Pack of secrets, p.7
Pack of Secrets, page 7
A shadow passed above, and my heart about leaped out of my chest. Just an owl. I let out a weak laugh at my overreaction and raced toward home. Then a shallow stream running parallel to the road caught my eye. Crusted blood pulled at the skin below my nose and eyes. I had no idea what I looked like but wanted to avoid uncomfortable questions like “who did this?” and “is he still alive?” I weighed my options, deciding a quick pit stop wouldn’t hurt. Worst case scenario, the stranger would dive bomb me from the sky, which could happen on or off my bike. At least if he attacked while I was parked, I could hide or fight back without crashing.
Decision made, I veered into a turnout and parked beside the stream, listening for sounds of pursuit. No ominous flapping of wings, no distant roar of Rust’s bike. The stream bubbled, squirrels chittered, and an owl hooted from not far away. It was probably the same asshole who’d tried to give me a heart attack.
A game trail led down to the bank. I followed it, stopping about six feet from the water to watch and listen. I was still deep in Terra Fera—the side of the fracture where magic reigned and supernatural creatures abounded—and there was no telling what sort of monsters hunted these woods. Rust always said patience was the real key to survival, and that old wolf had lived long enough to know. I scanned the trees, sniffing. There was a rabbit den nearby, but I didn’t scent any other animals. The moonlight shone off the flowing water. It moved downstream, but nothing appeared to move within it. It was difficult to see, though, even with my enhanced sight.
Kneeling on the bank, I kept my eyes and ears open as I lowered my head to the surface and splashed water over my face. The dried blood didn’t want to come off, but I scraped at it with my fingernails until my skin was soft. Satisfied, I cupped my hands and bent to get in one last rinse.
A flash of color beneath the surface drew my attention. Three glowing yellow eyes, each about two inches in diameter, appeared just beneath my face. Startled, I froze, hands still cupped and halfway to my face.
What sort of lake monsters have three eyes?
That was a question for another time. For now, my heart pounded in my chest as I slowly balanced my weight on my back foot, preparing to bolt.
The eyeballs lurched forward.
I flung my hands open. Water splashed everywhere as I staggered backward, almost falling on my ass. Three rows of razor-sharp teeth broke the surface, snapping together where my face had been only seconds before. Tentacles whipped out in my direction. Unsheathing my daggers, I leaped to the side. Wet, rubbery flesh slapped against my arm, trying to find purchase. I sliced at it. Green goo spurted everywhere, its stagnant pond stench making me gag. I ducked the spray and darted out of range. Drops of green hit the ground and sizzled. The creature let out a blood-curdling shriek, and the tentacle retracted, disappearing beneath the water as little puffs of steam erupted from the ichor spotting the ground.
“What the hell was that?” I asked the now silent bank.
Nobody answered, but that was for the better since I’d reached my threshold of weird for the night. At least I wasn’t tired anymore. Adrenaline pumped through my veins, making me feel like I could sprint for hours. Frantically backpedaling until I reached my bike, I kept one eye on the stream as I hopped on my Harley. Using the spare shirt stashed in my pack, I toweled off my face before gunning the motor to life. The creature didn’t reemerge, and I didn’t stick around to see if it would.
My heart didn’t stop racing until I hit the I5 corridor and made my way north toward Seattle. It had to be close to 2:00 am, and few vehicles dared the road, but I occasionally caught the glow of eyes watching me from the darkness. Of course, that could have been my imagination running away with me. I still couldn’t believe I’d escaped with the artifact, the Chalice of Power, as the guardian had called it. Now, that male was an egotistical nut job. Didn’t matter how attractive he was, he clearly had a screw loose.
And he’d called me a beast? Look who was talking!
He was a savage, raging brute, even more domineering than my alpha. He’d used powerful magic without breaking a sweat, sprouted wings, and who knew what else he was capable of? I’d only survived because I’d surprised him. I wouldn’t be that lucky again. Soothing him hadn’t been the most brilliant play for me to make… or maybe it was. Perhaps if I had soothed him from the beginning, he wouldn’t be so hellbent on ending my life.
