Death with fangs and long talons stalked him.
The enemy hunted him. Nicolas, the powerful
warrior. The pack’s best fighter. The ostracized.
Nicolas Keenan lifted his muzzle, sniffed the
wind. Caught his pack leader’s scent marking a nearby oak
tree. His Wolf form stiffened with longing. Pack. Home.
Family.
Family no more. Even though he continued to
quietly patrol their territory, protecting his people. Even
though his loyalty would never die.
He was Draicon, werewolves who once used their magick to
learn of the earth and its wonders. Now, hunted by the more
powerful Morphs, they used their powers in a desperate
attempt to survive.
Morphs. The very word made his hackles rise. They had
been Draicon like him. Draicon who willingly embraced
evil, entering the ranks of the Morphs by killing one of
their own. Nicolas had spent nearly his whole life
destroying Morphs. When some in his pack turned, he’d been
forced to kill them as well.
He would always be Draicon, Nicolas silently
promised, remembering the tiny mark at his neck. He would
never surrender to the Morph’s alluring power.
A cooling breeze shifted, rustling the leaves and chilling
the air. In this part of northern New Mexico, fall draped
the trees in vivid colors. Thirty minutes ago, after he’d
left his ranch to take a walk in the woods, he’d sensed
danger. The familiar warrior instinct surfaced. He’d
shifted to lure the enemy away from the pack’s homes and
hearths.
New scents filled his nostrils. He went absolutely still,
smelling evil.
Nicolas caught a faint whiff of rotting seaweed
mixed with raw sewage. Enemy. Danger.
Ah Maggie, what am I dragging you into? What if they find
you as well?
He reached out, silently slipped into her thoughts.
Mitosis. Carcinogenic cells. She was studying a sample
under the microscope. He slipped out, not wanting to jar
her concentration. Margaret, the pack’s long-lost empath.
The Draicon foretold to destroy the Morph leader, she was
the pack’s last hope and Nicolas’s destined mate. She was
safe. For now.
In the branches of a sprawling oak, a brown-draped deer
blind sat cloaked from view. A pale of moonlight dappled
dying oak and maple leaves with silver. Dead undergrowth
soaked in the evening dew. In the distance, a doe crashed
through brush. His ears pricked forward.
They were coming. Once solitary, the enemy had
combined their numbers. Nicolas didn’t dare shift. Not now.
His Change left trace elements of magick, clear as muddied
paw prints to his enemies.
Standing still, he inhaled the air. The scent
grew fainter. A new smell filled his senses. Body odor.
Fake deer scent. Stale beer. Humans. Loud, obnoxious voices
crashed through the woods.
“There! Did you see that wolf? Let’s get him!”
The humans who had spotted him earlier had
taken chase. Out to bag anything tonight. Such as Wolf de
la Nicolas.
No choice now. Had to risk it. Nicolas shifted, muscles
bulging, stretching, bones lengthening. Fur melted away.
Wolfskin vanished, replaced by bronzed human flesh.
Naked man meets eager hunters with loaded rifles. Not
good. He dove for the rotting tree trunk and the clothing
stockpiled beneath the sprawling roots. Damian had laid
similar caches all over pack territory for emergencies like
this. He dressed, grabbed the whiskey bottle, gave a
liberal splash over his bright orange clothing.
Nicolas sank down against the tree and waited. He chuckled,
glancing at the half-
filled amber bottle. “I never drink anything less than 12-
year-old scotch, Damian, you cheapskate.”
Shouting victoriously, the hunters crashed
through the woods like clumsy oxen. He smelled cruelty
heaving with every excited breath.
They entered the clearing. Pale silver light
from the full moon struck their camouflage outfits. Nicolas
hiccupped loudly. He raised the bottle in a drunken salute.
“Here’s to my shooting a 12-point rack today!”
Disbelief flashed over their faces. The men
shifted their rifles, narrowed their gazes. “Get lost,” the
shorter one in plaid asserted. “We paid good money to hunt
on this land.”
Ignoring them, Nicolas pretended to belt a few
swallows.
The fat one snorted, shifted his rifle. His
potbelly sagged over olive trousers like jowls. “Listen
mister, you’re trespassing. Get out, before we toss you
out. We’re on the tail of a lone wolf.”
