To his relief, he caught a thermal and soared, regaining altitude. He peered through the lingering smoke and dust. Lightning split the sky. Before the noise of the thunderclap had reached him, torrential rain soaked the parched earth. The heavy drops also extinguished Pierce’s flaming feathers and beat fiercely at his wings. Worse, it saturated his plumage. He plunged for a second time to the ground.
The violent downpour stopped as quickly as it had begun. But by then it was too late. Pierce made a clumsy landing a long way from Hatch. Probably at least a mile. The brief violent rain had washed the air clean. Pierce could see the other officer clearly now, even though Hatch had camouflaged himself with mud.
He took stock. He was hurt. Not as badly as he had been when Hatch brought him down. But badly. For sure his left wing was broken. And he was in bird form. Rule one was never stay in phoenix when mortals were around. He would heal quickly in this form, but not as quickly as a search team would reach him. Shit.
As he slipped into unconsciousness, Pierce commanded his battered body to perform a last change to human. The three jeeps sent to locate the downed jet found a naked and bleeding Maj. D’Angelo wearing only his dog tags. He lay motionless on the pitted desert ground, an apparent casualty of the enemy. He had a dent in one temple. His left arm was shattered. He was unconscious. Only his bleeding wounds proved he was alive. Patrol laid him beside Lt. Hatcher, and transported both men to the field hospital.
The fighter jet was salvaged by locals. For months, they eked out a living selling the scraps to the US military. A ragged goat herder told an improbable tale of a glorious bird that set the desert on fire, thereby depriving his flock of forage. This earned him a beating from the uncle whose goats had gone hungry, as well as a reputation as a masterful storyteller of enviable inventiveness.
CHAPTER TWO
She hadn’t come to the gym today. It was always a bad day when Curvy Girl didn’t show. She didn’t always come while Pierce was working out, which he did six days a week, between seven and nine. She wasn’t at the coffee shop either. He glanced at his watch. It was almost ten now. Break time.
Curvy Girl wasn’t exactly as regular at the Bluebonnet as he was. But several times a week she dropped in with some of the other nurses from the VA clinic. They would sit together at a table laughing and chatting and decompressing. Today he recognized three of her coworkers sitting at their usual corner table.
They were kind women. And they probably didn’t know they were being indiscreet. They spoke in low voices, and they named no names. But they discussed their patients just the same. The Navajo elder who had lung cancer but didn’t want to be treated because he wanted to die in his traditional round hogan where he could see the sacred mountain. The alcoholic who was by turns sentimental and clingy and aggressively violent.
They chewed over the difficult cases in hushed voices and commiserated with one another. They didn’t expect to be overheard in their back corner. How could they know that they were being overheard by a guy with super normal hearing?
But Curvy Girl had not joined them today. Pierce hoped it wasn’t because she was avoiding him. He had tried not to alarm her. Not to send out waves of longing that would make her think he was some kind of lustful animal. But of course he was. He was a phoenix. And Curvy Girl was his fated mate.
Just as his father and brothers had warned him, finding his destined bride had brought out his most primeval possessiveness. Not exactly a characteristic to win the heart of a modern woman. He needed to stamp down his instincts lest he frighten off his one and only Fate.
Whether Curvy Girl — Diana — knew it or not, he was hunting her. Hunting your mate was all right and proper, but in this day and age it was more likely to make a woman run screaming from you rather than into your arms. But Pierce could be patient. Phoenixes were predators and patience and timing were as innate as possessiveness.
He stretched out his breakfast by reading his book. The waitress knew he was good for a three-dollar tip, so she kept bringing the coffee pot. But he could be strong. He only let Susan refill his mug twice. Over in the corner, those three nurses were talking about Diana in hushed voices. Wasn’t their fault that he had phoenix hearing. But they were discussing his mate and he could no more stop himself from eavesdropping than he could transform into a wolf.
“Something’s bugging her, all right,” the thin, pregnant one said. What was her name? Tina.
“She’s entitled to her privacy,” said the chunkier, gray-haired one called Hazel.
