Living Extinct (2 page)

“Enjoy being a cub. Play and have fun.” Her mom’s voice in her head made her heart ache even more. “Once you are grown, I will show you how to use what is already inside you. You won’t need to undergo any experiments for the gift to be part of you.

Moira, you are a natural—just like your sire and just like me.”

What she wouldn’t do to have her mom next to her right now.

7

Lorie O’Clare

She fisted her hands, furious and unsure which way to run while the only world she knew was engulfed in flames. Her parents were nowhere in sight.

Sirens wailed, the emergency vehicles hurrying to block traffic. The stench of panic filled the air, billowing toward her like the dark smoke from the fires. Mixed with anger and fear, it clogged her senses. Too many emotions. Too much confusion.

There was no way to put the fire out. Flames spread faster than she could run.

Frustration pissed her off even more. Nothing was worse than being unable to control a situation.

Heat burned her skin. The sky had disappeared, dense clouds hanging way too low.

Tall limestone buildings seemed to dance in the thick smoke.

And flames. Everywhere there were flames.

She jumped when someone ran into her.

“Where is your papa?” Bernard Tangaree, her oldest cousin, grabbed her arm so hard it hurt.

She stared up at Bernard, dazed, fighting to make sense of the violence exploding around her. God. He needed to quit screaming in her face.

Something needed to be done. They needed to save their pack. Yet all she did was stand on the sidewalk, staring at the quick destruction and death. Feeling like a ditz, fighting to make sense out of a nightmare, an overwhelming emptiness attacked the anger inside her.

“Where is he, Moira?” He shook her fiercely. “Where is your sire?”

Moira pointed toward the fire, knowing without seeing that her father had burned alive along with the rest of them. Her mother had died in his arms, the two of them leaving this Earth in the same breath. The moment they’d gone, their souls leaving their bodies forever, everything had crashed in around her. “They’re all dead.” She knew it, no matter that she had no official training with what the gift offered. “I saw them die in my head, Bernard. I couldn’t get to them in time.”

Whoever had done this would die a slow and torturous death. Her body shook with fury, with intense pain that tore her apart. Her teeth grew slightly until the tips of her canines pricked the inside of her mouth. She wanted to run, to destroy, to allow the change and rip their attackers wide open, spreading their blood over the devastation they’d caused.

Bernard didn’t question her. He shook his head, his sorrow briefly drowning out the smell of the smoke. “And with them dies the knowledge,” he muttered.

Nothing would right the wrong she was witnessing. After all her pack had done for the other packs on the surrounding islands, throughout Europe, this was the appreciation they got. Paybacks were hell and if it was the last thing she did, every one of the motherfuckers who’d caused this would suffer. Suffer with pain and humiliation.

She’d kill each of them with her own claws and teeth. No law would protect them.

8

Living Extinct

Motorcycles rushed past them, the drivers’ angry screams ripping through the air.

Bernard almost yanked Moira’s arm from her socket when he pulled her out of their way.

“Death to the werewolves of Malta!”

Even through the dense smoke, the disgustingly sweet smell of hatred, like bad fruit, turned her stomach. Well, now she’d learned to hate too. Now she could destroy just as they had. Taking out her pack would be the last despicable act any of these wasted pieces of flesh, these poor excuses for werewolves, would ever commit.

A handful of her pack members screamed and ran while the werewolves on motorcycles chased after them.

Sirens wailed down surrounding streets, but the firemen wouldn’t save them. Once again, history repeated itself and a pack was burned out due to superstition and hatred.

“Get your ass to the sea, Moira. Move it now!” Bernard screamed in her face.

“I won’t leave!” This was her home.

She didn’t want to run from it, abandon it. Heat burned straight to her bones, making her want to tear the clothes from her body, change so that she could move faster, save any den still alive. Their wailing howls for help tore at her senses.

