Chapter One
"The guy bringing up the rear is always the one who gets eaten, you know."
Ryon Hunter made a face at Aric Savage's back as their team of shifters, the Alpha Pack, crept stealthily in human form down the garbage-strewn alley. Or half of them, anyway.
The other half were elsewhere in the Big Apple, quickly and quietly searching the night for a gang of rogue vampires reported to be on the hunt, killing humans by draining them and leaving their corpses to be found by puzzled and alarmed citizens. The Pack's commander, Nick Westfall, had given them a simple mandate: find the bastards and neutralize every last damned one of them. Otherwise the public would have questions, ones that had answers the Pack and the very few authorities in the know didn't want them getting hold of.
Vampires in New York City. Sounded like an apocalypse movie.
If people only knew of the very real paranormal world that lurked in the shadows, there would be mass panic. The Alpha Pack's job was to make sure that never happened. They hunted the most dangerous creatures in the world, taking them out before humans had a clue they were there. The less dangerous ones were brought in for possible rehabilitation, and integration into their world.
Peering into the gloom, Ryon forced himself to concentrate. Spirits beckoned to him from every corner, their ghostly forms fading in and out as they entreated him to listen to pleas he couldn't hear. Didn't want to hear. As the Pack's Channeler/Telepath, this was his gift-or rather, his curse.
As a Telepath, Ryon was capable of pushing his direct thoughts into other people's heads. He could also catch a reply from one of his teammates if they pushed back hard enough, even though none of the rest of them shared his gift. But his oh so wonderful abilities didn't stop there. Being a Channeler meant that Ryon could also communicate with the dead, if he really tried. Which he rarely wanted to do, but the ghosts just wouldn't leave him alone. Lost souls were drawn to him like metal shavings to a magnet, and New York City held so many of them it was like wading through pea soup.
Even worse, the ghosts seriously pissed off his wolf, who snapped and snarled inside him every time one got too close. Which was constantly.
Nobody, not even his Pack brothers, knew how very close to the breaking point the spirits had driven him.
A slight scuffing sound came from behind him, like a shoe on concrete, and Ryon whirled. His enhanced eyesight scanned the darkness, but all was still. Quiet. So quiet that it took him a couple of seconds to figure out why that bothered him.
The spirits had vanished.
"Shit," he breathed, spinning around to catch up with his group. "Guys-"
The alley exploded in a flurry of dark figures, rushing them from all sides. He just had time to see Aric and Hammer engage in battle with four rogue vampires when a fifth tackled him from the side, slamming him into the wall of a building.
Grunting in pain, he shoved at the vamp, grimacing at the stench of fetid breath wafting over his face. The rogue had him pinned and bared his fangs, going for Ryon's jugular. Twisting, Ryon managed to get enough leverage to put his back to the wall and shove the thing off him. The vamp stumbled backward and Ryon grabbed for the silver knife strapped to his thigh, cursing himself for not already having it in his hand.
He took the snarling vamp to the ground, and in one swift movement, thrust the blade under the breastbone, burying it deep into the monster's black heart. The vamp's squeal joined the others as Aric and Hammer took out their opponents. But they weren't out of the woods.
Another wave of the rogues emerged from the shadows, intent on destroying their adversaries and feasting on their blood. Before Ryon could stand up, two vamps leapt on him, slamming him to the dirty concrete. He'd fought greater numbers than this before and won, but they had him off-balance. They got him facedown, one sitting on his legs, twisting an arm behind him and taking the knife, while the other grabbed a fistful of his hair and pulled his head back to expose this throat.
"Get off me, you fucker!" His wolf, enraged, demanded release as he bucked. Tried in vain to throw them off. Knowing he could fight them much better on four legs, with his own set of sharp teeth, he gathered his concentration for the shift.
"Uh-uh," the one sitting on his legs sang. "We can't let the puppy come out to play."
How do they know-
A hard punch landed in his side. Hot, agonizing fire spread through his torso, seized his lungs. His cry came out as a hoarse wheeze as he realized the vamp had stabbed him with his own silver knife, buried it to the hilt between his ribs. He renewed his struggle to throw them off, but it was no use.
"Hold still, pup," the other crooned in his ear. "This will be over soon."
Then the creature's fangs sank deep into Ryon's throat, silencing his shout. The agony was indescribable, drowning out even the burn in his ribs. The sickening slurp of the thing feeding at his neck made him want to vomit, but he couldn't move. Could do nothing as his sight began to dim, his brain spinning with dizziness.
The one who'd been feeding raised his head, and spoke with reverent wonder. "It's true! Shifter blood is like the purest cocaine! So good . . ."
"Let me try," the other insisted.
"No! This kill is mine!"
Their argument saved him. That, and his Pack brothers rushing to his rescue after taking care of the other rogues. Distantly, Ryon heard the sounds of a fierce but brief fight as the vampires turned to meet the new threat. Then sudden silence, broken by harsh breathing. Boots, jogging toward him. Cursing.
"Motherfucking hell," Aric snapped. "Help me turn him over. Careful."
