Wolf's Fall

  Zan’s wounds were severe, possibly permanent.

  Giving Jax a grin he didn’t feel, he nodded. “Sorry. Lead the way.”

  They hurried out, taking only seconds to dash to their living quarters and retrieve the new laser guns they’d been issued, along with the big bowie knife Zan liked to strap to his thigh. Unlike Aric, he wasn’t a Telekinetic/Firestarter and didn’t have the power to hurl objects or set the enemy on fire in a fight—though that would be awesome. Being a Healer was rewarding, but it certainly didn’t give him an edge in battle, so he preferred human weapons. Teeth and claws and superior speed were cool when he was in wolf form, but the knife was just as effective in close combat.

  Meeting in the hallway, he and Jax made their way through the compound and down a corridor leading to the huge hangar that housed all of the Pack’s vehicles. In addition to the helicopters, there were several SUVs, cars, and a jet, along with their personal modes of transportation. Zan’s baby, a big, macho Ford Raptor, sat on the far side of the building, and he spared it a longing glance before climbing into one of the Hueys with Jax, Nick, Ryon, Micah, and Phoenix. In the other copter rode Aric, his mate, Rowan, Kalen, Hammer, A.J., and finally, Noah, a nurse who worked in the compound’s infirmary. It was quite common for one of them to need patching up in the field, and Noah’s presence was a great help to Zan these days.

  Zan tried not to think about why. It wasn’t like Noah’s being around was a vote of no confidence, since one of the doctors or nurses usually accompanied the Pack on a mission. But an insidious voice inside him whispered, Yeah, but for how long? What happens when you’ve got nothing left to give?

  Inside him, his wolf growled at the thought.

  Once they were in the air, he lost himself to the dull roar of the aircraft and paid no particular attention to the shouted conversations going on around him. That was one dangerous thing about being practically deaf—it was all too easy for him to retreat from the world. If he didn’t look, he couldn’t participate. Both a blessing and a curse.

  Eventually, however, his gaze was drawn to his Pack brothers. Especially Micah and Phoenix. It was strange, getting used to having the two of them with the team again, especially after they’d been believed dead. Zan was glad they’d been rescued from the horrible labs after being tortured for months, and wondered how they were really coping.

  One side of Micah’s face was ruined, like melted wax, the result of molten silver being poured on him. God knows he had to still be in pain, but Micah claimed that his medications were helping. He’d come out of his shell in recent weeks, had stopped hiding his face. He smiled more, though the expression was still reserved. The man was a walking miracle; so what if his eyes were a bit too bright, almost feverish?

  Nobody questioned it, at least not to Micah. No one wanted to risk setting back his progress.

  Phoenix was a completely different story. Rescued separately from Micah, the man had come away malnourished but with no physical scars and seemed to be handling the horrors he’d been through with relative ease. Too much so, which had Zan concerned. But if he was hurting inside, he was hiding it well. Nix appeared to be quite happy lately—and even a blind man could see that it was due to his attraction to Noah.

  Were those two Bondmates? A betting pool had been started, and Zan hadn’t bothered to chip in on what he figured was a yes. The great thing was, not one of the guys had expressed a negative attitude about it. In the shifter world, a man’s Bondmate just was, like the leaves on the trees or the air they breathed. If fate blessed a man with the other half of his soul, he didn’t question his good fortune. He simply seized his destiny with both hands and thanked God he didn’t have to walk through life alone.

  Zan knew he sure as hell would, if he were so lucky.

  Dammit. Not going to think about one more impossible dream heaped on the bonfire. The rest will be a pile of smoldering ashes soon enough.

  As if to punctuate that miserable thought, Zan glanced over just in time to catch a snippet of conversation between Micah and Nix.

  “Don’t know, man,” Micah was saying. “I’m not one to talk about whether he’s ready to be on duty. I mean, look at me.” He gestured to his own face, but Nix shook his head.

  “Your scars don’t affect your ability to do your job, buddy. His situation is totally different. Just sayin’.”

