Dance with the Devil

by Angela Dennis

  Lucas’s gaze was hollow and strain lined his face. Broad and lean, he stood against the doorframe. His sandy-blond hair was overly long, brushing the collar of his leather jacket as he crossed his arms against his chest. “Father’s dead. Quinn ordered you home so we could present a united front.”

  Carrick froze. A sharp pain radiated through his chest, mixed with an overwhelming sense of freedom. Although Anthony had accepted Carrick into the Pride as his son, there’d been no love between them. As soon as Carrick was of age, Anthony had given him an ultimatum. He could cut his ties with the Pride and live as a rogue, or retain a tentative relationship with the Pride while living in exile, returning to Pride land only when summoned. It wasn’t really a choice. Rogues were considered a threat to the cohesiveness of the Pride system. Many Prides had a standing order to kill them on sight, so Carrick had chosen the second option. He’d been too young to know better. As a rogue, he would have been free of the secret he carried like a noose around his neck. But, now that his father was dead, only Carrick and Lucas knew the truth. If Quinn knew, he wouldn’t have ordered him home like a lost kitten.

  Damn Regulator. If their father was dead, the Pride would fall to Lucas and life would go on as planned. There was no need for Quinn to interfere. Carrick had expected to be called to participate in a Claiming. He was in his prime, and it was past time he started looking for a mate. He wouldn’t fight the compulsion to attend, but he couldn’t claim any females in the Pride without telling them the truth, and that wasn’t an option.

  Carrick sank into the nearest chair. “What happened?”

  “Reginald came onto Pride land and challenged the boundary line with a few of his dominants. Father confronted them. Alone.”

  Years ago, Reginald had led their Pride, but their father, Anthony, had orchestrated a bloody rebellion that had split the Pride in half. Now, as two separate Prides, they shared an island, still fighting the two men’s endless feud.

  “What was he thinking? Why didn’t he take anyone with him?”

  Lucas sighed. “Maybe he thought he was strong enough to take them. Who knows?”

  “Too many of us have died because of this damn feud, and for what?”

  “For nothing.” Lucas shook his head. “The Regulators came in to clean up the mess. There were human witnesses. Reginald and the enforcers he brought with him were banished. Or will be.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Quinn doesn’t trust any of Reginald’s dominants to lead their Pride. He called back his half-blood daughter.”

  “That doesn’t affect us.” Carrick considered. “I assume you’re our Pride leader now, so why did Quinn send you after me?”

  Lucas laughed. The bitter sound carried across the expanse of the bar. “I can’t rule without a mate. Tradition. So Quinn wants to have a Claiming. Pride law says we can’t have one unless all the dominants participate. The Conclave is in an uproar. One of the anti-half-blood factions is calling for Reginald’s Pride to be wiped out. Quinn stepped in to rule both Prides in the interim. It was the only way he could protect the half-bloods.”

  “It’s more than that. Quinn’s up to something.”

  “I know. But he won’t have to clean up the mess. I will. So I need you home to watch my back.” Lucas shook his head. “I can’t do this without you.”

  Carrick leaned back and took a deep breath. At thirty-five, Lucas was too young to take over the Pride. He should have had at least ten more years before it was time to shoulder the burden. But their father was dead, and Lucas had inherited his mess.

  As much as he didn’t want to, it was time to go home. Carrick couldn’t force his brother to face this alone. Together, they could try to patch together the pieces of the Pride their father had all but destroyed. It was going to be hell.

  Jillian shoved her employment file inside her purse. It was a little thing, but would make it harder for her father to use her life here as leverage. Tightening the belt of her coat, she quickened her steps as she moved across the snow-coated backstreet, trying to make short work of the five-block walk to her tiny apartment. She was so lost in thought that she didn’t hear the shot until the pain registered in her shoulder. She dove onto the pavement behind a parked car and scanned the perimeter.

  Nothing.

  Three more shots rang out, the first of which plowed into her thigh.

  The bar was too far away. She’d never make it.

