Bewitched by Their Mate [Feral 1] (Siren Publishing Ménage Amour ManLove)

by Scarlet Hyacinth

  Meeting Roarke had aroused old fury inside him, so Devon launched himself into a hunt. He ran through the vegetation, sniffing the air in search of an adequate meal. Finally, he detected the scent of a nearby rabbit. It wouldn’t be much in terms of a challenge, but dinner was dinner, and the beast would be satisfied with what it got.

  Devon made his way to the oblivious creature until he got so close its scent made his mouth water. But the rabbit must have sensed something, as it jumped away, just out of Devon’s reach. Snarling angrily, Devon started the chase. It didn’t take long. The rabbit was small and fast, but no match for Devon’s powerful paws. In no time, Devon pounced on it, killing the animal in one quick motion.

  As he feasted on his prey, his anger became a side thought, the beast temporarily sated with the kill. After finishing his dinner, Devon could finally recall Roarke’s words without wanting to hunt the man down and tear into his jugular. So the Magistrate had a serum he used on ferals. Well, Devon could not trust Roarke not to deceive him. He did, however, have an idea as to whom he could ask. As much as he hated leaving the safety of the wild behind, this couldn’t be avoided. After he found out what Wolfram Rozenstadt had in mind, he’d come back and become just another wolf once again.

  * * * *

  Enticing scents tickled at Devon’s nostrils as soon as he entered the familiar diner. From outside, it looked quaint, almost run-down, but the traditional mom-and-pop was actually very appreciated in the neighborhood for the high-quality meals and the dedication of the people running it.

  Devon knew the Tanners well, from the very first generation that built the diner in the first place. An exclusive group belonging to underground races often came here. In spite of the harmless appearance of the place, the main business of the family derived from a more important commodity—information.

  Devon wasn’t sure who started it, but the Tanners had somehow become involved in the lives of the paranormal community. In a sense, they represented a filter of communication, a place where information could be bought and sold, all for the right price.

  At the same time, Devon hadn’t been here in ages, so it didn’t surprise him that he could see some unfamiliar faces. He spotted a lithe figure maneuvering around the tables and smiled in bemusement when he identified the waiter as the family’s youngest child, Quinn.

  Last time Devon visited the diner, Quinn was maybe eight, running around the place in circles and fascinated with Devon’s hair. He used to ask Devon to change into his wolf form—apparently, the Tanners couldn’t keep secrets from their own—and Devon complied. In a strange way, Quinn reminded him of his old life, when he’d been carefree and happy.

  But Quinn had changed a lot since that time. He’d grown into a very handsome young man, and Devon regretted staying away for so long. Even if Quinn was human, Devon still cared about him.

  Shaking himself, Devon focused on the matter at hand. He made his way through the crowd and, when he saw Quinn had a free moment, caught up with the young human. “Hi, Quinn,” he greeted.

  At first, Quinn looked surprised, but then an honest, gleeful smile lit up his face. “Devon. Oh, my God. I can’t believe it. You’re back.”

  Quinn’s enthusiasm made Devon a bit uncomfortable. “You know me. I like my privacy. You’ve grown a lot.”

  Quinn laughed lightly. “Twenty-three in a couple of days. Time flies so fast.”

  It did, indeed, especially for humans. Devon pushed away the sudden image of Quinn’s youth dwindling into old age. “Well, it’s really nice to see you,” he replied, keeping his tone neutral. He decided to pass to the actual issue and keep himself from stalling further. “Where’s your dad?”

  Quinn’s expression darkened. “He died. It’s just me, Mom, and Dawn now taking care of this place.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” Devon replied softly. He truly regretted the human’s passing. Beyond that, it reminded him far too much of how frail life could be.

  “Did you need information?” Quinn asked, his voice barely audible now.

  It seemed to Devon that the human didn’t want to talk about his father’s demise further. “Is there any place private we could talk?” he asked, allowing Quinn to change the subject.

  Quinn nodded and gestured Devon to walk with him. Devon followed behind the human, always keeping his senses alert. He didn’t feel anyone lurking about or watching him, but that didn’t mean he could let his guard down.