Primal instinct was taking over pack members around her. Billowing smoke made day look like night. Friends, dens she’d known all her life, werewolves who normally were civil, let the change take over and fog their ability to think straight. Werewolves raced down the street while others of her pack ran on two feet, half changed in their hysteria. Indifferent to who might see them. It was a horrific nightmare. Children, their tails bursting free from their clothes, cried as they hurried toward protection.

Nowhere was safe. All sanity had been ripped away. Too many emotions to think.

Moira’s bones popped even though she fought the craving to grow, to master the power needed to retaliate against this hideous crime. A crime no one else would punish. Her lungs burned and her mind was in turmoil as human thought battled something more carnal, growing stronger the longer she dwelt on it.

Losing control was a sign of weakness. Werewolves didn’t change form in the middle of the street during the day. Even if the day was streaked with blinding smoke, turning it black as night.

Bernard gave her a shake. “Get the fuck out of here!”

“I won’t run with my tail between my legs,” she hissed, wishing she could fight but not having a clue how to defend her pack.

She heard more screams and the sounds of motorcycles as the surviving members of her pack were hunted down and killed.

“You’ll do as you’re told. I want to know that you’re safe. Get going!”

Whatever it took, Moira would see her sire get his revenge. Being his only cub, his closest blood, there had to be duties to take on. Muddled emotions made it impossible 9

Lorie O’Clare

to figure out what all they might be. All she wanted to do was destroy those who’d wiped out her life.

Although barely eighteen, Moira knew more than she was supposed to. What surprised her was that they would take out her pack in the middle of the day. Men were so stupid, whether they were human or werewolf. Members of some unknown pack, or maybe members from several packs—she had no clue but she’d sure as hell find out—

cruised the streets on their motorcycles, chanting their mantra of hatred toward the Malta werewolves. They chased them down on their bikes, dragging them or jumping from the bikes and fighting in the streets. All the while buildings and cars burned around them. What fucking idiocy!

Her father and uncles had led the Malta pack with iron fists, never hesitating to bare claws and teeth when needed. Negotiation, discussion of pack law, had never been an option on this island. The surrounding packs had stayed on the smaller islands, but the time had been coming. She heard it in the whispers that weren’t meant for her ears.

The other packs feared what they didn’t understand. They didn’t want a pack with the ability to control the elements, to do “magic” as it was so often misnamed.

Bernard hurried with her down the street, pausing at the corner and sniffing the air.

All Moira smelled was burning rubber. It fucking stank too.

“Okay. Go. Run to the bay, Moira.”

“But what about you? I can’t bear it if you left me too.” Moira grabbed her cousin’s arm, seeing outrage on his face that matched the feelings that burned through her heart.

“Come with me.”

Bernard shook his head, peeling her fingers from his arm. “I said to get going. Now go!”

Her legs were still, pain and fury radiating through her as the screams trapped in her throat threatened to rip past the shock that still held her in its grip. Her legs stung from the heat of the fire, her lungs burned from the smoke and in her soul a wound was forever branded into her very spirit.

Please let everyone be safe. Let my den already be by the sea.

With a rough shove, Bernard almost threw her across the street, toward the shore, toward safety.

He didn’t follow her. It didn’t surprise her. His stubbornness pissed her off.

Bernard would die with the pack—just like her sire and her mother. The humans wouldn’t lift a finger to save him. And the attacking packs would hunt him down.

Moira’s heart weighed heavy. As if the smoke didn’t make it hard enough to breathe, the pain that ripped through her over the den mates she would lose today was unbearable.

Another motorcycle turned the corner, rumbling down the street toward her. Moira took off running, cutting through the alley, her human legs no match for the speed of the bike. Turning on the bike, baring claws and teeth, would make her feel so much better. Even if it were just one werewolf. Attacking, showing those mangy mutts they 10

Living Extinct

wouldn’t go down without a fight sounded a hell of a lot better than racing to her death. But she wouldn’t change in broad daylight. Common sense remained in spite of her pain and outrage. Werewolves didn’t change in front of humans. With the smell of everything burning, she had no idea who might be on that bike.

If only she could get one good, clean whiff of what was going on around her, she’d know what the hell to do.

