Alpha Pack 4 - Hunters Heart (2 page)

of a building.

Grunting in pain, he shoved at the vamp, grimacing at

the stench of fetid breath wafting over his face. The rogue

had him pinned and bared his fangs, going for Ryon’s

jugular. Twisting, Ryon managed to get enough leverage to

put his back to the wall and shove the thing off him. The

vamp stumbled backward and Ryon grabbed for the silver

knife strapped to his thigh, cursing himself for not already

having it in his hand.

He took the snarling vamp to the ground, and in one

swift movement, thrust the blade under the breastbone,

burying it deep into the monster’s black heart. The vamp’s

squeal joined the others as Aric and Hammer took out

their opponents. But they weren’t out of the woods.

Another wave of the rogues emerged from the shadows,

intent on destroying their adversaries and feasting on their

blood. Before Ryon could stand up, two vamps leapt on

him, slamming him to the dirty concrete. He’d fought

greater numbers than this before and won, but they had him

off-balance. They got him facedown, one sitting on his

legs, twisting an arm behind him and taking the knife,

while the other grabbed a fistful of his hair and pulled his

head back to expose this throat.

“Get off me, you fucker!” His wolf, enraged, demanded

release as he bucked. Tried in vain to throw them off.

Knowing he could fight them much better on four legs,

with his own set of sharp teeth, he gathered his

concentration for the shift.

“Uh-uh,” the one sitting on his legs sang. “We can’t let

the puppy come out to play.”

How do they know—

A hard punch landed in his side. Hot, agonizing fire

spread through his torso, seized his lungs. His cry came

out as a hoarse wheeze as he realized the vamp had

stabbed him with his own silver knife, buried it to the hilt

between his ribs. He renewed his struggle to throw them

off, but it was no use.

“Hold still, pup,” the other crooned in his ear. “This

will be over soon.”

Then the creature’s fangs sank deep into Ryon’s throat,

silencing his shout. The agony was indescribable,

drowning out even the burn in his ribs. The sickening slurp

of the thing feeding at his neck made him want to vomit,

but he couldn’t move. Could do nothing as his sight began

to dim, his brain spinning with dizziness.

The one who’d been feeding raised his head, and spoke

with reverent wonder. “It’s true! Shifter blood is like the

purest cocaine! So good . . .”

“Let me try,” the other insisted.

“No! This kill is mine!”

Their argument saved him. That, and his Pack brothers

rushing to his rescue after taking care of the other rogues.

Distantly, Ryon heard the sounds of a fierce but brief fight

as the vampires turned to meet the new threat. Then sudden

silence, broken by harsh breathing. Boots, jogging toward

him. Cursing.

“Motherfucking hell,” Aric snapped. “Help me turn him

over. Careful.”

Hands lifted him, and soon he was on his back. He tried

to make out their faces, to say he was all right. But warm

blood gurgled in his torn throat instead. Fuck, he couldn’t

breathe!

“Don’t try to talk,” Hammer instructed him. “You’re

gonna be all right, my man.”

Aric examined Ryon’s side, muttering. “Stabbed him

with his own goddamned knife. We’ve got to leave that in

there for now, or he’ll bleed out.”

“But he can’t shift unless we remove it. If he can shift,

maybe he can heal faster.”

Aric’s voice floated above him. “Ryon? Can you hear

me?”

He nodded, once.

“Good. If we take out the knife, can you shift?”

He nodded again, or thought he did. Concentrating, he

attempted to call his wolf, but it howled in pain. Retreated

deep inside him, strength draining.

“Ryon? Hang on, man . . .”

His Pack brothers’ curses, their insistent pleas, melted

far away. Into nothingness.

• • •

Daria Bradford tossed back her single shot of whiskey,

relishing the warmth that slid down her throat to her

stomach. The nights grew cool in the Shoshone National

Forest in the early fall, so the small indulgence was

welcome.

Sitting by the fire, she picked up a bottle of water and

rinsed her shot glass. Then she dried it before returning the

glass and plastic travel flask to her backpack. The nightly

ritual comforted her, made her feel more at home, so far

from civilization. It was a tradition she and her father had

shared before he retired from the life’s work he’d loved

so much. The work that she carried on.

Her father had taught her all he knew about studying

wolves. As a young girl, she had accompanied him on

many a trip. After high school graduation, unlike many of

her peers, Daria had known exactly what she wanted to do

with the rest of her life—she would follow in her father’s

footsteps. And so she had, becoming a wildlife biologist

who specialized in the field of studying what, to her, were

the most beautiful and elusive creatures on the planet.

Her father had been part of the conservationist group in

the 1980s that was instrumental in saving wolves in the

Shoshone from the brink of extinction. Watching them

thrive once again was one of the two great joys in his life,

along with doting on his daughter. But eventually his

arthritis prevented him from scaling the mountains and

valleys he loved so much, so he now lived vicariously

through her tales. She made sure to bring him plenty to

hear over their cozy nights by the fire, their whiskeys in

hand.

Smiling to herself, she thought of all she had to tell him

when she went to visit in a few weeks. The wolf packs

she’d checked on so far were doing very well, the pups

growing. By the dancing light of the fire, she retrieved her

spiral notebook and logged her notes on each of the local

pack members for the day. Then she put it away and

crawled into the tent, zipping it shut against any nighttime

visitors that the flames didn’t dissuade.

