Shift of Destiny: Ice Age Shifters Book 2 Read online

They disappeared from view, but Chance saw the beam of a flashlight and heard the shuffling of feet as they stepped onto the packed dirt road.

  “Chaffet,” said Moira in a loud, overly sweet voice, “Underwear too tight on your nuts? Shove me again, and I’ll shrink them to fit.”

  “How do you know my name?” Suspicion mingled with fear in the man’s tone.

  She laughed. “The same way I know the van is about a mile down the road, on the hill above it, with one asshole inside, jacking off to Internet porn. I hope none of the rest of you touches that joystick, because, ewww.” Bless his clever, magical mate for her bravery.

  “She’s a witch, you dumbfuck.” The older wolf sounded disgusted.

  “Fuck you, Washenko.”

  Chance focused on Richie, whose shifter metabolism had undoubtedly already healed whatever pain Moira had caused in his genitals. His body language said he was trying to pick up Chance’s trail without shifting. Richie was no alpha, so he didn’t have half-shift capabilities, but most shifters, even sick ones, had better senses than the average human. He looked left, right, and behind him, then turned quietly to his left and walked southward, leading with his nose.

  Richie could wait. The two twitchy wolves with guns on his mate had first priority.

  Chance left the rocks and ran swiftly north, then crossed the road and headed southwest, trusting the net of Moira’s magic to help conceal him.

  Once he got closer to the van, he discovered more men deployed in a large defensive circle. Judging by the first two he’d found, they couldn’t see each other, but were in constant communication via radio and headsets. He couldn’t smell them, meaning they probably wore concealment charms like Chaffet and Washenko had. They all had a military air about them, and plenty of firepower.

  Time to even the odds.

  Moira told herself she wasn’t afraid, but she’d never been good at lying to herself. The breath of her escorts exuded a stench of carrion, like they hadn’t eaten fresh meat in months, Chaffet especially. Only their fear of her witchy powers and their greater fear of Pruhon, their pack leader, kept them from hurting her.

  On the know-thy-enemy principle, she focused her knowing magic on the two men… no, wolves in men’s clothing, but she couldn’t tell if it helped. She’d already figured out that Chaffet was a sly whiner and not very bright, and that Washenko hid feral savagery under a thin veneer of civility. The magic charms they wore, the ones she’d instinctively disabled, were easier to discern as coming from a disdainful sorcerer for hire who sold the cheaper goods to no-talent humans and numbskull shifters because they wouldn’t know the difference.

  As much as her instincts urged her to run, she doubted her magic was strong enough to hide her from inhumanly fast, inhumanly strong wolves with guns. Not to mention, she didn’t have shifter night vision to find her way in the dark. Her only assets were her wits, luck, and, she hoped, Chance.

  “So,” she said conversationally, “how does it work in your pack? Does your alpha get first crack at me, or am I someone’s reward?” She hoped she sounded like she didn’t care that they probably intended to hurt her or worse.

  “Mates weaken wolves,” said Chaffet loftily. “We’re selling you to the highest bidder.”

  “Oh, stealing me from Witzer, then.” She shrugged elaborately. “Your business, of course, but take it from me, he’s definitely the type to hold a grudge.”

  “Nah, he’ll blame his scheming sons for losing you, and because you’re a witch, too, we’ll get a million for you, easy.” Chaffet grinned. “Win-win.”

  “You talk too much,” grumbled Washenko.

  Moira agreed, and took advantage of it. She discovered they planned to fly her out of the mountains in a helicopter, then use their private company jet to deliver her to the auction winner like she was a mail-order package. When Richie had helped the twins kidnap her, he’d discovered she was a witch with shifter-mate potential, and notified Pruhon of her real value. Richie and Chaffet used their satellite phone to report she was missing from the cave, and Pruhon sent Washenko and the others to hunt her. She didn’t want to expose her ignorance by asking what the hell “shifter-mate potential” meant, and how they knew. Which in turn made her wonder if Chance knew, and if so, why he hadn’t told her. Unless it was only for stinky wolves, in which case, yuck.

