Lycan: Alpha Claim 1
Date: 2015-06-29 04:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Paranormal; Paranormal Romance; Novella; Shapeshifters; Romance; Erotica; Adult; Fantasy
Description: The second set of Alpha Claims featuring new characters in the same world....EPISODE 1: Shifter/Vampire SerialTalyn Phisher is a counselor in a world that has been turned on its ear by an unthinkable discovery: vampires roam among humans. If all this upheaval was not enough, Talyn's body is changing. Signs that something is seriously wrong plague her. Having been told she's barren and there's no hope—Talyn still longs for a family of her own, though the stories she hears from clients tell her happiness is a long shot. Talyn wants that shot. She yearns for a man who will put her first—for who s
Publisher: Smashwords Edition

LYCAN

An Alpha Claim Brief-Bites® Novelette

Episode 1

New York Times Bestselling Author(s)

MARATA EROS

TAMARA ROSE BLODGETT

All Rights Reserved.

Copyright © 2015 Marata Eros

Copyright © 2015 Tamara Rose Blodgett

No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system without the prior written permission of the publisher.

This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer's imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental.

www.tamararoseblodgett.com

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Cover art by: Willsin Rowe

Proofed by: Corinna

Synopsis:

Talyn Phisher is a counselor in a world that has been turned on its ear by an unthinkable discovery: vampires roam among humans.

If all this upheaval was not enough, Talyn's body is changing. Signs that something is seriously wrong plague her. Having been told she's barren and there's no hope—Talyn still longs for a family of her own, though the stories she hears from clients tell her happiness is a long shot.

Talyn wants that shot. She longs for a man who will put her first—for who she is.

Until a stalker's pursuit threatens everything close to Talyn's heart.

When Talyn feels her life is in imminent danger, she reaches out in desperation to the Final Enforcement, an elite, fringe group of the police who do more than take the law into their own hands.

Only to discover Talyn isn't what she thinks she is.

And neither is the one who stalks her.

1

Call me old-fashioned. But I'm probably the last counselor in the world who uses a pad and pen.

Everything is Brain Impulse Technology now—thought-to-device driven.

Any other counselor would have their pulsepad out, ready to record their thoughts and insights directly.

But that method feels so detached to me. So my pen sits poised in my left hand above recycled ecru-colored notepaper.

I'm fighting a lot of urges today. The urge to swing my foot as I listen to the hundredth same line out of a different mouth.

I can't take my life.

Counseling is unfortunately only rewarding when a client comes along who really wants to be happy. Who's willing to be dragged through the muck of their dysfunction sufficiently long enough to find themselves coming up for air on the other side—and discovering it to be fresh.

Of course, it's a case of physician, heal thyself. Talyn Phisher isn't happy.

I'm content.

And that's a big-ass difference.

“Dr. Phisher?”

Oops. I jerk my head up, caught. “Yes, Beatrice?”

“Bea,” she replies sullenly.

God, where is my head? Clearly—up my ass, is my mind's immediate response.

“Yes, Bea,” I duck my head in shame, take a deep calming breath then meet her eyes.

They're large and dark, one of the unusual people where the black dot almost blends with the brown iris swimming around the island of their pupil.

“I was discussing my argument with my foster dad.”

I nod, dredging sympathy when what I really want to say is, pull up your big-girl panties and deal, for fuck's sake.

But that's entirely un-counselor-like of me.

I shut my mouth and purse my lips for a moment, desperately wishing for some lip gloss. Instead I say, “Well, let's address things in order of priority.”

“Okay.” Bea crosses her skinny arms below fifteen-year-old breasts. Gaged ears wink at me like two additional mouths. A tattoo climbs the delicate column of her neck, the tail of a snake appearing to strangle her.

I'm unmarked.

Tattoos are the height of popularity. They lost their stigma in the beginning of the 21st century. It's actually more rare that someone doesn't have ink than those who do.

I tamp down on my sudden compulsion to crack my knuckles.

“This is what we have, Bea.”

Her eyes dart around my office as though looking to escape another dry lecture.

But I'm never dry. That's part of my problem. Sometimes, my unorthodox methods get results. “You have to make marked progress, or the courts will toss your ass straight back to juvie.”

Her head whips back to me, shocked by my frankness—my use of language, I'm sure.

Her black lipsticked mouth pulls into a smile. “You're cursing, doctor.”

I smile back at her, old enough to be her mother, though God knows that'll never happen.

“And you're listening,” I point out.

She flops back against the couch. “Okay, lay it on me.” Bea's slim arms rest on the back of the sofa, her face carefully schooled into neutrality.

Also a defense mechanism.

“This is your tenth session, and you spew the same crap every time. Child Protective Enforcement suspects there's something wrong, and they have ordered counseling. I will get to the bottom of it, no matter how many layers you erect.”

Bea doesn't look especially surprised at the gauntlet I've thrown down between us.

My teeth begin their normal, midday throb and I apply pressure by clamping down. They don't hurt so bad that I'm ready to go in and get them checked, but the muted pain is a distraction I don't need.

“You're asking me to get along with a guy who's not my dad.”

I lean back, forcing a casual disinterest that is the opposite of what I feel. My limbs begin to tingle.

I get that special feeling.

Breakthrough, baby.

Jesus, I thought it'd never happen.

“Tell me a reason you can't get along. Besides him making you eat food from a certain shelf. Or a curfew of eleven at night.”

Many foster families have assigned food shelves for non-biological children. It's a form of silent prejudice. But that's not enough to nail this guy. I need more. I suspect there is more. But ten sessions is a long damn time to hold out on my gut instinct. I do listen to my gut more than most.

My instincts never let me down.

The ticks from my archaic clock swallow our mutual silence.

Bea leans forward, jagged short hair dyed an inky black sweeps forward to cover an eye.

She rests her forearms on her thighs.

I wait.

A minute goes by. Two.

“Tell me what he does to you, Bea.” I feel the compulsion in my voice, and let it thread its way to Bea with soft and deliberate insistence.

My teeth ache a tiny bit less, and I release an almost silent but grateful sigh.

Her face lifts, the pierced bottom lip trembling with the effort to keep that stoic expression glued in place.

I sit up straight, pen and paper forgotten—breath held.

Then she carefully unbuttons the cuffs of her unseasonably warm long-sleeved shirt.

Healing lines of varying depths litter her skin.

Cutter.

Her sad eyes find mine. My heart is in my gaze, there for the taking. She reaches for it with such hesitation. Then crushes the pulsating mess of my feelings with, “What he does to me at night, or during the day?”

At night.

I don't plant my face in my hands but it's close. I know what happens at night.

I've heard it before.

2

Being a councilor probably isn't a great career choice for me.

Too empathetic.

I carefully shut the door after Bea exits, leaning my forehead against the other side.

She won't be going back to that foster family. Even now the cops are on their way to arrest that sick excuse of a human being. He's done enough to Bea to get an immediate lock up.

I'm not going to cry, I tell myself as the first, hot tear worms its way down my face.

I press my face against the expensive door inside the clinic I share with other doctors and bite my lip.

Pain sears where my teeth touch and I yelp, immediately touching the tender spot with my finger.

What the hell?

I walk swiftly to the bathroom and gaze into the mirror, looking closely at my teeth.

I don't like what I see.

My canine teeth, as they're called, seem to be performing some kind of circus act and changing.

Unbelievable.

As if that twenty plus extra pounds I'm running around with isn't enough to worry about. Or my lack of A Man in the picture.

Or my status of barren. Yup.

Now I've got a case of skank mouth to top off the misery cake like a spoiling cherry. Swell.

I step away from the mirror with a shaky laugh, tonguing off the bead of blood I put there. I'm sounding like some of my patients who have nothing wrong with them except a bad attitude.

I dab at my sore lip with a bit of damp toilet paper and toss it in the commode.

Blood and tissue flow down in a swirl of water as I flush. I watch it disappear as though transfixed.

I need to get out of here.

Bea's story of molestation isn't something that will be out of my system tonight. Or tomorrow night.

Or the next.

I'll head to the gym and burn off some steam.

I use the bathroom and turn off the light. I walk silently around my small office, doing the shut-down routine by rote.

I turn off the desk lamp.

I upend the ashtray into the separator. The illegal cigarette smell puffs up the nauseating after-odor.

I waft a palm. God, gross.

Another horrible habit. But one I've found is not something people can give up while also being challenged with obtaining emotional wellness.

Nope, they need the cigs. So I write the prescription that waives the legality part of it. The lesser of the two evils.

I work my jaw back and forth, notice I'm doing it and stop. My joints protest as I bend to pick up some fallen threads and I sigh.

More working out, I'm only thirty-seven—not seventy-seven.

Lastly, I scoot around the coffee table and squeeze behind my couch for patients.

