The Lord of Near and Nigh: Shifter MC Novel (Pureblood Predator MC Book 2) (18 page)

“You’re right. But it slowed him down. Another shot to the heart. That put him on the ground. Then another to the head. Watched him lose his wolf and become a man. Screaming like any half-dead man. Knew I had him then.”

He’s a mean old bastard, but there’s nothing about him to make me think he’s anything other than a man. I just need to convince him not to shoot me now. Maybe in a day or so I’ll have enough strength to summon my spirit, and then—
 

“How ‘bout you go ahead and call him, boy? I’ll let you get halfway to him. I want to see the best damned trophy I ever took.”

I wish I could. A hundred Ruger Hawkeye slugs couldn’t harm my animal, even partially formed. I shake my head and say, “No. You’ll have to murder me as a man.”

The hunter slips his finger over the trigger. “Can’t call him, eh? That’s a damned shame.”
 

Usually even in human form I’d heal from a rifle shot. But a rifle that powerful and from this range would lay me flat for a second or two, and in the meantime the bastard just might have the sense to cut off my head and throw it on the fire. And now, with how weak I am, and given he’s aiming straight at my heart?
 

No. I don’t think I’ll survive.

I close my eyes.
 

There’s a snapping sound behind the hunter, like a branch being broken, then a shrill, tortured scream.

Shiori.

The hunter grins and resettles his shoulder against the tree. “Changeling girl found the leg iron. Snap them jaws go! Imagine those iron teeth be hurtin’ her real—”
 

I rush at him, blind with rage. I make it three steps and the rifle thunders and then I’m lying on my side in the snow, my screams meeting Shiori's in the chill night air. I’m alive only because he missed my heart. The bullet tore through my left shoulder, shattering everything inside. My left arm hangs by a thread of mangled tissue and muscle, and I watch in morbid fascination as my blood pumps into the snow.
 

It freezes instantly.
 

“Made me miss, boy,” the hunter snarls, speaking loud over Shiori's shrieks. The hunter’s dogs bark and howl behind me, mad with the reek of blood.
 

Dark spaces swell in the edges of my vision, join one another, and soon I’m looking at the world through a haze of blurry black.
 

The hunter’s moved from the tree. I hear the sound of the bolt being drawn and another bullet entering the chamber.
 

“Was thinkin’ on killing you and taking her for myself once or twice when she’s chained. Too skinny for my liking, but beggars can’t be choosers. No sense in it now. She’s all tore up and no good to no one. Regret you didn’t change. Would’a liked to see you. Suspect you’re a proud beast.”
 

The hunter’s smart enough not to step within arm’s reach.
 

Instead he raises the rifle at my head and says, “Ain’t no harm in dying, son. Suspect you’re ready anyhow.”
 

“I’
M
GOING
TO
make this slow,” Sorry growls as his claws rake into my thigh.
 

I clamp my teeth together to prevent myself from howling. My wolf is mad with fear and the desire to hurt something, and as Sorry passes I manage to scrape my claws against his shoulder.
 

It’s nothing, a tiny scratch, barely enough to draw blood.
 

But it’s enough.

Sorry still bleeds red.

“Give you time to reconsider,” he says. “Time to yield.”

“Considerate of you,” I say, stepping back, letting him circle in front of me for another pass.
 

Sorry drops to all fours. His fur shines midnight black, so dark it’s nearly blue. Spittle drips from his fangs. He’s with the wolf now, running free. He can’t speak, but I hope he can understand me.
 

The wolf that was my brother paces in front of its kill, back and forth, whirling as he reaches the walls. Maybe he’s fighting something. The man in Sorry made a decision. A hard decision, born of fear and desperation, corrupted by lies and dreams of the future.
 

But the wolf knows no future. It only knows it’s still in a cage. With a man who smells like his brother. A packmate. An alpha. He knows he’s supposed to murder me.
 

But I wonder if he knows why.

“She won’t release you,” I say, lifting my arms, trying to show him I mean no harm. “When it’s done she’ll leave you in this cell. A fancy pet. Dress you with a nice new collar. She’ll bring her Stricken friends down. Show you off.”