  At last, they reached relative privacy in the back room of the diner. “There’s been some commotion with the spirit wolves. Have you heard anything about that?”

  “It’s difficult not to hear about it.” Quinn sat on a crate and gave Devon a curious look. “Where have you been for the past month?”

  Devon arched a brow at Quinn. “Brat. I’ve been hiding from civilization.” He didn’t give any other explanation, and Quinn didn’t ask. “Now,” Devon prodded, “tell me what you found out.”

  “I’m guessing you know about the supposed peace treaty the Magistrate wants to sign with the ferals.” When Devon nodded, the human continued, “It seems he’s been trying to get ferals to listen to him, but with little luck.”

  Devon snorted. “That’s so surprising.” For crying out loud, the Magistrate should know better. There could be no peace between spirit wolves and ferals. The war between them extended from times immemorial, and it would go on for as long as shape-shifters would roam the planet.

  “I don’t blame your skepticism,” Quinn replied. “Unfortunately, I don’t have any details, but I can direct you to a person who might know.”

  Quinn retrieved a notepad and began scribbling something on a piece of paper. Devon waited patiently until the human handed him the note. It held a name and an address. Hewitt Moore, owner of the club The Witching Hour and residing in London. “Who is this guy?” Devon asked.

  “A witch,” Quinn replied.

  The answer surprised Devon. Witches were like Switzerland—neutral in all conflicts. They had too many problems of their own to get involved with the issues of other people. But the Tanners had never given Devon faulty information.

  He must have looked puzzled, because Quinn elaborated. “Wolfram Rozenstadt recently mated a witch, someone named Dietrich Dupont. Apparently, Hewitt is a friend of Dietrich’s because from what I hear, the Magistrate visited The Witching Hour at least two times.”

  The information intrigued Devon, at the same time awakening a darker instinct. This Hewitt person might be an indirect connection to Rozenstadt. Perhaps Devon could use him to finally get revenge. He could draw out Wolfram’s mate and hit Wolfram where it hurt the most.

  Devon shook himself, forcing the haze of anger out of his mind. He’d have enacted his revenge long ago, but he knew that if he did so, he’d take the last step into the feral insanity and turn into his own worst nightmare.

  Still, he could find out something important from Hewitt. He offered Quinn a small smile. “Thanks. How much do I owe you?”

  Quinn waved a hand dismissively. “It’s on the house. Just don’t stay away so long next time.”

  Devon couldn’t promise that, and neither could he allow Quinn to just do him favors. In the end, the Tanners were human, and getting too close could only result in pain for all of them.

  For that reason, Devon retrieved his wallet and wrote Quinn a check with a generous sum. He might live in the wild, but he still owned a small fortune, and he used it wisely. “Go on. Take it,” he urged Quinn.

  Quinn looked pained, but eventually agreed and pocketed the slip of paper. Sighing, he said, “Fine. Just…be careful, okay? You’re not the only one who’s suspicious of the Magistrate. I haven’t told others about Hewitt, but it’s only a matter of time.”

  The human had a point. In the end, the information Quinn provided came from ferals, shape-shifters, and paranormal creatures, and those sources could easily share their intel with others. Devon needed to hurry if he wanted to get to Hewitt first.

  “I�
��ll try,” he replied to Quinn. “You take care, too, you hear?”

  Quinn nodded, and on that note, they said their good-byes. Devon left the diner with renewed sense of purpose. He had a feeling Hewitt Moore would be very important from now on.

  Chapter Two

  Hewitt scanned the expanse of his club thoughtfully. As of late, he’d been restless. He sensed something coming, a shift in the spiritual realm. It confused and unsettled him. His vision seemed clouded, and his scrying didn’t help at all.

  As a witch with powers over the aether, Hewitt channeled the energies of the sun and moon. There were few things in this world and beyond that escaped him. And yet, this time, he couldn’t grasp the source of his anxiety.

