Dragon Intrigues

by Isadora Montrose

  Sherman would be back in his natural habitat, and she would be sleeping in her car. Again. This place might be a dump, but she could do a great deal worse, and had. “I’m a little behind on the rent, so play nice,” she begged.

  She fastened her jeans and hurried towards the tiny bar fridge. A single opened tin stared back at her. “You don’t pull your weight,” she continued, “which is on the distinctly chunky end, I might add, and do. And you’re always hungry. In case it’s slipped your notice, we’re on a strict budget here. You could help out by skipping a few meals.”

  As she spoke, she dolloped brown goo onto his saucer. The big striped orange cat began to eat greedily. He looked like nothing so much as an enormous ball of badly wrapped and pilled mohair. Both fuzzy and uneven. She put a few bits of kibble on another saucer. He would nibble at those one at a time. His molars were too worn for real chewing.

  “Hot water turns kibble into a soft food feast,” she coaxed. Of course she would have to go downstairs for hot water.

  Cloudy green eyes blinked at her in frank disbelief. Sherman returned to the last smears of the wet food he preferred. Deanna drank water from the jug she had hauled to her room last night. Her stomach reminded her that last night’s dinner had been hasty and incomplete. And hours ago.

  Thank heavens for Olympic Park. It had been a lifesaver. Literally. She foraged before and after work, ate whatever she was offered at work, and practically never had to buy food. Except for Sherman, who was a slave to his stomach and demanded regular meals. A woman on the run didn’t need a pet. But somehow she had morphed into a crazy cat lady.

  Sherman had claimed her in Everett. He had been abandoned by the previous tenant of the two-room fleabag she had rented there. She had found him on her couch her second night. His litter pan and carrier were discarded on the street where his previous slaves had dumped it and him. Too bad they hadn’t abandoned his cat food.

  That first evening, he stood stiff-legged before the kitchen cupboard and hollered until his new serf had unearthed her last can of tuna. Maybe he figured he came with the apartment like the battered furniture and chipped plates. Or maybe she was a lonely sucker. When she could barely feed herself, the very last thing she needed was an expensive responsibility.

  But what was she going to do? Sherman wasn’t a young cat. Nor was he handsome, or sweet tempered. There was almost no chance that he would find a new home at the local animal rescue. Not in Everett. Not here in Sequim. He was way more likely to be gassed to make room for cute, adoptable kittens.

  Sherman watched unhappily as she made her bed, stuffed her electronics into her backpack and left the third-floor room. They had had yet another loud debate about the window. At least Sherman was loud. She lost. Again. But since he was willing to resort to shredding her stuff as well as Mrs. Hammond’s furnishings, in all arguments he had the upper paw.

  The window had duly remained cracked the few inches Sherman required to come and go from the fire escape. That left her place vulnerable to burglars, but it wasn’t as though she had anything left worth stealing. Norman Ransom had seen to that. These days, she kept her valuables, such as they were, in her backpack, and her backpack accompanied her everywhere.

  It took less than half an hour to get to Olympic National Park, or at least the entrance she used. The park itself was immense with multiple entries. As it usually was at this hour, the parking lot was almost empty. Just a couple of vehicles and lots of puddles. It was still too early for most dog walkers, but birds were loudly saluting the dawn, and despite the drizzle and swirling mist the birders would soon put in an appearance.

  She tucked her little car in the corner, far from the other vehicles. The little hairs at the back of her neck were prickling. She knew what that meant. Her intuition was informing her that her three months of peace in Sequim were at an end. Norman’s goons had found her. Again. Yet the woods called her louder than her disquiet. She absolutely had to eat. She would fill up, work one last shift, grab Sherman, and blow town. The coast was full of small towns where she could lay low. But she sure was tired of life on the run.

  The big conifer behind the restroom huts had been a real find. She ducked under the low hanging branches and found herself inside a dry tepee. The drooping limbs kept rain and eyes off the spacious recess. If she was skillful, she wouldn’t even knock her head on the living rafters that supported her change room.