Grinning at them, he dropped the whiskey and
made to leave. And then the scent slammed into him like a
locomotive.
They were coming straight in his direction.
He went absolutely still. Hair rose along the
back of his neck. He flexed his muscles and stood. “Leave,”
he growled. “They’re coming.”
But the hunters simply gawked. “What the hell
is wrong with your voice?” one demanded.
“Run,” Nicolas warned.
Too late. They entered the tiny glen, not
bothering to cloak their numbers. Shuffling forward, they
advanced, disguised as human beings. The enemy resembled
young women, sullen teenagers, elderly people and
businessmen in suits. But for their scent, they looked
perfectly normal. The scent of rotting seaweed and raw
sewage slammed into him. Damn. Hordes of them. Too many to
fight alone. His mind strategized. Surprise remained his
best defense. Magick would give him away. Silently he
cursed, wishing for his daggers.
If he remained blended with the hunters,
perhaps the enemy would not see him.
The human hunters turned, saw them. One tipped
back his cap, scratched his forehead. “What the hell is
this, a party?”
He pointed to a stooped gray-hair wearing round glasses,
leaning on a wood cane. “You lost, Gramps? Nursing home is
that way. It’s way past your bedtime.”
The elderly one lifted his head. Smiled.
Gleaming white teeth flashed. Crocodile teeth, sharp,
pointed.
“Jesus,” whispered the fat hunter. “What the
hell is that?”
“Early Halloween party,” his friend joked, his
voice cracking. “Or cheap dentures?”
Nicolas smelled the men’s fear. He knew his
enemy smelled it too. It stank like sour sweat.
“Enough,” said the elderly mage softly. He
signaled.
They advanced as one unit, like a column of
army ants. One by one they shapeshifted, clothing vanishing
from their human forms, fur erupting on their bodies. Their
magick, dark and powerful, transformed them far easier than
Nicolas’ powers.
Silent as fog, eyes glowing like hot coals,
they prowled forward on four legs. One blinked slowly.
Night vision registered the eyes turning black as empty
pits.
The eyes, always the eyes, told their true
nature, no matter what their form.
Wolf in him rose up, thirsting for blood, action. Caught
between revealing himself to outsiders, and needing Wolf to
attack, he hesitated.
Instinct urged him to run, wait for better
odds. Humans had caused this evil. Still, he felt a
flickering compassion for the hunters. He scanned the
approaching enemy for the weak link.
The humans’ fear turned to terror. “Holy mother
of God,” the taller one screamed. “Wolves!”
They fired.
Gunfire crackled. Bullets fell before meeting
their target. Jaws agape, the humans stared. Identical
masks of fear tightened their faces. The pungent odor of
helpless urine filled the air.
In that instant, the Morphs attacked.
Now. Daggers materialized in his hands as he
sprang forward to engage them. Six Morphs jumped him. Razor
sharp teeth sank into his neck; claws swiped his legs and
torso. Cloth shredded like thin paper. He grunted, swung
out with the knives, stabbing their hearts. They died,
screaming. He sliced, stabbed again, wincing as their acid
blood splashed over him. Again. No use. Each time he
struck one down, another materialized. Cloning themselves.
A damn animal army.
Warmth dribbled down his throat. Nicolas ignored the
burning pain, struggled with his clothing to shift. The
hell with the mortals. They were dead already.
As he tore off his clothing, they fell on him,
shifting once more. Fur erupted on their bodies; claws
grew, shifting yet again. He cursed their ability to Change
into any animal form. Enormous brown bears roared. Four
slammed him against the tree trunk. Pinned, his arms and
legs useless, Nicolas could not summon his magick.
“Good God Almighty,” one hunter screamed.
Struggling in the Morphs’ grip, Nicolas felt
blood drain, bones ache.
The others turned to the human prey. Nicolas
struggled harder, wanting to save the hunters’ sorry asses.
Knowing it was too late.
Jaws yawning open, saliva dripping from their
yellowed fangs, the pack converged on the hapless men.
Screams mingled with the sounds of tearing flesh. Blood
splattered on the oaks, dripping viscous black.
The Morphs shifted into their true shapes. Bent
over, skin sagging on bone, more animal than human. Wisps
of hair clung to fleshy scalps. Pointed, sharp teeth
grinned. Their fetid stench filled the air.