  She was too exposed. She had to get off the sidewalk. There was nowhere to go except the narrow alley at her back. Pressing a hand against the wound on her shoulder, she crawled backward. At least her attacker would be forced to face her head-on.

  She moved into the darkness until she was no longer visible from the road. Pressed against the brick wall, she assessed her injuries. The bullets hadn’t pierced any arteries, so she wouldn’t bleed out, and although her wounds hurt like hell, they weren’t fatal. But she’d pass out if she couldn’t find a way to stop the bleeding.

  When the wind shifted, she caught the scent of an unfamiliar shifter. His footsteps echoed across the empty street. Too weak to fight in human form, she gathered her magic and shifted. The lioness ripped through her body, slamming to the surface. Her beast had been trapped inside for too long, and her human side struggled to remain in control as she moved into the darkest section of the alley and out of sight.

  The shift should have healed her injuries, but, if anything, it had made them worse. Blood dripped from her torn shoulder and thigh onto the snow as she waited. Her attacker stopped at the mouth of the alley. She was downwind of him, so it would be difficult for him to pinpoint her direction. If she had been stronger, she would have attacked.

  When she could no longer sense her attacker, she stepped forward. Pain shot through her shoulder and leg, and she collapsed. When she tried to stand, her foot would no longer bear her weight. She tried again and managed to walk a few steps, dragging one leg and limping gingerly on another. After only three steps, she was forced to stop, exhausted. She needed to shift and get help, but shifting again so soon would be incredibly painful. Momentarily helpless, she lay down to try and conserve energy.

  Several moments later, her attacker returned to the mouth of the alley. This time, he hesitated. The pungent aroma of bloodlust rolled off him like strong cologne. He knew she was injured and was sweeping in for the kill. She’d be damned if she’d be taken down by a coward hiding behind a gun, but even as she gathered her strength, she knew there was no way she could win this fight. As he moved into the alley, she prepared to lunge. Then he stopped, turned and beat a swift retreat.

  Jillian let out a ragged breath. Her heart pounded, a result of the adrenaline pumping through her veins. She didn’t understand why the shifter had left until she heard the rapid cadence of boots tapping on the cold concrete. She froze as Carrick appeared in the mouth of the alley. If he saw her beast, he would have too many questions. None of which she could answer. If he came closer, she would be forced to shift.

  “Jillian?” He stopped, lifted his head and sniffed the air. “I heard the shots. How bad are you hurt? Jillian?”

  She held her breath, pain shooting through her body. One more step and he would see her. She reached inside herself and grabbed her human side, pushing aside the beast and sliding into her two-legged form. The pain was excruciating. It squeezed her like a vise. And the more she moved, the more it tightened, until she was gasping for air, blood running like sweat from her wounds. Naked, she huddled against the cold pavement, waiting.

  A few seconds later, Carrick moved into the back of the alley. “What the hell was that?” He checked her injuries. Stripping off his coat, he tore it into strips and bound her wounds. Once he was done, he bundled her inside what was left of the thick wool, then cradled her in his arms.

  She moaned as he shifted his weight and tightened his grip on her body. A cry of pain slipped from her lips when her shoulder pushed against his chest.

  “I’ll fix you.” He
kissed her forehead, his breath hot against her skin. “But I have to get you out of here first. I ran the bastard off, but he might come back.”

  “He shot me.” Her voice sounded strange to her ears, like a runner with no air left in their lungs. The tightening of his embrace was his only response. Too weak to continue, she rested against him and closed her eyes. In the twenty-nine years she had spent on this earth, she had lived through numerous assassination attempts. This was the first time anyone had cared enough to try and save her. She had friends, but she protected them, not the other way around. “Something was on the bullets. When I shifted, I didn’t heal.”

  “I know.” He paused, his breath coming fast against the top of her head. “I can smell poison on you. The bullets must have been laced in it. It’s going to hurt like hell, but I’m carrying you back to the bar. We need to get off the street.”

  The fire was still smoldering when they stepped into the bar. Carrick gently laid her on the couch beside the hearth, keeping her tightly wrapped in his coat. Turning away from her, he walked to the fireplace and stirred the flames until they whipped into a frenzy.

