Dire Wolves of London Box Set

by Carina Wilder

  “Very impressive,” Emma said. She turned to Roth. “And you? I mean, you spoke to me, somehow, across a great distance. That was rather impressive, too. Anything else?”

  “I’m not so gifted as Laird,” he admitted. “No telekinesis for me, I’m afraid.”

  “That’s all right,” Emma replied, letting out a happy laugh. “We’re none of us perfect.”

  “I suppose,” Roth sighed, but he was smiling as he fixed his eyes on her. Emma looked back, an eyebrow raised curiously, waiting to see what he was going to say. But no words emerged from his mouth. Instead, she nearly collapsed when a fierce jolt of pleasure whipped through her body.

  “Holy shit, what was that?” she cried out, clenching his hand hard. “What did you just do to me?”

  “Wouldn’t you like to know?” he asked.

  “Yes, I bloody would.”

  “Let’s say that my capacity to understand others’ thoughts has increased somewhat,” he replied. “It’s why you and I were able to communicate over such a long distance. It’s also why I now understand exactly how you feel, much as I couldn’t tell you exactly what you’re thinking at any given moment. But it does mean that I have a certain very intimate access to your delightful nerve endings.”

  “Blimey, just when I thought you two couldn’t possibly get better in bed, you prove me wrong,” she replied, breathless. She let go of both men’s hands and grabbed them by the fronts of their coats, pulling them hard towards her. She kissed Roth first, then Laird. “If you two don’t take me somewhere and ravage me right now, I’m going to lose my sodding mind.”

  “If we must,” said Laird, grabbing her hand again to pull her towards the stairwell. “Come on then, we’ve got a taxi service outside, all set to take us home.”

  When the three of them had made their way out to the back of the building, Emma gasped to see that instead of a car, two giant, silver-blue Dragons were waiting for them on the far side of the snow-covered parking lot.

  “Those aren’t…” she said, “they can’t be…”

  “Our taxis, yes,” Laird replied. “Their names are Minach and Lyre, but I prefer to call them Cab One and Cab Two.”

  “I’m about to ride a Dragon home with my two Dire Wolf lovers,” Emma murmured. “What a time to be alive.”

  As she climbed onto Minach’s back, she was struck with a thought of how far she’d come in a few days. The woman who’d never thought herself anything more than a dull, geeky, plain woman now felt like a proper goddess. A powerful, highly evolved creature blessed with the most extraordinary lovers any woman could ever ask for.

  She didn’t quite know what she’d done to deserve this.

  All she knew was that she was grateful.

  Epilogue

  To no one’s surprise, the three lovers were still in bed at nine the next morning, having slept for a grand total of thirty or so minutes since their return.

  After a long, hilariously awkward bath during which all three had attempted to cram themselves into Emma’s diminutive tub, they’d spent the night reacquainting themselves with one another’s bodies.

  Emma was just about to propose another go when the doorbell rang, temporarily delaying any prospect of setting a world record for most consecutive orgasms during a ménage à trois.

  “I’ll get it,” she said, stretching her arms over her head as she moved towards the edge of the bed. “And after I do, I’ll have to think of actually showing up to work today. You two are a terrible influence, you know.”

  “Work? Not bloody likely,” said Laird, grabbing her and pulling her naked body back against his, his hands cupping her bare breasts. He kissed her neck, drawing a laugh from her before turning to face Roth. “What do you think?” he asked. “Should I let her go?”

  “I’d let her do anything she wants, mate. You’ve seen how strong she is now. You might suffer a compound fracture if you insist on holding her against her will.”

  “Fair point.” Laird released her, his eyes venturing up and down her body as she leapt out of bed.

  Emma threw her clothes on quickly, springing down the stairs while her lovers hunted for their own discarded garments, which lay in random piles scattered over her bedroom floor.

  As she descended towards the foyer Emma sniffed the air, picking up a familiar scent. This time, she knew at least that she wasn’t about to be greeted by a couple of miscreants.

