Shifters of Silver Peak: Mate For A Month (7 page)

Friday evening

Marcus stood by the woodpile near the pack’s dining hall, breathing hard, and wiped the sweat from his brow. He looked over at the pile of logs he’d split. Technically they were supposed to take it in turns to gather firewood, swapping out the chore with more sociable tasks around the camp, but Marcus liked the solitude and the mindless physical work. It somehow stilled the constant whirl of painful memories that usually kept him tense and jumpy even though he was safe; even though those terrible days were behind him.

So he’d silently taken over the task as his own, and nobody had commented on the fact that the stack of firewood was replenished each morning as if by magic. The others didn’t mind. Why would they? They knew he was an antisocial bastard, standoffish and a little weird, so they let him get on with it. Besides, it saved them a job.

He glanced in the direction of his cabin. Eileen would be home from work by now. He felt a sharp tug of longing, entirely unfamiliar. For the first time since he could remember, he actually wanted to be with another person. That was part of the reason he was here. He didn’t want to get used to her. To need her. Because their mating was a lie, an illusion, and she’d leave as soon as she could. Someone like her, someone sweet and beautiful and magical, would never want to be with a monster like him.

He stared down at the wood pile.

Eileen wasn’t the only reason he’d come out here. Normally he found solace in this kind of work, but today, the steady rise and fall of the ax wasn’t keeping the memories away. He swung and swung again, the muscles in his shoulders and back burning with the effort and his shirt soaked through with sweat, but he could still hear the jeers of the crowd as they bayed for blood.

The scent of his perspiration mingled in his memory with the taste of blood in his mouth, the smell of the sawdust that covered the floor of the fighting ring to soak up the gore. He could hear the meaty smack of fists on flesh, feel the blood-lust rising within him as he gave in to his animal side and shifted. His fingers tightened on the ax as he recalled his uncontrollable sense of rage and the dark, gleeful sense of power as his lupine fangs met in his opponent’s throat.

He’d killed. He’d killed dozens. And even though he’d been given no choice in the matter, he knew deep down, with a wretched twisting in his gut, that some semi-feral part of him had rejoiced every time an opponent’s lifeless body was dragged from the ring.

That day…the day he’d known that all hope was gone…
He didn’t even know how long he’d been there. He’d been snatched away from his family and tortured and taunted until his mind had all but snapped, and human concepts like time had no real meaning for him anymore.

Matthew, in human form on the other side of the featureless cell, gave a warning growl as Marcus passed. When the door had clanged shut behind them, Marcus huddled in the corner of the concrete floor, shaking with rage, trying to hang on to the last few tattered fragments of his human self.

When Matthew had first been dragged in a few weeks after Marcus was taken, bloody and beaten but full of a strange, quiet sort of dignity, Marcus had been pathetically grateful for the company. Matthew, chosen by their captors for his massive size and fighting prowess just as Marcus had been, had given him hope. Their conversations had helped Marcus to center himself, to hold on to the core of his being despite the brutal treatment the men were subjected to. They had discussed plans for escape. They had been bold and defiant, taking strength from each other, comrades in adversity. And they had consoled each other when, on being returned to the cell after each round of combat with the lifeblood of other shifters on their hands, they had to come to terms with what they had done.

But Matthew was broken now. He had been beaten, taunted and starved, and his mind – the rational, human part of his self – was all but gone. Matthew was nothing more than an animal.

Marcus knew that he, too, was on the verge of going feral, and once that happened there would be no going back. There was a reason the Council for Shifter Affairs insisted on all shifters being registered with a pack. Once a wolf went feral, there was only one cure – a bullet to the head.

Not that Matthew would get that mercy.

The difference between them was anger. Marcus knew that when he finally turned altogether, he would go out in a blaze of snarling defiance. Maybe he’d even manage to take a few of his tormentors down with him – the men who had kidnapped him and who arranged the bouts of illegal fighting, and the baying jackals who placed million-dollar bets on the outcome. Their fat wallets and expensive suits didn’t hide the fact that they were savage beasts, so bored with their privileged, dilettante lifestyles that the only thing that could penetrate their ennui was to watch two living creatures tearing each other to pieces.

Matthew didn’t have that same anger. Just as one kicked dog will bite while another will cower, Matthew had succumbed to a paralyzing fear that meant he no longer displayed the fighting spirit that entertained the crowds. His growl had been that of a trembling cur, not one of aggression.

He wouldn’t be winning any more fights. The next time he was dragged into the ring, Matthew would die. And the men who ran the fights thrived on the pain and misery of their playthings. Matthew would lose the fight, his lifeblood sinking into the sawdust in great red-black gouts, but if those monsters could cause pain to his killer as well, they would relish the opportunity to do so.

