Shifter Fated Mates: Boxed Set

by Mandy M. Roth

  * * * *

  Reya left her Grand Jeep Cherokee running and hurried inside the shop. Charles was already there.

  “I thought you were off to Cuba,” he said, dusting down one case. “Where’s Lo?”

  She shrugged, booted up the computer and clicked to the contract files. She printed out two and turned back to Charles. “I have no idea. He went tearing out of the house this morning after getting paged. Someone probably died. When he leaves that quickly, it’s either an accident or a death. He had that thin-mouthed look that said death.” Of course he’d already been pissed at her, so maybe that was the reason for the look.

  “He knows you’re going by yourself? Maybe I should go with you? Or call up Dena?” He set the rag aside and put his hands in his pockets frowning at her.

  She shook her head. “What is with everyone?” She fingered the medicine bag under her sweater that Lilly had given her. Opening it earlier, she’d seen it contained protection herbs, and beads. One bead, the size of her thumb nail was an amethyst. For protection? Clarity? Intuition? When she got back, she had plenty to ask Lilly about. How was one supposed to know what to do with a certain stone if it was meant to be used for several things?

  “I’m going alone. This weekend we’ll be busy.” And she needed the time by herself to think things through, to decide what to tell Lorenzo. How to tell Lorenzo of that time. Of Nybras.

  “Oh?” he raised a brow.

  She forced a smile. “Yes, I’m going alone. Yes, this weekend will be busy, or I assume so.”

  Charles raised a brow.

  “Fine, I agreed to claim before The Council that Lo is my mate.”

  Charles let out a breath, his eyes staring at her. “Did he coerce you?”

  An image of them last night flashed in her brain. She on her knees, Lo behind her, demanding, commanding and claiming. She shivered and shook off the thought.

  Damn man, he’d always been able to reduce her to a sex crazed female.

  Focus, Ree.

  She tilted her head and studied Charles, shaking off the thoughts of her and Lorenzo Craigen. Sometimes she felt there was more to Charles than met the eye.

  “No, he didn’t coerce me.” She couldn’t hold in the chuckle. “He tried damn hard, but I’d gone over there to tell him anyway.”

  Both brows rose on that one and Charles smiled. “I must say, it’s a relief. Now he’ll stop growling at everyone.”

  She wondered at his choice of words.

  The printer spit out the pages and she grabbed them up. Perhaps she should wait for Lorenzo, but if she did that, the artist, flighty as the man seemed to be, might decide not to sign. And he’d said he was leaving.

  No, better to go.

  She checked her watch. It was just after seven. “Look, I should be there by ten. I hope to be done by noon at the latest. That should put me back here by three or four.”

  “Got your phone?” Charles asked. “I can go with you, or instead if you want me to.”

  Reya shook her head. “No, the artist wanted to meet with me. So I better go. You’ve seen his stuff. His pieces will bring whatever price we stick on them.”

  “What’s his name again?”

  Contracts, brochures of some of their other displays, photos of other pieces they carried…

  “Reya.”

  “Oh, what?”

  “What’s his name? S. Whitehall. What’s that stand for?”

  Oh, directions. She opened another email from the man and printed out the directions to his cabin. “I don’t know. Sar something. Sarlas? Silas? Sarbin? I can’t remember.” She hit print.

  Charles looked over her shoulder. “That’s the way to his house?”

  She huffed, grabbed the printed sheets and said, “Yes. Why? You plan to surprise me? Jeesh, what the hell’s with all the questions with everyone?”

  Palms out, he said, “Sorry, just like to know where exactly you are so that when your mate inquires, I can let him know your exact location.”

  Rolling her eyes, she hurried back out the door and climbed into the car. Time to get going or it’d be even later when she returned.

  * * * *

  Lorenzo checked his watch. Almost ten. He’d tried the house earlier but no one answered. Reya and he still needed to get a few things straight. Of course, he couldn’t worry about that right now.

