Polar Bared (18 page)

As Vicky babbled, Gene mentally sighed. Now what? He’d expected his deep secret to send his Pima in to a fit. He just never expected it to unleash such a chatterbox. One who accepted him.

Holy shit.
She accepts me.
As he was. Scars, bear, foul-mouthed, and ornery. And she cared about him. She’d said so, and he knew she didn’t say it lightly. He’d seen and heard the tremulous bravery as she admitted it. Knew the courage it took for her to say it aloud.

It made him want to shift back and sweep her into his arms and tell her the words back. Because, dammit, despite his determination to remain aloof, he’d fallen for this woman. Fallen hard.

When she’d asked him what would happen once the danger to her was gone, if he’d leave, he’d wanted to shout never.
Never will I leave your side.
Only years of habit held his tongue. A reminder of who he was curtailed his enjoyment of her declaration.

Yet, what if there was no danger to her, to him, to them? What if he decided to forgo his plans for vengeance and instead took the forgiveness and offer to come home that Brody and the others offered? Could he start over? Could he have a life with Vicky?

The door to his room slammed open, and Gene whirled with a snarl. He stayed his paw, though, before ripping Brody’s face off. His friend’s next words did little to diminish the sudden adrenaline rushing through his system.

“We’ve got company. Some already furry and those that haven’t shifted are armed. Given they’re skulking outside trying to cover all exits, I’d wager they are probably not up to any good.”

A low rumble shook Gene’s chest.
Nothing like a dose of reality to remind a man why he can’t have a happily ever after.
It seemed his enemies had finally tracked him down.

But they’d never capture him alive.

“Are they after me or Gene?” Vicky asked.

“I’d say Gene given they’re shifters, but as you’re covered in his scent, you’ll probably be a target too. I might suggest you get dressed and grab a gun.”

“A gun?” She squeaked the word, her fear palpable, but when no thump followed, Gene silently congratulated her on reining in her fear.

“Yes, a gun. Oh and don’t forget to lock the door.”

As clothing rustled, Gene head-butted Brody toward the door. His friend took the hint and hit the hall, waiting for Gene’s ass to clear the portal before closing it behind them. The click of the lock engaging showed his Pima was at least paying attention. Not that a locked door would do much. At most, it was a flimsy barrier of protection, but honestly, if the attackers made it past him to the room, she was fucked no matter what.

So I’ll just have to make sure I kill them all.
Threaten him? That was one thing, but threaten his Pima? That was an invitation to die.

Given the windows on the second floor were small and inaccessible, it made more sense for him and Brody to meet the attackers on the main floor where they’d have room to maneuver. Of course getting his big polar bear ass down the narrow stairs caused a bit of mirth on Brody’s part.

He snickered as he followed behind Gene. “I see all that seal hunting and lazing about on the ice packs has made someone’s ass a little fat.”

Growl
.

“Need me to give you a shove so you can get down the stairs.”

Snarl
.

“Hope all that blubber doesn’t impede your ability to fight.”

Rumble
.

“Mad yet?”

Yeah.

“Just in case you’re not quite in berserker, polar-bear-rage mode, I think I should add I saw your woman naked. And man, does she ever have a nice set of tits. If you don’t make it out alive, maybe I should make a play for her.”

With a roar to shake the rafters, Gene didn’t wait for the fight to come to him, not with the rabid ire thrumming through his veins. He took his ballistic need to kill something outside, charging through the front door, which Brody wisely flung open a moment before Gene turned it into kindling.

He took a pair of men armed with shotguns by surprise, tearing through them, and trampling before they could shout, “Holy shit!”

But once that initial element of surprise wore off, the fight was on.

When it came to battle, shifters were of two mindsets. One group, the naturalists he mockingly called them, preferred to fight in their animal form. They eschewed weapons and rules, preferring to engage in a blood-thirsty, savage duel to the death. Gene excelled at this type of fight.

Then there were the modernists, who could shift but preferred the calm precision and gore-spattering method of combat that allowed the use of guns, crossbows, or knives. A well-aimed shot, or perfect slice, could quickly incapacitate the enemy, leaving a fighter with more energy to survive numerous attacking waves.