The slatted blinds are already tilted up to allow in light but offer a feeling of privacy for clients.

My fingers wrap the little knobs. I'm a flick away from closure.

My gaze sweeps the narrow slivers of the outside I can see.

The bluest eyes I've ever seen blink back at me from paces away.

I scream, falling backward over the couch and hitting my head on the coffee table.

Stars burst in front of my vision and I groan.

I roll over on all fours.

Somebody's out there, Talyn! Get your ass moving!

I shake my head to clear it. I lurch and clutch the material of the couch, heaving myself to my knees. My heart feels like it's trying for escape but I'm not some sissy.

Except for the scream.

I lean my torso against the back of the couch, and peer out of the still half-open slats.

A semi-underground flight of concrete stairs leads up to a busy metropolitan sidewalk where walking legs greet me. Pant legs, bare legs and many different kind of legs flow past.

There are no eyes.

I want to lie to myself. Shake it off as though I was just seeing things.

But I'm not like that. In reality, I'm a scientist. I study the brain. I study people.

I like it—self-delusion isn't my game.

I yank the blinds shut, releasing the cord with a flip. The plastic knobs at the end of the cord slap against the dark walnut-colored faux wood slats.

The knot on my head begins to throb in time with my dumb teeth.

Shit.

I slide out my new pulse, and place my thumb on the dock pad. It's the approximate size of the old credit cards before everything allowed a thumb swipe as payment.

Green characters swirl on the dark screen as though moving to the surface of inky water.

The time glows softly. 7:40 PM.

“Shit,” I repeat softly and with feeling. Can't I just ever get out of here on time?

Clearly not.

I grab my gear bag and move through the office door, locking it behind me.

I swing my keys (eschewing the locksmith his five hundred credits for revamping my security bolt to pulse) and dump them in my handbag.

I trot up the concrete stairs, vaguely thinking it's time for a power wash. Slimy mildew is getting a foothold.

I reach the top, grabbing a lungful of fresh midwestern air. Heat, farm and the vague smells of prairie without the blood vats of the nearby meat plant assail me in the comfort of having always lived here in Sioux Falls. My comfort scent combo lasts for the blink of an eye.

My ears perk.

Not for noise, but for the quiet. The throbbing of my teeth and head—the funky squawk of my joints—recede as I scan my surroundings.

I don't admit I'm searching for blue eyes.

The small hairs at my nape lift.

I see nothing, but remain disquieted. Finally, I walk out into a day that is fast losing its claim to night.

My footsteps take me the mile to the gym. My thoughts stay in the office and with the revelations Bea shared.

Blue eyes haunt me.

3

Merck

I watch the change, enjoying her wariness as her soft gray eyes pierce the shadows, searching out my presence. Her slightly reflective irises don't make me out in the gloom.

She's old for a hybrid. It's a mystery to me why a rare female would change so late.

My nostrils flare.

I smell a small wound and a recent injury. An involuntary low growl seeps from between the tight line of my lips.

Did someone cause the injury?

No, I immediately soothe my beast. Probably that tumble she took over the couch.

I chuckle. Wasn't sure if I'd have to wade in there, and save her from herself before it was too late. I had been a little sloppy with my presence. But Talyn Phisher is very practical. She's probably already talked herself right out of very good instincts.

Talyn walks off, and I take a second to lust after her.

The practice of coveting the changes is strictly forbidden, of course.

Our job's now doubly hard. Vamps and Turners have been outed, and now they're cruising the same hunting grounds we do.

The Lanarre, as the Lycan royalty is named, doesn't want a vulnerable hybrid Lycan running into a vamp that likes their tasty werewolf blood.

Nor do the Lycan want a war. But a war they shall have, if they fuck with our females.

This one especially.

My eyes follow her rounded backside. A more scrumptious ass I have never beheld. Oh for the days when a little extra flesh was considered a mark of wealth, health and attractiveness.

I like my women with ass cheeks that overflow the hands—tits as well. A waist I can span with my hands.

I lick my lips, turning away from the enticing sight.

Women are fine for carnal pleasures, but that's not the job of a Changer—Lycan warriors—who seek female hybrids hiding among humans. Like their vampire counterparts, hybrid females will die without a strong male to see them through their transition to full Lycan.

Unlike the vampires and their blood exchange, the Lycan must sex it out of the hybrids.

I smirk. I can't say I hate the process.

Though that is all that is allowed. A transition, and then Changers find the next target for transitioning. Any Lycan should be proud to change a female.

I find it lonely. Tasting of their lush bodies, only to never share in their lives. It's a form of torture. But the Lanarre is deaf to their own warriors.

It's a numbers game.

And the possibility of a human female of royal lycan blood hiding in plain sight.

I roll my eyes at the unlikelihood of that. It's a wonderful bit of werewolf lore. But I don't know that I've ever met a Changer who has encountered a hybrid with that unique Lanarre component.

I've been watching Talyn Phisher for two months. I know where she's going. I don't even need to follow.

But I do.

Just being thorough.

Or at least—that's the line of bullshit I feed myself every day.

*

Talyn puts herself through the same laborious paces five days per week. The mile-long walk to get to the gym.

The elliptical.

The hand weights.

It's the squats that get my full attention. Her ass cheeks splitting like twin goodness as she gracefully drops into a deep plunge then comes up to repeat.

I watch every repetition.

She moves like the Lycan she'll become. I randomly wonder if she's ever noticed she's faster and stronger than other females. That her sense of smell is almost painfully acute.

My eyes narrow as a human male approaches her.

Growling begins from deep inside me, humming through my chest like my very own motor.

Then a vibration begins inside my pocket so high only dogs, and a few other fine-hearing creatures can hear the buzz. I slip my pulse device out of my pocket without looking.

I watch the mundane human try to put the moves on Talyn. One of our future females.

Move on, douche.

I tap my pulse to activate with my thumb.

Charles: status.

Status? Status is: Talyn is not changing. She smells like a sweet piece of fruit that's just on the cusp of ripening.

But not yet.

Me: negative. Still under surveillance.

Charles: maybe too old—past her prime. Possibly a false read?

No! I calm my shit, and prepare to think my response. But first, I set my pulse to low emotive transference.

Yeah. Don't need Alpha Lycan Boss to get that I'm sort of wrung out over this change.

Fuck no.

Me: possibly, but because she's older, standard protocol might not apply to her.

Charles: can't afford to waste manpower on a dud.

Talyn is no dud.

Me: give me a couple more weeks. Once I see physical degradation, I'll move in.

The wait of almost a minute is an uneasy one. What if Charles terminates the mission? That Talyn doesn't deserve the time—that a hybrid female pushing forty is too much of an anomaly to waste time on?

Sweat beads on my forehead. I swipe it away in irritation.

I glance at Talyn.

The human has his hand on her forearm.

Talons burst from my fingertips, and I groan at the pain of the partial change.

The high hertz frequency buzz alerts me to Charlesʼ reply.

Charles: two weeks then it's a wrap. There are other hybrids waiting and too few Changers.

My breath leaks out of me in relief.

I don't even realize I'm across the street and peering none-too-subtly inside the window.

If I could wish that human to death with my stare, he'd be zombie food right now.

I think into my pulse device with the side of my thumb.

Me: Roger that.

I palm the slim communicator, sliding it into my pants pocket.

Talyn disengages from the ballsy fuck inside the workout room and walks away.

Her look of mild and dismissive disgust makes me smirk. Especially when the human looks after her with pure lust. And something else.

My nostrils flare to catch the scent of his emotion.

Glass is no barrier for a Lycan warrior.

Violence.

Violence is mixed with his lust.

My growl is not soft anymore. But a warning nonetheless.

He doesn't hear it, his ears are far too human—too dull to the danger I've just offered.

But the small creatures of the nearby forest halt the busyness of their lives and listen to the sound I've made.

They heed the danger with their communal silence.

4

Talyn

Jerk.

I rub my arm where he touched me. Do I have a sign that says, desperate tattooed across my forehead?

Why can't the decent guys that I hear about show up at the gym? Oh-no, it's got to be the pudwacker types.

So when is: I love the way you fill out your yoga pants—a healthy intro?

One answer: never.

I stomp into the women's locker to grab a shower. I take off my yoga pants, athletic top and kick off my shoes. I strip my socks and toss them to join the damp pile of clothes.

I slip into my flip flops and shuffle to the faucet, jerking it to H.

I wait, the old pipes groaning in resistance. When steam begins to rise, I step beneath the spray. The hot water flows over my dark hair that needs a trim. I let its heat pour over my face where it beats softly against my parted lips, the water cleansing and hot inside my mouth and on my skin.

Water runs out my mouth and dribbles down the front of me. It's the only thing I can stand right now on my sensitive skin.

