Master of Wolves (17 page)

They had to slow down when they hit the elementary school's traffic, but at last they left it and the outskirts of Clarkston behind. The road wound through thick trees, leaves so green with early spring they almost glowed. The dogwoods were in bloom, their petals shimmering white against the green.

Spotting the dirt road she was looking for, Faith directed him down it. The sports car jolted over bumps and rocks as it followed the deeply rutted road past sweet gum, oaks, and spindly southern pines.

Finally they broke from the woods to see a lake spreading before them, glittering in the afternoon sunlight. Faith scanned it cautiously, but there was no one around.

Jim parked under a stand of trees, then got out without a word. His door slammed, the sound shouting his impatience. As she slid out her side, she felt wet heat between her thighs.

When they met in front of the car's nose, he dragged her into his arms. His mouth crushed down on hers in a kiss of hunger and desperation. Faith wrapped herself around him, savoring the feeling of his hard muscled body under her hands.

The memory of him flying off that bumper made her curl her nails into his skin. His tongue thrust into her mouth in strong, mating digs. Faith answered his desire with a hard roll of her hips. His erection felt like a length of solid steel against her belly.

Jim dragged his mouth away from hers and began kissing and biting down her chin to her neck. His strong hands found the hem of her T-shirt and jerked it upward so he could delve beneath.

“You scared the hell out of me,” she said hoarsely. “Running in front of that truck like that.”

“He had you by the throat,” he growled back, one hand sliding under her shirt to discover bare, aching skin. “All I was thinking about was killing the son of a bitch.”

“He's a sociopath,” she agreed.

Impatient, he caught the hem of her shirt and jerked it up and over her head, revealing the lace bra cupping her breasts. “You wear too damn many clothes,” Jim growled, and grabbed the cups of her bra in both hands. He jerked, and it tore.

For a moment he just looked down at her hard pink nipples, gilded by the afternoon sun. Then, with a low growl, he fastened his mouth over one and began to suck. Groaning in pleasure, Faith threaded her hands into his thick curling hair and abandoned herself to the stroke and swirl of his tongue.

Finally Jim drew back and gazed hungrily at her half-clad body. “Oh, man.”

Faith grinned at the dazed lechery on his face. “Pervert.”

“Only where you're concerned.” He cupped one bare breast, rolling its nipple between skillful fingertips. With a groan of raw pleasure, she arched her back and shuttered her eyes.

Then he stepped against her, his hands closing over her backside. With easy strength, he boosted her onto the hood of the car. Instinctively, she grabbed at the knit fabric of his shirt as he shifted his grip to her waist and bent her backward. His mouth closed over the other nipple, suckling with honeyed greed.

Faith moaned as his tongue danced over the sensitive flesh, teasing her with shimmering waves of pleasure. Skillfully, he shaped her breast in his fingers, forcing the tip into an imploring peak he tormented with raking teeth. She fisted both hands in his hair and let her head tilt back, enjoying the hard suction.

As he teased her with delicious little bites and suckles, his free hand went to work on the zipper of her jeans.

Needing to touch him, Faith managed to grab a handful of his shirt and drag it up over his flat belly. He stepped back just long enough to let her pull it over his head. Tossing it aside, she looked at him.

He stood with his legs braced apart, his broad muscled chest heaving as he stared hot-eyed into her face. She breathed in and shuddered at his scent. He smelled like sex distilled in human form. He looked like some pagan god of passion, come to Earth to work his wiles on some hapless mortal girl.

“Is this just chemical?” Faith met his blazing eyes. “Is this just pheromones?”

“No.” He stepped forward and unbuttoned her pants, then dragged them and her panties ruthlessly down her legs. “I've wanted you for weeks.”

“We don't even know each other,” she protested as he tossed her clothes aside and unbuttoned his pants.

“Yes, we do.” He jerked down the waistband of his briefs and let his cock spill free. As she stared hungrily at its smooth, long width, he grabbed her by the waist, lifted her off the car hood, and turned her in his arms. Her hands hit the hood as he bent her over it and kicked her feet wide. “You know exactly who I am,” he growled.

The thick, smooth head of his cock brushed the wet petals of her sex. “God!” Stiffening, she gasped as he began forcing himself inside. He felt huge in this position.