They whined, drew in deep breaths. Absorbing their victims’
terror and dying breaths, they fed on their energy. The
Morphs holding him back loosened their grip on his arms.
Taking advantage of their distraction, he broke free and
shifted. Surprised, his captors drew back. Wolf greeted
them, eager for the fight, desperate to carve his claws
into them. He lashed out with razor sharp canines,
snarling. He downed one, as the others came for him
silently.
There were too many. He had lost too much blood.
“Stop,” an authoritative voice ordered. “Leave
him be.”
Blood trickled down his flanks, warm in the
chilly air. Nicolas ignored the stinging pain and the
burning in his side. Moonlight gilded features sharp as his
daggers. He steadily regarded the Morph’s secret weapon.
Confident. Arrogant.
He snarled, jerked against his captors’ hold.
Instantly the Morphs closed ranks against Jamie. They’d die
protecting the human who’d formed them into an army. The
mortal whose blood manufactured disease and death.
He would not die as wolf. Nicolas shifted back
into his human form to address the mortal. Because of
Jamie, Damian was dying.
Naked, vulnerable, he refused to cower. “Jamie,” he
uttered. “Your time will come.”
Low, amused laughter rippled through the air.
Jamie pushed past the glowering bodyguards. “You can barely
stand. We’ll destroy your leader, Nicolas. We already have,
thanks to your help.”
Nicolas remained silent. Disobeying pack rules, he’d taught
Jamie magick and she used it to join the Morphs and
increase her powers. From her blood, they’d manufactured a
disease that was killing his leader.
Another Morph shifted into human form. Greasy brown hair,
empty eyes, cruel twist to his mouth. Kane. The leader.
Salvia dripped from Kane’s parted lips. Talons grew from
his fingernails.
Nicolas tensed as Kane approached.
“Nicolas,” the Morph leader drawled. “Join us. You know you
want to.”
“I’ll die first,” he grated out.
“I have powers you’ll never have as a Draicon,
Nicolas. Join us and see.” The Morph spread his long, thin
arms. “I can take to the air as an eagle, swim the seas as
a shark, race through the jungle as a jaguar. Can you do
the same?”
Nicolas steeled his spine. “And you smell like
the bottom of a garbage can. No thanks. I’d rather be a
corpse. Then again, you are a corpse. No, something less
pleasant.” He added colorful verbiage comparing Kane to a
natural bodily function.
But Kane only laughed. “Words can’t hurt me. But you can.
Do you dare?”
Nicolas remained silent, hands clenched into fists.
“Let’s kill him,” one Morph suggested.
“No,” Kane countered. “Do not touch him. We need him alive
for Margaret, if she is the true empath. He’ll reawaken her
powers when he seeks her to mate.”
Dread clawed at Nicolas’ chest. He had not feared them,
even faced with death. He feared now for Maggie. “You’ll
never find her. I’ll die fighting before you get your claws
on her.”
Kane flashed an obscene grin. “We already found her,
Nicolas. We infected her dog with our new disease. And you
can’t stay away. The mating urge is claiming you even now.
You can’t fight your nature.”
A mocking snort came from the Morph leader. Nicolas steeled
himself against reaching out to strangle Kane. The Morph
leader gave a thin, mocking smile.
“Leave the bodies. The law will blame the Draicon. Again.”
Kane laughed.
Clever twist. More ammunition to hunt wolves, destroy his
dwindling pack. Pain wracked him. Slumping against the oak
tree familiar with his scent and Damian’s, he watched the
Morphs vanish into the forest. They would continue
growing in power and strength, continuing their assaults.
He couldn’t stop them.
He needed Maggie. Margaret, the empath
prophesied to become the force capable of eliminating the
Morph leader. His destined mate, who didn’t realize she
was Draicon.
Dead leaves crunched beneath their feet. He waited until
their stench no longer fouled his nostrils. On the wind,
silent laughter followed his noiseless crawling out of the
glen.
An hour later, his wounds healed. Nicolas hid
beneath the recesses of an overhanging rock. He rested,
staring at his beloved moon, listening to wind rustle the
branches and stir the dead leaves. Hunger scraped his
insides. Power he’d lost needed replenishing either by
ingesting food, or sharing his body with a woman and
absorbing the rich energy emitted during sex.
