Authors: Colleen Gleason
A square of ceiling on the landing likely led to an attic above. Seamus was tall enough to reach up and push the square aside to reveal a dark hole. No ladder was in sight, so Seamus leapt, caught the edges of the opening, and hoisted himself up and inside. The cat sat down on the landing and meowed.
The attic, unlike the rest of the house was dusty, dark, unused. Seamus could see well enough in the dim light, even without shifting to his wildcat, to discover what was up there.
Not much. Boxes smelling musty, pipes for the rest of the house, debris that looked as though it had been left over from the house’s last remodeling.
Seamus didn’t like the slightly acrid smell, so different from the clean house downstairs. He wondered why the two women hadn’t come up here and thrown away all this junk.
No men were in the house. Bree and her mother lived alone, and one of them smoked—a lot. Seamus wondered why humans loved inhaling toxic chemicals. He could see the bands of poison sliding into them and not coming out.
He slid back down through the hole, landing on his booted feet. Bree and her mother had joined the cat, three stares on Seamus as he straightened up and dusted off his hands on his jeans.
Bree’s eyes, now free of groupie makeup, were undisguised, soft, and blue. She looked him over, taking in the streaks of dirt on his arms, which hid the now-dried blood, his hair, which must be a mess, his face that had to be as filthy as the rest of him. His clothes kept her from seeing how hurt he was, which he would shut up about until he decided what to do.
Bree moved her scrutiny from him to the attic. “What’s up there? I haven’t had the chance to look.”
“Old stuff,” Seamus said. “You should have a clear out.”
“Ghosts,” Nadine put in decidedly. She had a cigarette in her mouth, a lighter clicking. “The place is haunted. You can hear them banging around up there at night. This house belonged to my uncle. When he died, we got a nice yard, a paid-for house, and ghosts.”
Bree rolled her eyes. “It’s not haunted. Birds get in through the vents.”
“Well, there’s
something
up there. What did you see, Shifter?”
“No ghosts,” Seamus said. “Not at the moment. We’re alone.”
Bree and her mother exchanged a glance. They were uncomfortable, uncertain of him, though not completely afraid.
Whoever he’d been fighting in the dark tonight had been so afraid of Seamus the terror had rolled over him in waves. Rage had flowed over him as well—or had that been his own? The fear as well? The remembered feel of terror and anger started to bring his darkness back, the lack of air, the blurring of his brain.
Seamus was suddenly exhausted, the pain making him weak. He needed to sleep, to heal—he didn’t know if he could trust these two to guard him when he did. Or even if they could.
Nadine took over. “Well, we are marching back downstairs. And you, young man, are going to tell us why you made Bree bring you here.”
“He didn’t …” Bree flipped her hands in a gesture of surrender. “Never mind. I need coffee. And I want to hear why those guys were chasing you too. Downstairs. Go.”
Seamus did not obey, but Bree brushed past him, filling him with a scent like violets. He turned his head to watch her go down, noticing the way her hips swayed under the leather skirt.
When he turned back, he found Nadine right under his nose. She blew out cigarette smoke, making his eyes screw up. Seamus held back a cough.
“I have my eye on you,” Nadine said severely. “You go easy on my girl. She’s grieving. If you hurt her in any way, I’ll shoot you through the heart.”
“Mom!”
The exasperated word came up the stairs. “Leave him alone.”
The end of the cigarette glowed as Nadine took another pull. “You understand me?”
Seamus was too fatigued to argue, so he gave her a nod, turned away, and went downstairs after Bree. Nadine followed him. Closely. Her cloud of smoke engulfed him.
Seamus checked the ground floor again as Bree clanked things in the kitchen. The shotgun was nowhere in sight—Bree must have secured it. She’d known how to carry it safely, respectfully. Seamus hated guns, as most Shifters did, and he was glad that at least Bree wasn’t careless with it.
The front door was the most defensible—an intruder would have to navigate the porch’s screen door, the porch itself, and the main door in order to enter. Plenty of time for Seamus to hear them coming, to get the females to safety, to counterattack.
The floodlights had a motion sensor, Seamus discovered when he and the cat walked outside to check the truck and scan the grounds. Anyone approaching would be instantly seen.