  “Cillian with a C,” she said cheerfully as she swung the door open.

  Indeed, Cillian was standing in the doorway, but so was another man. His tall frame was accentuated by a long wool coat with a prominent collar. Handsome with light-coloured eyes, he stared at Emma with an intensity that reminded her a little of Roth. Though he looked friendly enough, something in his demeanour sent an odd shiver of warning racing through her.

  “Miss Emma Danforth?” said the stranger.

  “Yes?” she replied. “Who are you?”

  “My name is Brigg. I’m from Scotland Yard,” the man said. “I’d like to speak to you and your mates, if I may.”

  “My…mates?” she asked, nervous to think that anyone who worked in law enforcement knew about her unusual arrangement with the two men. “There must be some sort of mistake,” she said, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Her eyes shifted over to Cillian as if to ask, What the fuck is going on here? Does he know?

  “It’s all right,” Cillian said, reading her expression.

  In that same moment, a series of rapid footsteps sounded behind Emma. Her lovers were running down the stairs, though right now she wished she could ask them to go back, to hide themselves until she understood what the strange visitor actually wanted.

  “Cillian brought me here because I sought him out,” Brigg said, his eyes shifting to the figures who were now approaching. “Thing is, I’ve been looking for others of our kind for some time. It’s my wish to return to the Old Ways, you see.”

  “The…Old Ways?” said Emma. “You mean you’re…”

  The man shot her a look, his eyes flashing bright, almost blinding blue for a second before fading again. “I’m a Dire Wolf shifter, yes,” he said. “I suppose you might say that I’ve been waiting for your pack’s arrival for many years. I’m here to offer my help, as the days ahead will be difficult for all of us.”

  “Difficult how?” It was Roth’s voice that spoke now, his hands moving to Emma’s shoulders as though to reassure her of his presence. “What news have you brought us?”

  “For one thing, word has already gotten out about your arrest of the Grizzlies last night,” Brigg replied. “There is a group forming as we speak, claiming to be rebels set to fight against the Guild. They know a good deal about the Dragon shifters, and they know that the Dire Wolves are allied closely with them. They will come after you. Not just the Trekilling Pack, but all of you. Every Dire Wolf in London is at risk.”

  “We need to get to the Guild,” said Laird. “We have to tell Lumen what’s happening.”

  “Yes,” said Brigg. “But there’s something else you need to know, too.”

  “Bloody hell,” Roth said. “I hesitate to ask what that is.”

  Brigg took in a sharp breath before replying. “I’m sorry to be the one to tell you this, but Scotland Yard has recently formed an anti-shifter task force.”

  “But,” said Emma, “that means…”

  “That means,” said Roth, “that London’s human population knows we’re here. Our time in the shadows is at an end.”

  “It’s true,” said Brigg, nodding. “But I do bring one piece of good news. They don’t know what I am, not yet. For now, at least, you have an ally inside the walls of Scotland Yard. An ally who would like to join your pack.”

  The next book in the series is Dire Wolves of London.

  Dire Wolves of London

  Dire Wolves, Book Two

  Chapter 1

  The darkness.

  That was where Sinead lived now.

  She had no idea how
long she’d inhabited this world. There were no windows. No daylight to guide her through the day’s hours. No digital display to remind her of the passage of time. Hours could have been minutes for all she knew; her addled mind was too far gone to process much of anything.

  At times she wondered if she might be dreaming, or even dead. But the thing was, she couldn’t be. She still felt too much. Too much cold, too much torment. Too much sadness.

  Her cell was frigid and damp, its awful smell a reminder that she was a permanent resident of some sort of subterranean hell conceived and manufactured by humans. The only evidence of the world outside came on the rare occasion when a guard would slip a little stale bread and water through the minuscule opening in her thick wooden door. They must have known that she wasn’t interested in eating, though, because the visits had become less and less frequent. Perhaps they were trying, very slowly, to put her out of her misery.