“We've fought side by side. We dared death together,” he rumbled, working still more of the big shaft into her. “I've listened to your dreams and your fears and your pain.”

“Jim…” she moaned.

He just kept coming, more and more of him sliding deeper and deeper as his relentless voice continued. “You're mine, and you know it. That's why it scared the shit out of you when you thought I'd been killed by that truck.” He pulled out, silk and heat sliding endlessly through slick flesh. “And that's why I damn near died when that bastard grabbed you by the throat.”

The words carried a powerful resonance, like the tolling of church bells. “No,” she moaned. “It's just the Burning Moon.”

“No.” Jim dragged his cock out, then rammed it back in, ripping a cry of savage pleasure out of her mouth. “I'm not your ex, Faith.” Another withdrawal, followed by another driving inward thrust. “I'm your Wolfmaster, and I'm your partner, and that's got nothing to do with hormones.”

Faith, feeling the pleasure coiling in tight, glittering spirals in her sex, could only moan.

The slick velvet clamp of her sex around Jim's cock was the hottest thing he'd ever known in his life. He threaded one hand through her red hair and curled it into a fist. Drawing her head up and back, he leaned close, hunching hard, stroking his cock as deep in her heat as he could.

“Mine,” he breathed in her ear, rolling his hips. “You're mine.”

“God, you feel so thick,” she moaned.

He smiled, more a baring of the teeth than anything else. “You make me that way.” He rammed in another thrust and felt her writhe against him. Sliding one hand under her torso, he found her nipple, tugged it, twisted, and pounded in another thrust.

She cried out, convulsing. Coming.

Jim grinned savagely and started shafting her in long, relentless strokes that gave her no mercy. Her delicate inner sheathe rippled around him, milking hot surges of pleasure from his cock.

Until the orgasm he'd been seeking exploded through him in sweet, hot jets of fire. He bellowed, surging against her one last time. Coming. “Mine!” he roared, knowing it was true whether she was ready to admit it or not.

He could feel it in his bones.

 

Limping, bloodied, Reynolds
finally decided it was safe to stop running.

He spotted a likely looking house and staggered behind it. He felt so drained, for a panicked moment he wasn't sure he could call the magic. Then, at last, it answered him, slowly at first, then in a white-hot surge that twisted and transformed.

Returning him to human form.

Wearily, he staggered to the steps of the house and sat down, letting his head hang. Despite the Change, he felt exhausted—and more than a little terrified.

He'd royally fucked that one up. Weston and the werewolf had suckered him, pure and simple, and he'd fallen for it.

Celestine was going to have his ass.

Uneasily, Reynolds considered the implications. The vampire had her grail, which meant she'd probably want to start turning the cops tonight. She'd need a death to work that spell.

And he damned well didn't want it to be his.

Fear gripped him with cold and sickly fingers. After he'd become a werewolf, Reynolds had felt like a furry superman.

Hell, that's damn near what he was. He'd even taken on Celestine's vampire enemies and handed them their collective asses. It had felt as though nothing could stand against him.

Until this afternoon.

Fighting other werewolves was a whole 'nother can of worms. They were just as fast as he was, just as strong, and every bit as nasty. It was galling, particularly considering that one of those weres was a woman. If they came after him again—and they would—he wasn't sure he'd be able to beat them off again.

Unless…Reynolds's eyes narrowed as a sudden idea pierced his sense of failure.

What if he had werewolf reinforcements, too?

Cautiously, then with growing enthusiasm, Reynolds considered the idea. All he had to do was bite a few cops. True, they probably wouldn't be happy about it, especially since it would mean they'd lose the chance to become immortal magic-using vampires, but tough shit. He needed them.

And once they were all in it together, they'd have no choice except to embrace his leadership. Reynolds, after all, was the only one who knew how to be a werewolf.

Then he and his team could hunt Weston and her werewolf buddy down, and Celestine would have her sacrifices.

Yeah. That would work.

Pleased, he rose from the stoop and started the walk back toward the police department.

Somebody was about to get the surprise of his life.

 

Feeling sated, almost
boneless, Faith relaxed back into the leather of the convertible's seat as Jim drove them home. She glanced at him, admiring the pure male line of his profile, the mussed lock of dark hair falling onto his forehead.