That was how Marcus knew he would be the one sent into the ring with his one-time friend to end his life.

Marcus shook himself, hard.

Hang on, hang on…

Seeking solace, he glanced in the direction of his cabin again. And he saw smoke. A lot of smoke. Suddenly, penetrating through the haze of his memory, he realized that shifters were running past him, towards his cabin.

Eileen.

He dropped his ax and ran.

* * * * *

“Huh,” Erika mused, looking at the remains of Marcus’ cabin. The smell of smoke filled the air, but a good soaking from the pack’s fire truck had extinguished the blaze. The cabin was a blackened shell now; half of it had collapsed in on itself. “First time I tried to cook, the same thing happened. Good thing Leland doesn’t care that I can’t cook.”

“You’re just trying to make me feel better.” Eileen wiped tears from her cheek with the back of her hand.

“No, trust me, you do not want to let Erika in, or near, a kitchen,” Chelsea told her.

“You burned your house down?” Eileen said doubtfully.

“Well, my dad was home, so I only burned down part of the kitchen. Oh, there’s Marcus.”

“Oh, dear God.” She glanced nervously at the house. “It was nice knowing both of you.”

Marcus stalked towards them and glanced at the house.

“I tried to cook dinner for you,” Eileen said mournfully when he got there. “I was trying to be useful.”

He scowled at the cabin and then at her. “You all right?” he asked after a minute.

“I’m not injured or anything. I’m just completely, totally, useless to everyone.”

“No, you aren’t! Don’t say that.” Chelsea patted her arm. That was nice of her to say, but of course she’d say that. What was she supposed to do, admit the truth? Admit that Eileen was nothing but a shiny ornament, and that if she vanished, nobody would even notice?

Then Eileen looked at Marcus. He was stripped to the waist, and wood chips clung to his jeans and boots. “Where did you come from?”

“Chopping wood.”

“When did you get home from work?”

“Four hours ago.”

She stared at him. “You got here four hours ago and couldn’t even be bothered to tell me you were back or say hello to me?”

Marcus hesitated. “Uh…”

A rush of sorrow and humiliation swept over her, and she swallowed a sob. “You know what? I am done here. Forget the stupid road. Forget this fake mating. I am leaving here now, before I accidentally burn your entire forest down.”

Eileen ran to her car, with hot, angry tears running down her face.

“Eileen, don’t leave!” Chelsea yelled. “Eileen! Don’t make a pregnant woman chase you! Marcus, damn it, go get her and apologize, you big jerk!”

“Eileen! Wait!” Marcus shouted after her, sprinting towards the car.

She ignored them both and slammed her car door, and drove off with an angry screech of tires.

“Is there such thing as a quintuple tequila shot?” Eileen asked the bartender. She was sitting at a bar called Dudley’s Tavern in downtown Silver Peak. It was newly opened, by one of the families who’d discovered mineral springs on their property. A human family, she’d heard. That was unusual in a shifter town. The tavern was decorated in nineteenth- century saloon style, complete with a brass rail along the bar, a piano and decorative spittoons.

The owner of the bar, a pretty, petite blonde human who’d introduced herself as Joyce Dudley Richards, looked at her skeptically. “Yes, there is. And I’m not giving it to you. You weigh about a buck ten soaking wet. And you came here alone. I don’t want you to leave alone and wrap yourself around a tree. You get one tequila shot, and I’m keeping an eye on you.”

“Fine.” Eileen resisted muttering “Mom” under her breath. She accepted the tequila shot and slammed it, feeling the warmth as it burned down her throat. Joyce set down a glass of ice water next to it, and Eileen sat there disconsolately, sipping the water and wishing she could find it in herself to hate Marcus. It would be so much easier if she hated him.

She wearily rubbed her face with her hands. Where would she sleep tonight?

Where would she go tomorrow?

Well, for now the bar was warm and welcoming and the jukebox was playing a sad country song that suited her mood exactly.

Joyce moved swiftly from one end of the bar to the other, dealing out drinks like cards from a deck, smiling and chatting with customers, vanishing behind the counter into the back for a bit, then returning.

She came back to Eileen’s end of the bar.

“You okay?” she asked.

“Relatively speaking,” Eileen said. “I mean, I’m young. I’ve got my health. I’m not living in a Taliban-occupied country.”

Joyce grabbed a bottle from behind the bar, opened it and took a sip.

“Well, at least you’ve got perspective,” Joyce said, tipping the bottle back again.

As she drank, Eileen noticed the rounded swell of her belly and the Mate Mark on her neck.