“I’m just saying.” That was Tina again.
“If she wants to tell us, she will,” said the woman in the animal print scrubs. Ruby favored bright prints that fought with her red hair and lost. She was the boss, and her remark stopped the gossip cold.
Susan brought over their breakfasts and in the flurry of unwrapping silverware and adjusting their plates, the ladies changed topics and began to discuss an upcoming seminar on blood thinners. Pierce paid for his meal and went out into the parking lot to retrieve his vehicle. Why was Diana upset? The trouble was he knew next to nothing about his mate. Not where she lived. Not where she was from — from her accent, not Arizona. He knew what was important, what was in her heart. That was his gift.
He knew that she was exactly what his heart had been holding out for. The other half of his soul. He had always believed that recognizing your mate would make courtship a breeze. But it didn’t. It just raised the stakes. Normally, if you asked a woman out, and she said ‘no’, that was that. No harm, no foul. But if she was your one and only? That raised the stakes. It didn’t bear thinking about.
His assignment to Special Forces meant he had access to the kinds of databases that civilians could only dream about. Anything and everything he needed to know about Diana was only a couple of keystrokes away. Except that he had sworn oaths that precluded him using those top secret sites for his personal use. Spying on a civilian would be a betrayal not only of his own honor, but of his country.
He was going to have to move slowly and carefully. Find a way to meet Curvy Girl. Earn her trust and confidence and then swoop in to make her his. If she had been a phoenix too, he could have told her she was his mate and although she might have played coy, she would have been willing to play. The deep reserve he sensed in Diana could be because she didn’t fancy him or men in general. Or it could be her reaction to a stranger.
Serenading your mate was a longstanding phoenix tradition — and one that his relatives incited was a sure-fire way to win a reluctant woman’s heart. But he couldn’t sing to Diana if he didn’t know where she lived. And he couldn’t look up her address and perch outside her home without invitation. She was going to have to invite him into her life before he could get close. Honor was a bitch.
* * *
Before he drove out of the restaurant parking lot Pierce checked his messages. Just in case Command and Control had called wanting their pilot back. They hadn’t. He had three missed calls from his physical therapist and one from an old buddy. Rumor had it that Col. Rivera had been successful in getting rid of Zeke Bascom after that last mission imploded. At any rate, as far as Special Forces was concerned, Hulk was history.
Pierce ought to be grateful that after his own bloody screw-up in Syria he was getting a second chance. At least that was the promise. As soon as he was passed fit for active service, Maj. D’Angelo could expect to be asked to fly a fucking desk. His country needed fucking forms filled out in fabulous fucking triplicate. And Ace D’Angelo was the donkey turd earmarked for this stupefying stateside mission. Death come first.
The paved road ended, and became washboard gravel as Pierce wound through the hills. He had had special shocks fitted to his SUV, but it was still a kidney-rattling ride. The cabin was only six rooms — if you excluded the bathrooms. But it sat in comfortable isolation on twenty acres that overlooked the rugged canyons and dried riverbeds of Arizona’s Navajo country.
His father had built the family getaway to have a pl
ace to teach his children to fly. It held a lot of good memories. The first time Pierce changed into phoenix, the first time he caught a thermal and soared above the ground until mortals were little more than ants.
Pierce parked his SUV under the trees that shaded the cabin. Away from the city, the air was clear and if not exactly cool, fresher. He made himself go through his rituals. He put his damp and sweaty gym clothes in the washing machine that occupied its own little niche in the kitchen. He had enough for a load, so he put it in. That was the rule. Part of keeping his life on an even keel, was following the rules. Particularly the ones he had made for himself.
Next he made sure he had something to eat for lunch and for dinner. The freezer compartment had a tall stack of plastic boxes of food he had prepared himself. But the rule was, he had to cook at least once a day. He took out a portion of lasagna to thaw, and set a package of pork chops on the counter for dinner. Meals planned, laundry on, his next task was to police his living room.