  “Shut up for a minute,” ordered Washenko. “I haven’t heard any radio chatter for the last ten minutes, and Dorsey isn’t answering.” He powered his shoulder radio off and on.

  Chaffet waved dismissively. “Probably fucking with the drone.” He tapped a button on his radio. “Hey, Cho Lai, if you’re dry-humping a juniper, I’m not pulling the needles out of your dick.”

  They grew more alert with the ensuing silence.

  “Richie seems fond of double-crossing people,” Moira observed, hoping to sow doubt.

  Chaffet growled his denial and raised his gun, eyes tracking from side to side.

  Washenko looked more thoughtful, but raised his gun, too.

  A not-so-distant animal roared in the night. Chaffet instantly spun to his right and shot into the dark, only missing Washenko’s eyebrow by inches.

  Moira dove to the ground, skinning her already sore palms, but Washenko hauled her back up again. “Give me that!” He snatched Chaffet’s gun and shoved her at him. “Hold her,” he snarled. “She’s our insurance.”

  Washenko slung two of the rifles onto his shoulder and pointed the barrel of the third into the side of her neck. “The van.”

  Chaffet held his flashlight with one hand and painfully squeezed the back of her neck with the other the other to frog-march her down the road. Washenko kept pace and maintained pressure with the barrel. She stumbled along as best she could, knowing they’d hurt her if she didn’t cooperate.

  Growls from fighting wolves erupted to the right, then a pained yelp, then silence.

  Chaffet chanted a litany of obscenities under his breath. Washenko vibrated with tension as they left the road and started up a rock-strewn slope. A brief flash of light illuminated the top of the hill and the van, right before it exploded into a fireball.

  Chaffet stumbled and pulled her backward, away from Washenko’s gun. His flashlight went flying. She threw herself to the side and tripped over a rock. As she fell to her hands and knees, Washenko raised his rifle to aim at a dark shape coming down the slope at them. The unconscious, slashed body of a huge gray wolf slammed into him and Chaffet, knocking them over like bowling pins.

  Moira crawled away as fast as she could, but she got tangled in a pair of black pants crumpled on the ground. A hand clamped onto her ankle and hauled her backward. She took in a lungful of air, then turned and screamed, banshee loud and long.

  The hand let go. “My ears!” cried Chaffet. He and Washenko both howled in pain as she crawled away again and climbed to her feet, but tripped over a rifle barrel.

  She pulled the mirror light out of her T-shirt and turned it around. Before she could take a step, a fist slammed into her stomach. “No more screaming, bitch!”

  She folded to her knees, her diaphragm temporarily stunned. She fought to draw in a ragged breath, then she nearly threw up from the unmistakable rotting stench of Richie. It didn’t help that he was naked and beginning to sprout dark fur. In seconds, a larger-than-nature gray wolf stood in his place, wetly gleaming teeth bared, growling, and preparing to lunge at her.

  She focused on her mirrors, flaring them bright to blind him. As he shook his massive head, she grabbed the thick barrel of the heavy rifle and swung the stock, two-handed, against his skull. He yelped in pain and backed up, shaking his head. She took another swing at him.

  She tripped on a boot, and the heavy stock went under his chin and slammed into his throat. He coughed and backed up a few more steps, shaking his head. Before she could line up for a third strike, his body was knocked sideways with a meaty thump by something big, tawny-colored, and fast. They tumbled down the slope, out of the pool of light her mirror cas
t.

  She flared her mirror light and ran with the rifle, across the slope, away from the angry wolves. Every step jarred her sore stomach muscles. She staggered to the base of a rock and leaned against it with one arm, coaxing her legs and lungs not to give up. The sound of a gunshot made her quickly douse her light and use her hiding magic to avoid becoming a target.

  She heard human shouts and animal growls, and then a long, heart-rending, pained animal whine that ended in silence. It was easier to take when she remembered Richie transforming into a big slavering wolf that wanted to rip her throat out.

  Another gunshot rang out. “Goddamn it, Chaffet, you fucking shot me!” Washenko sounded more aggrieved than injured.

  “It wasn’t me,” whined Chaffet, somewhere below Washenko’s voice. “I don’t have a gun.”

