Hour of the Lion

Chapter Two

The next afternoon, Vic steered the decrepit Jeep around a curve and entered Cold Creek. She sighed wearily. Between the slashes on her back and ribs, the bite on her shoulder, her aching knee, and the various blows she’d taken from Swane…well, maybe she’d felt worse the day the house in Baghdad was bombed with her in it, but not by much. God, she hurt.

She hadn’t even gotten to beat the hell out of the assholes-that really burned.

Her head felt hot and gritty, like it was filled with desert sand. She probably should have tried to get more sleep, but Seattle didn’t feel safe. Not with who-knows-who looking for her. Hopefully they’d stay too busy for a while to focus on her. After her anonymous phone call to the police, the bad guys should be scrambling to cover their tracks. And wasn’t that hopeful thinking-they’d probably just abandon the place and the dead woman.

Oh shit. Was she brain-dead or what? That woman and others had died because Lachlan bit them.

Lachlan bit me. The good news: with him gone, no more victims would die. At least until they caught another cat-thing.

Bad news: I might die too. Her chest felt hollow. Dying for something so stupid wasn’t how she’d planned to go. If she had to check out, it was supposed to be in a blaze of glory, saving her buddies or a bunch of civilians. Not shivering and puking from being used as a feline chew-toy.

Go to a hospital? She shook her head. Swane would watch for someone admitted with an animal bite. She might call Wells for help, but he’d expect the whole story. Yeah, see, I got bitten by some shapeshifter thing? She herself barely believed people could turn into animals, and she’d seen Lachlan do it. The old man dealt in cold, hard, provable facts. He’d figure she’d gone bonkers and put her in a padded cell. So, no hospital.

The suit had thought the bitees died because they were in poor health to begin with. I’m not weak, not poorly nourished. And fuck this shit, I’m not gonna die.

She gripped the wheel tighter and concentrated on driving. Already the sun was setting, sending its fading rays across the valley and turning the snow-capped mountains a bloody red. The traffic had dissipated after leaving Seattle. Not much going on in Cold Creek, according to the realtor. The town ordinances kept it from growing or even having a McDonald’s. The realtor had sounded positively disgruntled.

Vic’s smile grew as she drove through the downtown, maybe four blocks long with nary a stoplight in sight. Apparently, the residents had spent their money on the trees and plants in the center island and on antique street lights. People were strolling into the stores, sitting on wrought-iron benches in the shade.

“Toto, I think we’re back in Kansas,” Vic murmured, unsure if she was pleased or appalled. The peacefulness increased when she turned onto a small street with arching maple and spruce trees, brightly colored flower gardens, white picket fences, and wide front porches.

It was all very civilized until she looked upward to the dense green of an untamed forest. One mountain, then more and more, piling up on each other like blocks scattered by a child. Made sense that werethingies would hang out close to big forests and mountains, right? The thought sent icy fingers up her spine.

She pulled her gaze away and concentrated on following the realtor’s directions. A block from Main Street, the sidewalks disappeared. There-House for Rent, Cold Creek Realty, See Amanda Golden. The sign was stuck next to a distinctive mailbox in the shape of an outhouse. Outhouse…she could definitely use one of those. That swing through Starbucks had been a poor tactical decision.

The rental was a small brown house with white trim and a wide porch. Unlike the other houses on the street, this place boasted no flowers. Instead, short bushes marked the property lines, and a widely branching oak tree dominated the small, well-trimmed lawn. Looked peaceful enough.

A hotel would have been easier, but who knew how long this might take. She should have asked the kid his last name.

And she’d have to be really discreet. Did the bad guys know Lachlan came from Cold Creek? Would the cops be alerted to watch for her? She wouldn’t survive long if they found her. The suit had shown no remorse over what he’d done to the kid, and Swane had reveled in it.