  Right now, he and the other law enforcement officials were trying to figure out how the old man had died out here at Tres Piedras. Well, they knew how. The gunshot wounds made that evident. But why? He was just an old rancher. They’d found his wallet several yards away in the brush. Mr. Hamilton, owned a small ranch not twenty minutes from here.

  So what had Mr. Hamilton been doing out here? They were currently trying to figure out if he had friends in the area, someone who might have seen him. Last anyone knew, he’d had breakfast with his wife at four thirty. He’d then left. She’d assumed to go to the local café in Tres Peidras for his ritual morning coffee with all the other farmers and ranchers.

  He’d never shown up.

  So what was he doing here with bullet holes in him?

  His phone rang. Moving away, he answered. “Craigen.”

  “It’s me,” Charles’ voice said through the phone.

  Lorenzo’s hand tightened on his mobile. “What?”

  “She left here at seven twenty, or there ‘bouts. Was heading to see the artist out at Cuba. Name’s S. Whitehall.”

  Damn it! “I swear, after The Council, I’m chaining her at home.”

  Charles took a deep breath. “Lilly came by about five minutes ago. All shook up and worried about Reya, mumbling about wind spirits and death. I figured you’d want to know. I sent Darrell to watch her. She didn’t need to be driving or alone in her condition. Miss Lilly was not pleased with me in the least.”

  He took a deep breath and pinched the bridge of his nose. He couldn’t just take off. He wanted to know if she was safe. “I’ll call her.”

  “Already did that. She’s not answering her phone.”

  His stomach tightened. He closed his eyes and opened his connection with her. He saw her stepping out of the car and walking to a cabin.

  What are you doing?

  She startled. My job.

  Her shields shoved him out and blackened his vision.

  He blinked. “Detective?”

  Sighing, he held up his hand to the uniform trooper and said to Charles. “We’ve got contacts over there. Marcos. Get him. Send him with the directions over to S. Whitehall’s. I want to know exactly what’s going on. If anyone asks, he’s her body guard.”

  “I’ll contact him and give him the order. She’s going to have something to say about this.”

  “She said she’s going before The Council, it’s time she remember the order of things. Call me back.”

  He hung up and turned to the scene at hand. The state forensics team was crawling on the ground with tweezers and labeled bags.

  A dead body, his wife keeping secrets, and her mentoring bruja worried.

  Reya was by herself and no matter the age, no matter how independent she was and he knew she could take care of herself—he also knew that evil things still walked the Earth and could still strike when least expected.

  * * * *

  Reya rolled her neck and wondered when Lorenzo would back off. Knowing him, never. After last night and earlier this morning, she would only be able to hold him off for so long. Probably not even a day. As far as him knowing where she was…well that was part of Pride Law which demanded she submit to him as her mate.

  Well, she hadn’t made the official claim yet. So she still had a small window of independence. They had some things to discuss when she got back besides shredding her soul open for him. Checking her watch, she saw it was after ten. She tightened her hold on the portfolio she carried.

  She knocked, heard the music of flutes coming from speakers.

  No one answered the door for a moment.

  Great. Drive a
ll the way here and the man wasn’t home. The sun beat hot down on the barren land, yuccas lancing out from the ground like green swords. Rabbit bushes dusted the land and mixed with brown grass. Tumble weeds walled up against a crumbling fence.

  Lorenzo was right.

  She took a deep breath through her nose. Chaco Canyon, the old ruins were not far from here and she could smell the past on the wind. Dark, foreboding, yet nostalgic for all that.

  An image of her mother rose in her mind, her hair braided, the leather of her clothes as dirty as the last time Reya remembered seeing her—eons ago.

  She frowned.

  The door opened.

  Reya shook her head and blinked. Her mother? She hadn’t thought of her mother since Little Moon had died. She’d seen the image of Singing Flower then.

  “You must be, Reya Lynx,” the balding man said. He smiled and offered his hand.