In the high desert, everything collected a layer of dust in no time. There was central air, but he didn’t like to turn it on. He usually left the windows wide open when he was home. He closed and latched them when he went out. It was probably overkill in Dry River. The small isolated community had a nonexistent crime rate. But old habits die hard. Security was in his blood.
He had been in the Air Force his whole adult life. First the Academy after high school, and then the Air Force as a commissioned officer. Special Forces for six years. It had made him habitually organized and vigilant. Growing up a shifter in a world that did not acknowledge the paranormal had made him secretive. His whole family guarded their privacy and their paranormal abilities. Leaving his home unlocked violated every rule in his book.
It took him a mere three minutes to put his books away, and position the coffee table so its edge ran precisely parallel to the edge of the rug. Six more minutes to dust every surface. Five minutes to dust mop every inch of exposed floor. He opened the windows, and pulled the curtains back exactly eight inches on both sides.
Now he could return Hulk Bascom’s call. He glanced at his watch, crap on a stick, it wasn’t even fucking noon. He had to figure out better ways to fill up his day. Bascom answered on the first ring. “You encrypted, D’Angelo?” he barked into his phone.
“Sure. What’s up?” Pierce could be curt too.
“You still on medical leave?” Bascom demanded.
“Yeah, I’m still on fucking medical leave. What about it?”
“You likely to be loose another couple of weeks?” Under his habitual calm, Bascom’s deep voice was urgent.
“Fucking psychiatrist wants me to give myself another six fucking months to recover my emotional fucking stability. Physical therapist thinks I need another sixteen sessions to regain full mobility of the fucking elbow.”
“There’s no need for you to bottle it up, D’Angelo. If you’re pissed, man, just say so.”
“What the hell did you call me for, Bascom? I don’t have all fucking day here.”
Bascom snorted. “Time’s all you got, boy. We both know that. We need someone trustworthy to help out with a situation, Ace.”
The old nickname improved Pierce’s mood. “What sort of a situation would that be, Hulk?”
“The usual.” A piercing shriek followed by a gurgle accompanied Hulk Bascom’s answer.
“Who’s there?” Pierce snapped.
“My son doesn’t want to wait for lunch,” Zeke said. “Hang on a moment.” In the background, there was a rattling noise followed by soft squeaks.
“You have a son?” Pierce asked enviously.
“Two. And a daughter.” Hulk was smug.
“Congratulations.” How the fuck had that damned bear pulled that off? Last Pierce knew, Bascom was a solitary old bachelor with PTSD. “Should the kid be hearing this?”
“Probably scar him for life, but he’s too young to talk. I’m in charge today. My wife’s working.” Bascom’s voice deepened with pride and possessiveness.
“You want to call me back?”
“Nah. Let’s get this done,” Bascom said. “The FAs have an assignment for you. If you’re interested that is.”
Pierce immediately perked up. The FAs or Fuck Alls were a group that policed shifters gone bad. A bunch of shifters — military guys — had banded together to take down the bad guys. Because there was fuck all the cops could do about shifters turned criminal. It was true that the FAs took the law into their own hands, but with psychopathic shifters who could evade custody just by turning into an animal, it was usually the only way.
His older brother, Lincoln, had been involved with the FAs since he had left the Air Force. Pierce knew about them, but had never participated. “Go on,” he encouraged Bascom.
“We’re short guys in the Southwest with your skill set, Ace.”
“Yeah?” Pierce began to rifle through the unopened mail on his desk. Three real estate agents and a purveyor of useless appliances wanted his immediate attention. He dumped them all.
“We think we’ve gotten a solid lead on a rogue, Ace. We want you to check out a guy working in Flagstaff. Someone needs to get close enough to smell him.”
“I can do that.”
“I’ll send you the dossier. Encryption code: Venom.” Bascom hung up.
The dossier arrived twenty minutes later. Pierce’s assignment was to check out a possible match for the villain who had been terrorizing women across the Southwest all summer. The Fuck Alls had noticed a pattern that the authorities had missed. If you weren’t expecting paranormal suspects, you didn’t expect paranormal behavior and you couldn’t connect the dots that linked apparently disconnected events.
