Hour of the Lion

Chapter Seven

The following Monday, Vic watched a black-tail deer spring up the winding mountain trail to disappear into the pines. She yawned and shook her head. Not much sleep, thanks to how the sexy sheriff had said good night. The way he kissed, the feel of his hard hands, even his smell-God, she’d wanted him. Good thing he’d kept his head. Not smart, Sergeant, wanting to have sex with someone in the target population.

What bothered her now was that this afternoon, she’d see Calum. Over the past few weeks, she’d come to know him. He had a dry humor that didn’t come close to masking that lethal aura of power and authority and intimidating self-confidence. The way he studied her, seeing more than she wanted to show. He was as honorable-and protective-as Alec. In an entirely different, but frightening way, he turned her on just as much. That was against the unwritten code-lusting after brothers, and so not like her. It was unreal.

Almost as unreal as her stroll through the woods. Sighing, she watched a little tree-person run along a pine branch, pause to stare down at her, and disappear.

Vic planted her butt on a convenient log and frowned. She’d seen four tree-things on her walk. Or, maybe three-would a tree-thingie be considered the same as a bush-thingie? The bush one had looked smaller, its long fingers tipped with claws that had snagged her hair as she’d pushed past some blackberry bushes.

Her eyes widened. No damn way-as a youngster, when blackberry thorns had caught her hair and clothing-had it really been a bizarre bush-person?

Nah. Even as a child, she’d have spotted any bush-thingie grabbing her clothes. They seemed to live just in this area. Why this mountain was so populated with strange creatures she didn’t know, but dammit, she’d figure it out…starting with the shifters.

Damn shifters. It would be convenient if one would obligingly pop out and say, “Hi”. She glanced around hopefully.

No luck. Then again, she hadn’t really expected to find a fuzzy werebeast slinking past. She’d just needed to get out of town for a while. Those two guys who’d attacked her. She had to wonder if they’d done it because of her…would it be her species? Would shifters be considered a separate race or species?

Yeah, she bet the two drunks were shifters. They’d been too fast and strong, especially the old guy who should be in a wheelchair instead of trying to put his boot in her gut. Rising, she headed toward the sound of trickling water. After two sunny days, the drying pine needles underfoot crackled slightly as they released a tangy scent. It was so quiet she could hear the branches overhead rustle in the wind.

The desert seemed a long way away. But there were some nasty similarities. In Iraq, the question was: is that person a terrorist? Do they have a bomb underneath their clothing? Here, she had to ask: does this person turn into something with claws and whiskers in their spare time?

Alec had scratch scars across his face. Did that mean he’d met a shifter…or was one? What would he do if she asked him about Lachlan’s grandfather?

She shook her head. No, don’t bring it up with him for now. She already had suspects to stake out. Yeah, a couple of human-hating…things who in animal form would probably devour her for breakfast. After biting her into tiny pieces.

God, Lachlan’s request was so not fair.

Thinking of fairness, what was all this ‘owing’ business anyway? These people sure had weird customs. She’d have to ask Calum before they met her two attackers today. Breathing in a moist green scent, she discovered a tiny stream almost hidden by underbrush. She knelt and dipped her hand in the icy cold water. Such a pretty place, maybe she should- Wait. She stared at her knees. I knelt? When had the pain in her knee disappeared?

Slowly, she rose to her feet and touched her leg. Rubbed her knee. No pain. She did a snap kick, a side kick, and lunged, putting all her weight on it. No agony, no weakness. Healed. She was healed!

“Hooyah!” She did a victory dance from one side of the clearing to the other. A second later, she whipped out her cell phone. The reception was barely adequate, but she dialed anyway.

“Wells.” Her boss wasn’t one to waste words.

“Sir. It’s Morgan. I’m ready to return to duty.”

“Sergeant.” His voice warmed. Now that was a shock. “You believe you are fully recovered?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Not that I would ever doubt your word, Sergeant, but I need a doctor’s confirmation. Are you still in Washington?”

“Yes, sir.”

She heard scratching sounds, shuffling papers. “I’ll send the paperwork for a physical to Lewis-McChord. See Doctor…ah, yes, Dr. Reinhardt. I will accept no other physician’s okay, is that clear?”

Hell, another one of his unbribable people. “Clear, sir. I’ll call him tomorrow.”

“Good enough. As to the matter you’d mentioned before-” More paper shuffling. “Yes. The ex-marine named Swane. I’m back in the States now, and I’ve started some inquiries. Do you have any additional information for me?”

This was her chance to bring up shapeshifters… She remembered Lachlan’s terrified face and sighed. I gave my word. “No, sir. That’s it.”