My flesh burns, my teeth and joints are back online, hurting like forgotten wounds.

Damn.

My palms hit the tile, my chin lowering to my chest. Tears burn behind my eyes.

I can help anyone, no matter how big the problem. If it's real, I can puzzle out the solution that's meant for them.

So why can't I fix my own chaos?

I must love it.

I palm my soaked hair off my face and flip it behind me. The wet strands make a smacking sound as they hit between my shoulder blades and I flinch, my skin's so hyper-sensitive.

The flesh of my exposed back, buttocks and legs rises into gooseflesh, the small hairs running across my skin becoming spikes of alert.

I scan the locker room, taking in the vast shower stall. Aqua tiles from the fifties stare back at me with wilting indifference. I fully revolve, the hot water now soothing my back. My breasts tighten, the nipples becoming completely erect.

My vagina comes alive, throbbing between my legs.

What the hell is going on?

A wave of heat flushes over my skin as if kerosene is pouring over my body. And a match is struck.

I gasp, trying to breathe through the heat engulfing my body.

I manage to turn and slap the lever to C.

Barely.

I tighten my thighs, squishing my pussy lips together to stop the ache. Nothing works.

God!

Icy water pours over where hot water just flowed. Moving from under the spray, I walk away without turning it off, and grab my towel I flung over the tiled half-wall, wrapping my drenched hair.

My body is radiating heat, but I'm shivering.

Something is really wrong. First my fangey teeth, now I've got hot flashes.

I stop in the middle of the tiled floor. My raspy breathing echoes back in the strange acoustics of an all-tile room with high ceilings as icy water sprays down the drain.

“Hot flashes?” I sing in a half-yell into the room. “This is dumb!” I scream like a juvenile delinquent. In fact, they behave more maturely than I'm acting.

My teeth and crotch are throbbing, my nipples ache, and I feel like someone's lit a torch inside my body.

I need a doctor. There's no denying that. Maybe this is early menopause? The thought makes me want to cry.

I don't.

I do the most unhealthy thing I can. The one thing I caution my patients to never do.

I stuff it.

That stupid emotion of helplessness will not defeat me.

I bite my lip, drawing blood. I suck on it.

The overwhelming feelings of sexual need, mixed with burning alive begin to subside while I stand naked and dripping cold water into a puddle at my feet.

Finally, I grab my second cheap towel and cover my body. With slow deliberation I walk to my gear bag and carefully pull new clothes out of the soft duffle.

I don't tremble as I dry off then put on my clothing or stuff my dirties inside a plastic grocery sack.

I turn off the water with a guilty twist. The sound of water dripping follows me as I leave the gym.

When the night air hits me, tears begin to pour out of my eyes.

I don't know what to do. Even trying to turn the tables, and intellectualize how I'd handle this from a client's perspective doesn't help.

Because I've never had these symptoms present in my room. My world.

My face rises, tears of frustration tremble on my chin as I look at the crystals of brightening stars, sprinkled like chunks of raw sugar in the deep twilight blanket of the sky.

I wipe away my wet anger with a hasty stroke. I'll get to a doctor. Figure out what my stupid problem is.

I forget about the blue eyes. The lame come-on from the guy in my gym.

I walk the mile back to my car alone, lost in my thoughts—buried in my uncertainty.

Two sets of eyes follow me.

One as protector, one as predator.

If I'd been more aware, and less caught up in my emotions, I'd have forgotten all about what was to come—and rather, what was already happening.

5

Merck

I feel the knot form between my brows.

I'm not emotional. You can't be a Changer and get all buried in superfluous bullshit. Lycans are an economical group. We don't take time to feel.

But I'm feeling Talyn. When she exits the gym and just stands there by herself, looking so—lost—I have to smother my instinct to go to her.

She's not ready.

If she were, all this restraint would be a moot point. I'd introduce myself, tell her she's a human-werewolf hybrid, and guess what? You've won the jackpot of becoming a Lycan. Congrats.

Wrong.

Every change is different, but I've never had a female I couldn't subdue. I've always been Alpha.

I hold still while silent sobs fall out of Talyn like pieces of a broken heart.

Moon dammit.

My fingers tense, my talons making crescent-shaped marks inside my palms.

Talyn puts herself back together piece by piece. Her efforts at resurrecting her aloof exterior are hard to witness.

But I do.

A branch groans. I drop to my haunches, surveying the immediate environment. Nothing.

My eyes swing back to Talyn. She's already making her way back to her office.

I follow, and though I can't scent anything threatening. My instincts are blaring an alarm.

Something's out there.

But I'd sure-as-fuck like to know what could be out there in silence and without me scenting it.

*

I love the challenge of my wolfen form. Half-lycan, half-wolf, I lope after Talyn, using the forest's border as a sort of superficial cover.

If humans knew what to look for, they'd see us.

But they don't. They only see what their mind will allow them to easily explain.

My pants are of the stretchy, black athletic variety. A zippered pocket at the side of my thigh keeps my pulse at-the-ready for contact with my superior. Charles keeps tabs on all his Changers. Or he's more like our warden.

It's a fact in my life that I don't like.

But I love what I do. There's nothing more rewarding than saving a hybrid from a mundane existence, and inevitable early death.

I had been tasked with Talyn Phisher because she's considered a complicated change.

She might be more complex because she is a full fifteen years older than our average change. But she's only female. She will want to transition just like the dozens I've helped before her.

I slow to a jog as Talyn draws nearer to her vehicle.

Counselors must make good money.

She pulses her lock to open, and slides into her fully loaded beamer. I watch her car buckle her as she pulses the engine to life.

The soft purr is impressive. My acute hearing, made even more so by my wolfen form, tells me she's a regular at getting her ride serviced.

So many little details about Talyn Phisher.

None of which matter right now.

I follow her departure until her car is a bright red dot in the last of the early summer twilight.

*

I'm not winded as I sprint through the forest. Leaves churn with my passing, branches appear to lift and I recognize it for what it is—velocity. I'm sure there's an explanation of physics somewhere in there, but I never was a school boy.

Rather, I've been self-taught through the school of hard knocks.

Talyn Phisher's probably never had the challenge like a Lycan of the pack would. Of beating—and being beaten—until your life hangs in the balance of forfeit to another.

Females do not fight for Alpha status. They are born Alpha—or not. Males must prove their Alpha role.

I proudly wear the scars of my position. It was an even fiercer test within the warrior ranks of Changers. Lycan Changers must be ready for the challenges that present in acquisition, in transition. And the very real possibility of aggressors who would take who we seek to change.

I hunker down, grabbing a low-lying branch in a rare patch of conifers. In Sioux Falls, there's not sufficient forests to cloak me. It's an urban oasis. Islands of trees, mostly deciduous, rather than true swaths of trees allow a sort of complicated stealth.

I manage.

Near Talyn's small craftsman bungalow, great trees stand in a vacant lot, and I use those as habit. They dance above my head, a testimony to the plains wind, sweeping without obstacle of mountain or sea to stop its assailment of everything in its path.

Her sleek luxury BMW creeps along the antique cobblestone alley and the garage door lifts. The car slowly rolls inside. I hear the muted click as she slides the gear into park and the shuffling descent of the garage door.

An exhale of relief slides out of me.

My change is safe.

I've already been through her home. It is scentless. Absent of danger.

That is—if you're looking for threats. Her house is filled with the exotic scent that is Talyn.

Her house cat stays on the top of the fridge during my illicit visits. Long tail shaking high above its head like a snake shaking its rattles.

Still my disquiet is not completely put to bed. My talons are full of bark from nervous motion. I've made a bare spot on the trunk of the tree I lean against.

My eyes see nothing.

I shut them and let my sense of smell do its job. I scent the pine needles beneath my feet. Below that, the decay of last autumn's leaves reek of earth and musk. Further away, blacktop from five years ago still smells like it was laid yesterday, fresh rain slicking the surface like oily water.

Further I smell Talyn.

My eyes open as I suck in a deep breath. It expands my lungs, and I hold the many scents that present themselves inside me. Engaging, identifying and cataloging

I exhale slowly.

I'm pleased she's finally degrading. I'm not thrilled with what I think I'm scenting.

It's rare, but not unheard of that a female hybrid can transition and go into heat at the same time.

But it's not a good development. It's calling the dinner bell for any werewolf within a hundred miles.

Lycan Changers hunt their hybrid females in secret.

Humans are already a problem. But they're not the number one problem.

My own kind is the real threat.

6

Talyn

I slop to the bathroom—do my business.

Then do the worst thing I've done since getting up at six a.m.

I look in the mirror.

Oh shit—I look like roadkill.

My face is flushed red like I have a sunburn. My normally clear gray eyes are slightly shiny and bulge in my pinched face like poached eggs with muddy glass dotting the center.