Gene was real good at that too. He’d say just ask his enemies, but, well, there weren’t really any left alive to crow about his prowess. And he’d long since stopped keeping body count.

And then there was a third state. The berserker rage. It was discovered that when Gene got really, really, really fucking mad, he could mix and match his skills via a half shift.

For example, while he began his mad dash outside as a bear and mauled the first two attackers, before the bodies had hit the ground, he morphed parts of himself, enough that he could stand upright and move like a man, his paws turned into hands, albeit still with hooked claws. The best of two worlds. Tear his enemy apart with his feral aspects or snag a gun from cold fingers and fire on the coward who thought to park himself across the street and take potshots.

Everything was a rush of sound, motion, screams, gunfire, darkness. In other words, utter chaos. The bartender, who owned the place and lived over the business, emerged in unlaced boots, a flapping flannel shirt, and red long johns wielding his gun.

Lucky for Gene, he wasn’t hunting polar bear.

“Fucking varmints. Attack my fucking saloon, will you?” the old soldier yelled as he took aim at a wolf—not Brody—that tried to slink through the front door.

Speaking of Brody, he’d retained his man shape and was double-fisted, knife in one hand, pistol in the other. He ducked and swerved as he made his way around the side of the building, the distant screams letting Gene know he’d found more of the enemy to play with.

He let Brody have them. There was more than enough to go around.

It seemed
he
had finally tired of Gene’s defection and had waited for him to surface. Just as Gene feared. Had he been alone, he would have ditched the town and his supplies, leading the bastards away from the settled area and the civilians getting caught in the crossfire. But Brody was here, and the idiot would never run from battle.

And then there was Vicky.

Poor defenseless Vicky, who probably huddled in his room, terrified.
I need to protect her.
Because he didn’t doubt for an instant that
he
knew about her, and if
he
got his hands on her, she’d end up hurt.

Not while I live.

The very thought of her suffering any kind of injury fueled his rage. It helped him ignore the sting of a bullet that seared across his upper arm. It allowed him to block the pain as a wolf latched its teeth around his calf until he aimed a gun at its head and blew it off.

Everything was going great. Fuck, despite the odds, he, Brody, and the crazy soldier-turned-barkeep were winning. Bodies both human and not littered the area. Gene actually managed to pause and breathe for a minute or two when he heard it.

The scariest sound he’d ever heard in his life.

“Put me down, you brute.”

Pima!

Every smart geek knew, from watching movies and reading books, that if a hero said to stay hidden, then you should stay hidden. Nothing good came of venturing forth bravely, glasses firmly in place, some kind of blunt object in hand.

Knowing this, Vicky planned to stay in the room. She didn’t harbor any illusions about her usefulness in a fight. Despite her burgeoning bravery, she’d prove nothing but a hindrance. With her luck, she would probably faint at the most inopportune moment.

Before she hid, though, she did prepare. She dressed in her warmest clothes, threw on her boots as well, grabbed a gun—which terrified her and she held gingerly lest she shoot her own foot off—and hunkered down in a corner.

Waiting, though, proved harder than expected, especially because she could hear the chaos happening just outside.

It frightened her; she couldn’t stop that. Yet, in spite of her fear, she remained awake, even if she cringed at the screams and the crack of gunfire. While Vicky felt little faint, her face didn’t meet any hard surfaces, although her limbs did shake. Her bladder didn’t betray her—yay, no need for an adult diaper yet—even as she heard the tread of heavy steps outside the door and the ominous rattle of the knob.

However, when something banged against that flimsy portal and it popped open to hit the wall with a crash, she did utter a small, frightened, “Eep!” She could have slapped herself for emitting the sound because it immediately drew attention from her unsavory visitor.

As the unshaven thug with cold eyes, a cruel smile, and the rifle in hand entered the room, she couldn’t help but remain in a frozen huddle in her corner. The geek in her attempted to use a Jedi mind trick on him.
You see nothing. Go away.

It didn’t work.

