Misha sighed and closed her eyes.
Sylvan waited another few moments, feeding Misha her strength, ensuring that she slept peacefully. Then she shifted back to skin and sat on the edge of the bed, softly stroking the beautiful gray and white wolf. The wound on Misha’s shoulder was raw and red, but Sylvan saw no sign of the black poison.
Elena handed Sylvan her jeans. “I may need you again if she tries to shift back too soon.”
“Thanks.” Sylvan stood and pulled on her jeans. Her shirts rarely survived her rapid shifts, the fragments incinerating in the heat of her transition, but she usually managed not to shred her pants if she wanted them again.
“Call me,” Sylvan said. “No matter what I’m doing, I’ll come.” Elena kissed Sylvan lightly on the mouth.
“I know. We all know.”
Chapter Eleven
The windows in the gathering room were open and a breeze thick with honeysuckle and pine stirred Sylvan’s hair. The scents of rabbit, squirrel, and possum rode on the heat currents, teasing Sylvan with the lure of freedom and the joy of the hunt. Hunting prey was part of the natural order, but there was nothing natural about the hunt she contemplated today. Sylvan shut the heavy double oak doors, put her hands on her hips, and surveyed her war council.
Niki lounged by the huge fireplace, her back against the stones, her arms folded beneath her breasts. Max and Andrew flanked the entry, shoulders resting lightly against the walls. Lara, her fourth centuri, reclined on the arm of an oversized leather chair, her eyes scanning the open windows while the fingers of her right hand played through the short, thick hair of a statuesque brunette. Lara and Val had obviously been in the midst of a tangle when summoned. Val, who like Sylvan wore only a pair of jeans, was Callan’s top-ranking lieutenant and dominant enough to have been offered a place with the centuri. Val had declined, saying that she preferred her position with the sentrie.
She liked spending long hours in wolf form patrolling their borders.
Val could follow a days-old track better than anyone except Sylvan and could take down a full-grown cat Were by herself. On a hunt, she was merciless.
Callan, the captain of the sentries, slouched on the leather sofa, bare-chested in skintight leather pants, appearing deceptively relaxed.
He was as tall as Max but whip slender where Max was bulky. Both had shaggy dark hair, searching black eyes, and sensuous mouths. Callan was mated and his female had recently gone into heat. He looked tired but bore the typical smug, satisfied expression of all Weres with mates in the midst of breeding frenzy.
Sylvan strode to the center of the gathering. All eyes turned to her. “Our adolescents were attacked in a city park last night. They report their attackers were rogues. Misha was the target.” Sylvan tempered her fury, needing her war council clear-headed. The mere mention of their young being attacked had them on edge, and her anger could easily stir their battle frenzy. They were seasoned soldiers, all of them, but they were wolves. Not just any wolves, but the most dominant wolves in her Pack. Their instinct was to fight. She turned to Max, who was the intelligence officer on the council. “What is our current count on the rogues?”
“We have no good accounting of their numbers,” Max said. “As you know, they are largely disorganized and rarely form more than the most rudimentary Packs. Two or three living together. Many lone wolves.”
“Estimates?”
“Within the urban territory? A few dozen at last count.” Max frowned. “But things have been uncharacteristically quiet for several months—no petty turf struggles, no gang rumbles.”
“Callan,” Sylvan said, “has Fala reported anything unusual?” Callan’s mate was one of many Weres in law enforcement, a job that provided a natural outlet for Were hunting instincts. Humans couldn’t detect Were scent at crime scenes, but the Were police officers could. Fala was the conduit for Were officers to report such incidents to the Pack. At the mention of his mate, Callan rubbed his chest lazily, his canines emerging and a bulge growing behind his fly.
“Focus, Callan,” Sylvan barked. “You can think about breeding her later.”
Callan straightened and ducked his head. “Apologies, Alpha.” Sylvan waved him off. He wasn’t to blame for his instincts. There was no stronger call for a wolf than a mate in breeding frenzy, except the call of their Alpha. Callan would do his job.
“Fala mentioned the number of bodega thefts and car break-ins by the rogues have declined,” Callan said. “I didn’t make anything of that at the time.”
“If the rogues aren’t stealing for food, how are they surviving?” Sylvan said.
Niki said, “Maybe they’ve hired out as mercenaries or have formed a Pack.”
“If there are more of them than we think,” Max said, “or they’re banding together, we could have a real problem. If they start preying on humans—”
“We’ll be lucky if we all don’t end up in cages,” Val muttered darkly. More than most Weres, who instinctively feared confinement, she couldn’t tolerate being restricted. She hadn’t been born into the Timberwolf Pack—she was one of the rare viable offspring of a female Were and a human male. Her mother, a lone wolf, had hidden her Were nature. Fearing exposure when Val had shifted as a pup, Val’s mother and her human mate had caged Val. Eventually, she had escaped and staggered, half starved, into Timberwolf territory after having run wild in wolf form for weeks. Even as an adolescent, she’d been a ferocious fighter and had damaged several of the sentries who tried to subdue her. Ursula, Sylvan’s mother, had been forced to drag her down by the throat and thrash her until Val lay panting, her belly exposed for the kill.
Then Ursula had nudged her up and taken her into the Pack.
“No one will ever take your freedom,” Sylvan said quietly.
Lara leaned down and kissed Val, who closed her eyes and nodded silently.
“We need to impose order before we have humans injured…or any reports in the media,” Sylvan said. Rogues congregated in warehouses and abandoned buildings, and were usually quick to run from any show of force. If the rogues were organizing, they might resist, and what had once been a nuisance could become a serious threat. Human gangs had become commonplace in the public awareness, but gangs of roving Weres? If the human population learned of the rogues, political sympathies could quickly change.
“Couldn’t Misha’s attempted abduction just have been sexually motivated—rogues looking for a female for sport?” Callan said.
“Maybe, but we need to be sure.” Sylvan let her wolf rise and the others tensed. Niki growled. Sylvan’s voice thickened with rage.
“Either way, we need to send a message that our young are not targets. Tonight—Max, Andrew, and Val—you’ll be with me. And we’ll go hunting.”
“Alpha,” Niki protested, straightening and striding forward. “I should go.”
Sylvan shook her head. “I need you here. You’re the second.”
“Let me go in your place.”
“No. This is my territory, and I will make sure they don’t forget again.” Sylvan turned abruptly, flung the heavy doors open with a blow from her outstretched arms, and strode outside. She shifted and streaked off into the woods, heading for her den. The lassitude left from her time with Francesca still lingered, and she wanted to sleep while she could.
Once she set out to hunt, there would be no rest.
Becca sat at a small window table in a Starbucks on Lark Street, ignoring the pedestrians passing by the window as she transcribed her notes into her laptop. She hadn’t really expected the ER doctor to give her much of anything, but she’d been pleasantly surprised when she’d gotten a genuine quote-worthy response. She glanced at the photo of Sylvan Mir and Drake McKennan, wishing she knew the true story behind that encounter. The passion almost jumped—Her cell phone rang and she dug it out of her bag.