Pack 11 - Wolf Whisperer Read online

  Damn, his head hurt. He couldn’t think. Did he have to say something similar back? If so, what? And why? He knew this, though he couldn’t remember what or where he’d heard it. “I…er…”

  “You’ve got to reply,” she repeated softly, her low-pitched voice vibrating with urgency. “I’ll say it again. We are one, Mac Lamonda. Mo Anam Cara. Do you understand?”

  Again he felt the same chill snake up his spine. Ridiculous. They were only meaningless words. Shaking it off, he grimaced. Though he wasn’t sure if repeating her words was what he should do, he jerked his chin in a nod. “Fine, we are one. Now what?”

  As he spoke the words, she froze, her gaze searching his face as though waiting for something else. When he didn’t elaborate, she finally nodded. “It is done, then.”

  “What’s done?”

  Instead of replying, she pointed toward the barn and another building that looked like a large kennel. “Change and follow me, okay? I think I’ll definitely need backup.”

  When he nodded, she took off. One second she was moving away from him, the next—Mac couldn’t believe it. To his shocked amazement, she changed in midair, like that fake wolf in the Twilight movie. One moment, she was human, a woman charging in a full-out run. The next, a giant wolf with a glossy coat the exact same sable color as her human hair. Her clothing, torn and shredded, fell to the ground in tatters. Eyes glittering in the smoke, she turned and eyed Mac, waiting.

  Damn. He shook his head. Not only was she a beautiful woman, but an absolutely gorgeous wolf.

  Quickly stripping off his soggy clothing, he tossed it on the ground, wincing as his head throbbed. Taking a deep breath, he mustered his strength and began his own shift into wolf.

  His change, while quick by Pack standards, wasn’t as flashy or dramatic as hers, but the instant he was fully wolf, renewed strength and power flowed into him. Changing had been the right thing to do, attackers or no attackers. As human, his capacity to fight was limited to whatever weapon he had at hand, including his fists. As wolf, he could use his entire body; his ferocious essence would be leashed and tamed no longer.

  She touched her muzzle to his, taking his scent and giving him hers. Next to her, he felt invincible, a phenomenon he’d never experienced, even when running as wolf with other Protectors. Heady.

  Side by side, they moved forward. Immediately, the scents assailed him, amplified a hundred times stronger than anything his pitiful human nose could detect. In addition to the overriding smell of smoke and fire, he could scent dog and man and wet earth and leaves, along with something more, something awful—the scent of decay.

  He knew this scent. It meant vampire. The walking dead. He growled, glancing at her before he leapt forward. Baring her teeth in a snarl, she followed, her four feet as swift and sure as his on the muddy ground. His wolf coat made a much better barrier against the wet, damp cold than anything designed by humans.

  Mac stopped. As Kelly came up beside him, he stared at the three hooded figures now facing them. All vampires? No, he also smelled flesh and blood and life.

  Metal flashed. One of them had a gun.

  He glanced at Kelly. Side by side, his wolf form dwarfed hers. Despite that, he sensed she was equally powerful and dangerous. Their gazes met briefly, before they returned their attention to the others. Their enemies.

  One of the three made the mistake of moving, using that gliding run peculiar to vampires. Instantly, Mac took him down, slashing at the undead corpse with his powerful teeth and claws. Though the action wouldn’t kill the vamp, unless he remained out when the sun rose, it would take him out of commission for now. One less vampire to deal with.

  Two remaining. Were they human, vampire or shifter? Something about one… He sniffed, catching a whiff of blood and skin. Half-human, half-shifter. Halfling, like him? Even as he pondered, the vamp made a move toward him, while the other circled around Kelly.

  No time to think. Mac acted instinctively, leaping forward, teeth bared, hitting him directly in the chest. He slammed into him, the other’s body oddly hollow, not whole or solid like that of a living creature, but a husk, a shell. The undead. Another vamp.

  Baring his fangs, he went for the creature’s throat, planning to take him down the same way he’d taken down the other. A loud bang went off, too close. Pain and heat sent him reeling back, flinging him off the vamp, as though a giant hand had lifted and thrown him. Shot. He’d been shot.