He needed to hunt. Too weak to Change, he ignored the
growling of his empty stomach. Must think of other matters.
Focus. Softly, he began singing in desperate hope of easing
the agonizing hunger. It didn’t work. He switched his
thoughts to Maggie.
Sweet, lovely Maggie. His draicara, his destined mate.
Naked in the shower when he’d sunk into her mind yesterday.
A wave of desire rocked him as he remembered. Slender
figure, full, rounded breasts and that mouth, ah, made for
kissing. Nicolas felt his body tighten, thinking of the
delicious things her mouth could do. Those legs, slightly
padded with muscle, curved, silky smooth. He’d felt the
brisk, impersonal glide of her hand as she’d soaped one
thigh, bubbles frothing and popping. In her indifferent
eyes he’d seen the thatch of dark red curls hiding her
cleft, and he’d gone wild.
Nicolas had howled with lust, driven by the fierce need to
claim her. Run his hands over her silky flesh, cupping her
breasts, watching the nipples harden and peak. Gently
parting her female flesh, testing her readiness, feeling
that wetness as he slid a finger into her tight sheath.
Then spreading those silky thighs wide open, mounting her,
her yielding body pressed beneath his hard one, sinking
into her wet, waiting flesh…
Hunger abated, replaced by lust as he focused on Margaret.
Seeping into her mind like water percolating into the
ground.
New agony assailed him. He raised his nose. Wolf inside him
silently whined. Lust vanished. Thousands of miles away, he
felt her stabbing pain as if it sank into his own chest.
She was crying over the dog again.
Last week, after years of searching, he’d found Maggie by
pure accident. He’d been baling hay on his ranch when a
wave of grief suddenly slammed into him, sharp as the
pitchfork tines. Nicolas had sunk to his knees and moaned.
When he recovered from the initial shock, he’d sorted out
the thoughts invading his mind. And realized he’d found his
mate. Under extreme duress, a female draicara sometimes
subconsciously projected emotions to her intended mate, as
if to summon him to her side at last. When he’d explored
the mental trail she’d sent out, he realized who it was.
Margaret, the pack’s missing empath.
Nicolas drew in a deep breath, struggling to
maintain his identity even as he now sank fully into hers.
Absorbing her, sinking into every cell. Her breath as his.
Her heart thudding rapidly, increasing his heart rate.
Her emotions his own.
Sweat erupted on his brow. His inner wolf
whimpered, anxious to calm the spreading agony, human
emotions twining with raw animal pain. So alone, as if all
the world were oblivious.
He didn’t like feeling like this; open,
vulnerable and exposed. Nicolas reminded himself it was
Maggie, not him. Unlike his draicara, he could guard his
emotions.
She perched over the sink, clasping it with whitened
knuckles. Tension strained the heart-shaped face reflected
in the wavy mirror. Her full, pouty mouth thinned with
pain. Nicolas felt as if poison had seeped into his very
bones.
Tears streamed down her cheeks.
Trying to hold them back, oh she tried, so as
not to upset the animal she carefully tended. But the
grief, it washed over her in cresting waves. She hung her
head over the sink and sobbed.
Nicolas struggled to hold back his own tears.
Finally she splashed cold water on her face,
and dried it. Forced a wobbly smile on her face, and went
out to tend to her patient. The little brown dog lifted her
head.
Across the white tile floor of Maggie’s
kitchen, a small brown cockroach scurried, then went
still. . He tensed, for the roach might be a Morph in
disguise come to kill her. But it did not show any signs of
shifting. After a minute he relaxed. Just an ordinary
insect.
Nicolas felt Maggie’s natural disgust. He figured she’d
scream, slam down a broom. Instead, he felt her stride over
to the loathsome insect. She fumbled for a jar on the
counter, trapped it, turned the jar over. Just as quickly,
she released the roach outside. Through Maggie’s eyes,
Nicolas watched it crawl over the white beach sands.
His jaw went slack.
From its fluffy pillow, Misha barked weakly in protest.
Damn straight, dog, Nicolas agreed. I’d kill it, too.
“You know the rules, Misha. Everything lives,”
Maggie said softly. “Even roaches. I swore never to hurt
another living thing. Ever.”
