Dire Desires: A Novel of the Eternal Wolf Clan (26 page)

C
ain di
aled the phone over and over, hitting the buttons more frantically each time. No answer. Mailbox full.

It didn’t make sense.

Panic raced through him and, for the first time since his original moon craze, he couldn’t control his wolf. He shifted in the middle of the Dire living room as all the other wolves around him growled and surrounded him. He was prepared to fight each and every one of them to the death if it meant getting outside.

He was desperate. Growling, frothing at the mouth and he shoved at Rifter, who shifted and rose on his hind legs.

Cyd lunged then, but at Rifter. And Cain took that opportunity to crash out the side window that hadn’t yet been repaired, splintering wood as he went.

The scent was getting fainter than it had ever been. Why was that happening? He swore he could hear the man in his ear, but that was wishful thinking.

Angus, where are you?

He ran through the woods, searching every corner and crevice frantically, did so for hours, barely aware that the other wolves were following him. But they weren’t interfering.

Finally, he hit on a spot and he sniffed and dug . . . and then he found it. His wolf howled uncontrollably and he wanted to stop, to make calls, to be sure. But until Vice’s hands touched him, didn’t let go even when Cain bit his hand deeply, he couldn’t calm down.

Vice’s ability was his extremes of emotions. He was worried too, but he managed to push himself in the other direction and the pendulum swing of calm forced Cain to be so as well. In a matter of minutes, he was able to shift, and when he did, he bit out, “Angus is gone.”

“What do you mean,
he’s gone
?” Vice asked, still calm so Cain could be. The other wolves shifted and moved around him.

“Someone dragged him out of here. He’s not answering his phone—and it’s here—crushed.” He pointed and they all looked at the destroyed cell, covered in Angus’s blood.

Cyd had an arm around him. “We’ll find him, brother. If it’s the last thing I do.”

Cain could only nod, because he was reeling.

“How protected is he?” Vice asked.

“A little. But we didn’t mate, yet. We were waiting until . . . tonight.” His voice broke on that word and the last thing he remembered hearing was Vice cursing as Cain shifted uncontrollably into the wolf again. And then he ran.

He might never stop. Not until he found Angus.

•   •   •

Angus woke in
the back of what he assumed to be a van. He was hogtied, but not gagged, and he wasn’t alone. He turned and let his eyes adjust to the light so he could see Bobby, his old partner. And try as he might, Angus had no memory of why they were together in this van.

“Bobby, what the hell?” he asked and Bobby opened his eyes and stared at Angus in the darkness.

“I thought you’d never wake up,” Bobby said. “It’s the trappers.”

“Trappers? What are you talking about?”

“Weretrappers got us, Angus. Two up front, probably four more in the car following. I only got a quick look before they bashed my head in.”

Maybe trappers were a new gang? Angus shook his head, trying to clear it, but that was a mistake. The dizziness overtook him and he gagged, trying not to throw up.

“Dammit,” Bobby cursed. “They hit you hard. You’ve got a concussion. You need to stay awake, Angus.”

But it would be so much easier to just close his eyes and sleep. “Were we on a case? Did you let our sup know where we’d be so he could send backup?”

“Angus, you’re not in the FBI anymore.”

“What do you mean, Bobby? Have you lost your mind?”

“Don’t you remember? We were in the woods, hunting Weres. Wolves.”

“I never liked hunting.”

“Shit. Don’t you remember Cain? Do you think he might be able to help us?”

“Is Cain an informant?” Everything was swimming in a jumbled mess in his mind. He felt fear now, and at the same time, he began to shiver. The motion of the van was making him seasick and he got onto his knees, tucked himself into a small ball like he was trying to disappear.

If he was lucky, maybe he would.

T
he Dires gath
ered in the woods, along with Liam, Cyd and Cain, who still wore silver chains to stop him from erratically shifting. The past weeks, days, had been so hard on all of them, but they were out here under the moon, bruised and a little worse for wear, with big worries hanging over their heads.

But, as Rifter pointed out, with great sorrow must come great joy. He told them it would be irresponsible not to celebrate. That it would be a slap in the face to Dire tradition, and to the traditions that they’d created together.

“We’re going to make more of our own,” Rifter promised now. “It’s time. We have to break away from the old enough to let in some of the new.”

The baby on Vice’s shoulder made a cooing sound, as if in total agreement with the king. Jinx put his arm around Gillian’s shoulders and let the goodness of that sound seep into his soul.

This naming ceremony would also be a mating blessing. The Elders were called for, but none came.

“What does that mean?” Gillian asked him.

Vice wanted to say that it meant the Elders were assholes, but Harm spoke first.

“We’re here. And we’re the ones who count,” Harm said, and his voice was sure and firm. “I’d take Rifter’s rule over them any day.”