She turned off the ancient Jeep-the only decent car in the cheapo car lot-and the engine died with an ominous sputter. A short, limping walk to the house left Vic out of breath, her legs quivering…and fear creeping into her gut. She’d lost too much blood, taken too much damage. Look at the way her hands were shaking. She couldn’t defend herself against a five-year-old child, let alone someone like Swane.

Come to think of it, she wouldn’t know who to defend against. She closed her eyes and shook her aching head. Coming here without knowing the score was like walking blindfolded into a fire zone. Even so, she wasn’t going to leave. Lachlan had trusted her to tell his grandfather what happened.

God, she’d rather face a Bradley tank with a twenty-two pistol than notify someone their kid was dead. Would the old man break down and yell at her like O’Flannagan’s parents had? Or be like Shanna’s. Her best friend’s mother had deflated as if her soul had shriveled away with Vic’s words.

Why did people have to die?

At the memory of Lachlan and his courage, his humor, she had to brush the mist from her eyes. Dammit, stop. She could almost hear the drill sergeant’s cutting voice, “You gonna break down and bawl, Morgan? Pick up your weapon and act like a marine!” She sucked in a breath, and straightened her shoulders.

On the white-railed porch, she glanced longingly at the cushioned wicker chair before rapping on the door. No response. She frowned at her watch. Five-thirty. Right on time. The blasted realtor better hurry, cuz, God, she really, really had to pee. Scowling, she looked around for a secluded nook that would serve for a latrine. Nothing.

Trying not to cross her legs, she studied the house. A screenless front window near the end of the porch was half-open-just calling to her. Really.

She shoved the window open all the way, wishing it was either set lower in the wall or her legs were longer. Dammit, haven’t I done enough calisthenics in the past twenty-four hours?

Grabbing the window frame with one hand, she jumped up far enough to swing a foot over and grimaced when the movement painfully jostled every fucking owie she had. She tried to pull the other leg over and-dammit-her jeans caught on something sharp. A nail. Stuck. Fucking-A. She tugged, feeling the nail dig into her inner thigh.

Why does this stuff only happen when I need to pee?

Ignoring the wood pixie chittering angrily in the oak tree, Sheriff Alec McGregor silently stepped onto the porch, coming up behind the burglar. He tried not to laugh as the criminal squirmed like a paw-pinned mouse.

It’d been a boring week so far. The last excitement was a good four days ago when old Peterson, having indulged in rotgut tequila, tried to demonstrate how to tap-dance on top of Calum’s bar…which he did about once a month.

At least a pinioned burglar had the dubious distinction of being unique.

He rubbed his chin, feeling the rasp of stubble. He’d noticed-being as how he was a guy-what was wiggling was a very fine, nicely rounded ass in tight jeans.

And being a guy, he felt the need to see the front of this dangerous perp who had one leg inside the window and the other outside. He moved silently across the porch and checked out the criminal’s front side to see what else the evening might hold.

Evening is going well. Hair, the rich color of dark walnut, rippled across her shoulders, and her purple T-shirt was tight enough to reveal amazingly lush breasts for such a compact body. Since she was too occupied to notice his arrival, he could study her assets without being considered a macho pig. Abundant. Yes, that would be the word. He’d heard the more-than-a-mouthful is wasted saying, but when it came to breasts, he was a bit of a glutton.

Concentrating on freeing her leg from something, she was oblivious to everything else.

He thought for a minute and decided to speak up. And hey, he needed to see the color of her eyes-for the report and all.

“My jail is empty today,” he remarked sociably. “In case you wondered.”

She froze like a mouse hearing a fox. When huge copper-colored eyes met his, everything inside him came to a halt, like the day he’d been chasing a rabbit and got his leg caught in a steel trap. A hard painful grip, only this time it was his chest being squeezed.

The sound of her breath whuffing out, like she’d been pounced on, cleared his mind. Cop-I’m a cop. And she was a burglar. No pouncing on this little prey allowed…and wasn’t that a damned shame?