  Reason told him what his magic could not, though. Just a little while back, he’d lent a hand to his friend, Dietrich, to find a certain errant spirit wolf. Generally, he preferred to stay out of such issues, but witches survived only because they supported each other in everything. Otherwise, they’d never have lived through the culling of the past. Hewitt did not regret helping Dietrich, but he suspected it might have drawn unwanted attention from enemies of the spirit wolves.

  He considered letting Dietrich know, but he didn’t actually have anything to go on, just an instinctual feeling. For all he knew, he might just be jumping at shadows.

  Regardless, Hewitt had strengthened the wards around The Witching Hour, and he kept an even closer eye on the comings and goings. So far, other than the regular incidents caused by the occasional intoxicated customer, nothing of concern had happened.

  Hewitt closed his eyes and took a deep breath, just enjoying the distant thrum of the music as it coursed through him. From his office above the club, the rhythm of the songs barely reached him, but what he did hear provided a perfect distraction for when he felt like this, and it gave him incentive when he needed to work.

  Focusing on the sound, Hewitt searched for the magic inside him. He delved deep inside himself, looking for an answer within his own person. Meditation always relaxed him, and if nothing else, it would help him clear his mind.

  A shock of power drew him out of his trance. Something or someone had disturbed his wards. Hewitt opened his eyes and looked out into the club once again. His office boasted bulletproof windows with a mirror effect. He could watch the customers without being seen, and this gave him an advantage when an enemy dared to interfere on his turf.

  The person who’d triggered the magic alarm was nowhere in sight. Hewitt frowned, uncertainty coursing through him. Could he have made a mistake? No, it was impossible. True enough, the wards might have been activated by accident or something like that, but Hewitt could feel power advancing toward him. Someone had indeed entered the club. But who?

  Hewitt shrugged to himself. He’d hired plenty of guards to keep watch over his customers at all times. Should this intruder attack, they would detect him and control him until Hewitt could get there. He might have gone ahead and joined them, but his magic told him his uninvited guest would come to him.

  For this reason, Hewitt sat at the desk and opened a folder with the club’s financial situation. The numbers were nothing but a blur, his senses focused on the approaching presence.

  A weird heaviness settled on his heart, a feeling Hewitt did not understand and never experienced before. He took a deep breath and tried to push it away, but registered little success. He wiped his suddenly sweaty palms against the material of his slacks. Get a grip, Hewitt. What’s wrong with you? You can deal with this.

  The odd sensation only increased. And then, Hewitt heard the sound of voices outside his office. His guards were arguing with someone.

  “It’s all right,” he called out. “Let him in.”

  The door opened, and one of his subordinates led a tall man in. Hewitt struggled to control his breathing and not show his apprehension. He didn’t even look at the intruder, but offered his guard a smile. The guard seemed concerned, studying the new arrival in obvious apprehension. “Sir?”

  Hewitt waved the other man away. “It’s fine. Go.”

  The soldier hesitated, obviously disagreeing with Hewitt’s assessment. In the end, he left the office, regardless, and Hewitt allowed himself to get a better look of his guest.

  He wouldn’t have thought his anxiety could increase further, but it did. His mouth went dry as he took in every detail of the mysterious visitor. Dark blue eyes studied him with an intensity that pierced Hewitt, scrutinizing his soul. The man wore simple clothing, just jeans and a T-shirt, but they did nothing to disguise the hard body beneath. He’d tied his blond hair in a ponytail, but the naughty bangs refused to be tamed, insisting on shadowing the hard, stern features of his face. Hewitt wanted to thread his fingers through the stranger’s locks, push them out of his face to get a better look. Every fiber of his being urged him to submit to whatever this man wanted to do.

  But he didn’t. Instead, Hewitt forced himself to sound completely normal and aloof when he said, “I’m waiting.”

  He didn’t have to ask questions or elaborate. The stranger had come here for a reason, and it wasn’t to fuck Hewitt until neither of them could walk.

  “My name is Devon Saunders. You are Hewitt Moore.”