But the ragey bastard had attacked me first, and soothing was meant to heal injured spirits, not to redirect people who wanted to kill me.
I should have severed his spinal column. Then I wouldn’t have to spend this entire drive looking over my shoulder in anticipation of an attack.
My stomach roiled at the thought. Even the idea of killing made me want to hurl. It was official, I was the worst defective wolf shifter on the planet.
As I reached the city limits, a shimmery blue boundary curtain made of ether came into view. Created by mages at the end of The Eradication, the boundaries separated the land into Terra Victa, where the use of magic was strictly prohibited, and Terra Fera, where magic ran rampant. Translucent and only about an inch thick, the boundary line was anchored by a narrow two-foot-deep fracture and stretched into the sky and east for as far as I could see. On the west side, it butted against the freeway before turning north and running alongside the shoulder.
According to Rust, the nonmagical Mondeine rarely stepped foot in Terra Fera. Since they depended on laws and authorities to keep them safe, most Mondeine couldn’t hack it in a land where might made right, and only the fittest survived. As I drove along the barrier, I peeked at the province on the other side, wondering what it was like. Bright streetlights illuminated pristine high-rises. Modern, sleek cars drove along clean, even streets. It looked like a completely different world than the one I’d grown up in.
Probably because it was.
It was also forbidden. Especially for me. My father kept me on a short leash, stuck in the den unless Rust was with me and we were training. I used to sneak out with my best friend, Mackiel, when we were young, but we always stayed within pack territory. I wouldn’t have been opposed to venturing further, but not to Seattle-Terra.
I’d learned all about the Mondeine in school and had no interest in a land where officials were elected based on fundraising and promises they never kept. They were a corrupt people who thought only of themselves and amassing wealth, while alphas found their strength in the health and well-being of the pack. Sure, our ways weren’t perfect, but our den was always clean, the children were protected, and nobody ever went hungry. Everyone had a job and a purpose.
My thoughts involuntarily drifted back to the guardian who’d attacked me. I wondered if he had ever crossed the fracture. Probably not. Mondeine would take one look at his intense silver eyes—paired with all that dark, dangerous energy—and… something. My brain had drifted back to his thick lips and dark eyebrows, and I’d lost my train of thought. Why the hell were his eyebrows so damn distracting?
“You are the broken beast. I cannot allow you to unravel the thread.”
His words haunted me. What if he was right, and in my attempt to release my wolf, I unleashed some sort of apocalypse upon the world? No. That was crazy. If our magical solution to my problem came with doomsday-level potential, my aunt would have mentioned it. Surely.
Most likely.
Okay, that’s it. He’s the beast, not me. No more letting him mess with my head.
Making the silent pact with myself, I took the Madison Street exit, heading away from the boundary line and into downtown. A lone streetlight flickered, illuminating a spray-painted warning that I was entering pack property and trespassers would be eaten. As much as I’d like to say the last part was a joke, becoming dinner was a strong possibility for those stupid enough to try their luck. The alpha monitored the district through multiple surveillance cameras and pack patrols, and he didn’t play when it came to the safety of the pack.
This part of the city had a rough past, and it showed. The photographic travel books I’d scavenged touted the Pioneer District as “richly historical” and known for “Renaissance Revival architecture, thriving restaurants and breweries, and a coffee shop on every corner.” But, Seattle-Fera no longer fit that description. During The Eradication, my father assembled an army of shifters and invaded the Emerald City, claiming the downtown districts as pack territory. The humans retaliated with force, launching ballistic missiles packed with explosives and silver dust.
The result had been devastating.
Buildings were demolished, landmarks destroyed, and roads ravaged. Twenty-five years had passed since the war ended, but the wreckage remained. The once famous skyline was now void of the Space Needle. According to Rust, Seattle’s iconic observation deck had crumpled during the first series of blasts. The second attack took out half of the Columbia Center, the art museum, and Smith Tower. Then, when the war ended and the mages fractured the land, a wave of magic flooded Terra Fera, feeding plants and animals an unhealthy dose of arcane Miracle-Gro. Buildings and streets that had survived the bombing were no match for a magically charged Mother Nature.