“Oh, hell,” the lady perp said, obviously having recovered fast. She now looked more pissed-off than concerned, and that just wasn’t right. “Listen, I’m really just-”

He leaned his hip against the porch railing and crossed his arms. “It’s called breaking and entering,” he offered helpfully.

Her mouth dropped open. “No way. Hey, I talked to the realtor this morning and-.”

“Um-hmm. It’s good you’ve done your homework. Shows a certain pride in your work.”

The sparks in those big eyes almost did him in. “I am not a burglar, dammit. I’m here to rent this place. Amanda Golden is supposed to meet me.”

He studied her for a minute. She had the realtor’s name right-’course it was there plain as could be on the rental sign.

A wisp of scent drifted past him. Blood. Fresh. “You’re bleeding.”

She blinked at the change of subject and he noticed with pleasure how her thick lashes feathered down against skin tanned almost as dark as her brown eyes.

“I’m bleeding?”

Herne help him, but she really was lovely-and he shouldn’t let that pretty face suck him in. She probably wrapped every male she met around her ringless, delicate finger.

Besides, she was human. Some shifters enjoyed sampling human females, but he’d never understood the attraction.

He pointed to where a nail had snagged more than her clothing, and blood darkened the leg of her jeans. “Looks like the previous renter overlooked a few nails from last season’s Christmas lights. Let me get you down from there before I start on some serious interrogation.”

Her eyes narrowed, then she leaned forward. Reaching out, she obviously intended to steady herself on his forearms, but the opportunity was too good to ignore. With a smooth move, he dropped low enough that her hands settled on his shoulders instead, and he grasped her around the waist. His fingers curled around surprisingly hard abdominal muscles-the female must work out regularly-and he lifted her up.

She gasped as he swung her onto the porch. Her grip tightened on his shoulders, lean hands, not soft, yet they felt very, very good on his body. Her hands would probably clutch his shoulders-just like that-as he slid inside her, filled her.

He shook his head. Where the hell had that image come from?

Her eyes were huge, and she smelled of pain and fear. He released her immediately. She was frightened. And he could tell it was more than just worry about being arrested. No, she was scared of him. The idea was insulting.

“Um. Thank you.” Her voice was husky.

“My pleasure.” After all, honesty was the best policy, and he’d enjoyed the hell out of getting his hands on her. Was looking forward to enjoying more, but…she was scared of him?

On the street, a white Taurus pulled up behind the Jeep. Amanda Golden slid out, briefcase in hand, hurried up the sidewalk, and onto the porch. “Hello, Alec. Ms. Waverly? I’m sorry I’m late. I got hung up at the title company.”

“That’s all right. I’ve been kept entertained,” his ex-burglar said dryly.

“Well, damn, guess I have to let you go.” And she would have decorated his jail cell so nicely too.

She shot him a nasty look, her appealingly full lips tightly compressed.

When she started to move, Alec tucked a finger under her belt to halt her. “Let’s make sure you aren’t hurt too bad,” he said. “Nails can be nasty.”

As he leaned forward, he realized the faint scent of blood wasn’t just from the nail; it came from multiple places. She had dark red-brown spots on the back of her T-shirt. The gasp when he’d lifted her from the windowsill-had that been from surprise or pain?

He studied her closer. Meticulously applied makeup covered a bruise on the side of her face. There was maybe a lumpy dressing on her shoulder under the T-shirt, and something more than a bra wrapped around her sides.

Now, all that damage might be from a car accident. But that wouldn’t explain why she was scared of him, the most likable fellow on this planet. So. He could be wrong-frequently was-but he picked the most logical explanation.

Someone had beaten the hell out of her.

“Where else are you hurt?”

Why would the big sheriff ask that? Vic wondered, feeling a chill. She’d covered the blood and bruises adequately. Had her description and injuries been on an APB?

