Heart of the wolf, p.5
Heart of the Wolf, page 5
The two constables looked frustrated.
André eyed them. “Have you located the terrorists?”
“Yes, we did.” The taller one’s gaze darkened. “Their center of operations was a warehouse. It burned down Friday night. From the number of bodies and melted cartridges covering the floor, it looks like there was a bloody war. It appears as if the terrorists were packing up, perhaps to relocate after being discovered by the programmers.”
“Who attacked them?” By the Gods, Niall. Did you go after the murderers?
“No telling. Possibly someone higher up discovered the terrorist cell had been exposed and snipped off the weak link. Whoever it was did a good job of it.”
Fear made a cold slide through André’s veins. “Do you think my brother might’ve been there?”
The taller Mountie shook his head “Your brother’s a software engineer. Does he even own a weapon?”
Fangs and claws are weapons. “No.”
“As we thought. There’s nothing registered in his name.”
He swallowed past a dry throat. “The bodies… Is there any chance my brother is one of them?” If Niall had attacked, had he been killed?
“No, Sergeant.” The man’s gaze held sympathy. “Your brother is extremely tall. Although the fire has delayed identification of the warehouse victims, I can tell you none are your brother’s height.”
“I see. Thank you.” As relief swept like a cool wind through his fears, he realized he could feel the brotherhood bonds tying him to both his littermates. He would’ve known if Niall had returned to the Mother.
Wherever Niall was, he was still alive.
And André would find him.
CHAPTER SEVEN
I failed.
Failed as a cahir, as a male, as a protector, as a mentor. Niall snarled, the sound wet and ragged. Vaguely, he realized his humanity was fading away, the cougar uppermost.
Just as well. He was a fucking failure.
And he’d killed—slaughtered—humans. So many. The terrorist murderers had died under his fangs and claws. His aching head filled with the sounds of their screams. The rivers of blood. The feeling of ripping guts out.
He’d torn them to pieces, then trawsfurred to two legs and burned their building down on top of them.
It’d been a funeral pyre. Humans liked those.
Stupid humans.
He realized his paws weren’t moving. Somehow, he’d come to a stop, head hanging, tail on the ground. It must have rained; his fur was soaked.
Trying to remove the irritating wetness from his whiskers and ears, he shook his head—and pain exploded in his skull. As if he could escape the hurt, he broke into a lurching run again.
The forest around him kept blurring around the edges. How long had he been traveling?
Days maybe. He no longer knew.
After the killings and the fire, he’d run. Somewhere. Bleeding, hurting. He had a foggy memory of riding on top of logs—a truck—for hours before hearing the mountains call to him. When the truck stopped, he’d tried to slink off. Shouts and screams had assailed his ears. At least no one at the rest area had shot him. Fuck knew, he had enough holes already.
The forest had taken him in. And he just kept…moving.
Sooner or later, his body would give out. He flinched at the thought of his littermates. Of the breaking of the bond, of their grief.
He’d failed them too.
The forest grew thicker as he continued downhill. The rain was coming down harder, hurting his aching head and the gashes and bullet holes over his body. The trail changed to something very hard under his paws.
A light flashed, catching him in a spotlight, and there was a shrieking sound. Brakes.
He tried to spring away. Failed again.
Something hit him, flinging him into the air. Pain exploded in his leg, searing through him until darkness swept him under.
By the Gods, Niall, where are you?
As time passed, André took leave from the Mounties. He notified the territory’s Cosantir so the clan could watch for any sight or rumor of the missing cahir.
Meantime, André conducted his own search, utilizing every resource he could lay his hands on. How bloody ironic the shifter who was best at internet searches was the shifter who was missing.
Reports drifted in. Bodies from the warehouse were identified—no Niall.
Wouldn’t it figure this would be the time Madoc had taken his furry ass into the mountains? The bear often roved far and wide. André didn’t have days to sacrifice to locate him in the wilderness.
