Bad Wolf

by Jennifer Ashley

  Another Fae, this one with red beads braided through his long white-blond hair, stepped into the middle of the ring. He shouted something, pointing to Broderick. When he paused, the soldiers cheered, raising fists, the noise surging to a wildness.

  The red-beaded Fae shouted again, this time pointing at Daragh. Again, the Fae screamed and yelled. Daragh was the favorite, Broderick the challenger.

  “Doesn’t seem fair,” Remy said in Joanne’s ear. “Broderick has to fight a man who’s already dead. Kind of gives Daragh an advantage.”

  “Yeah, I think the Fae are loving that,” she said back.

  The Fae in the middle held up his arms, while the soldiers went crazy. Amid the noise, the announcer stepped back out of the way—rapidly—and another Fae flung open the door of Broderick’s cage.

  Broderick charged out. Daragh ran at him, shifting halfway across the makeshift arena, and the two—wolf and leopard—clashed together in a ball of claws and fur.

  The Fae around them screamed, shouted. Kian was on Broderick’s side of the ring, looking on from among his men. He had a satisfied smile on his face.

  As the noise from the Fae soldiers rose, Joanne was distracted by a jangling hum, a hot vibration in the area of her left hip. The medallion.

  She thrust her hand into her pocket and closed her fingers around it. It burned her, but Joanne held on tight.

  In a few seconds, she couldn’t hear the Fae and the snarling in the middle of the ring as the Shifters fought. The tinkling of music came to her, and the thrum of vibrating strings, which rose around her until they blotted out all else.

  ***

  Broderick fought and bit, tumbled down into the dirt with a couple hundred pounds of fighting leopard on top of him. Daragh was going to make this as real as possible.

  Of course, the Fae would want to see the two Shifters fight. They loved watching what they thought of as lesser beings battle to the death.

  Well, they’d get a show. Broderick shifted to his between-beast and so did Daragh. They faced each other, arms spread, a huge wolf creature and an equally large leopard creature ready to fight. Daragh’s green eyes were alight, touched with gold, and Daragh smiled.

  “Bring it, Lupine.”

  He was enjoying himself, the shit. Daragh must have been something in his fight club. Being a prisoner here had denied him that—had taken him from his family, his friends, everything he loved and cared about. Broderick determined to change that.

  At least he would if Daragh let Broderick live through the fight. The soldiers wound up with noise as Daragh charged Broderick. The two Shifters met, grunting, sweating, grappling.

  Broderick’s Collar went off, biting pain into him. A second later, so did Daragh’s. Kian watched, eyes gleaming, waiting for the Shifters to go down in a wash of agony.

  Broderick bared his teeth at Kian. “Suck on it!” he yelled, then he was fighting hard with Daragh again.

  In this form the two Shifters could use fists as well as teeth and claws. Daragh got Broderick in a lock, raking big cat claws down his side. Broderick’s fur turned most of it, but blood flowed.

  The Fae loved the blood. They couldn’t get enough of it, judging from the noise they made. Broderick clawed a hole in Daragh’s side, but nothing came out—he was fighting a corpse.

  “Don’t think you have an edge because you’re dead,” Broderick snarled. “Shit, I can only say something like that in this fucking place.”

  Daragh didn’t wait for him to finish. He attacked Broderick, and they met again, fighting, tearing, biting, while the Fae went crazy around them.

  Out of the corner of his eye, when the fight took him in the right direction, Broderick saw Joanne. She was standing slightly behind the blond soldier, he in a protective stance in front of her. Whatever the hell she was doing, Broderick couldn’t tell. She had the medallion, and she was smart. Joanne would think of something.

  Daragh spun Broderick in a circle. Broderick locked hands around the man’s furry neck and spun him back.

  As he did, Broderick saw Joanne’s outline distinctly waver. He focused on the fight, pretending he didn’t notice.

  Remy sidled to his right, effectively blocking Kian’s view of Joanne, but Broderick saw her. Her entire body flickered, as though Broderick were seeing a weak projection of a movie. Then, Joanne winked out. Gone.

  Broderick roared. Every Fae head, including Kian’s, turned his way. When Broderick chanced another glance, Remy too had vanished.