  It wasn’t a question, but Hewitt nodded anyway. “What do you want with me?” he asked. Simply the sound of Devon’s voice made his heart beat faster, but Hewitt focused on practicalities. Gently, he sent magic probes to study his guest. A spirit wolf, he decided. No, something else. There was a wildness and a sense of danger spirit wolves did not have. A feral.

  Hewitt knew many things about ferals, and none of them made him feel very comfortable with the situation. He supposed he should have expected this, and to a certain extent, he had. Besides, Devon didn’t fit with his image of an insane shape-shifter bent on killing and destruction. Hewitt had lived far too long to make rushed judgments, and he decided to wait and see what Devon would reply.

  “I just need to ask you a few questions,” Devon said.

  The reply almost sounded friendly, but Hewitt sensed something hidden beneath the words. Devon’s eyes seemed heated somehow. Energy crackled between them, and Hewitt saw in Devon’s eyes the same sexual awareness he felt within himself.

  Hewitt swallowed around the sudden knot in his throat and tried to focus on the conversation. “I’m an open book,” he replied with a smile.

  * * * *

  With a mix of lust and disbelief, Devon watched Hewitt lean against his desk. From the moment he’d come within view of The Witching Hour, he’d known his visit would be a bad idea—at least for what he’d meant to do. The club seemed surrounded by a hidden power, something that eluded Devon’s senses. He gathered Hewitt must have surrounded himself with all sorts of spells to ensure he’d be safe.

  By rights, Devon should have drawn his prey out of hiding, but he’d been unable to keep himself from going inside. An unstoppable force lured him into the club. Devon couldn’t have resisted to save his life, but now, he wished he’d have never left the wild to inquire into the mysterious treaty.

  Ferals didn’t have mates. They were lone wolves par excellence. Socializing of any type unavoidably led to conflict. This couldn’t end well. If he even tried to touch Hewitt, he’d just end up turning the other man feral. After all, witches were human, too. They might have magic, but, in the end, they remained vulnerable to the feral insanity.

  But Devon had come here for a reason. He’d ask his questions and leave before anything worse happened. His mate—fuck, his mate—wouldn’t even remember him after a month or so. Such a bond meant nothing more than chemistry to humans, and a man like Hewitt probably had dozens of men and women begging for his touch.

  The thought made him furious, and the beast within him howled in fury. He shook himself and gritted his teeth to force his mind away from the unreasonable abyss.

  “I hear the spirit wolves want a peace treaty,” he said. His voice sounded far too angry for his comfort, but he couldn’t do anythin
g about it. “What is the Magistrate up to?”

  Hewitt arched a brow at him. “Why would you think I know anything about that? I am aware of the idea, yes, but beyond that, I’m afraid I can’t help. I’m not exactly a member of the Magistrate’s inner circle.”

  “You’re a friend of his mate’s,” Devon shot back.

  The witch simply shrugged. “That doesn’t mean anything. Some things are kept private, even from the closest of friends.”

  Devon supposed the witch had a point. After all, Hewitt’s involvement in the world of the spirit wolves didn’t seem to be all that significant. Still, Devon couldn’t exactly ask Wolfram about his plans. He needed an intermediary.

  “Can you find out?” he inquired.

  Hewitt looked surprised. “Why would I want to do that? I’d much rather stay out of it, thank you. I think the issue is complicated enough without a bunch of witches getting involved, too.”

  The argument didn’t convince Devon. Witches had already become involved when Wolfram mated one. Besides, if Quinn’s information was correct, Hewitt already helped the spirit wolves with something. Doubtlessly, he kept in contact with his friend.

  “I don’t want you to spy for me,” he answered. “I know you wouldn’t. But witches are supposed to be neutral, right? I merely want an explanation.”

  Hewitt opened his mouth, obviously intending to reply. Just as he did so, Devon sensed an approaching presence. Another feral was near. Quinn’s warning returned in his mind, and he knew the human had been right. Hewitt’s involvement with the spirit wolves had drawn unwanted attention from others, as well.

  The witch seemed to have picked up on the new arrival right away. “Did you bring friends?” he asked Devon.

  Devon couldn’t suppress a grimace. “Ferals don’t have any friends.”