The black wolf lifts its head and growls.
 

It could rip my throat out in a single swipe.
 

I have no illusions of fighting him.

Then he charges at me, three hundred pounds of blood instinct and razor fangs.

I hold my ground.
 

The wolf nips at my leg. Tears a chunk from me. But he could’ve torn my leg clean off. He’s holding back. For now. The reek of blood might still get him. Move him beyond the fear of murdering his brother and packmate.

“You don’t want this,” I say, straining to keep my voice low and soothing, straining to keep my own wolf locked up. “You’ve never wanted this. You want to roam free. Like we roamed free, through the mountain forests in autumn. Do you remember? I remember, brother. I remember well.”

Sorry’s wolf paces to the far wall, but this time instead of whirling he bashes his head into the cinderblock. A wet thwack echoes through the cell.

He’s hurting. Confused. Uncertain.
 

He stalks to the other wall, bashes his head again.
 

It’s killing me, seeing my brother like this.
 

“Remember the scent of huckleberry? Of salmon running upriver, dying for their kin to be born? The bears—dim-witted bastards—lolling and lazy on the gravel banks, their bellies swollen? Remember the scent of winter on the wind? The first snow dusting the mountain slopes, shining in the morning sun?”

The wolf plops on his haunches and howls: long, plaintive, mournful.

“It was long before the time of men. You remember hunting? Winter was a bitter taste on our tongues. We needed a feed. It was only you and me, brother. A pack of two. Loping along the riverbank. Shoulder to shoulder. On the scent of prey. The world made sense then, didn’t it? There was only one truth: you needed me and I needed you. Alone our prey would outrun us. But together? You remember what we did, together?”

The black wolf looks right at me, its beautiful grey-green eyes glowing.

“The buck was injured. Limping. We knew it from the tracks he left behind. Shambling. But still strong enough to fight one of us off. Usually we’d ignore such an animal. But winter was on the wind. Promising cold and hunger. So we stalked the maimed buck. Together as one.”

The wolf lowers its gaze, a tiny, near invisible gesture.
 

But I see it.
 

I know what it means, and I fucking tell you this: for the second time in a day I feel tears track warm down my cheeks.

“Then we saw him. He was young. Strong. You slipped into the woods, dark and silent as a shadow. We moved as one. As one! Speaking through the scrimshawed patterns carved into who we are. I charged up the riverbank, scattering ravens and eagles from their salmon meals. The buck scented me. A bit too soon for my liking. He bolted, first upriver. But the rocky ground slowed him. He sensed me closing. Knew he needed the sheltered woods. Ducked two steps toward the river, trying to throw me off, then leaped, fast in his terror. For the woods. For you, my brother.”

The wolf paws at the floor, shakes his head from side to side, growls.
 

But the grow is low and subdued.
 

He’s listening. He remembers.

“You sprang from huckleberry and bald alder. The buck swerved, too fast in his terror, and went down. Do you remember that moment? When our lives hung in the balance? If he hadn’t stumbled he would’ve made the woods and escaped. Prey was scarce that year. We would have starved during the long winter. But that single moment. When he went down, kicking sand and river stone. And then we were on him, brother, me at his hind and you at his throat.”

The wolf runs his tongue across his fangs.

I flash him a fucking smile.

“Yeah. I remember him too. His bloodtaste. The life he gave for us. I remember how clear everything was. No right or wrong. No yesterday or tomorrow. Only that single, perfect moment where everything mattered. I remember living that life with you, brother. I want to live that life again. With you.”

A switch is flipped and the light behind the observation window turns on and there’s Moby Dick, glaring at us with a hideous scowl. The skin under her forehead and cheeks is bulging into flat plates, and long, spear-like growths are sprouting from her chin.
 

Mandibles.
 

“You fucking idiot animals,” Gladys screams.

Bitch couldn’t have better timing.

The wolf, my brother, hears her unnatural Stricken voice. Smells her corrupted blood. Sees her hideous, twisted body.

And he stands, turns to the window and leaps straight the fuck through it.
 

***

The black wolf hits the security glass full-on.
 

The glass trembles as shockwaves ripple through it.
 