Dammit, he’d already given her one scare. For a nasty moment, she’d thought Swane had hired him until it became obvious he was just a small-town cop having himself a good time.

“Don’t be silly,” she said, deliberately misunderstanding. “A little nail scrape doesn’t warrant all this concern.”

Nudging his arm away, she shook hands with the realtor. “Ms. Golden, nice to meet you.”

“Just call me Amanda.” Tall, blonde, wearing silky black pants with matching jacket, she was the epitome of a refined style that Vic had never mastered. After giving Vic’s hand a firm shake, the realtor frowned at the cop. “Is there a problem?”

“You got here just in time,” Vic said. “Your policeman was about to arrest me and haul me away.”

Amanda’s snicker wasn’t at all businesslike. “Ah, yes. If his jail’s not overflowing with criminals, Alec feels he’s not doing his job.” She leaned forward and whispered loudly, “Of course, it’s only a two-cell jailhouse.”

Vic smiled and glanced over her shoulder to see how the sheriff took being taunted. With one hip propped on the railing and a lazy grin on his tanned face, he didn’t look too upset.

When his focus shifted from Amanda to Vic, his gaze intensified, as if he were trying to see inside her. She felt a quiver low in her belly, but from worry or attraction-she wasn’t sure. Probably worry.

Towering six feet five or so with appallingly broad shoulders that narrowed to a trim waist, the man moved like a trained fighter. Not all spit and polish like a soldier though. His golden-brown hair brushed the collar of his khaki-uniform, and he’d rolled his sleeves up, revealing corded wrists and muscular forearms. She remembered how easily he’d lifted her, how those big hands had wrapped around her. He was damned powerful, despite the easy-going manner.

Yeah, the quiver was definitely from worry.

But then he smiled at the realtor, and a dimple appeared at one corner of his mouth. The laugh lines around his eyes emphasized a thin blue-tinted scar that angled across his left cheekbone as if someone had marked him with a pen. His voice was deep and smooth and slow as warm honey, and she felt her muscles relax. “You have a mean streak, Amanda,” he was saying. “I’ll have to warn Jonah.”

“He wouldn’t believe you,” the realtor said as she worked on unlocking the front door.

The sheriff turned, letting that should-be-a-registered-weapon grin loose on Vic, and her temperature rose. “So,” he said, “Ms. Waverly, will you be staying in Cold Creek?”

He was gorgeous, and he looked at her as if she was something tasty. "Um…” she said and his smile increased a fraction, just enough that she realized what an idiot she was. You’re losing it, Sergeant. She scowled at him. “A while.”

And the sooner she left this damn town, the better.

The breeze whipped his shaggy hair “Well, while you’re here-” he started.

“I need to get my stuff,” she interrupted. Anything to escape. Odd how the scare from the sheriff’s appearance had wiped out her need to pee.

To her annoyance, he followed her down the steps. “You’re going to enjoy Cold Creek,” he said. Before she could dodge, he slung an arm around her shoulders, and she felt his fingers trace the thick gauze dressing covering the cat-bite.

“Thank you, but I can manage,” she said, smoothly enough despite the way her heart was pounding. Then she looked up.

Dark green eyes the color of the mountain forests narrowed, and he studied her like she was a puzzle to be solved. A quiver ran up her spine as she realized the laidback manner and slow voice camouflaged a razor-sharp intelligence. Knives tended to come at a person in two ways: dark and hidden, or out in the open, all bright and shiny. A bright and shiny blade could still leave you bleeding on the sands.

She pulled away. “I’ll be fine.”

“Well then, I’ll take myself off so you can get settled in.” He waved at Amanda Golden and smiled at Vic, but this time the smile didn’t touch his eyes. “I’m sure we’ll run into each other again, Ms. Waverly. Cold Creek’s a small town.”

Cordial, polite. And Vic heard the threat underneath.

Alec shoved open the heavy door to the Wild Hunt Tavern, picked his favorite table in the back corner, and settled into the chair for some serious pondering.