No longer famous for its architecture and Mondeine comforts, the city’s wild side now sported a different shade of beauty. One born of savage brutality.
While the Mondeine province was like a well-groomed house cat, cared for and cherished, the Tricari side was a stray dog, beaten, thrown into a fighting ring, and ripped to shreds. Instead of rolling over and showing its belly, the city fought and survived. It was forever changed but not defeated. Every scar served as an awe-inspiring symbol of its strength and tenacity. I would love to venture into Seattle-Victa someday, but the Ferra side would forever be home.
Navigating my bike around hollow, moss-covered shells of buildings, I slowed my speed to avoid popping a tire on cracks in the uneven pavement. The area teemed with life; nocturnal animals scurried over the ground, chittering and chirping. Lingering scents from the pack’s patrols intermingled with game trails. The glowing eyes of a small animal—either a raccoon or an opossum—followed me as I made my way to the giant crater that served as an entrance to my pack’s den.
The pack used motorcycles for several reasons: they got an average of fifty miles to a gallon of gas, made for a quick getaway, and were easy to fix. They were a transportation no-brainer. They could also navigate the terrain better than a car, and we could cram everyone’s bike into the small lot at the mouth of the den. I rolled into an empty spot at the back of the lot and parked. Sliding off my bike, I stood and stretched.
Everything hurt, but I was safe.
Steadying myself against a concrete pillar, I yawned as the last dregs of adrenaline melted away, leaving behind a bone-deep weariness. Sleep was so close I could almost taste it. I wanted nothing more than to drag my ass to my bed, but I couldn’t. Not yet. Not with Rust still out there and in danger. I could text him, but the pack only had two cell phone towers: one close to the den and one at the farm. Cell service elsewhere was shoddy. Besides, he wouldn’t hear his phone if he was on the road. Worrying my bottom lip, I listened for the roar of his bike, wondering if I should have broken my word and waited for him.
Too late now.
With nothing to do but wait, I fired off a text to Mackiel.
Me: You up?
No answer. Not surprising since he’d have to get up early to work with the recruits. My friend was still at the farm where new packmates went to train for two years. He’d been there almost four, and instead of bringing him home, the alpha had given him authority over the newbies. I didn’t know if he’d ever come home, but at least we still texted daily.
I glanced around, making sure I stood in the blind spot of any surveillance cameras. Careful not to rip my hair out, I untangled my cap and accessed the attached camera. I rewound the footage and watched the scene from the trove. The box didn’t change; there was no swirling galaxy or involuntary blood donation. I stared in stunned disbelief as the recorded version of myself opened a plain wooden box. Because of the higher camera angle, I couldn’t see my bare hand in the shot when I picked up the chalice. According to the video, my actions were textbook. Fast-forwarding to the attack, I paused on the guardian’s handsome, terrifying face, committing it to memory. Not like I was in danger of forgetting him, but still. Something about his eyes drew me in and held me captive, almost as firmly as his freezing spell had. Maybe he was an incubus. I didn’t know if the sexual demons existed, but that would explain my instant and senseless attraction to him. I rolled the footage again, pausing when he quirked an eyebrow at me. My wolf whined in response.
Yep. Definitely an incubus.
I rewound the footage, stopping right before the big guy swung at me and hit the button to splice the recording. My thumb hovered over the delete button as I weighed the pros and cons of erasing the encounter. The alpha had a way of turning paranoia into a pack sport. If I so much as muttered phrases like ‘took a blood sample,’ or ‘promised to kill me,’ he’d overreact, round up a merry band of pack killers, and they’d march off and attempt to exterminate the threat. Attempt being the keyword since my attacker would probably magic the entire team in place and behead them at will with his giant sword.