Exhaustion crept into her bones and muscles, but it was

the nice sort earned from an honest day’s work. She

crawled into the sleeping bag and before long, sleep

cocooned her and she drifted off, content.

That’s when the nightmare invaded.

She was standing in a dark place. A dirty corridor.

City noises came from nearby—traffic, people talking.

Then came the shouting. She moved closer to the noises,

and realized it sounded like fighting. As she crept

forward, she saw dark shapes. Pale, humanlike figures

dressed in rags, snarling, yellowed fangs slashing in the

gloom.

They were attacking a group of men, and for a few

moments, it appeared the evil ones would win. How she

knew the defenders were the good guys, she couldn’t say.

She only knew she was invisible to them as they battled,

as the men gained the upper hand at last.

But one of their number went down under two of the

dark ones. There was a flash of silver, his choked cry

ending terribly. Suddenly. One of the attackers yanked

back his head and ripped into the man’s throat with

those awful yellowed fangs.

Stumbling forward, Daria shouted at them to stop, but

nobody heard. Her breath froze in her lungs as the

man’s companions came to his rescue, dispatching the

remaining creatures. That’s what they were—creatures

—but she couldn’t put a name to them. Thoughts of the

ugly ones vanished as she walked close, looked down

and studied the man whom his friends were trying so

hard to save.

He was, without a doubt, the most beautiful man she’d

ever seen. He was lying on his back, arms and legs limp.

Moonlight fell into clear, crystal blue eyes and glinted

off his shaggy blond hair. His nose was straight, and he

had grooves around his mouth and full lips that hinted at

a man who smiled frequently.

But at the moment, he was struggling to breathe. A

splash of red marred the torn flesh at this throat, and

there was more of the crimson lifeblood flowing from

around the hilt of the knife buried in his side. Worry for

the man and a deep, sudden sadness overwhelmed her.

She tried again to speak, but could not make a sound.

Then his gaze found hers, widened. Just for a moment,

the world narrowed to the two of them. Raising his arm,

he reached for her with bloodied fingers. She wanted to

hold his hand, bring him what solace she could.

Then she was sucked backward, falling out of the

dream as she cried out in protest.

No!

“No!” Daria’s shout rang in the tent as she bolted

upright.

Hand on her chest, she sucked in several deep breaths.

Gradually, her racing heart calmed, but the horror of the

nightmare remained. Because she knew better than anyone

that it was no dream. The scene had been a vision.

Only her father knew of the “gifts” bestowed upon her,

supposedly by a Native American ancestor. Everyone else

would think her crazy, so the two of them guarded her

secret with great care.

All of her life, she’d been plagued with visions of

scenes that were either imminent or had just occurred.

Most of them were useless, nothing more than innocuous

flashes. In the more serious, detailed ones, she typically

didn’t have a clue who the person in the scene was, and

couldn’t do anything to help. Well, not directly. Her other

gift—astral projection, the ability to send her physical

body into a dreamlike state and visit another place in a

spirit form—was also useless if she didn’t know who to

help, or where they were.

Squirming on her sleeping bag, she worried over the

handsome blond man in her vision. Who was he? What

were those horrible things that had attacked him and his

friends?

Most important, was he going to survive?

She didn’t know why he mattered so much. Why the

need to find him and make certain he was alive was like

ants crawling over her skin. Maybe, with this one, she

could find out. Because, unlike all the others, for one brief

instant, Daria and the man had connected. Even now, as

the rest of the vision seemed distant, a thin tendril

remained, trailing from her consciousness to his. She felt

it, but would need to project astrally to access it.

However, she couldn’t do that until she’d recovered some.

The strength of this vision had left her drained.

Settling down again, she tossed until daylight broke,

sleep elusive. Rather than being rested, she was tired and

rattled. She’d been so afraid she’d fall asleep and wake

up to find the thread connecting her to the sexy stranger

had vanished. But it was still there, waiting.

Centering herself, she sat with her legs crossed and

closed her eyes, arms loose in her lap. Focusing inward,

she let the sounds of the waking forest carry her away. The

telltale tingle danced over her skin, the signal that her

body was going into its trancelike state. Slowly, her

consciousness separated from her body, leaving it behind.

Looking back, she saw herself sitting peacefully in the tent

and, satisfied, set out to follow the thread.

At first the journey was easy. Not confined to flesh, she

soared over the trees, basking in the sunlight and the

beauty of the day. Onward she traveled, the connection

leading her to a curious break in the forest, a place where

the trees had been cleared. In the center of the clearing sat

a large building boasting several wings. The thread led to

one of those wings in particular.

In seconds, she stood in what appeared to be a hallway.

Before her was a door, and beyond it, she knew she’d find

the man she sought. Going forward, she simply walked

through it, intent on reaching the still form on the bed—

A loud shriek snapped Daria painfully back into her

body. The sound echoed through the mountains, causing

her pulse to stutter in her chest. “What the hell?”

As the sound died away, she tried to figure out what in

God’s name it had been. The creature’s angry, baritone cry

reminded her of something prehistoric out of an old

Godzilla
movie. Unbelievable, but accurate. As the call

died, chills pimpled her skin. Whatever it was, it could be

miles away.

That idea was enough to get her moving. She felt too

much like a sitting duck here, and she couldn’t try the

projection again for a while anyway. Quickly, she broke