Rifter nodded and moved in front of Jinx and Gillian. He blessed the union with a prayer in the old language as Gillian held tightly to Jinx’s hand, her eyes sparkling. They kissed, everyone clapped.

They would run under the moon after blessing the baby.

“Dire, do you have a name for your son?” Rifter asked, and it was the first time anyone had called this baby Vice’s son. He didn’t bother to hide the tears, cleared his throat and said, “He will be called Niclass.”

Rifter smiled. “You gave him a Dire name.”

“He is, for all intents and purposes,” Vice said. “We’ll call him Nic.”

“His name means victory of the people,” Rifter explained to those who didn’t know. And then they all chanted a prayer and protection blessing for the little one.

“Now, we run,” Rifter proclaimed and they all headed deeper into the woods. Rifter and Gwen shifted first, and the others followed in quick succession. The last ones with Vice were Jinx and Gillian. Vice wanted to shift, but he wouldn’t leave Nic.

Maybe he could come up with some kind of sling for Brother Wolf.

Now, Jinx and Gillian stood on either side of him.

“You two need to run,” Vice told them.

“Maybe this is our new tradition,” Jinx told him.

“I like it,” Vice told them. He put the baby in Gillian’s arms and Nic cooed. “He likes you.”

“I like him, too.”

“Gillian, don’t ever give up your search, okay?” Vice told her. He hadn’t, thousands of years later, still hadn’t. Nic was in his arms and he knew this was the right thing to do.

Liam had come far in a short time span. Vice would take none of that credit. The fact that Nic would be with him through all his years . . . that was something that scared Vice. But he’d always liked a challenge.

Together with Nic, they walked farther into the woods as the shifted Dires cavorted around them. The moon shone above them, bathing them in all things good and warm. And no matter what would happen, what could, they were family.

N
ot all who wander
are lost.

Eydis had read the
Lord of the Rings
books and watched the movies so many times, she knew many of the lines by heart.

That particular one struck her every single time. She was a living, breathing example of that wanderer. No matter how lost she wished she could be, it would never happen.

She could still scent Vice, had never stopped being able to, even when she was killed by her own Dire pack and ascended to the Elders. Many times, she’d wished she’d simply died, but she’d always been able to comfort herself by knowing she could watch over Vice.

The other Elders had always been able to torment her in turn by tormenting him. But this last favor she’d begged for the immortal Dires who walked the earth, and in order to have her promise granted, she’d done the proverbial put up or shut up. And now, she was back here, an immortal, unshifted Dire walking the earth.

Even if she was allowed to see Vice, how could she explain the choices she’d been forced to make?

The choices you did make.
There was no going back, but there was no forgetting either. She’d accepted her punishment easily, knowing how lonely it would be.

If you go to the Dires, we’ll make your life a living hell,
the two remaining male Elders had promised.

Like it hadn’t always been,
she’d told them.

If you go to the Dires, we’ll make their lives a living hell.
We’ll take away anyone and anything that’s ever been important to them
had been the final threat, the one that made her accept that being alone, for the rest of her immortal life, was the only path she could wander.

Don’t miss the first book in Stephanie Tyler’s

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SURRENDER

A Section 8 Novel

On sale now from Signet Eclipse

Please turn the page for a preview.

Zaire, twenty
years earlier

T
he explosion threw him forward hard, the heat searing his body, debris cutting into his back as he covered his face and stayed down. Darius didn’t need to look back to know what had happened—the bridge had exploded. Simon had purposely cut off their last means of escape. It would force their hands, Darius’s especially.

“Darius, you all right?” Simon shook him, yanked him to his feet and held him upright. His ears would continue to ring for months.

“How much ammo do you have?” he called over the din. Couldn’t see the rebels yet, but he knew they were coming toward them through the jungle.

“Stop wasting time. You go.” Simon jerked his head toward the LZ and the waiting chopper about thirty feet away, crammed full of important rescued American officials and the like. Already precariously over capacity. “Go now and I’ll hold them off.”

Simon had always had a sense of bravado and a temper no one wanted to deal with, but one against twenty-plus? Those odds were not in the man’s favor. Darius shook his head hard, and it was already spinning from the explosion.

“You are no fucking help to me,” Simon told him. “I can’t watch your back this time, Darius.”

“Fuck you.”

“Leave. Me. Here.”

“If I do that, I’ll come back to just a body.”

“You’re never coming back here.” Simon’s teeth were bared, ready for battle—with the rebels, with Darius, if necessary.

“If we both fight, we’ve got a better shot,” Darius told him.

“You would tell me to leave if things were reversed, Master Chief, sir.” Simon stood straight and tall, hand to his forehead, and Darius growled, “Don’t you dare salute me, son.” Their old routine. Simon managed a small smile, one that was as rare as peace in this part of the world.