The best news—I have a big zit on my chin.

I am way too old for pimples.

My head slumps. God, it's like I have a wart. All I need is a pointy hat and I'm good to go.

The hell with it. I jerk open the medicine cabinet, grabbing the zit zapper astringent and nail the boil.

I used to have perfect skin.

Not anymore. Now that my crotch is imploding, my skin is boiling from the inside out and my teeth are aching—it's a whole new reality.

I slam the medicine cabinet shut, ignoring my urge to take a second glance at my reflection. Instead I stalk to my pulse.

I swipe the thumb dock and initiate, thinking voice call.

I probably shouldn't do general for this, but there's too many symptoms for me to play around. He's diagnostic, at least. And I know him.

The canned female voice comes online, telling me to think my message after the chime.

A musical note sounds. I wait. When it ends I think:

This message is for Dr. Colbert. This is Dr. Phisher. I'd like to schedule an appointment for a full physical and blood work set. Please phone back with a time that is mutually beneficial.

I think end message.

The screen of my pulse darkens, slowly fading to the deep black of hibernation.

Some of the tenseness leaves my body.

I don't know why I put that off. Oh yeah, because going to another doctor is always awkward when you're one yourself.

And it's a big time-waster.

I guess it won't be a waste of time if there's something to be done.

*

I pet Pooky's head, and she meows her acceptance of my gesture of affection then turns, giving a dismissive tail flick as she jumps to her favorite perch on the top of the fridge.

She gives another plaintive meow.

I put my hands on my hips. “I don't know what you're saying. But I do know you're making me late. It's Friday and we already have our date of Pride and Prejudice, and Ben and Jerry are coming for ice cream.”

Large greenish-gold cat eyes give an unimpressed slow blink. Another meow. The orange that covers her left eye looks back at me like a pirate's patch. Wrong color, same effect.

I sigh. “You haven't forgotten, have you?”

This is normal for me. Talking to my cat. Pooky.

And I'm the counselor.

She gives a really sharp meow and I frown. I toss my pulse inside my handbag. “What's up, Pooky? It better be good. I'm late now because of your shenanigans. I don't know how many more behind-the-ear scratches I have left.” A total lie, of course.

Her paw swats the top of the fridge, and something hard drops to the floor with a sharp clatter.

“What is that?” I ask softly. I bend over and pick it up.

Drop it again as though I touched a flame.

I race to the bathroom, ignoring my blotchy face, and open the medicine cabinet. I push aside Midol, two-year-old mascara and find the tweezers.

I snatch them, leaving the door ajar and run back.

I pluck the object off the ground at the pointy end with the tweezers. I grab a magnifying glass out of my catchall holder of miscellaneous crap.

I hold it above the object to see the detail.

My heart thuds at the realization of what I'm holding.

I have a minor in Biology. Useless in some ways, but I loved learning about all things living.

This is no exception. It's a tooth.

Canine.

Though it looks like a regular wolf's—it's not. I was fascinated with wolves when I was an intern. And I remember holding a wolf canine. Root and all, maybe it was two inches, plus.

But if memory serves, it was certainly not the four and a half inches that sits inside my palm.

The tweezers aren't wide enough to accommodate its length or girth and as I try to examine it, the tooth slips out of the too-small pincers.

When it hits the floor a small bit breaks off. I scoop that from the floor and haul out a plastic zippered bag, dropping it inside. I lift the baggy, shaking the bit of tooth inside.

I think I'll be calling in a favor from my favorite lab geek best friend.

I can't even speculate what I have here. I look up at Pooky. “Who was here, girl?” I ask the cat that can't talk.

She purrs, chartreuse eyes gazing back with typical casual indifference.

“You're no help,” I mutter.

Meow.

I grunt my response. I use tongs this time and clamp the mostly intact large canine and put it in the junk drawer.

Nice way to contaminate all your stuff, Talyn.

And the mystery deepens.

I drop the baggy with the strange piece inside my purse, and swipe my pulse.

I think a message to Arden that I've got something really unusual to show him.

He lives for The Weird.

He'll get right back.

I don't have time to wait. I give a last thoughtful glance at Pooky and go to the garage. I toss the baggy into my post chute and thumb in Arden's full name. The whir of the chute engages, whisking the bit of strangeness to his home directly.

I walk quickly to my car. I'm already late for work. But for once my life's taken an exciting turn.

If one considers finding a five-inch long canine tooth in their home exciting.

7

Merck

There she is, right on schedule.

I dip my head, eyeing my archaic wristwatch. Nope—she's a few minutes late. My brow furrows.

If there's one thing I've noticed about Talyn Phisher in the last two months of tailing her—she's punctual.

Once she's out of her garage and leaving for work. I move to my old-fashioned mode of transport.

I can't be my good wolf self in broad daylight. Someone would take note. Or many someones.

Instead I hop on my fatboy Harley and turn over the engine. Low purring pipes, specially outfitted sans the classic eardrum-splitting wail. Loud noises are hell on Lycan hearing.

I pull away from the curb three blocks from Talyn's little bungalow and make steady progress to her downtown office. I like where it's located.

Phillips street is now a mecca for the vamps. It's been months since the vamps were outed and mundanes are just now appearing at night again.

The Final Enforcement saw to that. And shit, wasn't that something. A fully hybrid vamp/human still works there along with another enforcer who is full vamp.

I shake my head in wonder with a chuckle. They'll let anyone in.

However, gotta count my blessings. It takes the heat of being observed by the astute off my shoulders. Before the vamps were discovered in plain sight, the Lycans were vigilant in their concealment.

Now—with the vamps swinging their dicks in front of the world—the Lycans have a temporary reprieve, even Changers.

My bike rolls down Phillips, and I glide right past the Carpenter Hotel. It's not really a hotel anymore. That was the building's original distinction when it was built over a hundred years ago. Now it's a holding tank for Hunters and others of the supernatural persuasion.

It also houses four business suites on the ground level.

One of those is Talyn's cozy shrink-tank.

That goth female teen who'd come out of there yesterday as Talyn's last patient of the day had the smell of revelation all over her.

When Talyn followed a few minutes later, her smell had been despondent.

The girl had talked, and whatever Talyn had heard was bad. Very.

That's the nature of her work. Talyn will enjoy leaving that behind. Her solitary life of work, home and work again, will end.

She'll join the Midwestern pack and find something she loves to do.

My hands tighten on my grips. They squeak in protest.

And a mate. Don't forget that, Merck—she'll be fucking some other Lycan and having his whelps.

We need all the females we can get, I reason. And the Lanarre pick the Lycan who have the skill set to sniff out the hybrids among the human mundane population.

Whether it be a heightened scent range, protective abilities, discernment. Hell, I still don't know why they picked me. Fifty years I've been on the prowl for transitioning females and I still don't know. None of the Lycan males understand the selection process. And it's a dual-edged sword.

You're like a priest, you serve something honorable, but you can never have that which you honor.

I sigh, pulling into a slot across the street, hogging the entire parking space for my bike.

I grin.

I feed quarters into the meter. They're slow to be received. I won't be swiping my thumbprint for credit payment. That's what Lycans want: a record of my presence to be traced by the mundanes for later reference.

What if someone needs killing? Or something. No—better to be mainly invisible.

I hop onto the street, light pedestrian traffic moves around me like a living river around am immoveable boulder.

The mundanes do so unconsciously. Them deferring to me. Somewhere in all that rudimentary DNA they are aware of their place.

Below.

I stroll causally to the building across the street from the Carpenter Hotel and pretend to investigate the new construction.

I've done this several times. I already know these loft condos will be five in the unit with an elevator for the richies that can shell out the dough to live in the heart of downtown's up-and-coming. Underground parking—pet area—the works. All yours for five hundred K.

I allow a low sound of disgust.

I use the dirtied windows layered in construction dust to watch Talyn in the reflection.

She exits her car, closing the door carefully and stretches.

My brow creases. I catch myself before I can turn but my fingertips tingle with the low-level adrenaline that courses through me.

I flare my nostrils hard.

Heat.

Sex.

Her feminine scent hits me like a sledgehammer between the eyes.

My eyes travel her form, the reflective qualities leave much to be desired.

I can see her unrested eyes, flat and dull. Her skin has all the markings of the turbulent events that will no-doubt transpire. Her gait looks impeded by stiffness.

There's no doubt Talyn's old for a change.

I know that. But she's not moving like an almost thirty-eight year old. She's moving like she's on the good side of seventy.

I bite my lip to keep from grinning.

Joint pain? Check.

Unless she's suddenly developed arthritis then she's degrading.

I lift my nose, scenting hard a second time. I was right. Smelling her sweet pussy isn't distinctive. I've been smelling hers and every other female within a mile my entire life.