Instead, he kept on with the search. He’d gone to Calgary. In a parking lot near the young programmers’ apartment, he found Niall’s pickup. His wallet and dead phone were inside.
Had Niall been on foot? The terrorists’ warehouse was near the edge of the city. Surely a cougar would’ve been noticed.
Maybe Niall hadn’t been at the warehouse?
André sighed, setting his wish to one side. Too many of the terrorists had slash marks—something an oversized cougar might do.
The cahir hated to kill, but the humans had murdered Niall’s charges. Just thinking of the younglings’ deaths infuriated André. His brother would have felt the same.
Yes, Niall had ended the terrorists as thoroughly as he would ferals.
André tapped his fingers on the desk. When his brother returned—and André would accept nothing less—he needed to be kept out of this mess and free of suspicion.
Hmm.
Everyone knew computer nerds were wusses. Making a couple of calls, he told law enforcement and Niall’s boss that his brother was distraught, fearing for his life, and had left the province to stay with friends.
Part was the truth.
Because Niall certainly wasn’t anywhere close to home. Where had he gone after attacking the terrorists? Bullets had been fired. How badly had he been hurt, and why hadn’t he come home?
Yesterday, as a cougar, André had crisscrossed the forests closest to Calgary. Surely, a wounded shifter would have sought the wilderness.
He found no scent of Niall.
Shaking his head, he returned to searching through the wildlife sighting reports. One after another.
He stopped at one. Early Saturday morning, several people had seen a cougar jump off a logging truck outside Chilliwack. Bloody, limping, the cat had run off into the forest toward the south.
The area around Chilliwack and Abbotsford was outside the Gods’ domain. An injured shifter entering the forest would instinctively head for the closest Daonain territory.
That would be the North Cascades, over the border in Washington.
Seriously, brawd? You went into the United States?
André packed and loaded his vehicle. Dammit, Madoc, I need you here.
When he’d called the bear’s phone, he’d heard Madoc’s cell ringing in the house. Didn’t it just figure?
Ah, well, his brother should be back tonight or tomorrow. Pulling out a pad, André wrote out a note.
As he left the house, he realized he was rubbing his chest. The bond to Niall was growing weaker. Either his brother was losing strength, or he was far, far away.
Maybe both.
Thud.
The impact shook the Jeep. As the screech of brakes still screamed in Heather’s ears, she stared in horror at the limp body near the front of her Jeep. The headlights mercilessly showed rain-soaked golden fur and a white muzzle.
Oh no, no, no. I hit a cougar.
At least, it wasn’t a Daonain. A shifter would have heard her car and moved off the road. Wouldn’t have been on the road to begin with.
Still. I hit some poor, big cat.
She rested her head on the steering wheel for a moment and tried to get her thoughts to work. Over the interminable days, she’d staggered down the mountain, falling all too often, which was pitiful for a four-legged animal. She’d been so dehydrated she’d stopped at every stream for the whole first day. An unwary marmot provided enough food to revitalize her. A bit.
I’m so tired.
Climbing the tree to her clothing had hurt so bad, and then she cried at finding the bag soaked from the rains. Wet clothing was even worse than wet fur.
But once in the car, the heat was wonderful. Almost enough to make up for the rutted gravel road and scant visibility. Stupid, wet Washington State. Where else could there be fog and a heavy rain at the same time?
Thank the Mother she’d been driving slowly.
Okay, girl. Chin up. She cautiously eased out of her car, hoping the injured cat wouldn’t attack.
As she drew closer, her eyes widened. That was one huge cougar.
“Sorry, my friend,” she crooned and eased forward. “I need to see how bad I hurt you.” Where was the nearest wildlife rescue?
Over the petroleum stink of her car, she scented blood, cougar…and then the wild fragrance of a male shifter. “Oh no.”
Fresh blood streaked the pale golden fur just below his hip—the leg was broken. She dropped to her knees, hoping he was conscious enough not to savage her. “Hey, kitty, you’re…really hurt.”
