Chapter Three

CHAPTER THREE

M ahrci, blooded daughter of Whestmorel the Elder, had come out in the storm only to make sure the feeding station for the deer, which she’d set up and maintained for the last couple of nights, had a fresh load of grain on it. Worried about the herd, she’d put a fifty-pound bag of feed on her shoulder and hoofed it out from the barn, the snowshoes keeping her on top of the three-foot accumulation while she got sandblasted by flakes.

There was no way one of the ATVs could have made it through, and dematerializing with the kind of weight she was carrying was impossible.

Plus, in a weird way, she’d liked the feel of the storm battering her. She’d been locked in the octagon of her own mind since she’d come up here, so it was good to fight against something physical.

Yeah, until everything had gotten away from her.

The first of the coyotes had snuck up on her just after she’d unlocked the snowshoes and brushed off the platform she’d built in the wood shop. She’d seen the animal out of the corner of her eye as she’d started to cut a pour hole in the burlap—

She’d been so surprised, the Swiss Army knife she was using slipped.

And went right through her glove, into the meat of her palm.

The blood had come quick, pooling inside the ski mitten before dropping into the snow: Even with the blizzard whipping everything around, the scent had been a copper rush in her nose, and a calling card she didn’t need.

Another coyote had ghosted out of the slashing snowfall. And another. And more.

Until they had surrounded her.

No mystery there: The predators had been smelling exactly what she was.

Instantly, because fear was the penultimate fuel source of the body, her heart rate had tripled, which increased the bleeding—and meant she couldn’t calm herself and dematerialize.

She’d tried, though, to close her eyes and concentrate, but she’d been terrified about being snuck up on and attacked from behind.

There’d been no way to get herself back to the big house.

And then the boldest of them had come for her, shooting forward and nipping at the back of her ankle. Even through the snow pants, she’d felt the bite, and a scream had ripped from her throat.

Not that there was anyone who’d come for her. That groundskeeper was a ghost, and the estate was otherwise empty—which was why she’d come here.

The next attack was triangulated, three of the coyotes lunging forward at once, their jaws snapping at her, their whip-thin bodies fast and strong.

So now she was screaming even more as she clambered up onto the platform. Wheeling around at her attackers, she kept the knife in front of her—not that she was going to be very effective with the three-inch blade.

More coyotes came out of the blizzard.

Mahrci panted and tried not to focus on how wet her glove was, how much blood was staining the snow, how light-headed she was getting—

“Heeeeeeeeeeeelp!” she called out for no reason.

Was this how she was going to die? Out in a goddamn snowstorm, at her father’s pretentious summer retreat, in the dead of winter?

And now she knew why it wasn’t “the living” of winter.

She jabbed the tiny little blade at the snarling jaws that popped up over the lip of the platform and disappeared. With every jump, they got a little higher, and she had the sense she was being toyed with: The platform was just four feet off the ground. They could get at her if they wanted—

“Fuck you!” she hollered as she stabbed at air.

She kept cursing and thrusting with the blade. After everything she’d been through, this was the way she went out? After all the shock, all the indecision, all the panic and confusion—and then what she’d done just before she’d left Caldwell?

Her death came by being torn apart by feral border collies?

“I hate you!” she yelled as her eyes flooded with tears that had nothing to do with the cold, the snow, the wind.

Or even the coyotes.

Meanwhile, the predators were not impressed with her defense. They had clearly done this before, circling their prey, closing in that circumference, their bright, greedy eyes locked on their meal, those open jaws chattering as they chuffed and howled in excitement, in the storm, in the snow.

Her tears burned as they froze to her cheeks—

The final attack was like a lightning strike, four of them coming forward on the compass points and jumping right up onto the platform like it was nothing to them. Because it was nothing to them.

Suddenly, there were teeth everywhere, going for her ankles and calves, her lower body, her arms. She stabbed what she could, knowing she had to stay on her feet, but they anticipated her every move—and she was lost in this knife fight between their sharp canines and the camping blade that she’d taken with her on a whim—

The bite locked on her Achilles tendon, and pain lanced through her whole body. Howling, she twisted around and tried to go after the mottled flank with her “weapon,” but her balance tilted and she started to fall.

Pinwheeling her arms, she couldn’t catch herself, especially as the coyote yanked back and took her foot out from under her. The world spun as she lurched off the platform, and there was plenty of snow to receive her, the pack zeroing in instantly as she hit it.