  A warning tingled through her, but she gazed at him and only saw happiness in his eyes. Slowly, she reached out and touched his hand. The palm was clammy, the fingers stubby, the skin scarred from his work. “I apologize for asking you out here. “ He motioned her in. The inside was darker than the porch, but tall windows allowed the morning light in, brightening the place.

  Pine furniture, chunky and primitive sat in the living room. The long table displayed some of Mr. Whitehall’s work.

  “Would you like something to drink? I saw you pull up and fixed you a cup of coffee.” He picked a pottery mug up and handed it to her.

  She took the mug and sipped, then remembered she shouldn’t drink caffeine. She’d read recently that pregnant women shouldn’t drink caffeine.

  Setting the mug down, she licked her lips, tasting a faint sweet flavor to the brew. “You make a wonderful cup of coffee, thank you.”

  “Drink up, drink up. I know it’s a long drive from Taos. I’d hoped to make it there.”

  Surely one cup couldn’t harm her. Not that she had to drink the whole cup. Just part of it. She didn’t want to seem rude. Her gaze scanned the table.

  “Wow.” Hurrying over to the table, she studied the pieces, the copper glinting dully in the light, turquoise that seemed as pale as a robin’s egg and coral as red as blood. Intricate carvings in hammered silver, detailed runes on metal medallions that hung with silver medicine wheels.

  Normally, she liked to separate the influences. All her artists were Southwestern by locality and product. She carried some Celtic influence pieces as they were popular but for the most part Celtic and Southwest stayed very separate. However, this man had seamlessly melded the two so that the jewelry had a distinctive pagan feel, yet seemed as one, not two differing cultures.

  “Amazing.” She leaned down and studied a copper ring that set on a bed of pine shavings, the stones round and set flush against the band. Coral and jet.

  She looked over some of the other pieces then turned back to Mr. Whitehall, startled he was standing so close. “You know, I brought photos of our displays and brochures of our other artists to give you an idea of what we do for our artists and right now I can’t even think of the pitch I went over and over in the car.” She motioned to the jewelry spread out on the table. “I just want these,” she said laughing.

  He smiled, two dimples showing in his lined cheeks. “That’s what all the women say. But I tend to run them off sooner or later.”

  She smiled. “I bought two contracts on the off chance I could get you to sign today and take some pieces back to get started on your display.”

  His eye brows rose. “So soon? And here I was so excited to have a beautiful woman out for the day, I’d planned to show you around.”

  “Maybe some other time. I have commitments back in Taos that I need to return to.”

  “Oh.” His fingers tapped on his thigh, something about the gesture capturing her attention.

  She blinked, her head suddenly feeling warm. Shaking her head, hoping to clear it, she pulled the portfolio out from under her arm, jerking out the contracts.

  The medicine bag seemed to weigh around her neck, something in it, heating against her cleavage.

  What the hell.

  A bag of protection.

  She shivered and wanted to leave. Checking her watch, she said, “Here are the contracts. If you could fill them out, I’d be happy to take them back with me. Let me know which pieces you’d like displayed first.”

  He laughed, a rough deep sound that danced over her. The corners of his eyes crinkled up. “I hate forms. Why don’t you fill them out for me? Enjoy your cup of coffee and I’ll choose some pieces.”

  For a moment things seemed to shift around her and she could have sworn…

  “Something wrong?” he asked, reaching for her.

  She stepped back and glanced down, shaking her head. “No, I’m just pregnant. Moments of lightheadedness.”

  At least she hoped that was all it was.

  Dropping her shields and opening her mind, she decided she’d rather feel Lorenzo.

  Yet the connection seemed fogged, clogged, as if they hadn’t connected in a long, long time.

  She wanted to be in the car. But she’d come this far, she’d fill out the damn forms, take the jewelry and go home. Period. Simple.

  “Could I have some water?” she smiled as she sat at the table and laid the papers before her. “I hate to be a bother and the coffee is wonderful. What’s in it to give it the sweet flavor, almost floral?”

  He waved her away. “My own personal favorite. Jasmine.”

  Jasmine? A shiver walked down her spine.