All was quiet. A line of houses began to the west about a mile away, separated from this house by an empty field. The other three directions also held empty fields—one had what looked like a large, upright sign in the middle. Trees densely lined the far side of the field to the north, showing the presence of water, most likely a creek, one of the myriad of waterways in this area.
Seamus walked around the house to the back, wondering what the hell to do. He needed to make sure his people were safe, but he couldn’t risk leading anyone to them right now. He was too weak to fight, would be too slow to get them to another place. And he was running out of safe houses. At some point tonight, he’d simply fall over, and he needed to secure himself before then.
Who to trust? Could he trust
anyone
while waiting for Kendrick’s signal? He couldn’t risk revealing the wrong information to the wrong people.
The name Dylan Morrissey was talked about, but Dylan was a Collared Shifter, high in power. The Morrisseys captured rogue Shifters, he’d heard, brought them in, put Collars on them, tried to tame them if they were feral. Killed them if they couldn’t be tamed. No, the Morrisseys were not an option, especially when Seamus feared he might be going feral himself.
If he could get word to Kendrick … Seamus was one of Kendrick’s trackers—a fighter, guard, scout, and spy.
He had responsibilities, protocol to follow now that they’d had to go to ground. Keep his head down, protect those he was assigned to protect, stay sane and free, regroup. Standing procedure.
At all other times, standing procedure worked well. This time…
Seamus swallowed another grunt of pain and let himself in the kitchen door. This entrance was the most vulnerable, with no screen and only a small porch with steps leading to it. If he battered the stairs away, he decided, an enemy would have to jump or climb to get to the door, giving Seamus some advantage.
Bree and Nadine looked up from where Bree was setting coffee on the table. So many windows in this room, in the entire house. Too many places a shot could come through and injure those within. Bunkers were much safer.
Not that the bunker Seamus had been living in until recently hadn’t been breached by a Kodiak she-bear, a human soldier, and a crazy wolf Shifter. Hence, Seamus was on the run, cut off from his clan and leader, trying to guard those in his care and not go insane at the same time.
The coffee smelled good. The beverage was a human affectation Seamus had taken up with pleasure. He dropped into a chair, grabbed the cup, and poured the steaming brew down his throat.
Bree and Nadine watched him in alarm. Nadine was stubbing out her cigarette, the smoke thankfully dissipating.
Bree sat down across the table from Seamus and lifted her cup to her lips. Blue eyes flecked with green regarded him with interest. Seamus watched Bree’s red mouth touch the coffee cup, narrow to a pucker as she sipped, and then her tongue come out as she licked away a lingering drop.
Despite his pain, Seamus went tight. It had been a long time, this woman had rescued him, whether she’d meant to or not, and his progressing madness heightened all frenzy—mating as well as killing.
The pain wasn’t dampening his sudden need either. Seamus drained his cup, thumped it back to the table, and couldn’t stop a sound of discomfort. He needed to crawl away and sleep, heal.
“Are you hurt?” Bree was up and at his side, her eyes filled with concern.
“I’m Shifter,” Seamus said through his teeth. “I mend fast.”
“Let me see.” Bree’s top slid, letting him glimpse a pillow of breast as she bent over him. Wisps of her short hair brushed his cheek as her hand went unerringly to the place Seamus hurt most.
He couldn’t stop his gasp. Fighters and trackers couldn’t show weakness, even to the females of the pack. They had one job to do, and they’d go down doing it.
Bree managed to peel Seamus’s black shirt up to expose the dried blood and bruising on his ribs. “Shit,” she exclaimed, her eyes widening. “You didn’t mention you’d been
shot
.”
Bree’s fingers went cold as she studied the small holes in Seamus’s skin, the blackened blood, the purple-black of the bruises. The way he’d moved getting into her truck, the way he’d wandered restlessly in and around her house had betrayed no pain or discomfort. Not until Seamus had started to relax had he showed any hurt.
Seamus’s hand curled to a fist as Bree pried the shirt away, but other than that, he breathed without a hitch, and the rest of his skin was smooth and whole, if a little pale from the wound.
The abs the shirt had clung to were hard and well-formed, an arrow of dark hair pointing to his belt buckle. He was a big man, as most Shifter males were, but he was more lithe, like a gymnast or acrobat. Old scars and one mottled chunk of skin gone from his right side in a long-ago injury told Bree he was a fighter. A soldier, like Remy.