  Dammit. But nothing he hadn’t survived before. Except this time, the wound felt different.

  The bullet—hard, foreign—seared through him, white-hot agony trailing in its wake. What the…? Not a normal bullet. A silver one. That meant his life was over. Suddenly he realized what she’d meant when she’d said they were one. If he believed the superstition he’d read in the case file, now he couldn’t die unless she died, too.

  No way. He had no time to believe in fairy tales, preferring reality. Even his own wife, Maggie, a Tearlach herself, had discounted it as nonsense. She’d even found it amusing, refusing to ever say the ritualistic words to him.

  Sure as hell, no words had been able to save Maggie. After her death, he’d wondered if saying them would have made a difference. Other than prolonging his life without her, he didn’t think so.

  Steeling himself, he thought of his children. Twins, barely eighteen months old when they’d been stolen from him. They’d be two and a half now, nearly three. Would they even remember him?

  And now this new wrinkle in things. This Kelly had told him they were one. The ritualistic words. And he’d agreed. If the superstitious nonsense was true and he lived, that would mean she’d saved his life. He would owe her. He’d owe a Tearlach, his sworn mortal enemy, part of the ones who’d stolen away what remained of his life.

  He had to get them back. He mustn’t fail, couldn’t fail. Isobel and Caleb would be coming home.

  That is, if he didn’t die. A silver bullet was always deadly. No exceptions, except Tearlachs. If the legend of her protection wasn’t true, then he would die here, without even seeing his and Maggie’s precious children ever again.

  Either way, he wouldn’t go down easily. Defiant, he clenched his teeth and struggled to get to his feet, refusing to cry out or even acknowledge the pain.

  A silver bullet. Hell hounds.

  With every breath, the dangerous metal spread silver poison throughout his body. He knew he must get the slug out if he wanted to buy more time.

  The bullet had to come out. But how? As he tried to focus, his vision faded in and out. He held on to what reality he did know for certain. Cold misty rain, hot blood in his veins and—looking up—the sheer viciousness of his assailant’s grin as he watched Mac suffer.

  The second shock—that Halfling was no vampire. That shifter looked vaguely familiar. A Protector? Surely not. Because if he was, that would mean Mac had been played for a fool all along.

  Mac’s vision blurred and he sank to his knees.

  Having taken Mac out, his attacker turned away, lifting his gun and sighting the weapon on Kelly. Unable to do more than watch, Mac grunted with pain and turned his attention toward his own wound.

  The bullet must come out.

  Grimacing, he bit at his own leg, teeth connecting with fur and muscle and sinew. Bracing himself, he counted to three and then yanked, biting back a yelp, snarling instead.

  Bullet must come out. He repeated this like a mantra.

  Ruthless, he tore at his own flesh, searching for the slug. Finally, his teeth connected with metal and he clamped down on it, gagging at the acrid, bitter taste of silver, mortal enemy of his kind.

  As it exited his body, bringing with it muscle and sinew and skin, blood welled up in the wound, pouring from the gaping hole in his matted leg and dripping from his teeth, the coppery bullet metallic and poison in his mouth.

  Evil. He spat it on the ground, then eyed his wound. Must stop the bleeding. After all, blood was irresistible to a vampire. Even, he thought dazedly, shifter’
s blood.

  A hiss came from above. He looked up, knowing what he’d find. The vampire had gotten back up and faced him, no doubt attracted by the scent of fresh blood. His glowing red gaze appeared transfixed by Mac’s wound.

  Of course. As he struggled to hang on to fading consciousness, he wondered what would happen if the vampire drank his blood as he lay dying. Would he then be reborn, one of the undead, a new form of being, a lupine vampire?

  Right. He groaned. As if there could ever be such a thing. Though Tearlachs existed, so why not?

  As he peered up through a haze of pain, the vampire leaned closer, white fangs gleaming. It was going to bite him. Seriously? He bared his teeth in self-defense.

  Kelly appeared, growling low in her throat. She forced the vamp to back away from Mac, keeping the monster from defiling a dying wolf and drinking and draining his blood.

  Mac closed his eyes, letting out breath he hadn’t even realized he was holding. Hounds help him, he was glad.