  She stripped to her skin, tucked her clothes inside the backpack, and reached up to hang it against the trunk on the peg of a long-ago broken branch. In the unlikely event that some human crept inside the tree, chances were excellent that they wouldn’t even think to look up. She hated leaving her stuff unguarded, but eating was important.

  The process of shifting was no longer as painful as it had been in her teens when she had come into her animal form. Long practice had made it swift and she had taught herself to endure in silence. If there had been anyone watching, they would have seen her muzzle peep out of her green cave before she picked her way delicately to the patch of poison ivy growing on the southern slope of the nearest hill.

  She had the new spring growth to herself of course. Even the most ardent birders avoided the stuff. But poison ivy was both tasty and nutritious. Her talent provided immunity to the rash that humans incurred from merely brushing against the leaves. And it grew quickly, making it an environmentally friendly choice for breakfast. She bent her neck and began to fill her empty belly.

  crowd bemused. Found a wall and propped himself where he could keep an eye on his mate.

  The groom clapped him on the shoulder. “Hey, buddy, glad you found some food. Let’s see if we can find you a beer to go with that.” Ryan Rutherford’s broad shoulders blocked Anton’s view of Serena.

  Considering that the last time Anton had seen the cougar shifter, he had had to shoot him up with antivenin, Rutherford was looking remarkably healthy. Of course, Marine dress blues did a lot for a guy. It was still good to see that Rutherford had made a full recovery.

  Anton hoped Serena had taken the opportunity to admire his own uniform. He had more fruit salad on his chest than Rutherford. Broader chest too. Not that he was bragging, but facts were facts. He peered hopefully around his pal, but Serena was screened by a line of hungry guests.

  “I see you’ve made a complete recovery, Major.” Anton abandoned his surveillance and followed Ryan to the bar.

  Beer in hand, Rutherford grinned back at him. “I got lucky, Benoit. My wife is part of a family of healers. She neutralized the shifter venom.*”

  Naturally, Anton had already identified the former Claudia Peterson as the good-looking gal in the white lace dress. The bride who had spoken her vows to Rutherford. After all, he was a highly trained investigator. And awake.

  “Good. Good. That’s good.” If only Rutherford would leave him alone to feast his eyes on his mate.

  When Ryan Rutherford had first told him that he was living on an island where all the permanent residents were sensitives, or married to sensitives, Anton had hardly believed the cougar’s luck. Of course, back home in French Town, just about every other person was a bear. Folks didn’t flaunt their bears but shifting was common, and running in the woods a normal part of everyday life.

  The reality of West Haven and its psychics, sorcerers, shifters and intuitives was dizzying. The bride’s people were sorcerers, he had met several psychics, and identified shifters of every stripe among the guests. Anton cleared his throat.

  “Rutherford,” he whispered. “What is that girl behind the roast beef table?”

  “Caterer.”

  “Wise guy.”

  His friend chuckled. “She is, I believe, one of the Merrymans. They are all merfolk.”

  “She’s a mermaid?” Just his fricking luck. What the heck did a guy from the mountains know from mermaids? Plenty of fish in the streams of Washington State, but nary a mermaid. But fate was fate and you couldn’t fight your destiny.

  “You got something aga
inst the mer-people, Benoit?” Now Rutherford was pretty nearly snickering.

  “No, no. Of course not. Just never met one.”

  Serena didn’t smell like a mortal woman. Not exactly. And nothing whatsoever like a fish. Her fragrance was better than the sweetest perfume and headier than the scent of any female he had ever encountered. Could fate have bonded him to a mermaid? What were the odds? A fricking mermaid. Anton’s heart pounded. His skin prickled. Certainty flooded him.

  Now Rutherford was looking at him strangely. “You okay, buddy? You look like you aspirated that sandwich.”

  “I’m fine. This is quite some blowout you’re having here.” Anton looked around the room with approval. White-draped tables were spread with everything from crab cakes to hummus. A chocolate fountain occupied one corner. A ragtag group of kids was gathered around it, hardly shoving at all as they eagerly dipped fruit. Anton was glad he wasn’t on clean-up detail.