  They were gone. A scan of the Fae showed they were no longer in the crowd, or in the clearing. They’d been at the front, where Kian could keep an eye on them. Any second now, Kian would look over and realize they were gone.

  Broderick roared again, drawing himself up, letting Daragh tackle him. The Fae yelled for their favorite, surging forward. Broderick fought back, hard, for his life. Daragh couldn’t afford do give him any quarter.

  It was worth it, a dim corner of Broderick’s mind reflected as the rest of his body focused on the fight. His challenge had created the diversion Joanne needed to get away. Even if Broderick died here, he wouldn’t regret what he’d done. Joanne would be home, safe from these bloodthirsty bastards. She’d go on with her life, her work, would be there for her sister, would live and love, as it should be.

  Of course, if Broderick could get out of here alive, so much the better.

  He wasn’t sure how he was going to manage it. Unless he could run away from this camp, find his way through a world he knew nothing about, stumble upon a ley line and figure out how it worked to let him through, he was pretty much stuck here.

  As he got Daragh into another lock, Daragh biting the hell out of Broderick’s arm, Kian turned his head, looked to where Joanne and Remy should be standing, and saw that they were missing.

  Kian came alert, searching the crowd for them. His amusement at the fight died and rage took its place.

  Kian strode to the guards who were supposed to have been watching the two, took out his knife, and held it up to them, yelling something. The guards looked suddenly terrified—likely they’d pay for their lapse with their lives.

  Kian was shouting, striding through the ranks. Broderick and Daragh fought on, the Fae still calling for blood. Kian broke through to the center of the ring, raised his knife high, commanding all attention. He then lowered the knife to point straight at Broderick, fury in every line of him.

  He shouted one word. Broderick didn’t understand it, but from the blood-lust filled eyes that turned on him from every single Fae, he didn’t need a translation.

  Kill.

  Daragh, who’d been trying to rake his claws across Broderick’s abdomen the second before, released him and stood shoulder to shoulder with him, facing the onslaught.

  “Hey, you tried,” Daragh said to him.

  “My mate is free,” Broderick answered with conviction. “That’s all that matters.”

  “One thing.” Daragh snarled as he faced the onslaught of armed Fae. “If we’d been in a fight club at home, I’d have kicked your ass.”

  “That fight wasn’t over, cat-breath,” Broderick managed, and then the Fae were upon them.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Joanne found herself falling to a cement floor, surrounded by the music of the boxes, the hum of computers, the bright light of day coming in through the high windows, and Shifters.

  Mason pulled her upright, the look in his eyes one of terrible worry. “Broderick?”

  “Still in there. Hang on.”

  Joanne swung around, shivering, gripping the medallion. Behind her was the doorframe, two upright wooden posts and a lintel, held in place by Spike and Seamus. Tiger stood beyond, his eyes a hot yellow. Cilla sat in front of the computers, breathing hard, terrified.

  Joanne reached back through the opening. Instantly, she felt the cold of the Fae night, heard the roar of Fae urging on the fighters, smelled the blood, the rank dampness of the woods.

  She also saw the broad fatigue-covered s
houlders of Remy Fayette. Joanne grabbed him and dragged him to her.

  Remy jumped through and nearly fell on top of Joanne.

  Instantly, the sounds of the fight faded, and the warmth of an Austin spring morning returned. Joanne spun around once with Remy, as though they danced, Remy’s blue gaze taking everything in.

  He recognized computers, power tools, fluorescent lights, old brick walls, and the very human Cilla, everything to tell him he was back in the ordinary human world, in an ordinary warehouse, the sounds of a city coming in through the windows.

  Remy let out a strangled cry of delight and relief, then he fell facedown on the floor. “Thank God,” he said fervently. He kissed the cement floor with an audible smack. “Thank God!”

  Seamus looked down at him. “Goddess, are they all like that?”

  “Seamus, this is Remy,” Joanne said breathlessly. “Bree’s brother. He was trapped in Faerie—will tell you all about it later. Right now, we need to get Broderick. Tiger, help move this doorframe. Over there a little. There’s about a thousand angry, armed Fae between us and him.”