A soldier who’d definitely taken a bullet tonight, or two, or three.
Bree’s mom was up, cigarettes abandoned. She bent over Seamus, gave the wound a glance, and rushed out of the kitchen, her muumuu fluttering.
“How long ago?” Bree asked.
Seamus was regarding her in quiet surprise. He’d probably thought she’d turn green and pass out at the sight of his blood. “Right before I found you and your truck.”
It was Bree’s turn to be surprised. “Seriously? This looks days old—but wait, you’re Shifter. You heal differently than we do.”
“Faster,” Seamus said. “Not much different. Healing is healing.” He winced. “It still fucking hurts.”
“I bet.” Bree touched his skin as close to the wound as she dared. “Mom’s getting her fix-up kit. We’ll get you taken care of.”
She heard Nadine clatter down the stairs, and in a moment, her mother was back, setting the big tackle box that was their first-aid kit on the table.
“How many bullets?” Nadine asked Seamus.
“Three.” Seamus’s voice was getting weaker. “And a few scatters of shot.”
He looked pretty good for someone who’d taken three bullets and some pellet. Bree kept stroking his side below the wound, liking the warm, taut feel of his skin.
“Get your shirt all the way off,” Nadine ordered.
Seamus obeyed without question, his supple arms moving quickly as he bunched the shirt in his hands and pulled it over his head. A man used to being given commands, but knowing which commands were wise to follow. A soldier, as Bree had surmised.
Seamus balled the shirt, as though he didn’t want to drop it on the floor. “I don’t have anything to knock you out with,” Nadine was saying. “Unless you want to get roaring drunk.”
“No,” Seamus said tightly.
Nadine laid out tweezers, alcohol, a scalpel, and bandages. “Bree and I are going to take out the bullets. Shifters might heal fast, but you can’t do it with slugs lodged in you. You’re lucky they’re shallow, just by the ribs. Don’t worry, I was a nurse way back when, and I’ve taught Bree everything I know. Came in handy, living out in the middle of nowhere like we used to. My son managed to get himself peppered with shot more than once in his wilder days, and medical help was hours away. Easier to patch him up and then drive him to the hospital.”
Remy had sure yelled, Bree remembered with a rush of fondness, but conceded it was his own stupid fault—he’d trespass on lands of crazy people or walk in front of a hunter notorious for shooting anything that moved.
Tears moistened Bree’s eyes. Remy had been good at dodging and ducking, managing to avoid the worst of it. But he hadn’t been able to dodge when the missile had come for the helicopter, exploding it in the middle of the sky.
A hand on hers cleared the fog in her mind. Bree blinked, finding Seamus’s large, warm fingers wrapping the back of her hand. He sent her a look, not of sympathy, but understanding, his eyes quiet.
Nadine stuck her tweezers into Seamus’s side. He clamped down on Bree’s hand, then realized and tried to let go. Bree firmed her grip before he could pull away, holding on to him.
Clink
. One bullet hit the tray.
Clink
. Another.
Seamus’s golden gaze fixed on Bree, as though focusing on her eased the pain.
Clink
.
“Now hold still,” Nadine said as she picked out the tiny pellets. “If you were my boy, I’d give you stitches, but you’re one of those Shifters, and who knows what would happen if I stuck a bunch of thread in you? I’ll just bandage you up, but you’ll need to stay quiet. No running around for a while.”
Seamus moved with Feline restlessness, but he drew a breath and deliberately calmed himself as Nadine dabbed him with disinfectant. He also didn’t let go of Bree’s hand.
“Those guys chasing us did this, right?” Bree asked him. “Why were they shooting at you?”
“They’re Shifter hunters.” Seamus grunted as Nadine pulled at his wound. “Which means they’ll be coming.”
“This house is fairly isolated,” Bree said. “That’s why I brought you here—they’ll never think to look out this way.”
Seamus’s eyes were filled with certainty. “I’m an un-Collared Shifter. Fair game. They’ll look.”
Bree supposed a very resourceful hunter would have taken down the make and model of her truck, maybe memorized her license plate and have a way to look it up at the department of motor vehicles. She’d already obtained Texas plates for her truck, which would help with anonymity. There had to be several million pickups with Texas plates in this state. Or the hunters had gotten lucky and found the cell phone Seamus had tossed out into the darkness.