  Knowing there was a good chance she would pass out before he returned, she tried to untangle herself from his coat, wanting to check her injuries. Suddenly he was at her side, his hands holding her in place.

  “You need to lie still. The bleeding has almost stopped.” When he seemed assured she would obey, he released her. “You can tell me what happened later. Right now I need to heal you.” He slipped his hand beneath the coat and lifted it from her skin. Some of the material was stuck to the wound on her shoulder, and it began to bleed freely.

  “Fix it,” she said, teeth clenched.

  “I’ll do my best.” He paused, his brow furrowed. “The bullet went all the way through, but the tissue around the entry point is black.” He sat on his heels. “I’ve never seen anything like this.”

  The pain making her nonsensical, Jillian fought to speak. She bit her tongue until she tasted blood, and the contrasting pain momentarily cleared her head. “Fix it,” she said again.

  “You have to shift. The beast heals faster.”

  Panic slipped into the haze of pain, but for once she ignored it. Shifting three times in an hour was hard enough when you were healthy. It was unheard of when you were injured. “Can’t,” she spit out. “Already shifted twice.”

  “Doesn’t matter.” He rose to his feet and stripped off his sweater and T-shirt, tossing them on the floor. “I can bring your beast. It’ll hurt like a bitch, but it may save your life,” he said as he stepped out of his jeans.

  It was nearly impossible for Jillian to process what was happening. “Dominant,” she managed, struggling to sit. Blood ran in rivulets down her shoulder, trailing across her belly. She had lost feeling in her arm, and the longer she sat, the more the room swirled and flickered. If he called her beast, the secret would be out and there would be no taking it back. If he didn’t, she’d be dead.

  He sat beside her and pressed his hands against her temples. Magic played across his skin, sinking into her body in the places where they touched and calling to her beast. She closed her eyes as he positioned himself above her, his hard body pressing her down. Releasing her breath, she gave herself over to him. The lioness crawled to the surface, pain and fear weighing her down. But once she realized it was Carrick calling her forth, she ripped free with a vigor that left her yowling. Jillian wrestled for control, holding it by a thread. Her beast ran solely on instinct, and this close to Carrick she was blinded by lust and pain. She wanted to rub against him and mark him with her scent. The instinct was so strong Jillian almost gave in.

  She was surprised Carrick could force her to change without shifting himself, but he was still draped around her in human form. With careful, easy movements, he untangled their bodies, his eyes widening as he got his first good look at her. She could smell his surprise, but there was no taint of fear.

  “The change healed some of the damage.” He crouched before her, running a hand across the black fur of her shoulder to inspect the wound. “You’re not what I expected.”

  They watched each other closely. Black lion shifters were rare. The most powerful of their kind, they were generally the result of a pairing between two pure-blooded dominants. They held magic so potent that they served as shamans or in conjunction with the mages who served the Prides. For her to be both a half-blood and a black lion should have been impossible, and it had rendered her an outcast. The other half-bloods looked at her the way they would a pure-blood, keeping her at a distance. From birth, Jillian had been ostracized from her Pride for being different. Yet what she saw in Carrick’s eyes was more akin to respect than fear.

  Carrick was the first to look away. “I need to wash your wounds.” He stood, not bothering to pull on his clothes. “Get comfortable. It may take a while.”

  When he disappeared into the kitchen, she tentatively stepped down from the couch. All four legs trembled as she hobbled to the fire, exhausted, and settled herself on the rug in front of the hearth. Carrick’s reaction to her lioness had unnerved her. She had expected fear or anger, not nonchalance. But he was a dominant, which meant he caged his emotions. There was no way to know what lay beneath the surface.

  The past twenty-four hours had been game-changing. She was trying to wrap her pain-deadened mind around it when Carrick returned. In one hand he carried a bucket of soapy water and a rag, in the other a bottle of vodka. She winced. At least he had brought pain-killers.