Smelling the onset of heat is another matter entirely.

I turn around just as her hand touches the knob.

Talyn hesitates, gripping the handle.

Suddenly she whirls as though sensing me.

Of course she's too slow.

I'm already at my bike and feigning a once over at the throttle and gears.

Her eyes burn over me and my breath boils inside my throat.

My cock hardens against the uniform of denims I wear to blend with the humans.

Talyn's scent sharpens, drifting over the cars that move past—the fifty people that mill between her and me.

I crouch down, wincing at the pinching of my dick, shifting to relieve the pressure.

Talyn's heat engulfs me as though she's standing beside me. Suffocating me.

I don't look up, I pretend to check my bike.

A full minute passes.

When the sensation of her eyes are gone, and more importantly—the exquisite smell of her scent has faded, I rise.

Looking both ways, I cross the street.

I don't move toward the Carpenter Hotel, but towards the back.

Soon, I vow through gritted teeth.

8

Talyn

The small hairs at my nape rise. The skin feels as though someone is directly behind me, exhaling their hot breath on my neck.

I spin.

And gaze across Phillips street.

Okay—I'm well and truly crazy. Using a word in my mind that is so much more than a swear word in my profession.

Bonkers. Crazier than a loon. Insane. Nuts. A fry short of a Happy Meal.

Yup.

But then my eyes find him.

I blink.

He's busy. Every inch of him. Encased in tight jeans and a black t-shirt.

I lick my lips. Instant lust is not something I'm prone to. I still have a set of D batteries for my favorite dildo lying around. But now with pulse tech, everything is charged via pulse power.

Right now I'm really pulsing.

The same wave of heat washes over me. But instead of me thinking it's a hot flash, I recognize it for what it is.

I'm in lust. For a complete stranger.

A biker, by the looks of it.

I bite my lip, squeezing my thighs together for the second time in twenty-four hours.

I remember that pair of blue eyes from the other night. The ones I didn't imagine.

The guy that came on to me at the gym last night had blue eyes too—Jimmy, Johnnie? I can't remember, he was so underwhelming.

Look up.

He doesn't.

He's crouched down, his muscular ass holding the rest of his hotness just above the ground as he checks the engine on a sleek black Harley. His head dips as he inspects the bike. I pick out the highlights the sun casts in his military short, nutmeg-colored hair.

Come on, Talyn.

Still, I can't take my eyes off him. Every time he leans forward to check another thing, a tricep or bicep bulges cooperatively.

And I find myself latching onto the bulge in his jeans. Which seems pretty large for a guy doing a little engine perusal.

The more I stare, the more I flush with desire. My knees literally weaken, my heart speeds, palms dampening.

I wipe them on my short skirt.

Get a grip.

He obviously won't look at me.

I give a shaky laugh. You're not that interesting, princess. Move on.

I turn and finish opening the door. My damp skin chills as the AC hits me as I move inside the building.

I feel foolish.

That doesn't stop me from hanging back in the shadows and watching him another three full minutes.

Nor does the gasp from my mouth get stifled when he rises.

He's tall—a brick house of a man. Broad shoulders shift as he strides into two-way traffic, deftly dodging impact by two cars with only inches to spare.

His fingers flex as he hops with a fluid grace to the curb then marches around my building, going toward the back. He doesn't turn in my direction.

Does he have blue eyes?

Those blue eyes.

I rush into my office and catch sight of Patty, the assistant who serves both offices on this side of the building.

“Hi!” I call out breathlessly.

She sees the look on my face and begins to rise.

I immediately feel ridiculous. “No, sit! I'm just checking on something.”

Someone. Some total stranger who couldn't care less about me.

But I have to know why I had that spark of intuition. There were fifty people on the street. Why did I take note of only him?

Because he's hot as hell.

There is that. But I know it has got to be more.

I rip around to the back, fling open the shade with a yank of the cord and a face fills the glass.

I scream.

It's the guy from the gym.

9

Patty and I sit together in two chairs.

Across from Jamie.

This is how bad of a counselor I am: I can't even remember the guy's name who tried to ask me out.

However, I do recall the yoga pants comment and cringe. I'm being kind, thinking he was asking me out. I'm not a Gold Gym Body Babe. I'm a late-thirties, curvy-to-the max, bookish type.

I don't do casual. I don't do losers. I think Jamie's really barking up the wrong tree.

“Listen, I appreciate your interest,” I begin.

Patty's eyes are very large in her face as she sits beside me with her hands tightly clasped.

I'm tense, but direct. I can do this. “But you can't visit my place of work for reasons other than business.”

Jamie leans back on the lobby couch. I'm just waiting for him to pitch a tent.

Immediately I assess him. Arrogant, cold—indifferent. He has my psyche flags rising and bonking me directly between my eyes.

His fingers drum on the back of the couch and he cocks his head, dirty blond hair overshooting the tips of his ears. “There's no law against showing up here and getting a little emotional help?” He smirks, his teeth are very white. A tad sharkish.

I suppress a shiver.

He's kind of handsome. When he doesn't open his mouth. That seems to be the main problem.

And I don't think I can help him with that.

I smile politely. The effort feels like a Ronald McDonald mask. “You're right of course.”

Placate.

His grin escalates to condescending.

“However, after our interlude last night at the gym, I thought I was quite clear that my interest in you doesn't extend beyond friendship.”

Distance.

He nods as though thinking it over. I'm pretty sure he's not. “Oh you were, there's no doubt.”

I rise to physically cue the conclusion of the impromptu meeting.

Patty takes that as a hint, and with her wide eyes bulging out of her face, she rounds the corner of her desk a few paces away.

She'll be pulsing the police about now.

I form puzzlement on my features as I turn to face him.

Jamie stands, uncomfortably close to me. I fight not to back away.

No negotiation.

“Don't look confused, doctor.”

My palms dampen.

Inform.

“I'm just uncertain as to why you've come here.”

His hand locks around my wrist like a snakebite.

My pulse obligingly pushes against his fingers as they tighten around the small bones. Fear grips me and I instantly bury it in a deep grave.

I inhale slowly and let it out, making no move to fight his grip.

Diffuse. I open my mouth and he interrupts, his eyes flicking to my parted lips.

Adrenaline expands like an air bubble in a vast ocean.

“Now let me be clear. I want to be seen—in a professional capacity, Doctor Phisher.”

Terror smothers me. My lips part in readiness for a scream, and my expression of neutrality slips.

His grip imperceptibly tightens.

I can't help the whimper of pain when my already tender joints suffer from his hold.

“Patty,” I murmur quietly, desperately hoping she's followed protocol. No one who enters from the back is considered friendly admittance.

She doesn't reply and I say the thing that I haven't been trained for. I say the human thing, “Please, don't hurt me.” My voice is low and calm. My heart pounds. I jerk my wrist and he clamps down.

I moan at the pressure, sweat popping out on my forehead, upper lip, my palms are slick with it. I look at my hand. It's mottled from his vice-like grip.

A cruel smile fills his face like water pouring into a cup.

Suddenly the door he came through slams open, and the stranger walks through as the knob buries itself in the wall.

I look at him, startled, and immediately drown in the sea of his eyes. They're more blue than a summer sky.

That gaze travels to where Jamie's hand latches my wrist. The edges of those azure eyes tighten like a wrench. “I've lost my way,” he says.

I blink stupidly. His voice captures me, soothing the frayed edges of my nerves.

How did I know if he spoke it would be a melody only I could hear?

Jamie jerks me closer and a small pain sound escapes before I can stop it.

I don't catch what happens next, it's too fast. He's soundless—the stranger's attack.

Patty screams.

It's the blood, I think numbly.

I'm covered in it. It smells like metallic rain and I stumble back, the soreness of my wrist lost to what's in front of me.

Jamie's nose is broken—not a little. Shattered like a crimson pancake in the middle of his face.

He howls and releases me.

I sit down hard on my ass, giving a sob-like laugh that all those squats must be working because there's no butt bone to jab me as I fall.

I look up and the stranger raises his fist to strike a bloodied Jamie again.

“Don't,” I call out softly, my injured arm rising.

His intense gaze looks at my bruised wrist. Then he captures my eyes. My core clenches with a responsive clench and I involuntarily moan.

Not in pain.

His eyes slim on me as though he knows my body's reaction to him. “Why?” he grits. His gaze pierces me.

I wet my lips and he tracks the movement. “Because violence won't solve anything,” I manage.

He hesitates, his balled fist is as big as a dinner plate, his bicep is almost the size of my waist.

Instead he grabs Jamie's shirt and easily hauls him to his feet.

I crab walk backwards.

He scares me.

I close my eyes as brilliant, raw shame has its way with me.

I want him.