  The shifter appeared and lifted his gun. Kelly snarled, and leapt forward at the exact same moment that the bloodsucker did.

  Bang. Once. Bang. Twice. And then a third time. Kelly kept going, apparently undeterred despite having taken three bullets. Three silver bullets. Or had they gone into the vampire?

  Damn. Despite his pain, Mac couldn’t help but be impressed.

  Dropping the gun, the shifter spun on his heel and took off in a speed-blurring run. The vampire, too, had vanished, nowhere in sight.

  Blood dripping from her wounds, the wolf—Kelly—did not pursue.

  Mac must have blacked out then. The next thing he knew, Kelly—in human form—cradled him in her arms. She gently shook him awake.

  “Change back,” she urged softly. “I need you to become human. Let me take a look at your wound.”

  Struggling to focus on her incredibly beautiful face, he took a deep breath and willed himself to shift back to human form.

  He was so weak that shifting to man took longer than usual. But finally, it was done and he lay, naked and bleeding, in her arms.

  Her blood-soaked arms.

  “You were shot, too,” he croaked. “Three times. Right?”

  “No.” She sounded supremely unconcerned. “Only once, and I already took care of that. Right now, we’ve got to stop your bleeding.”

  Already took care of… Damn it. The benefit of being a Tearlach. Invulnerable to anything and everything, except fire. Despite horrific injuries, Maggie would have healed, would have lived if the car hadn’t exploded. He let himself drift with the pain.

  “Where are your clothes?” she asked.

  Dazedly, he looked about for something to use as a makeshift bandage. “Over there.” He pointed.

  She grabbed his sodden hoodie off the ground. “This will work. Hold still.”

  Wrapping the hoodie around Mac’s leg, Kelly tied off a makeshift tourniquet.

  “I hope this will stem the bloodshed. If you were full-blooded, a nonsilver-bullet gunshot wound would heal almost instantly. But because you’re a Halfling…” She shrugged. “It’ll take a bit longer.”

  He couldn’t take offense, because she was right. Halflings healed only slightly faster than humans. Not that it mattered. None of that mattered now. No shifter, full or half, lived after being shot by a silver bullet.

  The Tearlach crap be damned. They were both going to die. Strangely enough, this knowledge brought him peace. Truth be told, he had nothing, really, to live for. If he couldn’t have his children, he was ready to go.

  Unless, the niggling thought wouldn’t go away, the legends were actually right about Tearlachs and their magical powers. If they were, he wouldn’t die. And neither would she.

  Mind-boggling and probably the product of a dying mind. Wishful thinking. Yet once it had occurred to him, the thought would not go away.

  Being around Kelly could save him. Might save him… No. Would save him. The true significance of the words she’d spoken. We are one—Mo Anam Cara. Spoken by a Tearlach, that meant he was under her protection. Which meant, in theory, like her he couldn’t die unless by fire.

  Therein lay the appeal of her kind to the Protectors. And to their mutual enemies.

  So there was a distinct possibility he might live. But first, as a fresh wave of agonizing pain swept over him, he realized he’d have to go to hell and back.

  Mac moaned, drawing Kelly’s weary gaze. Now that their attackers had vanished, her first responsibility was to make him as comfortable as she could. She needed to get him in out of the damp, chilly mist. Despite his being the enemy, her impulsive binding of them together meant she couldn’t abandon him now.

  Her house was in ruins. The other explosion had taken out several of her dog runs, though it hadn’t damaged the main kennel building or—she hoped—hurt any of the dogs.

  Luckily, she’d kept a small office inside the kennels where she frequently did paperwork on a battered computer. There, she had a futon that could double as a bed, a shower she used to bathe the dogs, a toilet and a fridge. Nothing fancy, but until her home was rebuilt, this would be where she’d have to live.

  And where she’d take the Pack Protector while he recovered. It wouldn’t be easy, the first time recovering from a silver-bullet shot. She remembered her first time, back when she’d been a wee girl of twelve. No, this man would suffer greatly on his road to recovery. By the end of it, he’d probably wish he was dead.