“Don’t take this from me, Darius. Let me save your goddamned life. You have your son to think about—I won’t take you away from Dare.”

Dare
was in middle school—his mother had already left them both, and pain shot through Darius at the thought of leaving his son without a parent.

Simon knew he had him, pressed on. “The team will always need you, and me—well, you can always find someone who can fight.”

“Not like you.”

“No, not like me,” he echoed. “You go and you don’t ever return.”

Darius didn’t say anything, and for a long moment they were silent, listening to the rustling that was still a couple of miles away. The blood was running down his side, and if he stayed in this wet jungle much longer with a wound like that . . .

“There’s one spot left for a ride home.” Simon told him what he already knew. “That seat is yours.”

“I’m half-dead already.”

“You think I’m not?” Simon asked, and Darius flashed back to a younger version of the operative in front of him, walking along a dusty road two miles from Leavenworth.

Darius had gone from being a Navy SEAL, fresh from capture in an underground cell where he’d been held for twenty-two days, to a medical discharge, to a phone call inviting him to join a very different kind of team. The CIA was creating a group—Section 8. For operatives like him. They’d have a handler and all the resources they’d need. Their only rule: Complete the mission. The how, when and where were up to them.

He was maybe the sanest of the group, and that was saying something. Simon always had the look of a predator, occasionally replaced by a childlike wonder, usually when Adele was around. If you looked at the team members’ old files, you’d see everything from disobeying orders to failing psych exams to setting fires.

But if you knew S8, you’d see the mastermind. The wetwork expert. The demolitions expert, the one who could handle escape and extractions with ease. They could lie and steal and hack. They could find any kind of transport, anytime, anywhere, anyhow, that could get them the hell out of Dodge.

In the beginning, they’d been nothing more than angry wild animals, circling, furious with one another and their circumstances. But once the trust grew, it was never broken.

Separately, they were good. Together, they were great.

And now, three years later, two S8 operatives stood near the wreckage of a bridge in Zaire and they were both about to die.

“If you could save fifteen people . . . or just one . . . ,” Simon prodded.

“Don’t you pull that trolley problem shit on me—I’ve been to more shrinks than you and I’m not leaving you behind like this,” Darius said, his voice slightly vicious. But they both knew he’d relent. He’d done everything Simon had asked of him, and this was for the good of the rest of the team.

“They’ll never recover without you,” Simon told him. “You’re the goddamned heart of the team.”

“And you’re my best goddamned friend,” Darius growled. Simon’s expression softened, just for a second.

“Just remember the promise,” Simon warned.

We don’t try to find out who’s behind S8. No matter what.

Neither Darius nor Simon believed what happened today was a screwup their handler could’ve known about. But their promise referenced him specifically. They knew they’d been brought together by the CIA, but their handler picked the jobs, gave them orders and anything else they needed. Once they started distrusting him, it was all over.

“I’ll remember,” Darius told him now.

“Good. Go.” This time, Simon’s words were punctuated with a push. Darius barely caught himself, and when he turned, Simon was already running in the direction of the rebels, the crazy fucker confusing them with his contrary tactics. Because who the hell ran toward the bad guys?

Darius made his choice—he was a liability, so he made his way to the helo, pulled himself on board and shoved himself into the pilot’s seat. Within minutes, the steel bird was grinding gears, rising above the heavy cover of jungle. As the chopper blades cut the air smoothly with their
whoompa-whoompa-tink
, Darius turned the helo and stared down at the man who’d left himself behind as Darius took the rescued civilians—aid workers, a diplomatic attaché and other Americans who’d been working in the area—away. He’d never take credit for the glory on this one, though. Simon could’ve sat in this pilot seat as easily as Darius did.

There was a chance Simon could fight them off. There was always a chance. And as he watched for that brief moment, he hoped beyond hope that Simon could win, fight his way out of the mass of humanity that was trying to kill him simply because he was American.

One last glance afforded Darius the view he didn’t want—the mob surrounding Simon. It was like watching his friend—his teammate—sink into a manhole as they swarmed over him.

Section 8 had ended at that moment, at least for him. He’d later learn that their handler had agreed, and the group of seven men and one woman who’d been thrown together to work black ops missions around the globe with no supervision and very few, if any, rules, had been officially disbanded, the surviving members given large sums of money to buy their silence and thank them for their service.

He would have to explain to the team why he’d left Simon behind, although they’d know. They’d get it. They all prepared for that eventuality every single time they went out. It was part of the thrill.

There was no thrill now as he watched his best friend die. And he didn’t turn away, stared at the spot until he couldn’t see anything anymore, and knew he’d never get that image out of his mind.