“Don't touch her again—ever.”

My eyes snap open as he throws Jamie before he can reply. Of course, he has to breathe through his mouth now so maybe that's a little complicated.

He slams into the wall. Drywall dust plumes as his body slides down and the clear outline of his body is embedded in the wall.

I giggle, and vaguely recognize I'm in shock.

The stranger's eyes run over me from head to toe, as though taking a damage assessment.

He heaves a sigh of disgust, and strides out the way he came in.

Probably doesn't like what he sees. I'm instantly ashamed. I want to lose my old insecurities, not nurture them.

In the middle of the chaos, I'm worried about his opinion. A man I don't even know.

Patty helps me get up as sirens fill the distance.

“Thank you,” I tell her. Thanking her for pulsing the police.

Just then my first appointment, and a new patient walks in—surveys the carnage, and walks right back out.

He won't be back.

I sink back down on the lobby couch and put my head in my hands as police pour through the doors.

My last thought before things go to hell is: did he ever find his way?

Because he sure as hell didn't seem lost to me.

10

Merck

Fuck me.

And fuck me again.

Talk about blowing it big time. Couldn't I have just let the cops come and haul that dumb mundane thug away? Why did I have to white knight the thing and run in there?

Because I'm letting my emotions rule me like a bitch. Yeah.

I revealed myself to the change before her time!

I could kick my own ass.

I pace back and forth inside my condo. If there were carpet it'd be threadbare where I tread.

I force myself to stop, leaning a forearm against the window trim, trying to come down from my mistake.

The wide and fast-flowing Big Sioux river flows below. Water muddied from a late spring deluge runs alongside a path I jog on. Close to where the former underground meetings took place in Falls Park. Before Marc was eliminated. I miss the prick. He made shit interesting.

I give a savage kick to the wall, leaving a hole where my foot just connected. A rage-filled exhale sounds like a hoarse shout in my sparsely furnished condo.

I like it that way.

Just Me. By myself. Not a lot of shit to take care of. No pets. No nothing.

My emotions burn, lodging tightly inside my chest.

Her fear.

I close my eyes, pinching the bridge of my nose.

Talyn's fear forced me.

I was right outside the Carpenter Hotel, per usual. Watching the mundanes scurry around like ants going to and from their various hills.

I'm accustomed to her scent. She's a change. I know it intimately.

Then it morphed.

I somehow missed numbnuts as he charged down the back entrance to the old hotel and Talyn's office.

My fault—that complacency.

What had Charles been drilling into our heads for centuries? Never let a change be unsupervised before transition.

They are at their most vulnerable.

Then the scent of her fear swamps me. If I can break this apart intellectually I'd realize I never had a chance.

I reacted as though we were mated.

I've had plenty of changes get into a tight spot, some sensitive human males can sometimes scent something. They don't know what it is about the female that's so enticing. But they do know they want to fuck them. Maybe they have a trace of Lycan. I don't give a rat's ass. Those mundane males who take leave of their senses after a brief acquaintance with yours truly end up canned.

In the garbage.

Rivers.

Coffins.

Yeah. Their disposal isn't a concern. It's about the timing—executing them after they've been sniffing around but the change isn't there.

I've only had to exterminate one mundane in fifty years in front of the change. I was disciplined. In control.

Not this time.

I didn't give two shits and a fuck if the world was sitting down watching with a bowl of popcorn in hand.

Talyn needed me. Her scent demanded it. And I came running like her well-trained dog. I'm disgusted with myself and my utter lack of control.

And her eyes after I was done looking her over—making sure that stupid male's blood was the only blood on her.

I had to fight every instinct not to heal the mark on her body he put there.

But her eyes had been wounded—so wounded.

And I'd been disgusted with my actions. The action of interfering when the danger to her hadn't escalated. And that I stopped beating the male on her request.

Her voice had undone me like a ball of twine rolled down a hill.

I should have finished that male.

I will finish him.

When Talyn isn't around. Unfortunately, she's on guard now.

I jerk away from the window, my tongue moving to the hole in my mouth where a missing incisor is regrowing. Hurts like a bitch. Funny thing is, it's like hitting a piece of furniture then showing up with a bruise later. Who the hell ever remembers how they got it? For the life of me, I can't remember when I tore the sucker out—or it fell out.

I hate not having all the teeth in my head.

*

A low buzz vibrates in my pants pocket. I pluck my pulse, careful not to inadvertently thumb it open.

I read the message and grunt. Perfect.

Charlesʼ name flashes for accept voice call.

I think ignore.

The flashing name vanishes.

I can't deal with my Alpha right now. He'll shit a granny smith if he finds out the colossal fuck up that was me today. Worse, he might think I need a babysitter in the form of a second Lycan.

I haven't had that dubious dishonor yet. And I don't want it.

The thought sprouts my talons and hair bleeds like spilt water over my skin in a downy coat of brownish-red.

I can't tolerate the idea of another Lycan being within one hundred miles of Talyn.

She's a bitch in heat, and on the verge of degrading for the change.

Talyn is very attractive right now to a certain percentage of the population.

A very small but dangerous one.

11

Talyn

“I'm sorry, ma'am—there's nothing we can do. As far as we can see, this man is the victim.”

Ma'am.

I can hardly breathe I'm so angry.

Jamie is playing victim like a Broadway-trained actor. He's rolling around on the gurney, moaning about his nose while medics try to patch him up

I fold my arms. “Listen, Officer,” my eyes flick to his badge and the luminescent characters flash his info: Cochran, Twelve-year veteran, Psyche profile clean. I ignore the rest of his flashing stats on the live badge, “Cochran.”

He smiles tolerantly.

I am so far from tolerant right now I can hardly stand myself. “That man accosted me. He touched me.”

Maybe I'm being too sensitive.

He smirks. “Touched you?”

Nope. Not too sensitive.

I take a deep breath. Another. “He barged in through the back of my office, demanding to be seen without an appointment, and then when I made it clear he was to leave, he grabbed my wrist.” I hold up my arm where a vague red outline, and the beginnings of a bruise can be seen.

Cochran nods indulgently.

I want to hit him. In fact, I'm in a very violent mood today.

Cochran jerks his thumb behind him at Jamie. “He said you two had a falling out at the gym last night?” His eyebrows rise.

What? Clearly he's delusional.

I spread my fingers on my chest, intuiting his inference. “We are not together.”

He nods, eyes glued to my chest as he hooks his thumbs inside the pockets of his deep navy uniform trousers.

Unbelievable.

I think steam is escaping through my ears. The hell with counseling, I think I'm becoming a she-devil.

“Patty!” I call out loudly.

She runs to my side.

“Did this guy not come in the back and grab me?”

She nods quickly.

Finally. I turn triumphantly to Cochran and swing my palm out as if to say, see?

Cochran turns to Patty and says, “Now Miss Hershey, you remember stating that you opened the door and invited Mr. Duncan inside.”

Miss.

His eyebrows rise. That must be the only look he has. Perpetual question mode.

Patty nods. Her eyes dart to me.

I die a little inside.

“Further, you mentioned that Ms. Phisher, and the victim, Jamie Duncan, know each other.”

Victim.

She nods more slowly this time.

“It's Doctor, Officer Cochran,” I correct through clenched teeth.

He gives a vague nod. “Right.”

I cross my arms again, stepping into his personal space. I'm not a small woman. I stand every bit of my five foot nine inches, staring him down. “Is this it then? I can't get a restraining order?”

Cochran spreads his arms away from his body as though I am the one being unreasonable.

Holy mother of God.

“If there were probable cause. As it stands, from my perspective as a police officer, there's a guy that you know, whom your secretary invited in. Then he gives you a little squeeze and you're crying foul.” He shrugs, giving a minute shake of his head. “You understand we can't get in the middle of lover's quarrels.”

My eyes move to Jamie's.

He smiles through the drying blood on his face.

My head starts to throb then my teeth. When the flush starts, I give up.

“Fine,” my face is on fire, “if you won't help me, I'll go to someone who will.”

Cochran's eyes narrow. My subtle threat and dis being clearly received. “The law doesn't look kindly on any form of vigilante justice, Ms. Phisher.”

“Doctor!” I yell into his face.

He smiles benignly.

I itch to slap him, and he knows it.

“Final Enforcement, you weak man,” I seethe.

“Talyn,” Patty says in a timid voice at my elbow.

“You can insult me all you like, Doctor Phisher.” His tone of voice tells me how much he doesn't want to acknowledge my status.

But he will. I've earned it. Especially today.

“Yet the facts are what they are. Do not take matters into your own hands. Further, an unknown assailant attacked Jamie Duncan—yet, somehow he's not a problem?”

Cochran shakes his head then taps his thumb to his pulsepad.

Cochran's silent for a few seconds as he communicates into his device.