  Seamus gave Remy a shocked look then he helped Spike and Tiger reposition the doorway. Joanne said a prayer, hoped to hell she was right, clutched the medallion, and dove back through.

  ***

  Broderick was going to die. He knew it. It was a matter of time before a Fae sword went right through some vital part of him.

  Daragh protected Broderick the best he could. Knives went into him, the Fae beat on him, but Daragh couldn’t be killed. He’d take it as long as he was able, though Daragh’s Collar was going off and he was in terrible pain.

  Broderick was in pain as well, and his Collar was buzzing like crazy, but damned if he’d let these Fae know how much he hurt.

  In the midst of all this he heard … music. Familiar music. Son of a bitch.

  Joanne walked out of thin air into a melee of Fae. Broderick shouted, tried to get to her, but there were too many on him.

  Joanne disappeared instantly, then a few seconds later, she materialized again, only closer. Broderick roared and threw off his attackers, trying to reach her.

  He saw her take a step, and another, then Kian, the bastard, reached out and seized her.

  Broderick had the soldiers off him before he knew he’d done it. He threw bodies aside, his berserker rage filling his blood.

  He was a few feet away. Kian had a firm hold of Joanne, and his knife was coming up to her throat.

  “Get your fucking hands off my mate!” Broderick yelled as he flung himself at them.

  The words got tangled in his mouth, and all that came out was My! Mate!

  Broderick reached Kian, grabbed him. At least twenty Fae at Broderick’s back seized him, ready to kill. Joanne screamed and struggled. She latched her hand around Broderick’s arm, tugging him.

  Broderick felt the thrum of the medallion through her touch. He clamped his hand around hers, hanging on.

  The Fae didn’t want that. They rose up around Broderick and Joanne cutting off their retreat.

  Broderick fought, but he knew they were done. They were going to die here in Faerie, fuck it all …

  … and then two things happened that changed everything.

  Daragh surged up in the middle of the Fae like the wrath of the Goddess. He’d gotten hold of a sword, and he slashed the soldiers out of Broderick’s way.

  He’d wielded a sword since his Choosing, and though the Sword of the Guardian was a magical blade that released souls, it was also a damn good weapon. Daragh proved he knew swordsmanship, turning aside blades and fighting around to engage Kian one on one.

  The second thing that saved them came through the doorframe a few seconds later, a giant of a Shifter, half changed into a very pissed off, bigger than hell Bengal tiger.

  Tiger grabbed the Fae in his way, threw them aside like so much used tissue, and clamped one big hand each on Broderick and Joanne.

  “Go!” Daragh shouted behind them. “And do it, Lupine. Promise me.”

  Broderick met his gaze, the Feline one holding desperation, but over that, grim determination to go down swinging.

  “You got it, big guy,” Broderick said. “Goddess go with you.”

  He barely got out the words. Kian, with skill that matched Daragh’s, slashed into Daragh’s gut, then he pressed his sword into Daragh’s Collar. Daragh screamed in agony, falling to his knees.

  Broderick saw the other Fae go at Daragh to cut him to pieces, right before Tiger threw them both through the door.

  Broderick landed on cold cement, surrounded by his brother, Spike and Seamus, and then Tiger. Broderick kicked at the doorframe and it fell apart. The hum of the medallion died, and the music boxes stopped.

  Broderick simply lay on the hard floor and breathed, blood flowing out of him, every limb aching.

  But he had Joanne. He rolled over onto his back, and Joanne dropped to her knees beside him, taking his face between her hands, kissing him repeatedly.

  Broderick’s mating frenzy rose, fed by the fight, his fear and anger, his need. Joanne was all right. Broderick hadn’t lost her.

  Broderick closed his arms around her and pulled her down to him, pinning her against him. “Joanne Greene,” he said, the words hoarse in his raw throat. “By the Goddess and in front of witnesses, I claim you as mate!”

  The last phrase rang high against the ceiling. Mason said, “Holy shit,” and Spike chuckled. “About time, dick brain.”

  Joanne ignored them. She smiled into Broderick’s eyes, her own full of love and relief. “Okay,” she said.