That had been an odd meeting and an odd woman. Over many years of law-enforcement, he’d arrested a few wife-beaters and interviewed their battered wives. Ms. Waverly’s injuries might have come from a fist, but she surely didn’t give the impression of an abused woman. That glare she’d given him, for whatever reason, was almost lethal.

Actually, the woman’s moods, within the space of ten minutes, had been as winding as a tornado. From being wary of him, to being attracted, to giving him a look like: I’ll cut your guts out with a rusty spoon. She might be a foot shorter, but he had a feeling she’d be quite a wildcat in a fight. And in bed.

Now why did he find that so arousing?

“Excuse me, Sheriff, would you care for a beer?”

He looked up into the prettiest blue eyes on the planet and grinned. “Jamie, if you fetch me a beer, I’ll have to arrest your thirteen-year-old butt and throw you into my jail.”

She wrinkled a freckle-covered nose. “I won’t bring it-Daddy will, so I guess you still won’t have anyone in your jail tonight, huh?”

“Now that was a low blow,” he conceded, winning himself a delighted smile before she trotted off to the bar, all legs and bounce like a half-grown cat.

A few minutes later, Calum set a mug of Guinness and a glass of wine on the table, then took the empty chair.

Alec tilted his head toward his niece as she danced her way between customers. “I envy you sometimes, brawd.”

His brother turned to look, and his gray eyes softened. “Indeed. She’s a blessing.” He sipped his wine, his gaze intent on his daughter. “And makes me afraid in ways I never thought I could fear.”

Alec took a drink of the rich, malty beer before commenting, “You’re not the type to shy from leaves blowing in the wind. What’s up?”

“I summoned the Daonain to meet tonight.”

Alec’s hand tightened on the mug. Shifter meetings were rarely called. He bowed his head to the God-chosen leader of the shifters in this territory and said formally, “Cosantir, I’ll be there.”

That night, Alec rested one arm on the fireplace mantle as he listened to the debate. Despite the chill of the evening, the tavern felt uncomfortably warm, and the scent of anger and sweat mixed with the wood smoke. Golden light from the brass wall sconces flickered over the people squeezed around the heavy oak tables and lining the back. Seemed like any adult shifter in the Northern Cascades territory had attended.

After Calum had told them about the outlawed steel-jawed game traps that shifters had found in the forests, and that Thorson’s grandson had been missing for a month, the mood had turned ugly. No surprise there. Daonain were predators, after all. The werecats were the worst. A wolf or bear might fight if cornered; a cat would shred an opponent to bloody ribbons just for entertainment.

After Calum shot down Grady’s proposal to attack any human entering the area-Grady was rather excitable-Angelina claimed the floor. Alec listened for a minute, grinning at his brother’s careful lack of expression. Calum had little patience for stupidity, and Angelina’s logic was as convoluted as a house-brownie’s tracks on cleaning day.

“We don’t know if the trappers are after us specifically or just poaching,” Calum said, cutting Angelina off before she could digress further. He straightened from leaning on the bar, and the power of a Cosantir shimmered around him like heat waves. “If they’re looking for us, I’ll be happy to oblige them. After that, they won’t remember why they were on the mountain at all.”

The people laughed, and the level of hostility waned. Calum reminded them, “We’ve become lazy about observing the precautions. That needs to stop. Use the tunnels below the tavern. I want no humans to find piles of clothing at the edge of the forest, let alone to see one of you shift. Also, remember-”

The bar door burst open, and Joe Thorson shoved his way through the crowd to the center of the room. Deep lines and gray bushy brows accented his leathery face. Thin white scars covered his hands and arms-souvenirs of his younger days when he’d fought to win the females at Gatherings. Tears had tracked the dirt on his face.

Dread iced Alec’s blood. What could possibly make the old werecat cry? Lachlan? He pushed his way to the maddened werecat. To serve and protect. The duty given to a sheriff by the law…and the duty given to a cahir of the clan by the God.