Then he turns it around for my perusal. “Both Miss Hershey and Jamie Duncan have thumbed their unique memory signature into the police record.”

He steps closer. Uncomfortably so.

I don't give an inch.

He notices, looming over me. “Is this the man who attacked Jamie Duncan?”

There he is, in living pulse color. The stranger.

His eyes are green in the colored rendering from the short-term memory fragments the pulse device sucked from the two witnessesʼ brainwaves.

Sometimes I loathe technology.

I glare up at Cochran. “His eyes are blue.”

I walk to my office and slam the door, ending his inquest. He moves to the outside of the wood and says, “We'll be in touch, Doctor Phisher.”

I don't reply.

I pluck my pulse from my pocket and contact Final Enforcement. They'll find my stranger, and maybe do something about Duncan.

I get my message sent even with my fingers quaking.

12

Talyn

I drive my car home like a zombie. Go through the motions of feeding Pooky (who doesn't care that I'm half-dead and stupid; the miracle of cat ownership), and take off my blood stained mess of an outfit. I hesitate between the laundry hamper and the trash.

I pitch the gory clothes inside the separator. I don't even recycle them. I pulse the part of the separator labeled solid waste, and listen to the whir and grind as it evacuates the chute of the proof of my day.

I open my freezer and snag a pint of ice cream. I plop down on my couch with a spoon stuck in a Ben and Jerry's carton of Chunky Monkey and sigh with bliss.

At least some things remain the same.

My hair hangs in wet strands from a scorching shower, Pooky has taken up residency at my feet and the flush comes and goes like a malfunctioning stoplight. My female bits are crying out for attention of the male variety, but they sort of ache too.

I'm a mess and Cochran rubbed me the absolute wrong way. No pun there!

I give a vicious stab and swirl inside the container.

And Final Enforcement left me a canned message about a rep coming by to see me in the next twenty-four hours.

“Pfft!” I pierce the ice cream again with my spoon, swirling the slowly melting pint of goodness. “That dumb butt wouldn't know a crime if it bit him on the ass,” I mutter.

Pooky meows her assent.

I stroke her behind the ears and she moves her paws back and forth, purring.

“Cats should rule the world,” I say absently.

The doorbell rings.

I toss my head back on the couch and groan.

Can't I just lick my wounds in private?

Apparently not.

Pooky appears affronted, and scats to jump on top of the fridge. I look at her with longing. That'd be wonderful. I want to disappear? Fine, a leap on top of the fridge takes care of all my ills.

Instead, I sigh, setting my now-melting ice cream on my glass topped coffee table. I walk to the door, and disregarding the peephole, I swing it wide.

Arden stands there blinking rapidly behind his old-fashioned owl glasses. Too cheap to get his peepers lasered.

Him I'm glad to see.

“Hey Talyn, I got your sample.” He swings up the baggy with the canine chunk I sent via post chute.

“Oh!” I say, slightly giddy for anything positive to grab onto.

His face falls. “It's really not that great of news.”

I deflate. “Oh,” I repeat in a completely different tone.

I open the door wide, swinging my palm to indicate entry.

He enters, taking in the small living room. His eyes light on the pint of B&J.

He puts his hands up underneath his chin and does a fake puppy dog pant and beg.

“Okay, you jerk—but you can't have the Chunky Monkey.”

“Ah-huh.” More owl blinking.

I jerk a thumb toward the kitchen. “You know where it's at.”

Arden walks to the kitchen and begins rifling around in my silverware drawer. I listen to him not finding a spoon and he opens up the dishwasher, grabbing a clean spoon. He hunts in the freezer and I give a little groan when he comes out with the Cherry Garcia.

“Dick,” I say, but I'm smiling.

He points the spoon at me. “And you—Counselor Phisher—are very unprofessional.”

I laugh. “Off the clock, Arden.”

His smile is soft. He knows me. We've been friends since high school. Different paths—kindred souls.

I watch him consume half a pint. I give a lustful glance at his slim figure. He eats twice what I do and doesn't deign to work out. I shake my head. Some people.

“So,” I say, licking my spoon and recapping my pint.

“So—you're right, Sherlock Holmes—canine.”

“Don't go all Latin on me, Arden—just give me the skinny.”

He laughs. “Haven't heard that one in awhile.”

I hold up my palms, my long-sleeved shirt cuffs of my pajama top sliding away from my hands. “I'm getting old.”

His face changes to one of concern, his eyes latching onto my arm. “What?”

“Your wrist. What happened, Tal?”

I glance away then look back. “It's a long story.”

He leans against the sofa back, crushing the carton of ice cream in his hand. “I've got time. I always have time for you.”

A hot tear rolls unbidden, and definitely uninvited down my face.

“Hey. It's okay.” Arden doesn't move to comfort me. He knows better. He just waits.

Finally, I tell him.

When I'm done his face is grim. “Well, there's no way in hell that these things are related but I'm not a big believer in coincidence either. Because statistically—there's no such thing.”

I swipe at my eyes. “Yeah.”

“So I'm going to give it to you straight. Final Enforcement's got a big time rep as being a sort of—how can I put it nicely—a last resort, and they have a few vamps fanging around there.”

He cups his chin. “And this tooth?”

“Tooth?” I repeat stupidly, still coming down from the mess of retelling my day.

“Fang,” Arden corrects.

“Okay, so—how did a wolf tooth get in my house?”

“Let's do an Occam's razor on this.” He lifts his shoulders. “The most simple answer is usually correct.”

I huff and feel my face redden. “I'm not a dumb ass.”

He nods. “Let me just say the words. This creature would've had to be inside your home, right?”

Of course. “Yes. How did a wolf get in my house? And better yet—why—and no damage?” I shake my head at the lack of sense the entire thing makes.

“No.” His light brown eyes meet mine. “Wolf-like.”

“What?” My jubilant mood at seeing Arden disintegrates, the ice cream beginning a slow reverse churn in my stomach.

“If that tooth is indicative of size, and I assume it is, this is a nearly seven-foot creature, which has wolf characteristics.”

I'm holding my breath.

Arden continues, “And the other characteristics are canine. So no. Not really wolf.”

My breath releases in a rush.

“What is it?”

“We know that vamps exist now so it got me thinking—”

I cover my mouth with both hands, guessing through my fingers, “Lycanthrope.”

The word pounds the silence inside my house to dust.

13

Talyn

“Say something, Talyn.”

I feel like a fish chucked out on a sand spit. Gasping and squirming.

I open my mouth to reply and the doorbell rings.

Arden and I jump at the same time. I give a nervous laugh, and he bounces to his feet. “Let me get that.”

I stand as well. “Don't play protector. You're a lab geek, not a super-hero.”

Arden gives me a crooked smile. “Let a guy pretend, Talyn.”

Someone on the other side of the solid wood door pounds with a fist. A women's voice yells, “Final Enforcement.”

Oh good. “I'm expecting them,” I explain to Arden as I rush to the door.

I swing it open and blink.

A tiny woman stands in front of me, picking her nail with an illegal switch blade.

I swallow hard. “Identification, please.”

She turns to face me, and flicks her flashing badge with a finger. Narah Adrienne, age twenty-four, One citation—Exonerated, 2022, vampire hybrid, Level 10 proficient.

I feel my eyes widen, and back up a step. The whole vampire thing still gives me pause.

Adrienne moves in, giving a small shiver as she crosses my threshold. “Seen enough?” Her voice is as tart as a lemon.

I nod, remember who the hell I am, and straighten my spine.

“I'm Enforcer Adrienne, assigned to case number,” she recites in a bored voice, “1001.”

“Nice to meet you,” I manage. “I'm Doctor Talyn Phisher.”

“I know,” she says, sharp eyes taking in my home. She spots Arden, narrowing her golden-green gaze on him.

Arden had backed up when he read Adrienne's badge. Her body is a deadly weapon. Not her weapons.

Her.

“Who are you?” she shoots at him, her voice like a club.

“Arden,” he replies quietly. “Who are you to the client,” she rephrases, walking around me and going straight for him.

He retreats.

A ghost of a smile rides her lips.

“He's my friend. He was here for a visit. Can we get down to the brass tacks, Enforcer Adrienne?”

She spins. It's so fast a movement I can't track it. More like a blur. “Brass tacks, huh?”

I'm unnerved and determined not to show it. I nod. “I think there's something stalking me.”

Adrienne flips long corn rows of platinum hair over her shoulder. Her inked body is lithe, sensuously muscled. Not from artificial time in the gym, like what I do just so I'm not a complete flab monster—but from her daily job.

“Something?” she asks, but not like she's really listening. Her catlike eyes flash to mine like twin suns washed by emerald. “Tell me.”

I blink. Seems like I've been doing a lot of that lately.

