by KH LeMoyne
“Can I be of help—Alpha?” Wharton asked softly, caution etched in every syllable.
Deacon’s beast growled, the sound echoing louder than normal in the closed space. Concentration broken, he spared a quick look toward his clan’s single omega. Alert gray eyes considered him with obvious concern. Despite the well-intended offer and Wharton’s unique power, Deacon couldn’t take advantage of it. He was too…combustible—a circumstance not translating well into words. Until he understood the magnitude of the problem he faced, and had a solution, he couldn’t risk involving any of his team. If worse came to worst, they’d be safer at a distance.
“Pull over,” he ordered. As Wharton’s brow inched up and quickly dropped, Deacon dug through his discomfort for civility. “Please.”
His pointless attempts at easing his abrupt mood didn’t fool either of them. Wharton could decipher the most shuttered of attitudes and diffuse the worst of tempers. He’d no doubt suspected this was beyond his skills. However, he deserved the simple gracious gesture, since he’d read the tension during the trip and resorted to the formality of Deacon’s title instead of the casual use of his name. Formality and subservience in the presence of aggressive power. Smart wolf. It wouldn’t have been necessary if his alpha was in control.
Deacon’s door was already halfway open as the SUV stopped, gravel spraying the side of the road. Five feet inside the stronghold, and he couldn’t hold back the churning boil inside him. “Tell Trim I’m making a quick pass of the perimeter first.”
Run. He needed the soil, the ground far from any contact with his people.
“Grizz has already—” Wharton held up a hand. “Got it. We’ll see you at your office.”
Deacon didn’t wait for receding taillights, but lunged and reached, bones snapping in the transition from his human body to wolf. Resistance to change pulled at him even as he embraced the molecular dissolution of his human flesh and skeleton for fur and powerful haunches. The change finished before his paws hit the ground.
The full strength of his wolf wasn’t enough. Not even pain could stop the inevitable release from coming.
Barely holding back the frustration bottled inside his frame, he pounded across the early fall frost. He needed more distance from the village, from the shifter families counting on his protection.
Magic and determination battled in a sizzle of flame across his skin. Muzzle lifted, scenting toward the looming cloud-covered mountain, Deacon released a harsh, resonant growl. Tree limbs vibrated. Rocks and debris scattered down the cliff with chunks of snow just beyond his paws. An echo of thunder followed by a pulse of lightning and a gusting wind answered his summons. Nothing rose from the earth and dispelled the force building inside.
Faster.
He charged over rocks and under tree limbs.
Just a few more yards. There, the overhang gleamed at the far rise above the glacier line.
Deacon jumped, his claws grappling against the layers of rock, channeling all his energy into advancing.
Limbs stretched for maximum reach, his claws gouged the rock. With a guttural cry, he surged up and over, rolling across the flat expanse of the grassy alcove. He tumbled, shifting back to human, his hands and knees scraping across ice and sediment. Spinning out of control and desperate, he sought small crevices and fought his momentum. He grasped a tiny fracture in the ground as his power exploded.
With a neck-wrenching jerk, he stopped.
Fingers torn and bloody and sweat coating his body, he looked over his shoulder. His toes dangled in the air. Several hundred feet below, water rushed, flowing from the neighboring alpha’s territory into his own in a wild froth over the rocks—a sure promise of death if he failed. Enduring the rough ride in the glacier runoff would prove more than just a challenge. Even with his power, he couldn’t recover from shattering every bone in his body.
He pressed his lips to the stones and panted quietly. The overwhelming surge of power receded for the first time since he’d stepped off the plane in Kalispell. He stretched a hand toward the scruff of grass in sunlight. A second tidal rush rippled across his skin, the remaining current of power funneling as he attempted to contain it. Finally, it slowed and trickled from his fingers into the ground.
The soil beneath him trembled but accepted the offering, sacred spirits momentarily appeased as the power dispersed in harmless bits. All the residents inside the stronghold would feel the backlash, but the sacred earth would filter the harshest elements.
I won. The desperation to reach this place had pressed like a vise since his plane had taken off from Portland. Racing against time, he’d been lucky. This time.
Lifting his head, he roared, pent-up rage and a challenge filling the air. His lungs forced the sound until he couldn’t breathe and the final hoarse noises choked him. He was in control again, if still aching in every bone and muscle. Hell, what was a little more pain.
He flipped onto his back and stared at the thick vanilla clouds above. A day might come when the power consumed him, even destroyed him, but it wouldn’t be today. Hard-won control and fierce rein over the calling that tugged at his brain kept him from the path of past alphas. Deacon didn’t credit luck. Luck wouldn’t have landed him in the position to threaten the lives of so many of his people while he grappled for his sanity. Today, they benefited from his hard-earned control.
His offload of energy would soothe even the most savage of his clan’s beasts. He only wished he could predict these episodes. The Black Haven Stronghold, a place of sanctuary for his people and the only place capable of siphoning his overload, would someday become his prison without hope of escape.
Able to breathe without pain, he welcomed the cold chill of rock against his skin after the struggle of the last few hours. The energy level in his body had returned to normal.