She ran faster than a human could run, her heart pounding, blood rushing through her while muscles ached to change, bones alter. Cubs were taught to control the change.

Moira used that control now, nipping at her lip, using the pain to help keep her brain alert. After several blocks she knew the motorcycle followed, matching her pace.

She wouldn’t make it out alive. Overwhelming fear gripped her, seizing rational thought. Panic threatened to take over, giving her the shakes while she fought to keep going.

Willing herself to move even faster, she cut across the next street, wishing the Mediterranean would just reach up and grab her. What was left of her pack would be there, waiting at the bay. All would be fine if she could just outrun her pursuer for a couple more blocks.

The engine revved behind her, the smell of oil and gas filling her lungs. Moira made the mistake of looking over her shoulder, spotting the driver hunched over on the bike.

Before she could make sense of what happened, she tripped, flying headlong into the ground as a scream of fear escaped her lips.

“Shit!” she howled, attacking her long black hair with her hands when it briefly blinded her.

The pavement tore at her skin, jolts of pain streaking up her arms and legs. Her short dress did little to protect her flesh. If she could just change! Her bones stretched stubbornly while her muscles twitched throughout her body. The urge to become so much more than human, to allow the sweet pain to course through her, enable her to protect herself, filled her. It would make escape so much easier.

Strong arms grabbed her and lifted her, pulling her into the air and onto the bike.

Instinct took over. Fight! These barbaric werewolves wouldn’t kill her today!

“Let go of me, you fucking lousy mutt!” She twisted frantically, giving the bastard everything her human body could muster.

She kicked. She scratched and jerked her body. Her hair flew around her, making it impossible to see.

“Be still,” a baritone growled at her. “You’re going to get us both killed.”

“Better to take you with me than surrender to your renegade pack. You are nothing!” Hair stuck to her mouth as she yelled at her captor. “Wiping us out will only destroy you too!”

Moira almost screamed when the motorcycle skidded around a corner, hauling her along with it. She pulled her legs up quickly, digging her fingernails into the werewolf’s 11

Lorie O’Clare

steely arms. Sirens pierced her ears, shooting pain through her brain like lightning attacking a fierce night sky. The wind slapped at her face. Too many scents slammed through her system—violated her, made it impossible to think rationally. Strong arms pinned her against solid muscle.

“You better start thinking I am something,” he hissed in her ear. “I hold your life in my hands.”

The last thing she needed right now was a pompous werewolf demanding that she beg for her life. Moira twisted furiously, almost capsizing the bike. Her captor was forced to let go of her, to grab the handlebars and fight to keep the bike upright.

Let him know right now who he was messing with. It would be a cold day in hell before she bellied up to some lame excuse for a werewolf.

He hadn’t slowed as much as she’d like, but she wouldn’t die. Not today. Not at the paws of the enemy who killed her pack. She closed her eyes as tight as she could and pushed off the bike with all her might.

Airborne for mere seconds, she hit the ground, knocking the wind out of her and scraping exposed flesh. Intense, acute pain shot through her arms and legs with piercing heat. She rolled, feeling her dress tear, the rocky, uneven road scraping deep into her skin.

She wailed in pain while her eyes watered so furiously that she couldn’t focus. All she could do was continue to roll.

“Get back here!” he roared, the bike’s motor whining furiously in protest as he came around toward her.

The sound of it drew nearer, its loud engine and the weight of it vibrating through the ground.

Every inch of her body hurt from her head down to her toes. She’d lost her shoes.

Her dress was almost torn from her body. Now wasn’t the time for modesty. Her life was on the line. All she could do was believe Bernard and have faith that safety lay with the sea.

“You are one fighting little bitch.” The man on the motorcycle pulled up alongside her.

More sirens flooded the area, their varying pitches killing her ears. She winced from the loud wails of the trucks as they hurried past them, indifferent to her plight. The humans would put out the fires but then ignore the casualties. Knowing that the werewolves ran thick along the coast of Malta, they’d turn a blind eye, refusing to help what they didn’t understand.