I recount everything. The blue eyes appearing. The creep from the gym, the stranger who I believe to be the mysterious blue-eyed man appearing—and beating the hell out of Jamie Duncan. When I finish with the way Cochran dealt with everything, Adrienne gives a low chuckle.

I frown. Cochran wasn't even vaguely amusing.

Her finger runs along my sofa table. I notice she's strategically placed herself between my front entrance, and the French glass doors leading to my small patch of back yard. She wants both exits in sight.

“What's your confidentiality policy?” Arden asks suddenly.

She cocks a pale eyebrow. “Are you speaking for Dr. Phisher?”

“Talyn,” I say.

She gives a tight chin dip in acknowledgment.

“No, but I was wondering.” I look at Arden and we exchange a look of understanding.

“I don't tell anyone anything.” Narah Adrienne doesn't over-explain things. She's a fact-stater. It makes me curious as to her background.

I'll pulse Google her later.

She cocks her head, eyeing me. Her eyes glitter like peridot jewels. I can't see fangs, though I'm ashamed to admit I have an almost freak show-act curiosity about vampires. Reality pulsevision just isn't enough.

Arden holds up the baggie with the canine.

Narah tracks it with eyes like a predator. She snatches it before he can take his next breath. We simultaneously gasp.

Adrienne ignores our reaction.

“Where's the original piece that this came off from?” Her eyes light on me with new interest.

Maybe I'm not some quack after all.

I walk to the junk drawer and slide it open.

I step back, sucking in air.

The tooth. It's gone.

Enforcer Adrienne must see my panic and she's by my side in a blur of pale flesh before I can form a question. “What is it?”

I feel clumsy—thick. “I had it right here—in my junk drawer.”

Narah asks, “How big was it?”

I widen my index fingers to about five inches apart.

Narah's low whistle threads through the kitchen like a creepy string plucked. “Looks like you've got yourself a Lycan problem.”

Arden gives me another look.

Her gaze moves between us, noting the glance. “What's with all the surreptitious looks, guys?”

“We wondered,” Arden says.

Adrienne's lips tilt. “You wondered, huh?”

“What with the world all vamping out,” he says then gives her a guilty look.

“It's okay, Arden—there's a lot of miscommunication.” She seems resigned to that fact.

Arden smiles slightly. “I don't know. You're as lethal as I thought a vampire would be.”

She grins. Fangs appear like sharp little pearly curved claws.

We back away.

“Chill out. I can't smile without some fang.”

I'm as tense as I've ever been in my life.

Arden recovers first. “So you're saying there are Lycans.”

“Yeah.”

I'm pretty sure the world at large doesn't need to know that yet.

We look at each other again, he shrugs. “So what can you do?” I ask, frustrated.

“Depends on what our boy wants.” She lifts a shoulder, black tank perfectly matching black combat pants. Weapons stud her belt, hanging off her like deadly jewelry. Except for her gage plugs in her earlobes, she doesn't wear any. No—I take that back—a slim metal band of Tungsten encircles her left ring finger.

“That's it,” I fling my hands out. “I don't know what he wants.”

Her pupils dilate, capturing my gaze. A weird sensation like static electricity flows over me and is gone. “Quack like a duck.”

“What?” I reflexively laugh.

Adrienne frowns.

Arden cooperatively quacks behind me.

I whip my head in his direction. I'm a little alarmed at how realistic he sounds.

His face is slack, eyes glazed.

I turn back to Adrienne and she says, “Okay—so here's the news: you're a hybrid.”

“A what?” I ask in a choked voice.

“Part-human, part-Lycan.”

I shake my head. It was a mistake to call in Final Enforcement.

She nods. “It's okay. A doctor will find abnormalities during a rudimentary physical. They're really looking for that now.” She chuckles again as though sharing a personal joke with herself.

I'm not laughing. I sit on my bar stool by the kitchen peninsula. Hard.

She continues. “That's why you've got a Changer sniffing around.”

“A Changer?” I ask through numb lips.

“Yup. You're Lycan enough to be changed and he's probably the boy assigned to do it.”

“Blue-eyes?” I ask, though I don't feel like I really need the confirmation.

“How bad did he tear up the asshole—Duncan?”

I don't even pause, “Badly. And fast.”

She nods thoughtfully. “Okay, so he won't hurt you.” She throws up her palms.

A quack sounds.

Adrienne's face screws into annoyance. She looks at Arden. “Stop quacking.”

Arden wakes up.

“That didn't work on me,” I note.

Adrienne looks at me, and I notice for the first time she's sort of pretty beneath all the piercings, tats and gage plugs.

She shakes her head. “A little test of mine. Lycans are resistant to vampire thrall.”

God. “Well that's something, I guess.”

We glance at Arden. He looks insulted. We ignore him.

Adrienne puts hands to hips. “So you're calling me in to—what?”

“He's stalking me—this Lycan man,” I explain to her slowly.

“Don't condescend to me, Dr. Phisher.” Her voice is instantly cold.

“I apologize, that wasn't my intention.”

“Might be natural,” she says coolly, her pale eyebrows rising slowly.

We stare at each other.

Finally she says something that gets my full attention, “He is a protector—not a stalker.”

“I don't want—if I am—Lycan, to be changed or whatever he's planning. He has no right.”

Adrienne's head dumps to her breastbone, and she speaks to the floor. “This isn't about rights.” Her face rises, eyes locking with mine. “You will die without him.”

“Die?”

She gives a sharp nod.

“What's his role?” I ask. I have to ask.

“It's different for Lycans, I guess. For vamp female hybrids, a male Turner brings you over through blood exchange.”

Gross.

She reads my expression and laughs.

“So he's going to fang her?” Arden asks with a nervous chuckle.

“Nope,” she says, “he's going to fuck her.”

14

Merck

I scent the female vampire hybrid the instant she slides out of her vintage Mustang.

I don't attack for a couple of reasons. One: she's female. Two: she's Final Enforcement. The word on the supernatural street is she has two males. Vampires—one a former Hunter.

My female would never be in a job as dangerous as this one.

I hang back, watching their conversation from my vantage point in a huge ash tree. My talons bite deeply furrowed bark, readying my stance in case the truly bizarre happens.

And Narah Adrienne decides to go berserker on my change.

When Talyn collapses, Adrienne reaches for her, and I jump from my perch.

I loathe what I'll have to do but I can't have anything happen to Talyn.

I rush the back door, shouldering through the glass in a ball of speed. It shatters into tiny pieces.

Non-tempered glass shreds me into ribbons.

A human male shrieks, pinwheeling backwards.

Hair sprouts from my skin as I go wolfen. I shake hard, the glass clinks to the ground as my skin repairs the shallow cuts that cover my exposed flesh.

Narah Adrienne looks up from an unconscious Talyn.

“Get the fuck away from my change, vamp.”

She rises smoothly, a wisp of a female and hisses, standing protectively over Talyn's body. “Do your worst, wolf.”

My eyes flick to the naked silver hardware in her hands.

I charge anyway.

I'm almost on her when two vampires plow through the glass carnage.

Narah's gaze shifts to their presence, and that's all the distraction I need. I backhand her, her head whipping to the left.

Her foot also connects with my chin but she's going down.

The two vamps close in.

They're her mates, I realize through scent alone. Their claim is all over her, knitted between them in a trio signature of claiming.

And pretty soon, my life will be next thing they claim.

The End

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Acknowledgments

I published The Druid Series 2011 with the encouragement of my husband, and continued because of you, my Reader. Your faithfulness through comments, suggestions, spreading the word and ultimately purchasing my work with your hard-earned money gave me the incentive, means and inspiration to continue.

There are no words that are sufficiently adequate to express my thankfulness for your support. But know this: TDS novellas continued past HARVEST only because of you.

I truly feel connected to my readers. It is obvious to me, but I'll say the words anyway for clarity: a written work is just words on pages if they are not read by my readers. As I write this I get a lump in my throat; your enjoyment of my work affects me that deeply.

You guys are the greatest, each and every one of ya~

Marata (Tamara) xo

Special Thanks:

You, my reader.

My husband, who is my biggest fan.

Cameren, without whom, there would be no books.

Dawn Y.

About the Author

Marata Eros (the pen name for Tamara Rose Blodgett) is the author of over seventy titles, including her New York Times bestselling novel A Terrible Love, and the #1 international bestselling erotic Interracial, and African-American TOKEN serial. Marata writes a variety of dark fiction in the genres of erotica, fantasy, horror, romance, sci-fi and suspense. She lives in South Dakota with her family, and enjoys interacting with her readers.

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Table of Contents

- Lycan Alpha Claim (#1): (BBW Shifter Romance) (Brief-Bites Novelette)

- Midpoint

- About the Author