth ground together. His knowledge of events on the front lines came through hearsay. For the last several months, he'd been absent from the trenches, chasing after werewolves, and the one particular she-wolf who'd become his obsession.

  His father made no accusations. Aloud. He didn't need to because Sawyer harbored enough self-recrimination for them both.

  "We should withdraw," Sawyer said, "and regroup. Draw new lines."

  Jake's brow rose. "So you're giving me tactical advice now?"

  "I'm just saying—"

  "If we do that, then we've lost southern Arizona. San Diego. Los Angeles." J
ake's dark brown eyes remained impervious.

  "Those cities have already fallen," Sawyer said, because someone needed to say it. "Dad, how many more people have to die before you admit that we've lost?"

  Jake's expression turned to stone. "What about the civilians, Sawyer? The people you'd leave behind. What would happen to them?"

  "I don't know, Dad." He gave an angry shake of his head. "I don't have any ready answers. But I'm doing everything I can to put things back the way they used to be. This is about more than just our family or the Storm Pack. None of our wolf allies trust us anymore. The ones that aren't openly hostile won't even cooperate."

  Jake stared at him. "Hell, I know that better than anyone. Last week, Charles Redmond's people over in San Diego got into it with the local pack, right in the middle of a vamp attack."

  Sawyer experienced a surge of elation, feeling like his father was finally getting it. "It's a cluster fuck. It has to stop."

  "And that's what this meeting is about?"

  "Yeah, that's exactly what this is." Sawyer had a sketchy plan for putting things back the way they used to be. First, he had to end the hostility between the hunters and wolves. Not all of the pieces were clear yet, but this detente was the start.

  Jake's eyes narrowed. "Then why'd you call Andy Chart and ask for ten bricks of plastic explosives?"

  Damn Chart and his big mouth. Sawyer stiffened, angered by the implicit accusation in his father's words. "I'm planning on going after a vampire."

  "Ten bricks for just one vampire?" Jake said in a skeptical tone. "Because I'm wondering if you're planning an encore of your performance in Montana. You rigged that warehouse to explode while trying to ambush Victoria's pack, and you almost got yourself killed in the process."

  His jaw dropped. "Two minutes ago you were saying I'd fallen under Victoria's influence. Now I'm setting a trap to take her down. Which is it?"

  "I came prepared for both possibilities. Sawyer, you haven't been yourself for months," Jake continued, implacable as he made his argument. "Two good men followed you into that warehouse, and they both paid with their lives."

  His temper spiked, making it difficult to remain rational. He swung away from his father and paced the porch before he turned back. "Damn it, Dad. Don't you think I know that?"