Shadow Hunt

by L. L. Raand

  Chapter Six

  “Niki, Callan,” Sylvan barked as she left the infirmary after seeing to the wounded, “with me.”

  Niki stopped pacing and jumped down from the porch to follow. Callan trotted across the yard and fell in on the other side. Sylvan needed to get out of the yard before her agitation put every Were in the vicinity on full alert. Drake had been gone too long with no word. Her wolf wanted to hunt for her. Now. Nothing else mattered.

  Only Sylvan knew many other things mattered, and despite the urgency pounding through her to run, Sylvan slowed when warriors called to her and younger Pack members cautiously approached, each seeking a moment with her. A brief look, a fleeting touch, the merest connection of Alpha to wolf bound them together. She ruffled the hair of a stout warrior who had seen more battles than her but unstintingly followed her command, briefly hugged a young maternal she’d seen in the nursery and whispered her thanks, and gave a nod of approval to two sentries who stood at attention, eyes bright with the desire of youth to serve. By the time she reached her headquarters and bounded up the stairs to her office, her pelt brushed the undersurface of her skin and her wolf rode hard along bone and sinew.

  “Close the door.”

  She strode to the wide double windows she always left open and drew deep, searching for the scent of her mate. So many familiar spoor came to her on the crisp late-day breeze—falling leaves, burrowing animals, the icy breath of coming winter. Hundreds of Weres moved below her in the Compound and farther out into the forest and mountains, their hearts beating in her blood with the primal rhythm that drove her every moment. Amongst all those familiar scents and beating hearts, she could not find the single one that meant more to her than any other. Drake was late.

  Sylvan snarled, chaining her wolf until she had done what needed doing. “Give me the status of our defenses.”

  Callan straightened. “Strong, Alpha. We’ve doubled patrols at all the outposts and brought up reinforcements from the barracks—”

  Sylvan spun around, the specter of Andrew dying despite all her efforts haunting her still. He was a centuri—what chance would young recruits have? “Sentries? Barely trained?”

  He dropped his gaze. “Untested, it’s true, but well trained, Alpha. And I’ve sent lieutenants to oversee the squadrons, so a senior commander is available in case of escalation.”

  Sylvan flicked her glance to Niki. Hard bodied, utterly disciplined, ruthless in battle, Niki was her second and her general because she lived to fight and was a brilliant strategist. Until recently, when she’d mated, she’d also been reckless with her own life. Never though with those she commanded. “You concur?”

  “With Bernardo neutralized and the cats disorganized, I think the only risk of attack on our borders is from humans, and thus far they’ve never done anything so blatant. So yes, I think Callan’s measures are adequate until something changes.”

  Sylvan stalked to her desk and dropped into her chair. “Until now, we’ve been reactive. We’ve waited, tried to negotiate, and all that’s gotten us is one dead centuri, several badly traumatized young, an infirmary full of injured warriors, and an entire Pack of Blackpaws who need discipline and care. We’ve been fighting shadows.”

  Niki shrugged. “Until now we haven’t had any choice. Your focus since the Exodus has been convincing the humans we should be legally granted the rights we’ve had all along.”

  Niki had always been opposed to negotiating. Her first instinct was always to fight. From any other wolf, Sylvan would have taken Niki’s subtle criticism as a challenge, but Niki was as close to her as blood. They’d been raised as littermates, learned to fight and hunt together, learned to rule as Alpha and imperator. None other than her mate was more trusted. “And you think that goal has changed?”

  “I think the Coalition is doomed,” Niki said. “Zachary Gates will have his hands full preventing a Vampire revolt from those who remain loyal to Francesca—if she still…exists—”

  “I am sure she escaped us somehow,” Sylvan snarled, “and she is likely rebuilding her forces even now.”

  Niki nodded. “Who knows what the Fae are doing. Their only goal is to secure their own welfare, at any cost. The other Praeterns are small in number, most like humans, and they are likely to fade into the human population—and would probably prefer it that way.”

  “I know you’ve never been in favor of negotiation,” Sylvan said, “but if we precipitate a war, we’ll be outnumbered and in all likelihood destroyed.”