“Mine!”
Remembering his possessive roar, she smiled. It felt a little smug.

Except…

The whole incident had been a product of the Burning Moon, mixed with a healthy dose of adrenalin from a painfully close call.

Faith frowned, some of her lush lassitude draining away. She couldn't afford to let herself forget that none of this rosy emotion was real.

Particularly not since it would be all too easy to fall in love with Jim London. Losing him would hurt a hell of a lot more than catching Ron with that dispatcher ever had.

And she really didn't want to go there.

George Ayers sat
at his desk, lost in a pleasant dream of immortality and power. Tonight Celestine would begin changing them all, and he fully expected to be the first to drink from Korbal's Grail.

Of course, there'd be a price to pay. He'd be a vampire, which meant no more leisurely Sunday steak dinners. On the face of it, drinking blood seemed fairly revolting, but God knew Celestine seemed to enjoy it. And there was something erotically wicked about the idea of entrancing young women into letting him do whatever he wanted to them.

His wife would probably feel differently.

He'd originally intended to let Lucy drink from the grail, too, but thinking about it, he wasn't sure he wanted to spend his immortality with her. She could be a bit of a bitch. Besides, it was for damn sure there would be no seduction of pretty young things if Lucy had a vampire's powers.

Brooding, he stared at her portrait, which sat on his desk next to those of their two children. An elegant, cool blonde, she'd taken care of herself over their twenty-five-year marriage, weighing scarcely more than she had the day they'd married. Still, it was a fact that things were no longer so firm and tight as they'd once been.

Maybe he should just put a spell on her to make her give him a divorce. And forget alimony. No way in hell was he giving up half his salary. He didn't make enough as it was.

His gaze shifted to his children's pictures. Fifteen-year-old Bonnie and twelve-year-old Rich resembled their mother more than they did him, and their constant bickering drove him nuts. He wouldn't mind seeing them only every other weekend or so.

Sitting back in his chair, he tried to decide whether to pay child support.

Oh, hell, it would do them all good to get jobs.

His office door swung open, startling him into a guilty jump. Reynolds stepped in, looking surprisingly white and nervy for a man who'd acquired a distinct swagger since becoming a werewolf. “Dammit, Reynolds, don't come in my office without knocking,” George snapped, annoyed.

Yesterday he would have hesitated to say anything to the bastard, but by tonight, he'd be a vampire. Then he'd be the one on top again, and the werewolf would be kissing his ass.

Reynolds shrugged his shoulders. “Sorry.” But he didn't look even remotely repentant as he closed the door. His expression was tight, his gaze glittering with an odd blend of determination and excitement.

George eyed him. “What the hell are you doing back, anyway?” Reynolds's shift had ended an hour ago. “I thought you were going over to Celestine's.”

“There's something we need to talk about.” He moved around the desk, a tight, ugly smile on his face.

Something about the calculating look in his eyes made George rest a wary hand on the butt of his gun. “Yeah? What?”

“This.” Between one step and the next, Reynolds Changed, his body suddenly going massive, filling the small room with fur, claws, and the feral musk of magic. His jaws gaped, tongue lolling between white, knife-edged fangs.

With a startled shout, George lunged up and out of his seat, drawing his weapon as the werewolf dove at him. The desk chair crashed backward behind him. He stumbled over it and fell flat on his back with a yell. His gun went flying. He rolled, scrabbling desperately for the weapon. Before he could recover it, an enormous clawed hand grabbed the back of his jacket, jerking him upright toward Reynolds's gaping jaws. Bones grated, as the werewolf bit down on George's shoulder.

Bellowing in pain, he kicked furiously at his captor. The werewolf dropped him, watching as he scrambled away.
He doesn't even look pissed off,
George thought, stunned, one hand clamped to his bleeding shoulder. “What the hell did you do that for?”

“Chief!” Footsteps running in the hall—other cops racing to the rescue. Too fucking late.

Frank Granger shoved open the door. “Chief, are you…?” He barely had time for a yelp as Reynolds cleared George's desk and plowed into him. The pair crashed against the opposite hallway wall. Frank screamed. A gun went off amid curses and thumps.

George didn't move, staring numbly at the bright-red blood spilling down the blue wool sleeve of his suit.