  Unable to bear witnessing another word, Zan averted his gaze and stared at the ugly gray wall of the Huey. Hurt speared him like a lance to the gut, and he rested his elbows on his knees. Was that what all of them were saying? Speculating out loud on whether he was fit to be in the field?

  Doubting himself in private was one thing.

  But seeing his brothers do the same—in front of him, as if he were stupid as well as deaf—was a whole different level of pain.

  Lost in his head, he let the hours roll by, scarcely making an attempt to join in what little talk the guys managed. By the time they landed in a wide, grassy plain in Texas, Jax was gazing at him with worry etched on his brow as he stroked his goatee. The second he saw Zan noticing, however, he put on his poker face. Already on edge, Zan wasn’t about to let him get away with pretending nothing was wrong.

  As soon as they were clear of the transport, Zan grabbed his friend’s arm and held him back as the others walked across the pasture to meet a trio of men in suits.

  “Don’t do that,” he hissed. “Don’t pretend to my face that you’re okay with me being here when you think the same as everyone else.”

  Anger flashed in Jax’s eyes. “You telling me what I think now? News flash—you’re a Healer, not a Seer, so you have no clue what’s going on in my head.”

  “I have eyes. I can tell you’re second-guessing whether I can do the job.”

  “Am I?” He took a step forward, got in Zan’s face. “I doubt any one of us could possibly second-guess you more than you’re doing all on your own. You saw concern, yes. But that’s because I’m your friend, jackass. I give a damn about you, that’s all.”

  Put like that, the perspective made Zan feel about an inch tall. Blowing out a breath, he looked away for a moment, scanning the horizon without really noticing much. One of Jax’s hands clasped his shoulder, and he returned his attention to his friend.

  “The thing is, your doubt is the only thing that matters. Don’t you see? When you have your confidence back, when you’ve lost the anger and fear and you can join the mission knowing you’re back to one hundred percent, then what anyone else believes won’t amount to shit.”

  He swallowed hard. “But what if I’m never the same? What if I don’t heal?”

  “Then you learn to compensate, like I did after my leg was mangled.”

  “That’s different—” he began.

  “No, it’s not. My leg physically healed, yes, but the strength and agility I used to have in that limb are not equal to the good leg. And it won’t ever be the same. But I’ve learned techniques to help me make up for it in a fight—techniques you and the others helped me perfect, I’ll remind you.”

  “I get it,” he muttered.

  “Do you? Nobody wants anything but the best for you, Zan,” he said, warm sincerity evident in his expression. “The guys are worried, and they may run off at the mouth too much, but every one of them is in your corner. Believe that.”

  Hey, guys? Ryon pushed into their minds telepathically. Nick’s giving you both the stink eye, so you might want to cut the lovefest short, get your butts over here, and join the party.

  Jax made a face and turned, starting off toward the group of Feds, who appeared decidedly unhappy. With a sigh, Zan followed him, sort of glad for Ryon’s interruption. Save for a mated couple, who could speak telepathically to each other, the Channeler/Telepath was the only one who could push his thoughts directly into others’ heads. Zan relished being able to hear someone’s voice clearly, even if just temporarily.

  Those brief periods of contact might be all he had to look forward to.

  A
s they reached the spot where Nick stood in front of his Pack, Zan noted that the meeting between his commander and the Feds looked more like a standoff.

  “So, are you guys military or not?” one of the agents asked with a frown, arms crossed over his chest.

  Nick had his back to Zan, but whatever the commander said did not go over well with the suits. A second agent, short and stocky, pushed the issue.

  “Your outfit doesn’t look like any Special Ops team I ever saw. More like mercenaries, if you ask me.” This was said with a slight curl to his lips, as though he’d tasted something bad.

  Zan got close enough to maneuver around and catch Nick’s response.

  “Nobody did ask you.” The commander’s stare was hard and flat. “And now that we’re here, you all can pull back and let us do what the White House sent us here to do. Unless, of course, you’d like for me to get the president on the phone so he can tell you personally.”