  The mate frenzy kicked in hard. Broderick rolled over again, putting Joanne under him, taking her mouth. He needed her, now, now—screw those around them. They could leave or deserve what they saw.

  It hurt—it nearly killed him, to rein in his hunger. Broderick raised his head and gazed at Joanne, her beautiful face, and the knowledge in her eyes. She understood.

  “I made a promise,” Broderick said, and Joanne nodded, a sadness entering her expression. Daragh deserved to rest.

  Broderick pointed a stern finger at Cilla, who watched them, wide-eyed. “Now, you tell me where the fucking Sword of the Guardian is, so I can keep my word.”

  ***

  Cilla had stashed the sword under the floorboards in an old trailer house on the northern outskirts of San Antonio. Sean accompanied them on the trip, which made Cilla nervous, but Joanne only had so much sympathy for her.

  Tiger, Sean, Broderick, and Joanne squeezed into the trailer with her, waiting while Cilla pried up the floor and removed the sword, which she’d wrapped in a blanket.

  Sean took the sword and unwrapped it, briefly closed his eyes, and whispered a prayer over it. Then he reached out to Broderick, expecting Broderick to give him the medallion that fit on the end of the hilt.

  Broderick studied the medallion on his palm. “I can’t.”

  Sean’s brows went up. He looked Broderick up and down. Tiger, who usually was an enforcer for the Morrisseys, stepped to Broderick, supporting him.

  Sean let out his breath, turned the sword blade-down, and handed it to Broderick. “I guess it’s up to you,” he said.

  Broderick held the sword in his left hand, and with his right, cupped the medallion against the end of the hilt.

  Joanne heard a hiss, then a hum. When Broderick lifted his hand away, the silver of the disc had fused with that of the sword, making it a whole piece, without a seam.

  Broderick lowered his arm, but Joanne saw him wince. Joanne grabbed his wrist and turned his hand over again. In the center of his palm, etched as though burned there, was the symbol of the Celtic knot. The medallion had branded him.

  “Can you get out of here now?” Cilla asked, voice sullen. “I have things to do.”

  “Nope.” Joanne latched her hand around the girl’s wrist. “You are coming to Montana with us and seeing this through.”

  Cilla’s dark eyes filled with tears. “I never meant for the Guardian to
be killed. I didn’t tell them to.”

  “You can explain to his family,” Joanne said firmly. “They deserve that.”

  Sean said, “We’ve already rounded up the men you hired. Dad had a word with them.”

  Sean left it hanging, but Cilla paled. Joanne didn’t know Dylan well, but she had come to learn that when Dylan “had a word” with someone, that word tended to be permanent. Those who incurred Dylan’s wrath often were never heard from again.

  On their way to the airstrip where they’d meet the cargo plane to take them north, Joanne directed Sean to stop at Bree’s mom’s house. They’d left Remy there on their way to San Antonio, but he’d expressed a wish to go with them, to pay his respects to Daragh, who’d sacrificed so much.

  When they arrived, it was to find Bree and her mother on either side of Remy on the couch, the two women clinging to him. Seamus was there, leaning on the newel post of the stairway, watching them fondly, but giving the family room to connect.

  “Decided not to go with you,” Remy said when Seamus let them in. He looked happy with his arms around his sister and mom, all of them with red-rimmed eyes. “We need to be together for a while.”

  Seamus’s eyes were wet as well—he was an empath, and the emotions of Bree and her family caught him too, rolling him over in feeling. He shared their joy as no one else could.

  Bree untangled herself from the trio and came to Joanne. Bree’s hair was the same honey color as Remy’s, her eyes as blue.

  Bree pulled Joanne into a hug. “Thank you for bringing him home.”

  “My pleasure,” Joanne said. “I bet he has a long and bizarre story to tell you.”

  “If he can talk while my mom stuffs him full of food,” Bree said, grinning. “That’s her way of telling us she loves us. Plus, she hasn’t lit a cigarette since Seamus brought him in the door.”

  Joanne hugged Bree again, waved at Remy, who would be planted on that sofa for some time, she saw, and departed. Time to pay one last visit.

  ***

  The ride in the back of the cargo plane to Montana gave Broderick time to have his arms around Joanne and simply breathe.