  When she heard footsteps approach on rare occasions, she told herself that she should have been happy to hear evidence of someone—anyone, really. But happiness, or even basic contentment, had long since turned into a foreign concept in her mind. The world had gone so damned fuzzy since her incarceration. Her head spun with thoughts that never quite came to fruition, memories so abstract that she was never quite sure if they were hers or someone else’s. Hallucinations brought on by something outside of herself.

  The men who’d brought her here must have done something to her. Drugged her, she supposed, through some kind of quick injection on the first day. Or maybe it was some sort of gas that they were pumping in through the ventilation system. No doubt it was an attempt on the part of her captors to keep her Lioness at bay. They probably wanted to ensure that she wouldn’t tear their spleens out with her teeth. That is, if they ever dared come near her.

  But they didn’t need to worry. Sinead had long since lost every shred of energy. She had no drive, no ambition to fight, not even for her life. No desire to summon her déor. Her Lioness had slipped away to a far-off place, and Sinead wasn’t sure she’d ever find her again. The horrible truth was that she was alone now.

  Helpless.

  For the first time in many years, a crippling, corrosive loneliness ate at her gut. In rare moments of clarity, she found herself wishing she’d taken a mate when she’d been free, when she’d had the chance at a life. She would have given anything to know that someone—anyone at all—was out there somewhere, thinking of her.

  She wished, for the first time in her life, that she’d learned what it was to love.

  Chapter 2

  A.S.T.F.

  Those were the only letters on the shiny new sign that stood outside the elegant building of grey stone tucked into a quiet street at London’s north end.

  Nothing—no emblem, no logo—connected the location to Scotland Yard. There was no explanation of the acronym’s meaning. No incriminating signs of fascism, no grim hints that behind the doors of the forbidding establishment was a throng of humans who would love nothing more than to take down an entire species for sport.

  But the two men sitting in the black Peugeot sedan knew exactly what those sodding letters stood for.

  “Anti-Shifter Task Force,” muttered Brigg, his tone laced with bitterness as he stared out the window on the driver’s side.

  He’d been dreading this meeting’s arrival. It was hard to put on a brave face when he knew full well that he was about to risk everything—his job, his life, even his newly-formed friendship with the man to his left—all for the greater good of his new pack.

  “Those letters should stand for Arseholes, Shites, Tossers and Fucks,” Cillian replied. “What a bunch of wankers, acting all coy about it so the public has no idea what they’re up to in there. For all that the sign tells us, this place could be a pastry shop. I mean, it hardly looks like a house of horrors, does it?”

  “Quite right, yet we both know that’s just what it is. And like an absolute fool, I’m about to step inside,” said Brigg, setting his jaw as he reminded himself what a bad idea it was for a shifter to march straight into what could very well turn out to be his untimely grave. “Of course, we don’t know exactly what they’re up to, do we? Only that they’ve been rounding up our kind for some days. My colleague at Scotland Yard only told me that the task force existed, but even he didn’t know what they’re up to. Said it’s all very hush-hush, which usually means utterly fucking illegal.”

  “Don’t worry, my friend,” Cillian said. “I’m sure they’re just escorting shifters in, offering them some ice cream and sending them on their way with a jaunty new cap that reads I Survived the Fucking Task Force, Baby.”

  Brigg laughed, grateful for the temporary respite from tension. “Good to know.” A sigh escaped his lips, and then the tension was back. “But seriously, tell me again why I’m doing this, would you?”

  “Because you wanted to help the pack, and you came up with the brilliant idea of meeting with the powers that be,” Cillian replied, a wry smile curling his lips. “This was supposed to be your clever way of infiltrating the task force and working as our double agent. You do work for Scotland Yard, remember. You’re the only one capable of waltzing in there without arousing suspicion.”