Damn. This was going to be far harder than he’d
ever imagined. How the hell could he turn this woman into a
cocked weapon ready to kill Morphs when she was rescuing
bugs?
Nicolas drew in another deep breath, severed
the connection so cleanly he could almost hear the snap. He
dropped his head into the thick cushion of dead leaves and
moss.
He didn’t want to break away. Part of him
wanted to remain. Comfort her. Enfold her in his strong
embrace and never let go.
Those emotions were his own, he thought grimly.
Dangerous emotions but natural. Every male Draicon was born
with the instinct to protect his mate. Even though his
particular mate had no idea of his existence or that of his
people. Their people.
Minutes passed. Or was it hours? A familiar
scent approached noiselessly. Moonlight gilded a pair of
polished brown boots. Naked and vulnerable, he sat up to
face his leader.
“You look like crap,” Damian observed. The soft
New Orleans drawl he’d acquired from a childhood in the
bayou accented his words. “They came for you again because
you were protecting us. Why do you insist on staying when
you know you’re banished?”
Nicolas made no reply. He knew Damian had
smelled the death, heard the screams. He had sensed what
happened.
“Nicolas… one day one will kill you. If you
stay,” Damian said gently.
“I won’t abandon you, Dai. You need me. The
pack needs me.” He grated out the words, locking gazes with
the older male.
As Damian’s Beta, Nicolas was responsible for
carrying out the leader’s orders. He was the pack’s best
hunter. When the pack was in danger of being eliminated by
the Morphs, Nicolas had stepped in and taught them the best
way to destroy the enemy. He had studied the Morph’s weak
spots and succeeded in destroying hundreds. Nicolas, the
killing machine.
He knew nothing else.
Pale green eyes observed him silently. Damian
waved his hands. A covered metal plate materialized on the
ground before Nicolas. Nicolas sprang forward as Damian
winced.
“Damnit, you shouldn’t be doing this. Not in
your condition. Don’t waste your energy.”
His leader offered a rueful smile, dragged in a
breath. Sweat glistened on his brow. With the flair of a
gourmet chef, Damian whipped off the plate’s cover.
“Voila. I knew you needed food. Or sex.” The pack leader
regarded Nicolas with a level look. “But you know the
rules.”
No sex with pack females. Not for Nicolas, the banished.
What irony. Damian often joked about Nicolas’ “harem,” the
unmated, sexually experienced pack females eager to
copulate with him. After a Morph fight, he’d pace before
those presenting themselves to him. Dark eyes brooding, his
muscular body tense and aggressive, he’d select one for the
night. Then he’d claim her, using her sexual heat to
restore his lost energy.
Now no pack female could touch him.
Salivating, Nicolas eyed the bloodied, raw meat. He shot a
worried glance at Damian’s pale face, the flash of pain in
his green eyes.
“Wolf it down,” Damian advised, a half smile
touching his mouth at the old joke.
His hunger a live, writhing need, Nicolas
hesitated. Trying to disguise his weakness before his
leader, he couldn’t hold back his howling need for energy.
Damian delicately turned his back. Grateful, Nicolas
abandoned any pretense. Picking up the elk steak with his
hands, he ripped into the meat. Wiping his mouth with the
back of his hand, he then replaced up the cover. It clanged
against the metal plate.
“Thank you,” Nicolas managed.
Stronger now, he used his magick to cover his nudity with
jeans, black T-shirt and boots. Damian turned. He sat on
his haunches, silent.
“Dai, you’re getting worse.” The matter-of-fact statement
cloaked his concern.
“I have time.” Damian’s cocky grin seemed forced. “Two
months, maybe, at the rate my body is deteriorating…” He
shrugged, glancing away.
Two months and Damian would be dead? After the agony, the
cancer-like disease wracking his body with pain ate its way
through his internal organs. Nicolas clenched his fists.
Damnit. He had to find Maggie. Fast.
“Dai…” His throat closed with emotion. Nicolas clamped a
lid on his feelings and arranged a blank look on his face.
Damian seemed to understand, for he waved a hand,
dismissing the topic. Never one to complain, more concerned
about the pack.