“Then, I’ll talk to you after I have Dr. Reinhardt’s report in hand.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Her grin faded as she closed the phone. Once again she’d dodged telling Wells about the shifters. Dammit, she needed to return to Baghdad where the issues were clear and she knew her ass from a hole in the ground. And where she wasn’t getting sucked into people’s lives and lusting after civilians.

But her mission wasn’t over. She had to find Lachlan’s grandfather. And be certain the werebeasties posed no danger to normal, unfurry people, or no matter what she’d promised Lachlan, she’d turn over the investigation to Wells. Her promise to the American people came first. Hell.

As she scowled, she saw something skitter across a branch, then a tiny face peered down at her. Another of those tree-thingies? She pointed a finger at it. “Whatever you fuckers are, do not-I repeat-do not follow me to Baghdad.”

Joe Thorson squinted against the bright afternoon light as he stepped out of his bookstore. His twisted knee burned like fire, and the massive purple bruise on his jaw had turned shaving into a hellish exercise.

He deserved every bit of it.

Nodding at Al Baty who waited on the sidewalk, Thorson eased onto the ironwork bench by the display window.

“You look like you got caught in an avalanche.” Al took the matching chair. He grinned, fingered his chin. “The human packs a punch.”

“Does she,” Thorson said in a dry voice.

“At least-”

“Shut up.” His soul felt tattered with humiliation. What had he been thinking to attack a female? No matter the species, it was wrong.

He waited silently as Calum and the human strolled down from the tavern. As they approached, Thorson stood and waited. And watched, noting how Calum’s eyes darkened, his posture turning protective. Surely the Cosantir hadn’t formed an attachment to this…human.

Thorson turned his gaze on the female. Pretty enough, he supposed, but lacking-his eyes narrowed-actually, she wasn’t lacking. She had a werecat’s grace although not the wild scent of one who’d run the forests. He could see why she might, possibly, have attracted Calum. Still, any relationship with a human would be as doomed as an air sylph trying to mate a fire salamander.

“Calum,” he said, nodding to the Cosantir, then grudgingly tilted his head to the female. “Miss.”

She was silent, an unusual trait in a human. One to be appreciated.

“Victoria, this is Albert Baty. He owns the grocery store,” Calum said. “Joe Thorson owns Books.”

Her gaze was cool, her voice husky. “Great name for a bookstore.” No tedious, pleased to meet you, or how are you niceties from her.

“Have you suggestions for reciprocity?” Calum asked. Strictly business was the Cosantir, especially when something raised his ire. He wasn’t one a shifter wanted to rile up. Although he’d never wanted the God-given title, he’d led them with wisdom…and power that had become legendary.

Al stepped forward, his gut leading his chest by a good few inches. He needed to get into the forest more, run some of that flab off. “First, Miss Waverly, I’d like to say that I’m sorry. I was drunk…and stupid.”

Her eyes narrowed. “I’ve dealt with stupid drunks before. Never seen one try to knife a person in the back.”

Al cringed like a whipped dog. Thorson barely repressed a snarl.

The grocer’s face turned red enough to match the broken veins in his nose. “I-I.”

The woman sighed. “Do me a favor. If you want to drink, leave the weapons at home.”

“Yes, miss. I will,” Al said.

By Herne, if Al had been in wolf form, his tail would be under his belly. Thorson really needed to rethink his friends, or, at least, avoid submissive werewolves.

Al continued, “My thought to balance the debt is free meat from the grocery for you as long as you live in Cold Creek.”

The human’s eyes widened. She glanced at Calum.

The Cosantir considered, then nodded. “A fair exchange. Let it be so.” He turned to Thorson, his pupils very close to totally black. Not a good sign. He obviously held Thorson to blame for the fight.

“My apologies also, Miss Waverly,” Thorson said stiffly. He wouldn’t-couldn’t-crawl like his dog of a friend. Not for a human, even a female one.

She tilted her head, studying him. “Why do you hate me?”

The question came like a slash to the jugular. Because you’re one of them who killed my boy. Human. Images of Lachlan flooded his memory. The day the boy arrived, his mother dead, his little face so white. Giggling under a pile of books dislodged when he’d tried to climb a bookcase. His wonder at his first trawsfur. His body lifeless on a steel table. Killed by humans. Thorson choked on hatred. His hands closed into fists, tingling with the beginning of trawsfur.

Calum pulled the human back a step and moved in front of her. His eyes, black as night, met Thorson’s, and power edged his voice. “No, Joe.”

The impending change fled; the anger did not. Lips closed over a snarl, Thorson turned his head away and struggled for control. He heard Calum speaking…“lost his grandson. Grieving…not himself.” And hearing, he regained his composure. No one apologized for him.