Joyce patted her stomach. “Don’t worry, alcohol is for the customers only. I’m strictly drinking mineral water. Are you that new girl, Eileen, who’s mated with Marcus? My mate Paul was part of the Kincaid Pack, but now he’s the sheriff of Silver Peak, so he joined their pack.” That would explain why she’d opened up her business in shifter territory.

“Oh, congratulations!” Eileen said, trying to summon up genuine happiness for her despite her own misery. She wanted to ask her about Marcus. Why was he like that? Why did he hate everybody? Why did he hate himself?

“Thanks! If you need anything, you just let me know.”

Eileen nodded, and sighed as Joyce bustled off to serve another customer.

She’d left behind all her clothing at Marcus’ cabin when she’d stormed off in a huff. Of course, her clothing might have been destroyed by smoke, fire or water, for all she knew, and most of it was inappropriate for Silver Peak anyway.

Should she go back and get it? She stared into the bottom of her glass.

“There you are!” It was Valerie, the secretary who worked for Mr. Rosemont. She plopped down in the seat next to her. “Hope you haven’t had a day like mine.”

Eileen managed a rueful laugh. “Oh, I really, really doubt that.”

“Why do you smell like smoke?”

“Don’t ask.” Eileen licked the rest of the salt off her tequila glass.

Sorry, Mother
, she apologized silently. All those etiquette classes gone to waste.

“Listen, I wanted to let you know, Mr. Rosemont said that he would offer you a paid internship. Our internships don’t pay a lot – they start at twenty-four thousand dollars a year – but it’s a good way to get your foot in the door. We need someone to write website and blog copy for us.”

Eileen felt a flare of hope. “He wants to offer me a paid internship? But…he said he only wanted people with experience. And he hasn’t even interviewed me.” She looked at her empty tequila glass. “And he mocked my outfit.”

“He does that kind of thing a lot. No tact whatsoever. I’m not saying it’s a dream job. And basically, I found out who you are and manipulated him into offering you the job because of who your father is.”

And just like that, the flare was extinguished. “He’d be hiring me as a favor to my father.”

Valerie threw her head back and laughed. “He’d be doing it because he hates your father’s guts. Purely out of spite.”

Well, that was flattering. Not.

“Valerie, I really, really appreciate it, but I’m actually headed out of town,” she said.

Valerie nodded. “Also my boss is a rude, insulting douche, so I understand why you might not want to work for him. Well, I wish you luck wherever you end up.”

Eileen left a twenty on the bar and headed out to the parking lot. She was almost at her car when a dark figure burst out from behind a minivan with darkened windows. She jumped back with a shriek, then stared in dismay.

Beacham Haversham. Wearing khakis with a knife-pleat, loafers and a lime-green cable-knit sweater.

“What are you doing here?” she said. “You nearly gave me a damned heart attack.”

He looked her up and down. “Why do you smell like smoke?” he said, wrinkling his nose in distaste.

She stared at him. “Someone annoyed me and I set them on fire.”

He just looked at her. “Is that a joke? I don’t get it.”

She was in no mood to deal with his condescending attitude right now. “Move, and let me get in my car, or you will get it. Trust me.”

“I don’t think so.” He leaned against her car door and gestured at the minivan. “We’re leaving now. I am prepared to forgive you for this embarrassing act of indiscretion – which, by the way, has been covered by all the newspapers.”

Ugh.
Her fake marriage was in all the papers – and it was already over.

“No need for forgiveness. You should hold a grudge. Forever,” she said, and started to walk around the car to get to the passenger door. He moved fast, blocking her.

His eyes gleamed with anger. “I already announced our wedding. If we don’t marry, everyone will think that Beacham Haversham has been rejected. Nobody rejects Beacham Haversham.”

“Oh my God, I forgot how much it annoys Eileen Pennyroyal when Beacham Haversham refers to himself in the third person.”

“What? You’re not even making sense right now. Clearly this thin mountain air is making you light-headed. I’m taking you with me, and we will be married first thing tomorrow on my estate, and then you will remain on my estate with me until you come to your senses.”

“My father won’t let you kidnap me,” she said uneasily, taking a step back.

He shook his head chidingly. “Your father sent me here. This is for your own good, Eileen.”

She turned and tried to run.

His arm shot out and he grabbed her arm, painfully tight.

“Let go of me! Let go of me!” she screamed.

He began dragging her towards his van in a determined grip. He grabbed the van door and flung it open. Terror flared up inside her.

Nobody would come looking for her. She’d already told Marcus she was leaving him, and the pack. They would just think she’d returned home to marry this psycho.

“I said let go!” she screamed at the top of her longs.

“Nobody’s coming to help you, Eileen,” he said in an annoyed tone. It was true, she realized, and despair washed over her.