  “I do.” Chance’s voice rang with authority and confidence. “If you want to live, sit down and stay human.”

  A flashlight flickered on, illuminating Chaffet and Washenko on the side of the hill, about fifteen feet apart. They both looked filthy and battered. Between them, a tail and hind paw were all that were visible of Richie’s wolf form. Even as she watched, the tail vanished and the paw morphed into a naked human foot.

  “He can’t be dead,” said Chaffet, clearly shaken. “The blood exchange with Alpha Pruhon makes us immortal.”

  “It only makes him immortal,” said Chance. “It’s killing the pack. Every time you shift, he takes a piece of you. Richie wouldn’t have lasted another year.”

  “Bullshit,” growled Washenko, his voice sounding more wolf than human. His face began to elongate as he ripped his shirt open. His neck sprouted dark fur as muscles rippled underneath the skin. But instead of changing into a wolf, the way Richie had, Washenko clutched at his chest with clawed hands and sank to his knees.

  Chaffet howled and dropped to his knees as well, then collapsed in a boneless heap.

  Washenko lasted a few moments longer, his expression a mix of anger and pain, before falling forward like a sack of grain.

  Chance flickered the flashlight in her direction, waving it uncertainly. “Moira?”

  “Here.” She released her hiding magic and briefly flared her mirror light.

  He crossed to her at a half-run and wrapped her in a brief embrace, then pulled back. “Are you hurt?” It was the first time she’d seen him look scared.

  “Only sore. You?” Just because he seemed invincible didn’t mean he couldn’t be hurt. “And what about them?” She pointed toward where Washenko and Chaffet lay.

  “I’m good. I knocked out the guards and blew up their van. All the wolves are dead, or as good as, including those two.” He tilted his head toward the bodies. “I felt Pruhon draining them. He must be under attack.”

  She remembered Chaffet’s earlier chatter. “Oh my God, the town! We have to warn them. Witzer and Pruhon brought in a hundred mercenaries to round up psychics to sell on the black market. They’ll be no match for a military invasion.”

  “I haven’t been here that long, but from what I’ve seen, it’s more likely that Witzer’s mercenaries will be no match for the town.” He shook his head. “I think you have the same luck as I do for the downright unusual, except you look at it as an adventure.”

  She wanted to kiss him, but knew she’d never stop if she did. “Not really. I just like helping people when they need it.”

  He gave her a tender smile. “I used to think of my luck as a curse, but I wouldn’t have met you without it.” He kissed her forehead. “Let’s go see if we can help.”

  With her consent, he carried her toward where they’d left his truck. He seemed to like holding her, and she liked being held for a bit. Even princesses could use a breather after marching all over the mountains.

  It was a warm, wonderful feeling to know that Chance considered her an asset in a fight. Of all the things she still didn’t know about him, such as what kind of animal he turned into, or how old he really was, or if he liked breakfast for dinner, she did know one thing. She’d fallen in love with the man, and it would rip her heart out if she had to leave him.

  11

  Lawrence Witzer barely kept from swearing out loud when the cuff of his pants tore on the loose board hanging off a picket fence he was moving past. Some might call it skulking, but traversing dark alleys at two in the morning carrying a wolf tranquilizer gun, regardless of the city, called for stealth. The sound of children laughing and a swimming pool splash motivated him to move faster.

  He’d wanted to leave hours ago, but one damned thing after another skewed his plans. He suspected destiny was putting him through trials to see if he was truly worthy, and it pissed him off. He’d paid his dues—not to mention, paid greedy sorcerers and Pruhon’s company—and he deserved results.

  First, Pruhon’s pack had caught his moronic sons on the outskirts of Kotoyeesinay, headed west into the high country. Lawrence hadn’t for a second believed their lame story of coincidentally visiting the exclusive casino, but he didn’t have time to get the truth out of them. He ordered Pruhon to lock them up for later.

  Second, they lost the main containment area, which they’d dressed up as an alien landing site. Pruhon’s operatives set it up in the narrow park as planned, and when he and Pruhon had checked on it an hour later, it was gone, along with the psychics they’d collected and twenty spacesuit-wearing, military-trained men.