  “Thanks. We wanted to keep the reception casual, since we couldn’t imagine renewing our vows without our son and his cousins. Come on, I’ll introduce you to Jimmy and Claudia.” Anton followed Ryan to the chocolate fountain to meet the cub and the bride.

  *Cherished by the Cougar

  CHAPTER 2

  Colin~

  The small steel box was precisely where SPAR had said it would be. Under three rocks guarded by a sapling of Pinus contorta or lodgepole pine. Once Colin had retrieved the lock box, he visually quartered the wooded slope again, automatically checking for anomalies or surveillance. Nothing. He was alone. This hillside harbored only critters. The hawks flying overhead could see him but they weren’t interested.

  Even through the heavy lead-lined steel, he could feel the psi power of the contents. Although he knew it was there, he still wanted to check on his prize. To be sure. But first things first. He crouched beside the hole and busied himself replacing the rocks so they presented an undisturbed appearance. He pressed hard on the stones until the moss fully covered the dirty bottom, leaving no line to give away his activities.

  A sprinkle of leaf mold perfected the camouflage. Satisfied that the hiding place was once more invisible, Colin opened the box. The vial was inside, all right. The ground glass lid of the slender jar was sealed with red wax, but the murky liquid inside was potent enough for him to avoid touching the tube directly.

  Beside the glass vial was an innocuous black plastic rectangle. He recognized the device. It was an older model stun gun, outmoded now, but still effective. He grazed it with a cautious forefinger and immediately understood why it had been included. Someone had modified this sucker. He could feel the paranormal crystal power source. The itchy feeling between his shoulder blades got worse.

  The sooner he got both flask and gun back to his lab, the better. Familiar and beautiful Olympic National Park no longer seemed like a safe drop site. The psi drug was dangerous enough, but the stun gun was a thousand times worse. Combined with last month’s break-in at HQ, SPAR’s find was the proverbial poisoned chalice.

  J&T had signed on for this mission, and it had been too much to hope that they had seen the last of Vector’s crystal weapons.

  Sudden warmth made Colin cast a final disgruntled look upward. The birds of prey now wheeled against brilliant blue sky. Just his luck. An hour ago this slope had been fog-bound and the sky overcast. The woods dark, shadowy, and wet. A typical day in cloudy Washington State. Great cover. Moving swiftly and unseen through the forest had been a snap. Now the spring sun was breaking through to the under-story, making him all too visible.

  The sun would make backtracking far slower. Good thing he had a lifetime of practice in moving silently, stealthily, on invisible trails. For now, he would avoid the footpaths and stick to the trails animals had made. Just in case he wasn’t quite as alone in the forest as it appeared.

  The crack came out of nowhere. A blast that shattered the peace of the spring morning and silenced birds and animals. By the time he had identified the sound as rifle fire, Colin was already flat on his belly. Sharp stones hidden beneath pine needles and decaying plant matter speared his chest and thighs, but even when the echoes faded he didn’t move.

  He listened. Took stock with all his senses. Where was the shooter? Why hadn’t he noticed he was being followed? Stalked? Civilian life was making him soft. He reached for his ankle holster and pulled out his little revolver. Not much use against a long gun, but better than nothing. The next shot hit rock, he heard the impact and felt the distant vibration.

  The good news was the sonuvabitch wasn’t aiming at him. The bad was the jackass was hunting in a national forest. You were just as dead if you were killed by mistake. He didn’t have time for this. But he kept his body low, his eyes aimed downslope, and his ears pricked. Listening to the hoof beats of the poacher’s prey. Some large panicked animal was charging uphill.

  He turned his head. A white doe, brown eyes wide, neck stretched, was racing away from the gunshots. Toward him. Without breaking stride she levitated. Her creamy underparts soared over his head. Razor-sharp hooves passed within inches of his face. She landed neatly and bounded uphill. Involuntarily he moved to follow her with his eyes.

  She was magnificent. Beautiful. The doe’s lingering scent trail belatedly informed him of one other factoid. She was a deer shifter. Shift. He didn’t have time for this, but equally he couldn’t let some dolt kill another shapeshifter while Major Justice kept his head down and his gun unfired. Besides, in the park all deer were protected.