There was blood everywhere—old and new. So many wounds. Scrapes, slices, and a lot of round holes. From bullets? The putrid stink of infection oozed from some. “Somebody shot you up good, kitty.”
The cat’s eyes didn’t focus. There was a deep gouge across his head. No wonder he hadn’t dodged her car successfully.
She shook her head. He was way past her ability to care for him.
“Kitty, hey.”
The cat’s breathing was too fast.
“Cat, I’m going to take you to a healer, but we have to get you into the Jeep.”
A disoriented shifter was never taken to a hospital. There was too much risk of them shifting in front of humans. Ailill Ridge was the closest shifter town, but Rainier Territory couldn’t keep a healer. Because Pete treated everyone like shit.
The North Cascades had one, and since Donal rarely left his territory, she’d have to take the injured shifter to him.
She firmed her voice, making it a command. “Up you go. Now.”
Her words took an eternity to get through, then with a chuff of exertion, the cougar rolled and rose onto his paws. Three paws. His back leg was definitely broken, and she had to close her lips over the apologies trying to spill forth.
Gods, he was brave. He had to be in an incredible amount of pain as he slowly crawled into the back of her Jeep. Stabilizing his leg, she helped boost him in. He settled there, laying his head on his paws with a low moan.
“Good boy.” She stroked her hand over the matted wet fur. “I’ll get you to Donal, and he’ll get you fixed all up.”
The cougar rubbed his big head against her hand. His eyes closed.
She held her breath, terror ripping through her, until his ribs moved up and down. Not dead. Just sleeping.
“Hang in there, cat. Please.”
“You were right, Heather. He’d have died if we hadn’t met you halfway.”
A male voice rasped over Niall’s ears. Feeling the heat of a person too close, he snarled, unsheathing his claws.
The whole world rocked beneath Niall as the male jerked back.
“By Herne’s holy prick, if you scratch me, I’ll cut your tail off.” The resonant voice sounded familiar. And the curse was reassurance the male was Daonain.
At least, I’m not in the hands of humans.
Blinking, Niall tried to focus his eyes without moving, because, by the Gods, there wasn’t one place on his body not hurting.
As his eyes cleared, he realized he was in the load space of an SUV. Slowly, a memory surfaced from his foggy thoughts. He’d been coaxed into the vehicle by a female with a beautiful voice—not high or shrill, but warm and very feminine.
Had she left him?
A lean male with long black hair stood under the raised back hatch. A sniff affirmed he was a shifter with a hazily familiar scent.
Niall turned his head carefully.
Leaning against the back was another male, tall, big-boned, square jawed. Also a shifter. His blue eyes met Niall’s. “If ye can see yourself fit to do so, changing to human would be good.” A faint Irish accent made the words into a song.
Trawsfur? Bad idea. Niall’s tail twitched in annoyance, in fear. Human bodies had no claws, no fangs. Were defenseless.
Yet, a confused shifter could be deadly to those trying to help, and face it, his thoughts were drifting like leaves caught in a stream. He couldn’t risk hurting the innocent.
Closing his eyes, he turned his thoughts inward. Where was the door in the back of his mind? There. The glow was diminished to such a pale thread he knew his body was failing.
With an effort, he mentally opened the door and stepped through. His body transformed.
Fuck, that hurt.
And now he was naked and injured and damned vulnerable with only strangers around him. He sucked in a breath, trying not to panic.
“I’m Tynan.” The Irish-accented male studied him. “And you are?”
What’s my name?
It came to him slowly. “Niall Crichton.” His voice came out hoarse and ragged. “Where am I?”
“At the edge of the North Cascades Territory.” At Niall’s blank look, Tynan added, “Washington State.”
Niall frowned. State—like in the United States?
I left the fucking country?
He and Donal had been down here last June. They’d gone home after the festival, right? Yes, yes, they had.
Images of the last few days drifted through his head, yet nothing connected. “I don’t know how I got here,” he admitted.