  They’d lost another landing site right after he’d visited it. Two little old ladies had approached him outside the convenience store where he’d stopped to use the restroom. They said their crystal ball told them he was the person to ask about meeting the aliens, which they both had always dreamed of. He’d given them a ride in his limo to the smaller site near the mobile home park. He wasn’t supposed to be part of the sweeper operation, but it would be stupid to turn away destiny’s gifts.

  When he’d walked them to the theatrically glowing fence, they’d become quite animated.

  “I hope they’re big and blue, and never wear their shirts… Oh, Jane, look at that spaceship! It’s even better than that movie, you know, the one with the music.”

  In the better light of the security perimeter, Lawrence noticed both women wore 1950s-style housedresses and had conservatively coiffed but brilliant blue hair that would put his pathetic son’s green-tipped hair to shame.

  “I know the one,” agreed Jane, “With that guy, and the mashed potatoes.” She waved toward the “ship” partially hidden with a manufactured fog. “This one looks a lot smaller.”

  Bertha turned to Lawrence with a wide-eyed gaze. “Do you think they’d let us have a look inside?”

  Lawrence hid a smile. “It couldn’t hurt to ask.” He pointed to the spacesuit-wearing alien near the disguised truck. Just like taking candy from a baby.

  When he went back twenty minutes later, that site was gone, too.

  Psychics had been harder to find after that. Pruhon’s pack had to use precious time in tracking down home addresses, since most of the shops had closed early. That, Lawrence put down to the psychics using their talents. He couldn’t explain why Pruhon’s operatives steadily dwindled in numbers, to where by midnight, they had less than thirty experienced, armed mercenaries to control the town.

  Pruhon became angrier as the night wore on, especially after some of his pack disappeared along with the mercenaries. He growled about being able to locate them, but not access them, whatever that meant. In the relatively small confines of the limo, Pruhon smelled like roadkill, and became increasingly antsy. Around two o-clock, Witzer finally ordered Pruhon out to go find his wolves, because otherwise, there would be no putting up with him. Lawrence wished he hadn’t watched the man as he’d shifted. “Never” would be too soon to see the man’s ugly junk again. Or his furry ass, for that matter.

  Lawrence’s finely-honed self-preservation instincts said he needed to leave, but he had one more card to play. His horribly expensive sorcerer had come through with a home address for where Moira G
raham was staying. All he needed to do was slip into the house, tranq her, and carry her out to his limo waiting out front.

  Even if the other psychics slipped through his grasp, he wanted the destiny he came for.

  12

  Chance pulled his dusty truck into the driveway behind Turn of the Cards, and shut off the engine. The streets had been uncharacteristically deserted, and it made him anxious to get someplace safe for the moment. The back-of-the-house lights were still blazing, but the loading dock was sealed tight. Fortunately, he knew the code.

  “Moira?” He carefully moved his shoulder where she’d fallen asleep. His beast had contentedly napped the whole way down to town, too, but was now alert. “We’re here.”

  She sat up slowly and rubbed her face. “Ow.” She touched her swollen nose and puffy eye with exploratory fingers. “Now I know what a mixed martial artist feels like after a fight. I don’t even want to see a mirror right now.”

  “Let’s get inside. I’ll bring my first-aid kit.” He pulled his backpack from behind the seat and looked around the backyard. He’d hoped to see Shepherd’s reassuringly solid form, but it was awfully late.

  “First, we call the sheriff, or whoever.” She slid to the passenger side to grab her backpack from the floor.

  A blur of movement and the scent of death were all the warning he had. He dove on top of Moira, shielding her from the shower of glass as three hundred pounds of frothing-at-the-mouth gray wolf slammed into the truck’s driver-side window.

  He felt a painful bite on his calf as the wolf tried to get in through the now-shattered window. The wolf lost its footing and slid back out. It jumped up on the truck’s hood.

  Chance needed to protect his mate, and knew he might lose her once she saw what he really was.

  She was one step ahead of him. “Shift. Now.” She started fumbling with the hem of his T-shirt.

  “No need.” He stilled her hand with his own. “But I’m big. Stay on the floor. Hide.”