Mahrci landed badly on her arm, and lost her breath. Trying to stay conscious, she flopped onto her back and fumbled with the knife. As she looked up, all she saw were the bared teeth in those muzzles, the rapt eyes, the greedy, licking tongues that were tasting her flesh already. With a weak hand, she waved the blade around, and she gasped for air to reinflate her lungs.

She screamed one last time, into the darkness, into the blizzard—

No, wait. That sound was not coming from her.

The coyote who was closest to her face, the one who was the most aggressive and had attacked first, was suddenly gone. Yanked backwards into the storm.

And then—he somehow went flying over her? Like . . . airborne?

The pack wheeled around, those deadly muzzles swinging away from her.

That was when she heard the growling. Deep and low: A bigger, far more dangerous beast altogether.

The snow was falling in such heavy sheets it was hard to see, but something was looming—and then it was attacking.

Another coyote was dragged out of sight, and the yelping was loud enough to carry over the wind.

All at once the whole lot of them growled at something she could not see—and surged in unison out of view.

Mahrci didn’t understand what was happening, but funny how your survival instinct kicked in and didn’t ask a lot of questions. She needed to get off the fucking ground. That was the only thing that mattered.

Dragging herself back to the platform, she grabbed on to the rough boards and hauled her body upward.

As the wind relented for a moment, what she saw . . . made no sense.

A tremendous white wolf was attacking the coyotes, tearing into them, ripping their throats open, clawing at them. Blood, tufts of mottled fur, and flying chunks of snow kicked up by the fight marked what became a battlefield.

Except it was no contest.

That wolf dominated the lesser predators, the clap of its jaws like lightning cracking across the sky, its eyes glowing with vengeance that pierced through the lashing snow.

Mahrci looked around. The clearing where she’d put the feeding station was about thirty feet in diameter. If she made a run for it, she might be able to reach one of the pines and climb up—

Two shots sounded out. Pop! Pop!

The wolf raised its head to the sounds, and just as it did, one of the coyotes got him good, launching at his rear flank and biting him on the back leg.

Bad move. The wolf spun around and . . .

The carnage was immediate—and a reminder that she was about to be out of the fire, into the firing pan. Iron pan. Fire— fuck it . As soon as that wolf was done eating her initial attackers? It was going to have her as the entrée.

Except that had been a gun. And animals didn’t shoot.

“Help! I’m over here!” she called out.

Two figures stepped free of the ring of pine trees, and she recognized the one on the left.

“Praise Fates,” she whispered as she started to sag.

The next thing she knew, her eyes were rolling back and she was out cold. Her last thought, as she lost consciousness . . .

What the hell was her father’s head of security doing here?

To get to the coyote attack, Apex had re-formed every fifty yards through the dense pines, triangulating the sounds of the high-pitched, excited barking and the occasional scream. On the last leg, he started to smell all the blood, but he was too distracted to bother parsing out how much was vampire and what part was coyote.

The shit was fresh, there was a lot of it, and that was all that mattered.

He already had his gun up as he became corporeal for the final time, and he pulled the trigger at the sky once, twice, as he tried to make sense of the scene: There was a female vampire up on some kind of rickety platform, and a dogfight in the snow below her. Not that it was much of a fight.

The wolf was winning. Or . . . wolven, as was the case.

Dear God, was it possible? How . . . was this possible?

“Callum,” he whispered in a voice that broke.

“Shoot them,” came a hiss at his ear. “Come on, we gotta get in there and save her.”

Mayhem’s voice broke through the stupor, and Apex cuffed off a couple more bullets. But not directly into the melee. Besides, it was all but over as the wolven—

The boldest coyote, the one who’d tried to score a direct bite on the rear leg of the inevitable victor, was tackled and savaged, the smaller animal dominated as its throat was ripped open, more blood staining the white wolf’s muzzle red, the white snow pink.

That ended it. What was left of the pack ran off, scattering across the drifts.

And the wolf looked up from its prey with a growl.

As that ice-blue stare locked on Apex, its snarl eased a little.

“Shoot it!” the female gasped from the platform. “You’re next!”

No , he thought as his eyes burned. I’m not next.

He’d have to choose me to kill me, and he’s never going to do even that.

“He’s not going to hurt us,” Apex choked out.

The wolf lowered its head, and with its eyes still on Apex, it picked up the carcass. Then the predator trotted off, disappearing into the storm, leaving a trail of blood behind.

As Apex reholstered his gun under his arm, he did his best to hide the fact that his hands were shaking. Meanwhile, Mayhem jumped forward to the female, who was slumping in her gray-and-red parka and ski pants. Things were said between the pair of them, but there was no tracking any of that and not because of the wind.