  Carrick settled on the rug at her side. He unscrewed the top of the vodka bottle and poured the clear liquid in his cupped hand. Jillian lapped it like water. After a few seconds, he pulled his hand back. “That’s enough.” He shook his head. “I’ll be gentle.”

  She nudged him with her nose. The bottle was full. There was no reason he couldn’t give her more. She could use a buffer. Strangely enough, the fact Carrick shared her attraction was disturbing her more than being shot. Her life had been in constant danger when she’d lived with the Pride. It felt amazing to have someone look at her with something other than fear and loathing. Then again, he didn’t know she was a half-blood. Her stomach twisted and she pawed the bottle again.

  “Fine. But only because this is going to hurt like hell.” Carrick stroked the back of her head as she drank. When she finished, he pulled a long white cloth from the bucket, squeezing free the excess water. It fell on his bare thigh, trickling across his skin. Jillian licked it off without thinking. Carrick nudged her head away, his fingers tightening on the scruff of her neck. “There’s plenty of time for that later.” He gently placed her on the floor to expose her wounded shoulder. Without warning, he pressed the wet cloth onto the wound.

  Jillian yowled, snapping at his exposed skin. Tears welled in her eyes as he pressed into the wound with the now blood-soaked rag. She forced herself to remain still as he scrubbed it clean. The minutes passed like hours, but eventually he released her and threw the soiled material into the soapy water. “Cleaning it isn’t enough. I need something to pull out the infection.”

  He walked to the fireplace and ran his hand across the stones until one moved beneath his palm. A small compartment opened above the hearth. He reached inside and pulled out a cloth pouch and a long, thin glass bottle. Settling on the couch, he pulled three vials of liquid from the pouch, unscrewed them and poured them into the bottle. He shook the bottle vigorously, studying her from across the room. “This should work,” he said as he stood. Before she could protest, he pressed her onto her side and poured the contents of the bottle into the wound.

  Pain exploded through her body. It flowed through her torso until it was a struggle to breathe. Blood streamed down her throat, choking her, and she realized she had bitten her tongue.

  “It’s okay. I’ve got you.” Carrick held her down as she thrashed, his breathing labored. “I know it hurts, but it’s got to work its way into your system.”

  A few moments later, the pain becam
e manageable. Carrick leaned over her, studying the wound. “It worked.”

  Thank God. That was about all she could take of his miracle cures. She pried her eyes open to look. The wound was beginning to knit together, the discoloration around the edges fading. She took a ragged breath. The wound on her leg was worse. And now she knew how much his cure hurt. She pushed Carrick aside and stumbled to the couch, nosing the pouch.

  Carrick placed the empty bottle on the table beside them. “I have to use something stronger on your leg. There’s more damage.”

  She hissed, then grabbed the pouch in her teeth, dropping it in his lap. She wanted to get it over with, not talk about it.

  With a shake of his head, he pulled a metal vial from inside. “It’s going to hurt worse.”

  She growled but moved back to the fire, settling herself so her leg was fully exposed. Teeth clenched, eyes closed, she waited. Soon, a wave of fire spread across her haunches, dragging her into the darkness.

  Jillian woke in human form. Carrick had forced her change a second time. It should have been impossible. The layers of magic that surrounded her beast were difficult to penetrate, but somehow he had managed. He was more powerful than she had expected. Hope spiraled to the surface. It danced before her eyes, but she shoved it away.

  She rolled onto her back to stretch her aching muscles. Dried blood was smeared across the starched white sheets, a vivid reminder of the attack. She tentatively slid her legs over the edge of the four-poster bed and sat up. The bedroom was enormous, but sparse. The room wasn’t familiar, and it definitely wasn’t in the bar. Carrick must have taken her home.

  She pushed off the bed, standing in her bare feet on the cold wooden floor. She stretched her arms above her head and took inventory of her injuries. There was no pain as she moved, only soreness. She shifted in place, twisting her torso to work out the stiffness. When she heard footsteps in the hall, she straightened, waiting.

  Carrick stepped inside. Chest bare, he wore a pair of worn sweatpants that rode low on his hips. Jillian licked her suddenly dry lips.