“Keith, what the fuck are you doing?” Sergeant Young bellowed. More running footsteps, accompanied by male shouts, curses, and questions. George dimly remembered the sergeant had called a meeting of the second-shift cops.

A woman screamed—the new clerk, Doris Miller, a pretty little thing George had earmarked as the first girl he'd want to bite as a vampire.

Heavy thuds as Reynolds plowed down the hall in werewolf form. Shouts. More gunfire. The girl screamed like a fire siren. George wished she'd shut the fuck up. It was too late for them all anyway.

I'm going to be a werewolf.

 

Faith was being
too damned quiet.

Jim threw another look at her as they sat in the living room. CNN was detailing its usual litany of disasters, but though her eyes were fixed on the ancient television, she didn't seem to be registering anything. Her expression was brooding, and her scent made it clear what she was brooding about. There was the lingering odor of sexual arousal, of course, but overlaying that was a hint of anxiety.

He'd freaked her out with that “Mine” of his.

Frowning, he turned his own attention to the set, though he wasn't registering much, either. In retrospect, he probably should have kept that bellow to himself.

But it was true, dammit. They belonged together, if Faith could just look past her own emotional scars long enough to see it.

Though, come to think of it, there was one way to reassure her.

The Spirit Link.

Jim went still, startled by the thought. Normally werewolf couples formed a Link only after they married, but there was no reason he and Faith couldn't do it now. It would even carry a number of tactical advantages.

But more importantly, once they were Linked, she'd be able to see into his soul to the man he really was. She'd realize he loved her, and her doubts and fears would be put to rest. Ron would no longer stand between them.

Still, it was a big step.

Restlessly, he rose from his seat and looked at her. “I'm getting a beer. Want one?”

Faith muttered a refusal. He stalked into the kitchen and opened the fridge. For a moment he stood there, not really seeing its contents.

If they Linked, they'd be bound together on such a deep level, if one died, the other would follow soon after. That was one reason the Direkind didn't enter into such unions lightly.

Jim grabbed a beer and walked back into the living room as he opened it. Brooding, he looked over at her.

Faith sat with those long legs stretched out in front of her, crossed at the ankle, her tough, graceful hands laced over her flat belly. Even given her troubled expression, her profile was beautiful, from high forehead to stubborn little chin. Her lower lip pouted slightly, tempting as a fresh peach. He wanted to suckle it.

Yeah, he realized. He wanted a Spirit Link with her.

The next time he yelled “Mine!” he wanted to hear her yell it right back.

 

George hurt all
over. His shoulder ached like a bad tooth, and sweat poured off him as he stood with his six co-victims.

After the attack, Reynolds had forced them into the department's van and driven them all out here, to a burned-out textile mill on the worst side of town. Now, as the sunlight of late afternoon threw the mill stack's shadow across the ground like a long, bony finger, they all stood bleeding and resentful.

For a moment there following the attack, it had been a toss-up whether they'd go with him or try to shoot him again. But since everybody knew shooting him was pretty much a waste of time—he'd just heal and hurt them some more—they'd finally gotten in the van.

Besides George himself, the victims included five second-shift cops: Frank Granger, Sergeant RandyYoung, Tim Morrison, Detective Gordon Taylor, and Dave Green, who'd replaced Weston on the second shift. Last was twenty-four-year-old Doris Miller, the part-time records clerk Reynolds had evidently bitten solely because she was about to call 911.

Now the girl stood huddled, hugging her bleeding hand with tears rolling silently down her cheeks.

It was a damn good thing Hazel Shelly had taken the afternoon off to go to the dentist, or she'd probably be getting ready to turn fuzzy with the rest of them.

“I can't believe you did this to us, you bastard,” George snarled at Reynolds. “What the fuck possessed you?”

The werewolf shrugged his shoulders. He'd resumed human form. Unlike the rest of them, he looked regulation neat in his dark blue uniform, without a bite or bullet wound to be seen. “Hey, you were planning to become vampires anyway. I figure one monster's as good as another.”

At that, Doris sobbed loudly before covering her mouth and giving them all a wide-eyed, panicked stare. Reynolds stared back, wearing an unpleasant expression of speculation.