After giving Thorson a second to recognize his scent, Alec wrapped an arm around his shoulders. With only a token snarl, the old man allowed the familiarity, yet another sign of his distress.

“What’s wrong, Joe?” Alec kept his tone calm as the raised voices hushed.

“My grandson-Lachlan,” Thorson’s voice was hoarse. “He’s dead. Killed in the city.”

The noise rose. Males lunging to their feet. Angelina’s shrill scream. The Murphy brothers’ curses.

Calum growled low, then snapped, “Silence.” The command with a Cosantir’s power behind it quieted the room. “Tell us what happened, Joe.”

In his usual jeans and white shirt, Thorson rubbed his face, streaking the dirt. “That shifter detective in Seattle-Tynan O’Connolly-just called. Like you asked, he’d watched for Lachlan in Seattle. He said…” His voice broke. “There was a young man’s body in the morgue.”

Alec raised an eyebrow at Calum, silently requesting permission to continue. Calum nodded.

“Go on, Joe,” Alec prompted, squeezing his shoulder.

Thorson shook his head like a confused animal. “The cops haven’t identified him, but they’re trying, passing out pictures. Tynan emailed me one. It’s my Lachlan.” His words dropped like stones into the quiet room.

“Did you go to the morgue in Seattle?” Alec asked quietly despite the unease fingering the back of his neck. An autopsy wouldn’t show the magic that created a shifter, but carelessness would. If Thorson’s actions exposed the shifters, he’d be declared an enemy of the Daonain…and as a cahir, Alec would have to kill him.

“I never went near the station.”

Relief loosened Alec’s grip, and he pulled in a hard breath. “By the God, I’m sorry, Joe. Sorry for Lachlan, sorry for you, that you can never-”

“Never put claim to him or bury him. I know, dammit.” Thorson stared at the floor.

Calum said, “I’ll call Tynan for more information, but for now-has he discovered how Lachlan died?”

Thorson’s head snapped up, his eyes burning with fury. Against his fingertips, Alec felt the tingle of imminent trawsfur. He shook the old man’s arm. “Control yourself. We need answers, not claws.”

When Thorson growled, Alec tensed, preparing to fight a berserk cougar.

After a moment, Thorson sucked in a breath, and the tingling receded, disappeared. As the wildness left his body, his eyes showed his shame. The old guy probably hadn’t lost control like that since he was a cub. “Sorry, my friend,” he said softly.

“It’s all right,” Alec answered, equally softly. “Tell us what you know.”

Sorrow deepened the lines in Joe’s face, and he had to clear his throat. “He looked starved. Ribs showing. Tynan said he was jaundiced from liver shutdown.”

“Metal-induced?” Alec asked.

“Yes.” The man’s fingers curled, shaping claws.

Alec shared the need to slash and rend. The pain of that kind of death… Instead, he squeezed the tight shoulder under his hand. “Stay with me here, Joe.”

A heavy breath. “He had burn marks, cuts, bruises. He’d been beaten. Tortured. Some of the cuts were in square patterns on his skin.”

“Wire cage,” Calum growled. His pupils had turned black with a Cosantir’s rage. “That would explain the liver failure, too.”

“They kept my boy in a cage!” The words burst from Thorson. “They tortured him, starved him.” He moaned, “A cage, Cosantir, a cage…”

“They will pay,” Calum said quietly. “Was Lachlan penned up when they found him?”

Thorson shuddered, staring at the floor, and Alec knew the man couldn’t bear much more. He needed the forest, to feel the trees and grass and scent of freedom, to have the Mother’s love around him. “Tynan thinks Lachlan escaped,” Joe said. “But too late. A man found my boy and a female on his doorstep and took them in, then called 911.”

“Did-”

“When the police and ambulance arrived, Lachlan was dead. The female ran out through the back door.”