A sneer twisted his lips, and his derision was clear when he spoke. “Well. Well. What have we here? The bear’s whore. Won’t the master be pleased?”

Someone give the man a dictionary. I’m not a whore by any sense of the definition.
But she didn’t say this aloud. Fear froze her tongue, and she could only hyperventilate as he came farther into the room, advancing on her.

Where was a bear, or Gene, or both when she needed them? If ever she required a hero, it was now. Like right now.

Any instant now.

Surely he’d come to her rescue. He always had before.

However, no towering Gene with a scowl appeared to remove the menace. No looming bear with a vicious snarl arrived in the nick of time. It was just her, and the thug who grinned victoriously.

Oh my god.

So this was what death looked like when it came for a girl. Unshaven, smelly, and in need of a dental plan.

I don’t want to die like this.
Not like a coward huddled in a tiny ball.

Suddenly she remembered her weapon. She swung the gun upward and aimed it at his chest. In a tremulous voice, Vicky said, “Go away.”
Yeah, way to tell him.

Not surprisingly, he laughed mockingly. “Or what? You and I both know you’re too chickenshit to shoot. Why, you can barely hold that gun.”

Given the shake of her hands and the wobble of the barrel, Vicky couldn’t deny his words.
I am terrified, and, yes, I’m barely able to keep the stupid, heavy thing pointed.
But was she going to allow terror make her a victim?

No?
was the feeble reply from her hiding inner heroine.

Not exactly encouraging. It seemed she lacked the gumption to believe in herself.

Faintness threatened as she panted, the tremors making her teeth chatter.

She drew in a breath.
No.

A little better. Firmer. She could do this.
I can do this. I won’t be a victim anymore.

NO!

Her eyes closed and…

She fired, and almost got a black eye for her effort as the recoil almost smacked the gun in her face. As it was, her ears rang, her arms smarted, and she was still just as terrified, especially since a peek showed him still standing. She’d only nicked him in the arm, which he stared at with disbelief.

“You bitch! I’m going to fucking kill you for that,” he growled.

She could almost hear Gene say, “
Not if I kill you first.”
Do or die time. She chose do.

Eyes closed, she aimed in his general direction and fired again. And again and again…

When only clicks sounded in the room instead of the thundering boom, she peeked with one eye.

Nausea gripped her as she saw the result of her actions.

Him or me,
she reminded herself. Better him.

But she couldn’t stay here with the evidence of what she was capable of doing when she found her courage and her life was placed in jeopardy. The room had lost its safe-haven status, and she refused to sit here waiting for an outcome with a corpse—that according to horror movies would probably begin to twitch and come to life as an undead creature. Nice to see her vivid imagination was functioning at an elevated level.

Rising to her feet, she averted her gaze before stepping gingerly over the body. When it didn’t grab her ankle as she crossed, she just about sighed in relief.

Keeping a wary eye on it—for any sign of freaky movement—she snagged a second gun she’d seen stashed in the side pocket of Gene’s bag. New weapon in hand—safety switched off because, as Gene, in one of his rare talkative moments, had taught her, there was no point in having a gun to defend yourself if you couldn’t use it. Speed could spell life or death. The thinking and time it took to fumble a safety latch off could make all the difference in a fight.

Funny the things you could remember when circumstances called for extreme survival.

As the dead body behaved and showed no signs of turning zombie, she tiptoed to the splintered doorframe. Taking a deep breath, she peered around the jamb, ready to jump and probably scream like a girl. Given her taut nerves, it wouldn’t take much to send her in to a fit. Or wet her pants.

No need to panic. An empty hall gaped.

Whew. Breathe out. Still on her toes, dumb considering she wore big, less-than-dainty boots, she inched her way to the top of the stairs. She held tight to the gun with two hands, readying herself, and then peeked down.

Clear.

Look at me, sneaking around like a pro.
Ha. She doubted pros clenched their Kegel muscles tight lest they pee themselves.

Step by step, gun held out like she’d seen in the movies, her ears ringing from the shots she’d already fired, she made her way down the stairs to the main level. Still not a soul around. Thank god.