“We were going to be fucking immortal,” Frank snarled, pain evidently making him reckless. “We were going to be able to cast fucking spells and get all the women we wanted! Now we're going to be
furry
!”

“You'll also be the strongest, meanest bastards on the planet—other than me,” Reynolds told him coldly. “Quit bitching, you pussy.”

“You—”

“Frank, shut up,” Ayers snapped, glaring the other to silence. “Now isn't the time.”

But once they'd all changed, he promised himself, they'd gang up on the furry psycho and rip him apart. Reynolds was, by God, going to pay for this.

Doris edged away from them, horror in her eyes, as blood dripped from her mangled hand.

George glowered at her, stung by that
you're all monsters
stare. Idiot. Reynolds was the fucking monster. “Where do you think you're going?”

Her pale mouth worked as tears ran down her face. “I just—I need to call my mom. And my hand hurts.”

He wasn't in the mood to listen to her whine. “Join the club. As for calling Mommy, I don't think so. Like it or not, you're in this with the rest of us.”

Her big hazel eyes flicked from one to the other. “In what?” Her voice was so faint, he could barely hear her.

Nobody answered.

“How long is this going to take, anyway?” Frank demanded coldly.

Reynolds shrugged. “Took me about an hour before the bite kicked in. But that was me.”

“Did it hurt?” The question came from Tim Morrison, a rookie who'd joined the force the year before. His face was almost as white as Doris's.

The werewolf curled a malicious lip. “Yeah.”

“Asshole,” Frank muttered.

Reynolds straightened away from the fender of the car he leaned against, the movement so sudden Doris flinched. “We need to get a couple of things straight before anybody gets any bright ideas.” His gaze locked on George's, cold as an ice pick. “I'm going to be the leader of this little pack, got that? You do what I say.”

The bite seemed to be pouring acid through George's blood. Pissed and reckless, he sneered. “Says who?”

“Says Celestine.”

That thought pierced even the pain with its ugly implications. “You're full of shit. You saying she authorized this?”

Reynolds didn't so much as flicker an eyelash. “She needs more werewolf muscle.”

It was just the kind of double-cross Celestine was more than capable of pulling, too. Which meant they didn't dare jump him. If they killed the vampire's pet when he was acting on her orders, she'd gut the lot of them. George frowned, feeling cheated. Like it or not, they'd better keep their collective hands off until they knew for sure.

“Shit!” Suddenly Tim bent double, his face contorted in a spasm of pain.

Taylor grunted, his beefy face paling as he grabbed his bitten thigh. Others groaned or shouted. George gritted his teeth as the pain intensified to a raking, burning blaze.

“It hurts!” Doris moaned. “God, it hurts! What's happening? Somebody get a doctor!”

A broad, unpleasant grin spread across Reynolds's face, as he watched the girl drop writhing to the debris-littered ground. “And on that note, I think it'd be wise to get furry myself. Show you how it's done.” George figured the bastard was probably afraid of being caught human when they all changed.

With that, Reynolds transformed, his body growing to its full towering werewolf height, sable fur spreading over his skin in a silken wave. This time George actually saw it happening—for about half a second before fire roared up from his own guts.

The pain ripped a scream from him before he could drag it back. George bent double, vaguely aware of the others dropping to the ground to writhe in agonized convulsions.

Doris started shrieking, her voice high with agony. Light blazed across the clearing.

Before the chief could tell her to shut the hell up, Something came barreling out of nowhere and slammed into him—something not physical, yet huge and glowing with power. It closed clawed fists in his guts, ripped, twisted his arms and legs like taffy, pulling him mercilessly. He burned, vomited, pissed himself at the agony.

And then…

Like a light going out, the pain was gone.

George collapsed, shocked and shaking, bracing himself on hands and knees as he fought to get his bearings.

That idiot Doris was still screaming, and the whole area was lit up with blazing blue light. Alarmed, George turned toward her.

The clerk was burning like a witch at the stake. Ghostly blue flames leaped from her eyes and mouth as she screeched. “Help me! Somebody help me!” Her mouth twisted into an animal howl. “Hel…”

Then she was gone. Vanished. All that was left was tiny blue sparks, floating on the breeze like the remnants of a campfire.

“Shit,” George breathed. His voice sounded all wrong, a deep, growling rasp. Startled, he looked down at himself.