“Tell me about Margaret.” The name slipped out in a soft
slur. Mah-gah-rhett. “You made contact with her again. She
was crying.” His sharp green gaze focused on dried tears
streaking Nicolas’ cheeks.
Nicolas scrubbed his face with a clenched
fist. “The dog is dying.” Always the dog as Maggie sought a
logical solution to a problem caused by something not
logical in the human world. Then, in private, the tears
would flow, because she could not heal the animal she loved.
“Ah. Her pet. Difficult.”
“A friend. Not a pet. She can’t cure Misha.
She’s trying to find the mutation in the cells. The Morphs
infected the dog.”
Damian rubbed the back of his neck absently. “A test of
Margaret’s powers to draw her out. They’ve found her.”
Nicolas drew in another breath, feeling his lungs expand
with clean, pure air. The dog had been Maggie’s constant
companion. Serving as canine nurse, helping her calm the
animals Maggie treated.
Now Misha was dying, succumbing to a new
disease baffling Maggie.
The very same disease eating away Damian’s
insides.
He felt an ache reverberate down to his very
soul. His spirit crying out to be with hers. He threw back
his head, feeling the beast emerge, the wolf howling to be
released, and run. To avoid the pain. Find a dark place and
seek comfort.
He could not, just as he could not sever the
tie between himself and Maggie. Maggie, their last hope.
Damian’s last hope.
“She’s unaware of her true identity.” Nicolas
stated it as fact. “I discovered that much by mind-bonding
with her. Something happened when her parents died, and she
blocked out all prior memories. She thinks she’s mortal,
not Draicon. Convincing her will be difficult.”
“You know your duty, Nicolas. You must mate
with her soon and bring her home. Before the Morphs destroy
her.”
Damian stood, leaning his six-foot tall body
against a tree. Beneath the casual air lurked coiled
tension, power. Ready to spring into action, if necessary.
Their leader never released his guard. Or trusted easily,
outside of his pack.
“I know. I know the risks.” To him and to
Maggie. “But if it means saving
you…”
“Forget me.” Damian made a slashing
gesture. “It’s too late. But if she can heal our people
when the Morphs infect them, that’s all that matters.”
“I’ll get her here in time,” Nicolas said
fiercely. “Don’t doubt it. Trust me.”
Emotion flared in Damian’s eyes. “It’s not good
for you to face this alone. You need our people.”
Nicolas lifted his head, regarding him calmly. “You know
that’s impossible. They blame me for what happened to
Jamie. As they should. When I get Maggie, then I’ll return.
Until then…”
The casual lift of his shoulders hid his pain. For the good
of the pack, Damian had banished him. Maggie was his way
back to acceptance, back to the warmth and comfort of his
family.
Maggie was much more. Maggie was the weapon destined to
vanquish Kane. She was the empath, whose healing touch
could cure the dying Damian.
“Do it,” Damian said softly. “Make her yours.” He watched
Nicolas stand, and went to embrace him in the usual
brotherly fashion, then pulled back.
“I can’t touch you,” he said thickly.
“I know,” Nicolas agreed. His scent would mark Damian,
whose word was law, but the pack would question. Whisper.
Worry.
“May the moonspirit guide and protect you on your journey,”
his leader said in the formal blessing. “Stay safe, stay
strong.”
A thick lump rose in his throat. “Up yours,” Nicolas said
cheerfully, hiding his emotions.
Damian flashed another half grin. More pain knifed through
Nicolas as he watched his friend slip into the woods,
heading back home.
Home for him no longer.
He drew in another breath, began softly singing beneath his
breath and trotted in the opposite direction. Maggie,
Maggie. He needed to get to Florida.
Every day the danger of exposure to Maggie
intensified. Visits to her veterinarian clinic resulted in
calmer animals. Maggie had a special healing ability, like
a horse whisperer. Only it wasn’t her voice.
But her hands, her soothing touch.
Maggie was an empath, born once every 100
years. She was their last hope. She belonged with the pack,
her family.
He’d mate with her, his hard male flesh sinking
into her female softness, his warrior’s aggression sinking
into her gentleness. Male and female, exchanging powers,
becoming one. He’d perform his duty, then mold her into the
warrior they needed to fight their enemy. And bring her
home, even if she fought and kicked and screamed the whole
way.
She had no choice.
Just like him.