  “Pregnant, huh?” A faint line appeared between his brows. “You drove all the way out here by yourself?”

  She heard him in the kitchen, couldn’t see around the bar area, the sink was out of her line of vision.

  “What is it about men? They all think we’re wilting flowers as soon as they learn we’re pregnant.”

  She filled out what she already knew onto the contract.

  “Well,” he said again closer than she’d realized, “probably because it seems innate for men to protect.”

  She studied him a moment, then took the proffered water with a slice of lemon it and sipped. “Thank you.”

  Reya motioned to the table. “Get to picking.” She smiled at him. “I hate to rush you, but I’m supposed to be meeting another client at three in Taos, which means I have to hurry.”

  Why she lied, she didn’t know. She wanted back out in her car, driving away…driving back to Lorenzo. Mr. Whitehall didn’t look at her, but perused the table of jewels and metals.

  She took another drink, glad of the cool liquid.

  Again a wave of heat washed over her and she shook her head.

  Reya… not far… sending… Lo’s voice staticked in her brain.

  Don’t feel well… she told him in her mind.

  He answered but she couldn’t make it out.

  Mr. Whitehall was humming.

  The room wavered. She looked up to the man staring down the length of the table at her.

  Picking up the pen, she stared, focused on the paper.

  Just get it done.

  “What does the ‘S’ stand for?” she asked, surprised at how soft her voice was.

  “Oh, Sarbyn with a ‘y’.” He picked up another necklace and draped it over his arm.

  “Could you spell that?” The typed letters seemed to pop from the page.

  His voice grounded her. “S-A-R-B-Y-N.”

  She wrote the letters, watched as they too shifted on the page… Sarbyn… Sarbyn…

  “I’ve always liked this piece,” he said just to the side of her.

  Slowly, she blinked, trying to draw in a breath and looked at the pendent before her. Opal held in a silver fist…It swung to one side then the other.

  “I made it for someone once.” His voice soothed, deepened, calmed. “I call it…”

  She looked into his eyes.

  The bag around her neck heated against her skin. She dropped the pen and clutc
hed the bag hanging between her breasts. As her hand touched it, the man before her wavered.

  She blinked.

  His face shimmered as if a reflection on water…

  Oh God. Something was wrong. Very, very wrong…

  Power suddenly flowed off him in a steady stream, washing over her.

  She tried to call out.

  “I call it,” he leaned down, his eyes staring into hers, his nose so close she could feel his breath as he exhaled. His eyes… aqua behind hazel…

  “Precious,” he whispered.

  Nybras!

  The world tilted and she moaned even as everything went black.

  Chapter Six

  Lorenzo froze mid-sentence.

  “Detective?”

  He could feel her, not as strong as he should, but her fear still thrummed through him like a faint heartbeat.

  What was blocking them?

  She was trying to reach him, trying to connect, but something was blocking.

  Then, he saw, fogged and blurred, through her eyes. A shadow of a man, a pendant.

  Her fear roared to life, terror battling through the block to slam into him.

  Nybras!

  Lo’s phone rang, jerking him out of the vision. “Hello?” he barked, already walking away from the scene. He looked over to Detective Castillo and said, “I’ve got to go. I’ll call later.”

  Castillo, tanned and green-eyed frowned. “Where the hell you off to? In case you didn’t notice—“

  Without another word of explanation he climbed in his truck and started it, the engine roaring to life.

  “Craigen?” the voice asked.

  “Who the hell is this?” he said, shifting the truck into gear and backing away.

  “Marcos. There’s something not right here.”

  He’d hoped he’d been wrong, hoped that the feeling, the fear had been off.

  Yet, in his gut, he knew it wasn’t.

  “What do you mean?”

  Cuba. He needed to get out there. His truck clouded the dirt road behind him as he sped away.

  “The air here is dry, dryer than normal, but storm clouds are building. Winds blowing hot and hard, but the clouds aren’t moving. Something, Craigen, is very, very wrong. What do you want me to do?”