  “I’m not proposing a war.” Niki’s green eyes gleamed and her heavy canines glistened against her sensuous lower lip. “At least, not a frontal assault. If we can identify and neutralize our enemies, you and whatever remains of the Coalition will have a better chance of achieving some kind of recognition for us. Until then, we live as we always have—by the law of the Pack.”

  Sylvan leaned forward and pressed her fingers to the desk. Her claws gouged holes in the hard oak. “We will always live by the law of the Pack, no matter what the Coalition does or doesn’t achieve. That is part of who we are.”

  Niki tapped her fist to her heart and her smile was lethal. “Yes, Alpha.”

  “What do we know of our enemies?” Callan asked.

  “We know two for certain.” Sylvan’s wolf snarled deep in her belly, claws raking, teeth rending, demanding justice. “Nicholas Gregory and Francesca. Gregory has been involved for years in research specifically designed to destroy us. Everything about these most recent experiments points to him.”

  “He’s human,” Niki said with disdain. “Give me leave, and I’ll see that he’s not a problem any longer.”

  Sylvan shook her head. “If it were that easy, I would’ve done it myself for his part in Andrew’s death. But he’s a visible and powerful public figure, and we still have no proof. If he were to suddenly meet with a suspicious death, we would be the first accused. The humans would have their excuse to retaliate.”

  “We will be suspect under any circumstances,” Niki said.

  “Yes, but if we can expose his illegal actions and ensure that the humans have no proof of our involvement, any investigation of us will likely lead nowhere.”

  Callan growled. “And if there are reprisals regardless of proof?”

  “Then we will defend ourselves,” Sylvan said.

  Callan squared his shoulders. “Then we must discover what he’s doing and act quickly. Illicit enterprises like this require support—money will need to change hands for supplies, labor, transport, protection. Fala could reach out to her contacts.”

  “I want her to,” Sylvan said, “but she needs to be careful. She’s a Were police officer surrounded by human officers who may not trust her, who might be looking for a reason to be rid of her. Who might even be part of the movement to quarantine us.”

  “My mate can handle a human.”

  “I know she can,” Sylvan said, “but I still want her to be careful.”

  “Yes, Alpha.”

  “I’ll talk to Liege le Clare,” Sylvan said. “If anyone knows of some long-range plan to destroy us, it will be the Vampires, and Michel was Francesca’s second. When Torren showed me an image of the secret meeting of those she called the Shadow Lords, Francesca was there.”

  Niki’s lip curled. “And where Francesca goes, Michel follows.”

  “Not any longer,” Sylvan said.

  “That’s what she says,” Niki said dismissively.

  “Until she proves otherwise,” Sylvan snapped.

  “As you command, Alpha.”

  Sylvan had had enough talking. “Callan—find Max and have him report in. I want to know what the human resistance members have discovered about the locations of the remaining labs.”

  “Yes, Alpha,” Callan said.

  “Niki, we’re going for a run.”

  Niki gave her a questioning look.

  When Callan had left, Sylvan said, “Drake should have contacted me by now.”

  “I’m read—”
>
  A knock sounded loudly on the door. Dasha, the newly promoted centuri, called, “I’m sorry, Alpha, but the Revniks are here and seek to speak with you.”

  Niki stiffened. Leo and Nadia Revnik were scientists and her mate’s parents. And they’d been studying the mutation responsible for both the Prima’s and her mate Sophia’s turning.

  “Tell them to wait,” Sylvan said.

  “They say it’s urgent.”

  Sylvan frowned and came around her desk to stand by Niki. “Send them in.”

  Leo Revnik and his mate Nadia were blond and blue-eyed and usually calm in any crisis. When their lab had been about to be blown up by a terrorist’s bomb, they coolly stayed until the last second, downloading their experimental data. Both were now agitated and, when they saw Niki, stress hormones clouded the air.

  “If we might speak with you alone, Alpha,” Leo said.