  The agents froze, and several of the Pack members blinked at Nick in surprise.

  “You’ve got President Warren on speed dial? You’re full of shit,” the stocky agent sneered, recovering some.

  “Try me. But fair warning—you’ll be out of a job before I end the call. Up to you if losing your career is worth the attitude.”

  Way to pull rank, Zan thought with a smirk. Nothing like the mention of the Oval Office to chap their asses.

  Holy crap. Did Nick really have that kind of clout? The Feds eyed Nick’s stony expression for a few tense moments, seemed to buy it, and reluctantly backed off. Once they’d moved off to stand elsewhere and act official—translation, be completely useless—the commander turned to a tall, beefy rancher who’d been hovering on the perimeter of the gathering, weathered face grim under the brim of his hat, broad shoulders drooping with the weight of what had occurred on his property. Zan pegged him as either the owner or the foreman.

  Taking off his hat to scratch his head, the rancher also looked plenty baffled. “I don’t understand why the government sent damned near two dozen people to investigate poor Saul’s murder, unless you’re looking for a serial killer or something. Whatever the reason, I’m glad you’re here.”

  “We’re looking for a specific type of killer,” Nick informed him, before fudging the truth. A lot. “There have been a rash of cult killings, and this murder fits the pattern. We came as soon as we heard.”

  “That was damned fast, but I’m grateful. Sure might take a military group to stop a bunch of cult crazies.” The rancher eyed Nick, then the team in general. “I’m Tim Edwards, by the way. What do you need me to do?”

  “I need use of a couple of trucks, if you have any to spare. We want to look around the area where the cattle and your hand were found.”

  “Sure. I’ll send a couple of my men out to show you—”

  Nick shook his head. “Just to tell us. We can find it. I’d rather not put more of your men in unnecessary danger when the culprits are still at large.”

  Zan tried to imagine what the rancher would do if he knew that the team could simply sniff out the murder scenes with their canine noses when they got close enough. That would probably finish off the poor guy.

  Thankfully, the rancher seemed to agree with Nick’s plan. “That’s fine. I’ve got three trucks that belong to the Bar K ya’ll can use if you promise to bring ’em back in one piece.”

  “Thank you. We’ll do our best.”

  Zan fell into step with his Pack as they walked the rest of the way to the main house. The mood was somber, rugged-looking men milling around not knowing what to do and clearly uneasy with the recent events. He spotted more than one cowboy with reddened eyes and knew their fellow hand’s murder must’ve hit them hard. Zan could empathize with the horror of losing a close friend to violence.

  None too soon, they’d gotten directions, borrowed the trucks, and were on their way to investigate the sites where the bodies were found. He felt a little guilty for his relief at leaving the heavy cloud of grief behind him and getting on with doing what they did best.

  The lead truck followed a well-worn dirt road for a mile or so before veering into the pasture. After it had traveled about forty yards, it came to a halt and the vehicles behind it did the same. Everyone got out and trailed Nick to a pair of bloated carcasses on the ground a few feet away. Zan wrinkled his nose at the stench.

  “Jesus.”

  The bodies of the cattle were stiff, getting ripe. Each one’s throat was laid wide open, the wound sort of messy, the meat chewed.

  Micah pointed. “Not what I’d expect from a vampire bite. They don’t typically ravage their victims like that when they feed.”

  “But I can scent them all over the place,” Zan put in. His lupine sense of smell was one of the traits that hadn’t deserted him yet. “Definitely a vampire kill.”

  There were nods of agreement. Nick squatted, his blue eyes narrowed. “These rogues are out of control. Not that we didn’t realize that—they’ve killed a human out in the open—but this is beyond the ordinary. Even for rogues, this shows a lack of control I haven’t seen before. A certain amount of . . .”

  “Recklessness?” Zan supplied. “Balls?”

  “Yes.” The commander stood. “There’s no thoughtful cunning here. No discretion.”