Some piece of shit was specializing in raping women who were securely locked in their homes. In each case, the cops of several jurisdictions had independently decided that the rapists had gotten access to the homes and waited inside to rape at night. Which did not explain how the houses came to be locked up tighter than a drum when the subject left.
The rapist didn’t slit screens. He didn’t jimmy locks. He didn’t break and enter. But he slipped into houses with deadbolts, and through windows with bars. The FAs had spotted the crimes and run them through their computer program. They worked out that if the rapists were all the same guy, he probably was a snake shifter. He shifted to enter through vents and burglar bars, became human to rape, and shifted to exit. The FAs had code named him Venom.
Half an hour after receiving the file, Pierce was on the wing. He could have used the open skies over Arizona to fly in greater phoenix, but once he reached Flagstaff he would probably need to be hawk-sized so he could surveil the subject unobtrusively. It took a considerable amount of energy to shift. Returning to human and then shifting to lesser phoenix might drain him of energy that he might later require. Better to save his strength and do the entire trip in lesser. Because you never knew what shit would go down.
The subject of Pierce’s investigation was a paroled con. Which all by itself meant he probably wasn’t the shifter the FAs were after. Shifters were hard to tie to crimes. Even if captured, they could usually manage to escape custody. They didn’t have to do their time. Which was why the FAs were necessary if these bastards were to be stopped.
Pierce found Brodie Purcell’s rooming house on a Flagstaff back street. He went in the open third floor window while Purcell was out at work. Presumably, Purcell had decided to leave his window open so that the brutal heat of a September afternoon didn’t turn his single room into a furnace. Pierce didn’t find any evidence that the con was breaching his parole. Unless you counted the pistol under his greasy mattress.
He paid a visit to the factory where Purcell worked, to confirm his impression that the guy wasn’t a shifter. Since he was just about invisible to mortal eyes, Pierce flew through the open door of the loading bay of the factory where his subject worked.
Purcell was a pimply pint-sized weasel. But that was only Pierce’s metaphor. The ferret-f
aced punk was no shifter. Two minutes in the rafters above the line where Purcell operated an extrusion press for a window and door manufacturer was enough to establish that his subject was only a crook who avoided soap and water. Purcell smoked and he didn’t bathe. But he was just another two-bit mortal hoodlum.
It was a disappointing outcome for the Fuck Alls. But the organization wasn’t a bunch of out-of-control vigilantes. Whether or not Purcell kept his nose clean wasn’t their business. His parole officer and the system could deal with the grody butt-wipe. On the other hand, Pierce figured Purcell was in no position to complain that the gun under his mattress had vanished. Who knew contraband could dematerialize?
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Bearly Begun
Bachelor Bears of Yakima Ridge Book 1
Feisty Erin Salter sacrificed her youth and dreams to make sure her motherless twin half-brothers had a home. She hasn’t had energy for a lover in years, but she’ll happily lay down her virtue for manly Leonard Benoit, if he will help keep her boys out of jail.
Desperate, bachelor bear-shifter Leonard Benoit hails from remote, womanless Yakima Ridge. This burly, handsome backwoodsman is in Portland hunting his life-mate. One meeting with BBW Erin ignites his shifter passions—permanently. To win his destined bride, he undertakes to take her kid brothers in hand.
With two suspicious young’uns scrutinizing his every move, how can Lenny woo this reserved city woman the way instinct tells him to? But dancing the bedtime waltz with his luscious, fated mate without revealing his shifter secret is a bad plan.
What’s an Alpha Male shifter to do when his one and only mate decides her dreams do not include marrying a man who turns into a nightmare?
Fair warning: This novella contains multiple scenes of rapturous passion between a woman-starved shifter and a man-hungry BBW. If the primal lust that can erupt between a bear and his fated mate disturbs your sensitivities, keep looking. Because the bears of Yakima Ridge believe a bear bond is best forged in bed.No matter how great a lover he is.
Dragon's Possession (BBW / Dragon Shifter Romance) (Lords of the Dragon Islands Book 4) Page 29