  “Oh yes. Silly me, I’d quite forgotten. Well, I suppose I ought to admit that I’m currently in the process of seriously reconsidering my choice of career.” Brigg tightened the wool scarf that was wrapped around his neck as if in preparation for a potential hanging. “I’d think about quitting one of these days, if not for the fact that I seem to be the only double agent in town.”

  “You should quit, really,” Cillian replied. “I didn’t vote for this mission. Quite honestly, I’m not keen on losing you to a bunch of small-dicked psychos just yet. I still need you as my drinking mate.”

  “Why thank you, Cill,” Brigg replied. “That’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

  “Well, I meant every word of it. They really do have tiny dicks.”

  The two men had only known each other a few weeks, but they’d become fast friends. They were opposites in most ways, a fact that only seemed to cement their bond; Brigg was serious and restrained, his full-time investigative brain always on the lookout for potential threats. His Wolf was a lone hunter, a stalker who’d grown accustomed over the years to solitude and independence.

  Cillian’s Wolf, on the other hand, had grown up among others of his kind. He knew instinctively how to move within a pack, to work alongside others while hunting down their enemies. His human side was known among the Trekilling Pack as the man-most-likely-to-be-charming, the bloke who could walk into a pub and instantly draw every set of woman’s lustful eyes to his face. Brown hair, a jawline coated with a thin layer of stubble, a smile that earned immediate trust and immediate invitations to escort any ladies present to their homes. As a bonus, he tended to see humour in almost everything, including potentially perilous situations.

  For that, Brigg appreciated his company no end, particularly today.

  “If you must go in,” Cillian continued, his tone going serious for a moment, “think of it as a gift to our pack. Maybe you can find out what exactly is going on in there. Once we know, it’ll be easier to make a plan. We need to understand their strategies before we can figure out how to protect our own from further danger.”

  “Right though you may be, I’m not actually sure that’s enough reason to walk into a place whose inhabitants would probably love to slice my head off in order to examine it and assess my genetic makeup. I may as well dive into a piranha-filled pool as waltz into this joint.”

  “Yeah, you’re probably right,” Cillian replied. “You’d be foolish to go near the place. You’re much more handsome with your head intact. But…remember what Roth said, too. He seems invested in this little meet-and-greet of yours, for some reason.”

  Brigg ground his jaw as he thought back to the last conversation he’d had with the Trekilling Pack’s Alpha. A strange look had taken up residence in Roth�
��s eyes, his mind seeming to move a million miles away as he’d spoken, as though he were connecting with some strange, distant vision.

  “He did tell me that he thinks our fates are tied up in whatever lies beyond those doors,” Brigg replied with a nod. “Whatever that means. That Alpha of ours can be more than a little cryptic.”

  “Yeah, well, he’s somewhat like another man I know.”

  Brigg swung around to stare at Cillian, a look of faux-shock on his face. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  Cillian chuckled. “It means you keep your cards so tight to your chest that I’m surprised they haven’t embedded themselves into your pectoral muscles yet, you wanker. I’ve spent many a night with you, drinking and talking into the wee small hours, and yet I know shite-all about you.”

  It was true, of course; Brigg kept his distance from everyone, mentally as well as physically. He had his damned reasons, though, and so far, Cillian had been intelligent enough not to pry too deeply into his psyche.

  When Brigg didn’t respond, the other shifter added, “You and Roth could be twins, if it weren’t for the fact that you’re paler than he is. Pasty, even.”

  “Not pasty,” said Brigg, smiling. “I avoid the sun on account of my northern roots.”

  “Vain fucker,” Cillian laughed.

  “So rude.”

  “Oh, come on. You know I think you’re handsome as all hell. Loosen up, my friend, or you’ll tie yourself in a knot. Listen, I get that this is hard for you. But I know you a little by now. You’re strong, and your Wolf is even stronger. You’ve spent your life tracking killers and taking them on. You can survive this meeting in one piece. I know you can.”