  Niki stepped into his space, aggression pouring from her in waves. “You keep trying to come between me and my mate. I’ve allowed it until now for Sophia’s sake—”

  “Niki,” Sylvan said, “stand down. Leo—if this is about the basis for Drake and Sophia surviving Were fever, Niki should hear.”

  Leo sighed. “It’s not Were fever—not as we know it. It’s a mutagenic gene-splice that produces symptoms similar to native Were fever and has as high a fatality rate. Thus far.”

  “We know this,” Sylvan said, her patience fraying.

  “Sophia survived because she was young and her biological parents probably tried an antidote when they realized they had all contracted the disease. She didn’t develop resistance to the disease, but she achieved a form of equilibrium.” Leo focused on Niki. “We can’t be a hundred percent sure, but we believe Sophia is incapable of transferring the disease.”

  “What are the odds?” Niki asked, her voice a broken growl.

  “We believe there’s at least a seventy percent chance she could complete the mate bond without infecting you.”

  “And Drake?” Sylvan asked, her stomach churning. “She contracted the disease as an adult.”

  “That’s what you need to know,” Nadia said. “Drake isn’t just free of the disease, she’s free of any expression of the mutation. We believe her immune system targeted the mutation locus and deactivated it.”

  “What does that mean?” Sylvan asked.

  “The Prima might be the source of an antibody to the manufactured mutagen—and possibly even the natural contagion.”

  “Drake might be the source of a cure for Were fever?” Sylvan asked.

  “Yes.” Leo grimaced. “And if our enemies were to discover this, they would stop at nothing to destroy her.”

  Sylvan held back a howl of frustration and rage. Her mate was in mortal danger, and she had no idea where she was.

  *

  Drake awoke to the taste of honey. The delicate trill of a lute floated on the breeze. Her skin tingled as if kissed by sparkling dew. Deep within, her wolf slumbered, her paws twitching as she ran through sun-drenched glades and pine-strewn paths, chasing the flicker of whitetail deer, muzzle lifted to the sky, nostrils filled with the scent of freedom.

  No. Not freedom. A dream. A paralyzing illusion. Freedom was Sylvan and their young. Freedom was Pack. Drake forced herself through the misty cloak of pleasure and magic and staggered to her knees, her wolf rousing with her, growling a challenge. The music hadn’t been an illusion—the air was filled with notes, playing over her skin like thousands of teasing fingers. The glade was familiar, only a hundred times more beautiful than it had been Earthside—the tall oaks arched, branches full and leafy green. Bushes swaying with heavy blossoms, riots of pink and white and blood red, framed the clearing. The sky was a blue more exquisite than any shade she’d ever seen before—except perhaps in Sylvan’s eyes—a shimmering cobalt cut through with silver. The world resembled a painting of a dream, vibrant and achingly untouchable.

  Misha lay curled beside her in pelt, her muzzle pillowed on her paws, one ear flickering as if she too were running in her sleep. Drake stroked her.

  Misha. You’re dreaming. Come back.

  Misha didn’t stir and Drake sent her power into the sleeping wolf, the power of Pack, the power of the Prima. Misha’s legs twitched and she whined, struggling to free herself from an invisible trap.

  Misha. Come.

  The gray-and-white wolf trembled, the air around her shimmered, and Misha reached out an arm for her.

  Drake clasped her cool fingers. “You’re safe.”

  “Prima?” Misha’s eyes were dazed. “Where—”

  “Faerie,” Drake said.

  Misha’s jerked and looked around. “How?”

  Drake gestured across the glade to where two figures stepped from a mist she hadn’t seen before. “Perhaps they’ll be able to tell us.”

  They were garbed in emerald cloaks clasped at the throat with gold wings, butter-yellow leather trousers that hugged their long slender thighs, and gold boots with laces crisscrossing to just below their knees. Each was at least six feet tall, golden haired and raven eyed, with long, elegant features. Their skin was the color of purest ivory. The female was nearly identical to the male, with the exception of the swell of her breasts visible between the laces of her rust-colored vest. Both were almost too beautiful to look upon.