He curled into a sitting position and wiped the back of his hand over his mouth, taking one last look around. Nestled far back from the overhang, painted figures of eagles and wolves decorated the alcove wall, as vibrant as when he’d created them to honor his mother’s eternal sleep—over a hundred years ago.
He shook his head. Too many years and a multitude of new struggles separated him from that past. Recollecting would change nothing.
He shifted once more, this time allowing his wolf the leisure of enjoying the hum of earth beneath his paws, relishing what he’d missed on the frantic race to purge his demons.
Ten minutes and a mile later, Deacon padded up the steps of the stone building that housed his offices and the clan auditorium. Clan members collected in a tight mesh in the reception area. With a purposeful stride, his wolf brushed his shoulder against first one and then another in the crowd, rubbing against their thighs and hips as people jostled closer. With his power contained, he could risk several minutes of close contact. His wolf emanated a heady energy, but no member retreated from their alpha. His human consciousness sensed their compliance as the wolf scented, searching for hints of their distress. For everyone gathered here expected him to solve their problems.
He rubbed his forehead down an arm and lingered for the deep delving of fingers into his fur. A stronger dose of his power in their times of weakness wasn’t a gift. He ensured his shifter clan’s survival. They in turn renewed him. A reciprocal source of power his father had never mastered. Dominant command under his sire had nearly destroyed this stark beautiful wilderness and these courageous shifters. Deacon’s legacy was a thriving community. One built upon broader rules of justice, with a generous dose of patience.
Lately, he needed the patience for himself.
“Alpha, I need to talk to you.”
“I was here first.”
“My issues are higher priority.”
Deacon swung his muzzle in the direction of his omega, lounging at the edge of the reception room, and made eye contact.
Deceptively relaxed and leaning against the desk outside Deacon’s office door, Wharton eased forward with a smile and a wink in his direction. He w
aved a pad of paper previously tucked under one arm. “I already told all of you. If you don’t sign up with me, you’ll get no priority whatsoever. So who’s first? Deacon always gets back to everyone.”
A disgruntled snort ripped the air as several members attempted to circumvent Wharton.
Deacon forced his expression to calm. He’d been told that his wolf’s scowl only exaggerated human expressions, revealing his thoughts to everyone and inducing fear. No matter how annoying the whining for his attention became, he’d kill to protect every one of them. The last thing he wanted was their fear.
Unfortunately, the day-to-day administration for a shifter territory encompassing one-third of the North American continent snowed him under in paperwork and minutia. And complaints.
Petting and stroking, he could handle. Meting out justice wasn’t a problem. Clan defense was right up his alley. Resolving everyone’s mating issues, sibling disputes, business squabbles—well, that took a toll. He’d long ago adopted stoicism and silence as the best line of defense, keeping his wolf present and his human self reclusive.
Committed to that approach, he edged past Wharton and trotted through the half-open office door. In peaceful quiet, he shifted back.
“That’s your biggest problem.” Trim, his second in command, said from behind him as she pushed his door shut. “You do get back to each of them. What you need is—”
His growl stopped her, openmouthed.
She raised her hands with a smirk that fit perfectly with her painted fuchsia nails and auburn hair spiked with white tips. “I was going to say you could use a secretary. A gatekeeper for all these requests and”—she leaned closer and tapped her lower lip—“someone to help prioritize.”
Waggling her forefinger in his direction, she spun away. “Don’t for a minute think about dumping that on me.”
“We wouldn’t want a revolt,” he snapped back. At least she hadn’t brought up the popular sentiment making rounds in town. Again. She found it funny, but it made his claws emerge and his teeth itch. Everyone had a sister, a cousin, a female of worth that would raise the family status and settle Deacon’s life. Not happening. Between responsibility for the safety of several thousand shifter families and his international commitments for the Shifters Unlimited board, he didn’t need more input on his personal life. Especially with his power’s growing instability.
While his second in command was a formidable soldier and a good investigator, she was the last person to give him guidance. He ignored her halfhearted teasing as easily as he did everyone else. Secretly, he’d even considered meddling in her affairs to distract her. Pushing her to stop hiding behind him and seek her true happiness would certainly be in her best interests, but no decent alpha sank to matchmaking in order to gain a few moments of peace. Or he didn’t get caught doing it.
Besides, her personal life was her own. They agreed on that topic.
“I’m not that bad with people,” she said, frowning.
“That wasn’t you who tried to resolve the issue between the Svenson triplets over their mate claim? I could have sworn those sisters decided they couldn’t work together. They were ready to dismantle the bakery in town and leave—after your recommendations.” He held back laughter. Two hours of Trim’s negotiations for the love-torn trio and they’d been ready to flee for the big city, prepared never to set eyes on one another again.
“Their issue was petty. Two of them are still expanding their bakery to Seattle, but neither of those women displayed a whiff of pheromones for your lieutenant from Tucson. He was lucky he got away unscathed.” Scowling, she shook her head. “If they’d had real trouble, I’d have handled it.”
True. Sensitive to every situation of abuse, neglect, or injustice, Trim had her ear to the gossip and a heavy hand with violent offenders. A reason he’d convinced her to join his team.