  Again she eyed him. Luckily for him, he’d passed out from the pain. Now, how to get him inside the kennel. While the adrenaline rush earlier had enabled Kelly to get him outside, she doubted she could replicate that feat again.

  Yet she couldn’t simply leave him here in the rain.

  “Hey, Tearlach.”

  To her shock, Mac had raised his head and called for her, his voice weak but steady.

  “Don’t call me that,” she chided. “Now more than ever, it’s important that you forget you ever heard that word.”

  He didn’t ask why. She thought maybe now he understood. Then, to her amazement, he pushed himself up on his elbows.

  “Help me up,” he said, his voice gaining strength.

  “Do you think you can stand?” His resilience amazed her. Still, she’d be surprised if he managed to stand, never mind walk. “If you can, I’ll help you walk to the kennel. It’s warm and dry and there’s a place you can rest. And it should be safe. The dogs will alert us to any danger long before it reaches us.”

  Jerking his head in a nod, he pushed up to his feet. Though she rushed over to offer her shoulder for support, he waved her away, staggering a few steps forward before halting. Though he was breathing hard and swaying slightly, he looked a far cry better than he had just five minutes before, which meant he was healing fast. Almost as quickly as her.

  Honoring his strength, she kept back, though close enough to offer aid if he needed it. “Let me know if you need my help,” she said.

  Squinting at her, he didn’t respond. Instead, he lurched another three or four steps toward the kennel, then rested. Though he held his shoulders up, he kept one hand pressed against the bandaged wound in his leg. From what she could tell, the makeshift tourniquet had been effective. Only a little blood seeped from under his hand to run down his wet and muscular leg.

  He healed like a full-blooded shifter rather than a Halfling. Or, she reflected, maybe that was because she’d taken him under her protection.

  As they made their way slowly toward the kennel, her dogs, still stunned from the explosion and gunshots, swirled around them, agitated and nervous. Though she was far from calm herself, she spoke soothingly to them, working at projecting a serene attitude, knowing it would help relax them.

  Once inside, she dried him off as best she could, taking care to touch the still-healing wound gently. Though he must have hurt, his stony expression gave nothing away. As he watched her, his blue eyes were hooded.

  Waiting for him to ask why she’d saved him—a question she didn�
�t know the answer to herself—she had to fight to keep from being all thumbs, which was not normal for her. She’d tended lots of wounded creatures in her time, though none of them had been so blatantly masculine, nor as beautiful.

  When she’d finished her ministrations, he lay back on the futon and went to sleep. Kelly wrapped him in a soft blanket, attempting to make him as comfortable as she could.

  Once Mac was taken care of, she rounded up the other dogs that still roamed outside, wanting to bring them in before full darkness fell. As soon as she had them all accounted for, blessedly unharmed, she returned with them to the kennel apartment where Mac still slept.

  Peeking at the wound, she was pleased to see it had healed even more. As if it had been sutured, the jagged tear in his skin was beginning to close. His body had already brought itself back from the brink of death and was well on the road to healing, much faster and less painfully than she’d expected.

  Suddenly exhausted, Kelly dropped into her office chair. Eyeing the handsome shifter, she knew she had one more task ahead of her. Once Mac recovered, she would have to explain that the gift she’d given him came with strings. By telling him that they were one, and by his acceptance, they were now bound together for life. Kelly was pretty darn sure he wouldn’t be happy about that. Hounds, she wasn’t entirely thrilled herself.

  But what had she been supposed to do? Let him die in front of her? She who had trouble killing an insect? So in an impulsive moment, she’d said the sacred words—only to protect him—and the thing was done.

  Would she have regrets? Only time would tell.

  And, she couldn’t help but wonder if he already knew. He’d been married to a Tearlach. Surely he and Maggie had undergone the ritual. Or had they? After all, Maggie had died and he had lived. Still, she’d never heard of a Tearlach marrying without performing the necessary binding. But could a shifter be bound to two women, even if one died? She didn’t know.

  Again she eyed Mac. At the rate he was going, it shouldn’t take him more than a good night’s sleep to heal. For his sake, she hoped he’d spend most of that time unconscious. Less painful that way.