All that white fur blended perfectly into the snow. Then again, that male was a ghost no matter what form he was in.

Forcing himself to engage, Apex went over to where Mayhem was all but praying on his knees. “How badly are you—”

He stopped as the dark-haired female looked up at him. For a split second, he didn’t trust what he was seeing. What the hell was his boss’s daughter doing here?

Shit, this just got complicated , he thought as she stayed mute.

“We need to get you back to the house,” he said with exhaustion. “Can you walk?”

Mahrci, a.k.a Mahricelle, blooded daughter of Whestmorel the Elder, looked away from him. Snow was gathering in her messy hair and flakes clung to her face where her fear tears had streaked down her cheeks. She was too pale, and shaking as if she were naked in the cold.

“I can carry her,” Mayhem said roughly. “You take that gun back out.”

Had he put it away, Apex thought numbly.

As he rearmed himself, the other male leaned down and spoke in a quiet way that went against everything he was as a vampire. Mayhem was a marching band that had bad rhythm and horns that hadn’t been tuned right. Suddenly, he was something out of an ASMR channel?

“Our SUV is just out on the lane,” the guy said gently. “We can drive you in that way, okay?”

After a moment, Mahrci nodded and put her blood-dripping glove out. “I cut myself.”

“It’s all right.” Mayhem took her arm and positioned it over his shoulders. “We’ll deal with it when we’re home.”

Annnnd now he’s a candy striper , Apex thought.

There was some more quiet conversation, and then the female gasped as Mayhem carefully picked her up in a cradle.

“You go first,” Apex ordered.

“Where’s your gun?” Mayhem demanded.

“Right here. I got this.”

Bullshit, he had anything. As he trudged in the wake of Mayhem the Good Samaritan and the teeth-chattering, bleeding, in-shock daughter of his fucking employer, Apex’s mind was sucked back thirty years into the past. To that prison in the sanatorium. And the private quarters of that head of the guards.

So that he was once again standing over that empty bed with the white flowers in the little beakers.

Every blink brought him another image of Callum—but at least not all of them were from the end of things. Some of the mental pictures were from the beginning, from that crazy escape from Willow Hills, where the wolven had stood with members of his clan, and those predators had changed from one form into another.

Apex had never seen anything like it. There had been none of that ancient movie shit, no American Werewolf in London rough cuts, no The Howling cracks and snaps.

Smooth, like water, as if every cell were two things at the same time, and as a train changed tracks without a hitch given proper rerouting, so too did the wolven switch between one incarnation and the other.

Yet—as unforgettable as Callum was—Apex wasn’t sure he would have recognized the wolven just now if he hadn’t first scented the male in that truck cab.

“It’s okay, you’re going to be okay . . .”

The reassuring words were coming out of Mayhem’s mouth, drifting back over his shoulder on clouds of breath that dissipated in the storm. Yet the syllables fed into Apex’s brain as something he himself had spoken—because he had. At the end, at that bedding platform . . . he had said those exact words, over and over, to Callum as the male lay on his back like a corpse, his bruises and internal injuries healing as his soul and spirit had remained mortally injured—

“Apex’ll get the door. Won’t he. Apex .”

As his name was repeated sharply, he jumped to attention. How the hell had the SUV come up so fast?

“Yeah, I got it.”

Heading over and opening the rear door, he glanced back at the brand-new truck with that nasty old plow on its front grille.

After all these years, he’d thought Callum surely would have died by now. Or disappeared out west. Down south. Anywhere but here, so close to where everything had happened.

Mayhem brushed by him to put the female in one of the captain’s seats. After he belted her in, there was an awkward back-out, and then the guy got in on the other side, next to her.

As Apex shut them in together, he looked at the truck again. It had been left running, and he hadn’t shut the door properly so the interior light was on.

The fact that he could see the driver’s seat so clearly, yet no one was in it, made him think about the way the wolven had been haunting him all these years, a vacancy that was perpetual, every seat, every sofa, all the rooms he had ever walked into and the halls he’d gone down, the yards he’d entered and the cars he’d traveled by . . .

Always empty because Callum wasn’t there.

“Apex?”

At the sound of his name, he jerked to attention and discovered he’d put himself in the SUV. And as he looked up into the rear view mirror, Mayhem was staring at him like the guy was considering whether Apex could remember how to drive.

“I got this,” Apex muttered as he put things in drive.

Bullshit.