“A wife wouldn’t hurt you either.” She quickstepped a few paces away as he snarled. “Hey, put away the canines. Just figured you needed a laugh. Hell, what would I do if you mated?”
Deacon frowned, wondering what had brought about that line of thought. “Same thing you’ve always done. Now, about work.”
Stepping back more warily, Trim continued. “I do need to talk to you about something before you handle anything from Wharton’s list.”
“Is this about the meetings?”
Mouth half-open, she crossed her arms and shook her head. “No, but I should update you on that too. The territory alphas have all confirmed their attendance for the international board meeting six weeks from today.”
“Agenda item requests?”
“No word yet, but if we’re still going to host in Vancouver, we need to find someone to work the details. I’ve got a list going for security items and several people on the short list for the team.”
Deacon nodded, half listening as he scowled at the map on the far side of his office wall. More time away from Black Haven, but at least it was still within his territory. Exposed outside his territory during a power surge wasn’t an option. Only dispelling into the sacred land worked for any length of time. He had no idea what consequences there would be for other shifters, much less unshielded humans if he couldn’t control his power.
“I’m also receiving texts from the other alphas’ administrative assistants. For the record—again—you obviously need your own, since I’m not it.”
“How many have you responded to?”
She rolled her eyes. “Four. Each had a special request.”
“Stop answering them.” Deacon flipped the top file folder open, casting a quick glance at the budget priorities for his territory. “The eastern and European contingencies have always been a bit pretentious, but none of the alphas who have met you would dare consider you a lackey. As I remember, Alarico’s second receives calls from the other alphas.” Deacon glanced up and saw her shoulders relax.
“That’s because the alphas and lieutenants consider him in charge. Though, I’ll admit, Alarico called me directly.” He raised a brow, waiting for her to get past venting. “All right, Whitman also called.”
“Did those two alphas request special tasks?” he asked, holding back a smile.
“They wouldn’t dare.”
Whit’s territories bordered Deacon’s along the east, as Alarico’s did in South America. Based on Deacon’s interactions with them over the decades, both men were formidable but fair-minded. More importantly, both were more modernized in their thinking than some of the Asian alphas. “Not only wouldn’t they demean you in that fashion, they’d snatch you for their own teams if they stood half a chance.”
Trim clicked her tongue. “You’re not going anywhere, so I’m not leaving.”
He held her gaze for several long seconds. “You have as much authority as any other second, and more responsibility.”
“I know that.” Trim frowned again. “You know I’m not afraid to do the hard work. Send me in anytime as the heavy or to scout out trouble. We both know you’ll get more payback from my time having me take care of something less politically sensitive than handling your calls.”
With a snort, he nodded, accepting her point. They all had more on their plates than they had time to handle. Matching personalities to tasks was half the battle of making headway.
“Our clan meeting is set for here later next week,” she continued. “Three of your lieutenants submitted feedback for initiatives that require funding from the budget. I added my notes, as well as those from our accountant, for your review.” She dug into the satchel over her shoulder and then dropped a thick folder on his desk.
The files landed with a loud crack that had him wincing. Hours of reading loomed ahead of him, but more important was the issue Trim had avoided.
“Marsh shouldn’t have skirted you in my chain of command. I’ll clarify that when I speak with him, but he also has a history of levelheaded thinking. You might consider giving him a pass until we find out the reasons for his secrecy.”
She shrug
ged and turned away. “He’s kept the peace in Seattle for the last twenty years, so he doesn’t need my approval. He just wouldn’t stop calling. As if he thought I wouldn’t consider his request urgent otherwise.”
Deacon punched in Ashton Marsh’s number and immediately got voice mail. “Well, he didn’t leave me a message and isn’t taking the call. If I don’t hear back from him in the next twenty-four hours, I’ll send you to find out what’s going on.” No one would dare circumvent his second to her face, which was how it should be. “What is really bothering you? Because whether I have an admin or not isn’t your highest priority. I do have voice mail, after all.”
Shoulders squared, she dug several postcards from her back pocket and held them out to him. “I received these from Shanae Payne. I think something’s wrong.”
He took the postcards without reminding Trim that Shanae had been Mrs. Philmont for some time now. Shanae’s decision to marry her human mate and not return to the stronghold had severed a longtime friendship between the two women. Turning over the postmarks, he read the dates and the brief notes from Shanae.
Just like home, sent Monday from Spokane, Washington.
Wonderful vacation, from Coeur d’Alene, Idaho.
Can’t wait to see everyone, from Hayden, Idaho.
Four-star accommodations, from Sandpoint.
Trim read each card at his side and flicked one with her index finger. “Four postcards over a five-day period? They say absolutely nothing. Hardly worth the ink and postage.”
Carefully examining the deepening frown lines marring Trim’s face, he waited. She might not be the most tactful point of contact for his business associates, but he’d trust her keen insight any day. This wasn’t about lamenting wasted ink. “What do you read into this?”
“Shanae’s mind is like a steel trap, always juggling six things at once.” Lips pursed, she nodded at the postcards, then perched on an armchair in front of his desk. “As vapid as those notes look, she never does anything without a reason.”