I didn’t want the blood of packmates on my hands. I also wasn’t looking forward to the lecture I’d get when the alpha realized I’d had the opportunity to kill the guardian and let him go.
On the other hand, if I kept this encounter from him and my father ever found out, an ear-melting lecture would be the least of my worries. He’d flay my backside. Wouldn’t be the first time, but that didn’t make me any more eager to be at the receiving end of a beating. Growing up in Ireland in the 1800s, my father was Catholic to his very core. Spare the rod and spoil the child? Not Chaz McCarthy. It had been years since I’d received my last lashing, and although I was technically an adult, there was no way the alpha had forgotten how to wield a belt.
“Chipmunk,” a male voice said by way of greeting.
Startled, my cap slipped through my fingers. I fumbled but managed to catch it before it could hit the ground. A notification flashed across the screen, letting me know the spliced footage had been deleted. Whelp, the universe had made the decision for me. Hoping it was the right thing to do, I smacked the cap back onto my head before seeking out the person who’d startled me. Two shifters, obviously out on patrol, stood about ten feet away. Bare-chested, they wore only sweatpants, sneakers, and elastic tactical belts. The sweats and shoes were easy to kick off if they needed to change forms, and the tactical belt would stretch to accommodate any shape. Handheld communicators were clipped onto the belts, keeping the patrol in constant communication with the den. The faces of both shifters were familiar, but I didn’t know their names. Not surprising since the alpha strongly discouraged me from fraternizing with the guards after… Well, after one guard had misinterpreted my soothing for something more intimate.
One of the guards met my gaze, unhooked the handheld communicator from his duty belt, and pulled it up to his mouth, all without blinking.
“Stryker here, come in Home Base.”
“You got Home Base. Go ahead, Stryker,” a female voice replied.
“I got eyes on Chipmunk. She’s back and by the bikes.”
“Copy that. I saw her arrive on the video feeds and let the alpha know.”
Clipping his handheld back into place, he flashed me a condescending sneer that made me grateful I’d figured out how to block the thoughts of my packmates. The bastards seemed to get off on making me feel like a captive—like an outsider and possible flight risk—but they had no idea what I was capable of. Nobody had held a silver-bullet-loaded gun to my head and forced me to come back tonight. I stayed because I wanted to, because this was my pack, too.
Hell, if I wanted to leave right now, I could get on my bike and peel out of there.
But that’s what Dad’s cronies wanted… a reason to hunt me down and punish me for being different. I refused to give it to them.
Head held high, I marched past them to the jagged concrete hole in the ground that served as the entryway of the den. The patrol continued on, and I let out a breath, relieved that no one had attacked me. The fight for dominance was an ongoing battle within the pack, and since I didn’t fight, I made for an easy target whenever some idiot wanted to flex. I tried not to let it get to me, but I avoided most of my packmates whenever I could.
Our pack was housed beneath downtown Seattle, in the original ground level of historic homes and businesses that had been built on filled-in tidelands in the late 1800s. In 1889, a fire raged through the district, destroying the original Pioneer Square and the twenty-five blocks surrounding it. After the fire, officials decided to rebuild at a higher elevation to solve the flooding problem.
Re-grading the streets would take almost a decade to complete, though, and the city was in the middle of an economic boom. Desperate to capitalize on the prosperity of the residents, merchants couldn’t afford to wait. They rebuilt storefronts on the muddy land and opened for business. Not to be deterred, the city moved forward with its plans and erected retaining walls at the street-side edge of every sidewalk. Entire blocks were walled off, forcing shoppers to use ladders to climb in and out of blocks to purchase goods and services.
With brick walls enclosing thirty-three blocks of the old downtown, the city moved on to the next step and filled in the old streets. Next, they laid new roads down on top of the landfill, eventually building new sidewalks over the old and turning first-floor display windows and lobbies into basements. The old sidewalks became tunnels that granted underground access to the buildings. The tunnels were used for prostitution and shady dealings until the Bubonic Plague hit, and the city condemned the underground, closing off its passages.