“Hell,” Alec muttered.

Finally, Thorson looked up at their leader. The old man had known Calum and Alec since they were boys sneaking reads of comic books in his store, but he showed no memory of that now. As close as he was to changing, he probably only saw the black eyes and the aura of power. “Cosantir, please. I need-”

“We can manage here, Joe,” Calum said. “Purge your grief on the mountain. Alec, go with.”

As Thorson stumbled toward the exit, hands reached out to him-carefully-to stroke in shared sorrow and friendship.

Alec led him into the cool, silent cave like a child. Without speaking, they stripped, Alec lending a hand as Thorson fumbled. Then, Alec called the magic. As the wildness enveloped him, his mind sank like a stone, deep into animal instincts. There was only now, and the sorrow at the youngster’s loss was buried under the wave of scents and sounds. And this was why Thorson needed the forest. His grief would return when he returned to human form, but…less.

As his paws hit the earth, Alec felt the touch of the Mother as Her love flowed into him. Raising his head, he sniffed the air. Already in cougar form, Thorson stood in the doorway. Alec butted his shoulder affectionately and led the way out of the tunnel.

The light of a pale, cold moon shone down outside the cave, and the scent of the pine needles under their paws rose around them. Alec looked back to see the gleam of cat eyes and then sprang forward into the dark forest. Joe followed.

Vic woke, didn’t move while she assessed her surroundings. Warm, smooth fabric over and under her, a faint lemon scent-sheets. She lay in a bed. A bed was good, much better than concrete.

Where? The new rental. Lord, her brain was moving slow. The house stood silent. No stench of gunpowder or sweat or blood. Things were looking up. She opened her eyes…and winced. The curtains glowed in the morning sun, the print a garish display of lions and tigers and bears.

“Toto, we really gotta get out of this place,” Vic muttered and slid her legs over the side of the bed with a loud indulgent groan. Jesus fuck, she hurt. She rubbed her face. Was she really planning to look for people who turn into animals? In the light of day, the idea sounded insane. She didn’t believe that shit, did she? Then again, the bite and claw marks on her body offered pretty good proof.

And speaking of claw marks, it was time to take inventory; easy to do when you sleep commando:

One: a headache throbbing like a ghetto blaster with the bass on high. The room felt like a sauna. Great, she had a fever.

Two: her left shoulder felt like some lion had ripped a chunk out of it. Oh, wait-that’s what had happened. Considering the way her week had been going, she probably had gangrene. She pessimistically peeked under that bandage. Well, halleluiah, no putrid green gunk, but the surrounding redness showed a brewing infection.

Three: Under the gauze wrap, Lachlan’s claw marks on her back and sides looked like a red-streaked geometry lesson: parallel lines do not intersect. And wouldn’t those be cute scars…but they weren’t infected.

Four: She sucked in a deep breath and groaned as unseen knives stabbed into her left side. Cracked ribs. Alas, no cure for them except time. And revenge. She looked forward to a rematch with the ape called Swane-and they would meet again, count on it-when she’d kick his ribs in.

Five: her right knee ached, but thank you, God, she could put weight on it and not fall-down-go-boom like some spastic cripple.

I’m alive. Life is good.

As she headed across the bedroom, she snorted a laugh. The same maniac had bought both the curtains and wallpaper. On the walls, deer and elk wandered through the forest like Bambi gone wild. “You’d better hope the lions stay on the drapes or you’re all breakfast,” she warned the herbivores, then shook her head. Bad enough to be talking to herself. Conversing with the wall? Next stop, psycho ward.

A shower cleared her head. She ignored the rainbow trout swimming along the bottom of the blue shower curtain. Thank God the sunny kitchen and living room lacked the wildlife obsession. No coffee though.

“Must go shopping.” She couldn’t do anything without a full load of caffeine-and some ibuprofen for the pain and fever.