  Drake didn’t waste time on their faces, but focused on the long spears tipped with glimmering points at least as long as her arm, and the long swords belted at their waists, elaborately tooled hilts inset with precious jewels in gleaming silver. She wagered the blades were silver too, just like the points of their spears. The Fae guards were armed to kill Weres.

  Drake got to her feet and Misha, naked, stood beside her, head up, a proud young warrior.

  “I am Drake McKennan, Prima of the Timberwolf Pack.” Drake kept any note of either apology or challenge from her voice. “If we have trespassed, we meant no offense.”

  “Come with us,” the female said, her voice rich and sparkling like wine poured into a crystal goblet.

  Drake held her place. “We seek an audience with Cecilia, Queen of Thorns.”

  The male lowered his spear in an arc that ended halfway between them, the point directed just above Drake’s shoulder, enough to be a challenge, but not a threat. Drake’s wolf snarled and prepared to spring.

  The air behind the guards shimmered and Torren stepped into the glade. Misha gasped.

  “Forgive our guards, Prima,” Torren said, striding forward. Like the guards, she was long and lean and spectrally beautiful, with dark hair and brilliant, almond-shaped blue eyes. Her cloak was magenta, her trousers midnight blue, her thigh-high black leather boots gleaming as if polished with moonlight. A sword hilt shimmering with rubies protruded from a hammered silver scabbard at her waist. “Aryn, raise your spear.”

  “As you so order, Hunt Master.”

  Torren removed her satin cloak with a swirl and draped it around Misha’s shoulders. Her eyes lingered on Misha for a long moment and she smiled whimsically. “It has been a long time since a Faerie Gate has been breached. Your power is strong indeed.”

  “Your power over me,” Misha murmured.

  Torren stroked the edge of her jaw. “Perhaps it is the other way around.” She turned, met Drake’s gaze. “Cecilia, Queen of Thorns and All of Faerie, Ruler of Dark and Light, Mistress of All Seasons, welcomes you to Faerie.”

  “The Prima of the Timberwolf Pack thanks your Queen.”

  “Walk with me,” Torren said, turning and gesturing to Drake and Misha to follow. “It may take some time to arrange an audience.”

  “I must get a message to Sylvan,” Drake said.

  Torren inclined her head. “I’m afraid that might take some time as well.”

  Chapter Seven

  With the cold night wind ruffling her pelt and streaming over her muzzle, Tamara raced along the twisting forest path toward the deeper shadows at the foot of the mountain. Her senses filled with a thousand fragrances of freed
om. She was alone as she had been for days, but now she was free or would be soon, and the solitude was a gift. Gray had escorted her outside the stockade, ordered her to shift, and walked away. Maybe she’d been wrong, maybe Gray was her friend after all. Maybe Gray understood the terror of being chained. Whatever the reasons, she’d set her free.

  She lifted her head to the sky and howled at the rising moon, joy illuminating her. Her loins filled, her heart pounded, and she gulped the air, tasting freedom on her tongue. She skidded around the bend in the path and raced down a moonlit slope toward a mountain stream where silver glinted on the clear surface. She could already taste the icy crystals in her parched throat. She bounded over a fallen tree and the world went spinning.

  The blow took her legs out from under her and she landed on her back ten feet from the path. Instinctively she pulled her legs tight to her belly and raked the air in search of her attacker. Jaws clamped onto her throat, closing around her windpipe. She scrabbled faster, felt her back claws slash through fur and flesh, heard a sharp howl of pain. Her lungs burned, her muscles screamed, and the moon above her dimmed.

  Escape or die.

  She snapped and thrashed and growled and clawed. Claws dug into her shoulder and the relentless pressure on her throat never wavered. Her limbs grew heavy and the moon winked out.

  Tamara came to, gasping, her throat on fire, her left shoulder a mass of burning agony. A heavy weight pinned her to the ground as strong thighs clamped on either side of her hips and fingers dug into her wrists. She blinked and struggled for air. The figure backlit by the moon was unmistakable.

  “You bitch,” she gasped.

  Gray stared down at her, blood as black as night streaking her cheek from a slash in her temple. Sweat gleaming on her bare torso, the light in her eyes as wild as the sky. “Where were you running, whelp?”