  He crept downhill on elbows and knees. A row of boulders embedded in moss and blackberries and guarded by pines made an effective lookout point and battlement. After a few minutes of cautious listening, he peered over his fortifications at the noisy hunters below. Two men stood on the slope turning in bewildered circles as if wondering where their prey had gotten to. What was wrong with this picture?

  Both were wearing the usual hunter uniform of baggy camo pants and jackets. But they carried their rifles awkwardly, as if walking uphill with long guns was an unpracticed activity. Dude One was short and weedy. Dude Two tall and chunky. But other than that they were twins. Down to their missing orange vests and brushy black beards.

  Black hats pulled low over their foreheads and the face fungus made it impossible to see their faces. But their footwear was the real giveaway that they were in costume. Instead of sturdy hiking boots like his, or even waterproof boots, they had on name-brand athletic shoes. The sort of flimsy shoes city thugs ignorant of how wet the Pacific rainforest was might consider suitable for a stroll in the park.

  The wind brought him their scent. Weird and weirder. These guys were also deer. Stags shooting at a doe? What sort of freaks did that? The sort that had to be thwarted. The final delicate vibrations made by the doe’s hooves as she cantered upslope had petered out. She was hiding. Good luck with that, Snow White.

  “I tell you she went uphill.” Weedy made no attempt to keep his voice low. Perhaps he didn’t know how sound carried in a silent forest. “God damned witch.”

  “How the hell are we supposed to walk through this crap?” whined Chunky. He lifted a foot heavy with mud and scraped the accumulated moss, dirt and leaves onto a rock. “My feet are already wet and there isn’t even a path.”

  This was true. Whether by chance or luck, the doe had taken a route directly through the trees. But presumably Snow White’s mad dash had left unmistakable hoof prints in the soggy forest floor.

  “We’ll have to shift and follow her,” Weedy told his buddy patiently. “We’ll leave our stuff here and get it when we’ve caught her.”

  “Caught her how? I say we wait by her car.”

  “We can’t take her out in the parking lot, dumbass,” Weedy retorted. “She’s gotta be in doe. We can corner her in the trees. There’s two of us.” He couldn’t keep the glee out of his voice. Maybe he didn’t feel the need. “And we’re the ones with antlers.”

  “Eww.” But it was disgust not shame Weedy’s pal was feeling.

>   “Don’t be a wuss, Gerry. The Supreme Buck assigned us this takedown. That witch is a danger to the entire parcel.”

  “I know. But still. Antlers.” Gerry did not sound convinced.

  “Come on.” Weedy laid his rifle on the ground, neither putting on the safety, nor unloading it. He unbuttoned his jacket and removed it and his black T-shirt. Gerry shrugged and followed his lead.

  Maybe it was better this way. Firing downhill at a distant target with a handgun was a good way to waste ammo. And if Colin actually shot a man, there would be awkward explanations to make to park rangers and law enforcement.

  He unlaced his boots and stuck his gun inside one, underneath his socks. He hated to leave that lockbox out in the open, but if anyone was around this morning, the gunfire would already have brought shouts of wrath at a bare minimum. They were alone.

  Gerry and Weedy’s bellowing announced that they had begun their metamorphosis and that they found the process agonizing. Which it was, but in Colin’s clan it was considered uncool and chicken-hearted to moan as your bones broke and remade themselves. He accomplished his own shift in total silence, controlling the pain by focusing on the glorious rush as his senses intensified and raw animal power suffused his changing body.

  When his inner beast was in the ascendant, he raised his snout to the breeze and took a bearing on his prey. But the would-be assassins weren’t trying to hide. Two ordinary brownish white-tailed bucks trotted briskly up the path the white doe had broken, trampling and smashing their way with noisy unconcern, unaware or unconcerned that the wind was blowing their scent toward her.

  And him. No woodcraft at all. Their antlers were three-point at best, but he figured they could still do serious damage to the doe. Or to him, come to that. He followed the stamping of their eight hooves, his well-padded paws muffling his own progress. Although he was confident that they lacked the sense to check for predators by eye or nose, he kept well back of the stags, concealing his bulk within the trees. So long as he was careful, those rogues were dead meat.