First, she needed to call her handler. The old man got cranky if he didn’t know where his agents were, even the ones on medical leave. Taking a chair at the small kitchen table, she pulled out her new cell phone and punched in the numbers.

“Wells.” Voice low but edged. Typical Wells-speak softly, then gut them with a sharp knife.

Didn’t it just figure that he’d actually answer his phone this time? She’d have preferred voice mail-recordings never asked awkward questions. “Sir.” A nonchalant tone, that’s the ticket. “I’m getting out of the city and heading into the mountains. Might be out of touch for a while.”

“Is there a problem, Morgan?”

“No, sir. Well, come to think of it…” Excellent lead-in, not too pushy. “Perhaps one thing.”

“Go on.”

Here it got tricky. Dammit, she’d never lied to him, and doing so felt like gravel in an open wound. “I had a drink with an old buddy from Afghanistan. She told me about an ex-marine named Swane.”

“Swane.” She heard the scratch of his pen as he wrote the name. More anal than a proctologist, Wells jotted everything down. Hell of annoying at first, until she’d learned other people often forgot stuff…like the moron last year who’d forgotten the GPS quadrants for the pickup zone and her best friend had died. She swallowed. Stay on track, soldier.

“What is the problem-I assume there is one-with this individual?” Wells asked.

“Seems he’s torturing homeless people and using a cop contact for the cover-up. Doesn’t look good, sir, to have a screwed-up marine loose in Seattle.” After a few scandals involving recently discharged soldiers and violent altercations, the military was walking on eggshells. Although this wasn’t in Wells’ area, he’d still do something.

A grunt. “No, that’s not good. Your buddy’s name is…?”

“I’d rather not say, sir. I don’t want to betray a confidence.”

Silence. She knew what he was thinking. Duty to your country outweighed any other loyalty, including what you owed to your friends. But she’d made a promise to Lachlan. Unless the shifters were dangerous, she wouldn’t put them in Wells’ sights.

“All right, Sergeant. I’m not in-country, but I’ll look into it when I return.”

In spite of the pain, she grinned. Getting Wells onboard was siccing a pit bull on a poodle. “Thank you, sir. I’ll be in touch. Good-”

The line clicked. Wells never said goodbye. He thought it sounded like a curse, so he saved his farewells for his enemies.

“Goodbye, Swane,” she said cheerfully. “Bye-bye, Mr. Asshole-Suit. ‘Parting is such sweet sorrow’.”

Yeah, if anyone could find these guys, Wells could. The first time she’d seen him, she’d been doing sit-ups to burn off her anger at being turned down for combat duty. She looked up at this man. Older than her father. Sharp nose, icy clear blue eyes, tailored clothing like some English aristocrat. He’d watched her for a minute, before giving her a thin smile. “I hear you want to join the fighting in Iraq.”

She’d frozen halfway through a sit-up as he said, “If you don’t mind wearing civilian clothes, I can promise you all the danger you’ll ever want, and that your work will make a difference.” He’d won her over with his final words. “I need you, Morgan.”

He’d kept his promise then and always. She could safely leave the kidnappers to him.

Time to go shopping. But when she rose from the table, her headache went ballistic. Then dizziness hit, a riptide sucking at her consciousness. Dropping back on the chair, she shook her head. Oh, this wasn’t good at all. Fucking-A, was she going to die like that old woman?

As she staggered into the living room, sweat broke out on her skin like she was in the fucking desert. But her legs crumbled under her, and she hit the floor hard. God! Everything hurt so bad she didn’t know what to hold first. Just shoot me now.

“Lord, look down on Thy Servant! Bad things have come to pass.

There is no heat in the midday sun, nor health in the wayside grass.

His bones are full of an old disease-his torments run and increase.

Lord, make haste with Thy Lightnings and grant him a quick release!”

After a minute of not moving, she groaned and tried to push to her feet. Her stomach turned over, bile flooding her mouth. Werecat bites-not for the faint of heart.