But it doesn’t crack.

“You wretched beasts,” Gladys screams as my brother wolf paws at the pain in his head.

 
She’s becoming something hideous. A plate under her forehead has pushed through her skin. It glistens with black blood, and her eyes have distended and now seem angular instead of oval, and the spears on her chin are growing into wicked curving hooks.
 

“Turn it on,” Gladys shrieks to someone out of view. “Turn it on! Burn them both. The filthy, stinking dogs.”

The black wolf has staggered to the far end of the cell. Now he lifts his head and howls, a sound that sends my wolf howling and scratching as well.

Then my brother charges the window a second time. There’s a wet thud as his head collides with glass, then a slight cracking sound, then he’s lying on the cold floor, dazed from the impact.

Only the floor is no longer cold.
 

It’s warming up. Fast.
 

“Come on brother,” I say as the wolf rises. His eyes are furious green slits. Pink-tinged drool spills across his jagged teeth.
 

“You’re hungry for a feed,” I tell him as the heat building in the floor starts to carry through my Daytons and burn the soles of my feet. “There’s a black Stricken heart big as a fucking bucket waiting for you outside this cell.”
 

I’m sweating now, the cell suddenly hotter than a sauna. The vinyl floor bubbles and lifts, filling the air with the reek of melted plastic. I strip off a torn and sweat-stained shirt, wrap it around my nose and mouth, then turn to face the window. It’s gone dark, the Stricken bitch and her chickenshit posse settling in to watch two doggies roast alive.

We don’t need to count, my brother and me.
 

We move as one unit, both of us running full speed at the window. I lay my shoulder in and my head hits as well. Something in my face snaps—nose or cheekbone maybe—and the window gives a fraction of an inch and then I’m on the floor, holding my head, a red-rimmed haze filling my eyes.
 

The floor burns my skin. The vinyl has burned away in spots, revealing a metal floor that’s heating to red hot.
 

My brother wolf shrieks in fear and pain. I see the confusion in his eyes.
What is this place?
he’s thinking. And then he looks at me, and I know soon his rage and terror will wipe away the memory of who I am, and he’ll turn—
 

My shit-kicker boots are protecting me from the heated floor, but the wolf has only his bare paws. He’s already shuffling, lifting his paws quickly, hop-limping around the room, wailing and moaning and biting at the floor.
 

It’s a horrible, unnatural sight, the kind of sick bullshit only Skins and Stricken get off on.

Such a beautiful animal tortured until he’s reduced to this, and then righteous rage arrives in a choking, noxious wave—
 

I sprint across the room, eye the window. A tiny hairline fracture, only an inch or so long, mars the security glass.
 

“Again, brother,” I scream. “Again!”

We charge together for a second time, and when we bounce off and hit the super-heated floor I smell burning skin and hair and fur. I put a hand down to push myself up and it sticks and when I tear at it I leave a chunk of burned skin behind. The only blessing is I’m too insane with rage to feel pain.
 

A hairline fracture now stretches diagonally from corner to corner across the glass.
 

“Again!” I shriek, but this time the wolf lifts his head to me and there’s a question in his eyes.
 

Will the pain stop if he kills me?
 

Will he be let free?

“She’s there, brother,” I say, the smell of burned rubber and plastic and flesh heavy in my nose. “Right there. On the other side of that glass. Our prey. The last kill before the long winter.”

The black wolf growls at me, bares its fangs.

I turn my back to him.
 

Show him I trust him.
 

That I know he’ll make the right decision and remain loyal to the pack. But I’m bluffing, a part of me waiting to feel him collide into my back…

I run at the glass, shrieking, the melted rubber on my boots slipping slightly, my arms raised in front of my face, and I sense my brother leaping at my side.
 

The window vibrates and I hear a loud splitting sound and one of my elbows punches through the glass. I smell the reek of Stricken blood and feel a high-pitched whining sound driving into my skull and then I’m on the floor, dazed, a red-black blur threatening to engulf my vision and my wolf shrieks and howls in his death throes and his calls mingle with the sound of my brother, twisting and screaming on the floor beside me, his beautiful black fur nearly burned off half of his body.