He turned back to the female. “I’m sorry.” Her face was whiter than the snow-capped peaks, her eyes shocked. Did grandchildren not die where she came from?

“I… Fucking A, you’re…” She swallowed and raised her voice and her chin both. “I’m sorry for your loss, Mr. Thorson.”

“Thank you.” He inhaled, his chest sore from more than the fight. “Calum. I haven’t thought of a way to achieve balance. Since you know the fem-ah, lady, have you suggestions?”

“I have an idea that might serve,” Calum said smoothly. The faint smile on his face had the hackles on Thorson’s neck rising. Last time he’d seen that smile, Calum had crippled the recipient. “I would suggest you give Miss Waverly free rein in your bookstore.” Calum glanced at Al and added, “As long as she resides in Cold Creek.”

The Cosantir had lost his mind. How could free books compensate for Thorson’s attempt on her life? But by Herne, the female clasped her hands together, and the look on her face could only be described as bliss.

Calum raised an eyebrow at Thorson.

An unfamiliar human underfoot in his domain? The townsfolk he knew were bad enough. Thorson choked a little, and then spit out the traditional answer. “The balance is fair. Accepted.”

Engulfed in the aroma of books, leather, new paper, and a hint of dust, Vic was unable to keep the smile off her face. She’d begun to wonder if the place was ever open. Bookstore withdrawal-who would suspect such a thing existed? But she’d get her fix today. The store was even better than she’d hoped with a great selection of new and used books, including military sci-fi.

Joe Thorson had taken up position behind the small counter, watching her, his expression somewhere between amused and furious. Furious wasn’t good. This probably wasn’t the smartest thing she’d done, entering a pissed-off panther’s lair.

Then again, this lair had books.

And she didn’t blame him for attacking her, not after Calum’s explanation. The old man had to be Lachlan’s gramps, and if he’d learned how his grandson had died, it was no wonder he hated humans.

Turning her back on him, but keeping her ears open, she did a quick survey of the place. Like everything else in this town, the building was old. The counter was by the left wall. The door behind it probably led to a back room. Towering wooden bookshelves created a maze on the hardwood floor. The right wall held a table and ladder-back chairs before a fireplace. Useful, but not very friendly. She noted the two windows framing the fireplace as possible exits.

Wandering around the room, she discovered a shelf of recently released books. Yes! A new Guy Gavriel Kay went under her arm. She thumbed through a Bujold and kept it also. But there was a new Crusie, dammit. No. With a lingering sigh, she forced herself to walk to the counter.

He eyed her and her choices.

“I expected you to take more,” he said patronizingly. His voice was sandpaper rough, like someone had crushed his larynx in the past. White lacework scars covered his tanned forearms, so maybe the same person had tried to rip him apart. Considering his personality, quite understandable.

“I limit myself to two books at a time,” she said. No need to mention how delaying to pack books had almost gotten her blown up. “I’ll be back in a couple days for two more.”

“I see.” He held out a hand. “Let me put them into the system so my inventory remains correct.”

He scanned in the barcodes and pushed them across the counter to her.

“Thank you.” She gathered them up.

“Balance,” he said, his mouth flattening slightly.

Earlier, on the way to town, Calum had explained the balance-reciprocity stuff was a local custom. It sure gave new meaning to the phrase, ‘paybacks are hell’. But he’d offered only that in explanation and trying to get information out of him was like pumping a dry well. The man had even more control over his words and expressions than spymaster Wells did.

“See you soon,” she said to Thorson.

With a short nod of dismissal, he turned away and bent over the small desk tucked in a corner.

Nice meeting you too, she thought to his back and-oh, God. A picture of Lachlan stood on the desk. The kid stood on a mountain peak, wind ruffling his hair. Laughing. Healthy. The grief that ripped through her stopped her breath.

She opened her mouth to tell the old man about his grandson, how fucking brave he’d been, how-

No. I can’t. Lachlan’s grandfather would have to wait until she finished investigating. She’d sidestepped telling Wells about these…creatures and now the burden was on her to be certain they didn’t present a danger to the rest of the world, or at least to the United States citizens she’d promised to protect.

Joe Thorson was obviously a shifter. A really unhappy, vengeful werecat. If she revealed information about Lachlan’s murder, the old guy would probably try to kill her again. Once was plenty for that dance.

As isolated as the town was, if they kicked her out-or killed her-getting another agent in place would be very difficult. She was here. Investigation first, then Lachlan’s grandfather.

He glanced up from his paperwork, eyebrows raised.

She gave him a curt nod and left.