The black-haired male gently touched a painful area on Niall’s head. “I’m not surprised. This is from a bullet. You’re lucky you still have brains in your head, cahir.”
Tynan scowled. “Too fecking blunt, Donal.”
“Just the truth, brawd.” Donal frowned at Niall. “The hemorrhage in there would’ve killed you if the crack in your skull hadn’t let the blood escape.”
Donal must be a healer. The presence of the Mother was unmistakable.
“Not enough leaked out though, which is why you almost died,” Donal finished.
Healers were either wonderfully sympathetic or blunt to the point of rudeness. Donal was not in the sympathetic category. His irascibility seemed vaguely familiar.
Niall cleared his dry throat. “Almost?”
“I fixed the bleeding and relieved some of the tissue damage—or you wouldn’t have woken. Now it’s time to mend your fractured skull.” Donal set both hands on Niall’s head. “Ready?”
“Aye, go ahead.” As the healer started, Niall gritted his teeth at the painfully itchy feeling under his skull. Don’t move.
It lasted forever.
“Done. So, Niall, how in Herne’s fucking forests did you collect so many bullets?” Stepping back, Donal turned his attention to Niall’s busted leg.
Tynan handed Niall a bottle of water. “My question as well. Are there humans shooting at shifters?”
Niall frowned, trying to remember. Images like photos in a scrapbook teased his memory without lining up into a coherent story. “I—I’m not really sure.”
Donal patted his uninjured leg comfortingly. “Give it time. Most of it should come back in a day or three.”
Thank the Gods.
“I loosened the thigh muscles, brawd.” Donal leaned on Niall’s hip, pinning him down. “Straighten out the break for me, would you?”
“Brace yourself.” Tynan gripped Niall’s leg, pulling firmly.
Burning pain stabbed through Niall’s leg as the bones moved. “Fuck, damn, hell, shit!”
Tynan snorted. “You’ve been around humans too much, cat.”
“The bone’s lined up well. Don’t either of you move.” Donal bent his head.
As the healer did whatever healers did to knit bones together, the pain deep in his leg changed to an impossible itch, like someone scratching at a tight scab.
An intolerable amount of time later, Donal straightened with a sigh. “Now, let’s clean out all those pesky perforations from bullets. At least most of them are through-and-through. Heather, can you bring over my medical bag?”
The female who appeared was the one who’d coaxed him into her car. Tall and leggy with red-brown hair. Scratches and scrapes marred her fair skin.
She smiled at Niall, then blinked. “You’re a cahir.”
She must have spotted the blueish, blade-shaped scar on his cheek—the God-given mark of a clan protector.
“Aye.”
“No wonder your cat was so big.”
“Sorry if I scared you.” He hissed in pain. The sadistic healer was using a massive, irrigation syringe to forcefully hose out a bullet hole. The stink of infection and old blood hung in the air. Thank the Gods, blankets and towels were catching the mess.
“I’m sorry I hit you.” Her eyes gleamed with tears for a moment.
“I was standing in the middle of the road.” He managed a rueful smile. “No question about it being my fault.”
Tynan’s eyebrows went up. “A-boat? You’re Canadian?”
Why couldn’t Americans pronounce about properly? At least the Yank hadn’t said “a-boot.” But Niall could only nod as Donal started probing for a bullet. Fuck.
“Mother’s breasts, but that looks painful.” Heather sat down at the edge of the loading area next to Niall and took his hand in a firm grip. “Hang on to me, cahir. You have a lot of wounds to tend.”
He closed his fingers around the warm, sturdy hand, grateful for the anchor to a world that kept turning gray and foggy. “Thanks.”
Her scent was oddly familiar but not her voice. Yet he could swear he’d heard the healer speak before. Why was he so confused?
She squeezed his fingers, stopping the drift of his thoughts. Her eyes were a striking bluish-green and soft with sympathy.
“I like you,” he told her.