  Jax shook his head. “There’s almost a sickness permeating the area.”

  “We have to find out why,” Nick agreed. “Nothing else to see here, though. Let’s move on to the ranch hand’s body.”

  Just then, Zan noticed Micah wandering away from the group, sniffing the air. He walked toward the back of the property, in the direction they’d been heading before they stopped. Then he crouched and palmed a handful of dirt, inhaled, then dropped it and brushed his hand on his jeans.

  “There was a human here,” he told them. “This scent stands out because it was joined by at least one vampire, and then both scents head that way.” He pointed toward a copse of trees a ways off.

  Zan peered into the distance and remarked, “That’s where they told us we can find the body. Maybe he came out here alone to take another look at the dead cattle and they snatched him. A kill of opportunity.”

  At that grim prospect, they loaded into the vehicles and drove the rest of the way to the murder scene. As they approached, Zan noted that there was a vehicle there and two men in suits standing near what he assumed to be the body, which was covered with a tarp. Made sense that they couldn’t leave the body unguarded, though Nick wouldn’t like them hanging around.

  They must’ve been informed in advance about visitors, because they stepped aside and moved a fair distance away with a minimum of protest. Still watchful, they leaned against a couple of trees while Zan and the others surrounded the tarp.

  Nick pulled it back and Zan grimaced. God, that poor bastard.

  The victim’s head was turned to the side, eyes wide and staring across the field. Like the cattle, the man’s neck was savaged, to the point Zan was surprised it was still attached to his prone body. The Pack had seen some pretty disturbing things in their line of work, but this? This guy had suffered before he died. He had blood and tissue under his fingernails, scratches on his arms. He’d fought. Had been desperate as he’d been dragged across the field to the tree line. He must’ve known he’d end up like those cows.

  What a fucking shitty way to die.

  Nick motioned Jax close to the man’s body, and Zan knew what his best friend would be asked to do. As the Pack’s RetroCog, Jax could touch a person or hold an object in his hand and get a reading on past events. Sometimes that event was a movie clip of the last moments of the person’s life, or some other significant happening tied to the mystery they were trying to solve. Other times he got only snapshots of the past that didn’t make sense until much later.

  As Jax laid a hand on top of the man’s head, Zan stepped up close to his friend, ready to catch him if necessary. These sessions usually left Jax drained.

  Exhaling a long breath, Jax closed his
eyes and grew still. Zan pictured how his friend always described the process of reading a body—there were threads attached to every person and object, and those threads led to the memories. Jax gathered those threads and pulled them close to see where they led.

  For several long moments Jax was still. Then his body began to shake, and a soft moan of distress passed through his lips. Suddenly he fell backward with a cry, and Zan caught him from behind, steadying him.

  “I’ve got you.”

  Before Jax could protest, Zan sent gentle waves of healing energy into his friend’s system, cleansing the bad remnants of the memories and chasing away the exhaustion. As he finished, a dull throbbing began at his temples and crept to encompass his skull, and he knew it would get worse before it went away. But he’d do it again and again, to take care of his brothers.

  Jax pulled away and turned to glare at him. “You shouldn’t do that when you don’t have to. Save your energy.”

  “Save your breath,” he countered. “The day I can’t heal, you can put me in the ground.”

  “That’s not funny.”

  “Wasn’t meant to be.”

  Looking frustrated, Jax let the subject go for the moment. He hadn’t heard the last of it, however. His friend was like a dog with a bone when it came to making sure the people he cared for stayed safe.

  “What did you learn?” Zan asked, changing the subject.

  “I saw how he died. Lived it.” He shuddered. “It was horrendous, what he suffered. They played with him, enjoyed causing him pain and . . . fuck, you don’t want to know the details.”

  “What about the vamps themselves? Did you see any of them?”

  “Yeah. There were two who killed the victim, but there were more hiding deep in the woods. Of the two, one was younger, blond, maybe early twenties when he was turned. The other was a few years older, brown hair, tall and slim, sort of dirty. I didn’t get names.”