Hands lifted him, and soon he was on his back. He tried to make out their faces, to say he was all right. But warm blood gurgled in his torn throat instead. Fuck, he couldn't breathe!
"Don't try to talk," Hammer instructed him. "You're gonna be all right, my man."
Aric examined Ryon's side, muttering. "Stabbed him with his own goddamned knife. We've got to leave that in there for now, or he'll bleed out."
"But he can't shift unless we remove it. If he can shift, maybe he can heal faster."
Aric's voice floated above him. "Ryon? Can you hear me?"
He nodded, once.
"Good. If we take out the knife, can you shift?"
He nodded again, or thought he did. Concentrating, he attempted to call his wolf, but it howled in pain. Retreated deep inside him, strength draining.
"Ryon? Hang on, man . . ."
His Pack brothers' curses, their insistent pleas, melted far away. Into nothingness.
. . .
Daria Bradford tossed back her single shot of whiskey, relishing the warmth that slid down her throat to her stomach. The nights grew cool in the Shoshone National Forest in the early fall, so the small indulgence was welcome.
Sitting by the fire, she picked up a bottle of water and rinsed her shot glass. Then she dried it before returning the glass and plastic travel flask to her backpack. The nightly ritual comforted her, made her feel more at home, so far from civilization. It was a tradition she and her father had shared before he retired from the life's work he'd loved so much. The work that she carried on.
Her father had taught her all he knew about studying wolves. As a young girl, she had accompanied him on many a trip. After high school graduation, unlike many of her peers, Daria had known exactly what she wanted to do with the rest of her life-she would follow in her father's footsteps. And so she had, becoming a wildlife biologist who specialized in the field of studying what, to her, were the most beautiful and elusive creatures on the planet.
Her father had been part of the conservationist group in the 1980s that was instrumental in saving wolves in the Shoshone from the brink of extinction. Watching them thrive once again was one of the two great joys in his life, along with doting on his daughter. But eventually his arthritis prevented him from scaling the mountains and valleys he loved so much, so he now lived vicariously through her tales. She made sure to bring him plenty to hear over their cozy nights by the fire, their whiskeys in hand.
Smiling to herself, she thought of all she had to tell him when she went to visit in a few weeks. The wolf packs she'd checked on so far were doing very well, the pups growing. By the dancing light of the fire, she retrieved her spiral notebook and logged her notes on each of the local pack members for the day. Then she put it away and crawled into the tent, zipping it shut against any nighttime visitors that the flames didn't dissuade.
Exhaustion crept into her bones and muscles, but it was the nice sort earned from an honest day's work. She crawled into the sleeping bag and before long, sleep cocooned her and she drifted off, content.
That's when the nightmare invaded.
She was standing in a dark place. A dirty corridor. City noises came from nearby-traffic, people talking. Then came the shouting. She moved closer to the noises, and realized it sounded like fighting. As she crept forward, she saw dark shapes. Pale, humanlike figures dressed in rags, snarling, yellowed fangs slashing in the gloom.
They were attacking a group of men, and for a few moments, it appeared the evil ones would win. How she knew the defenders were the good guys, she couldn't say. She only knew she was invisible to them as they battled, as the men gained the upper hand at last.
But one of their number went down under two of the dark ones. There was a flash of silver, his choked cry ending terribly. Suddenly. One of the attackers yanked back his head and ripped into the man's throat with those awful yellowed fangs.
Stumbling forward, Daria shouted at them to stop, but nobody heard. Her breath froze in her lungs as the man's companions came to his rescue, dispatching the remaining creatures. That's what they were-creatures-but she couldn't put a name to them. Thoughts of the ugly ones vanished as she walked close, looked down and studied the man whom his friends were trying so hard to save.
He was, without a doubt, the most beautiful man she'd ever seen. He was lying on his back, arms and legs limp. Moonlight fell into clear, crystal blue eyes and glinted off his shaggy blond hair. His nose was straight, and he had grooves around his mouth and full lips that hinted at a man who smiled frequently.
But at the moment, he was struggling to breathe. A splash of red marred the torn flesh at this throat, and there was more of the crimson lifeblood flowing from around the hilt of the knife buried in his side. Worry for the man and a deep, sudden sadness overwhelmed her. She tried again to speak, but could not make a sound.
Then his gaze found hers, widened. Just for a moment, the world narrowed to the two of them. Raising his arm, he reached for her with bloodied fingers. She wanted to hold his hand, bring him what solace she could.
Then she was sucked backward, falling out of the dream as she cried out in protest.
No!
"No!" Daria's shout rang in the tent as she bolted upright.
Hand on her chest, she sucked in several deep breaths. Gradually, her racing heart calmed, but the horror of the nightmare remained. Because she knew better than anyone that it was no dream. The scene had been a vision.
Only her father knew of the "gifts" bestowed upon her, supposedly by a Native American ancestor. Everyone else would think her crazy, so the two of them guarded her secret with great care.
All of her life, she'd been plagued with visions of scenes that were either imminent or had just occurred. Most of them were useless, nothing more than innocuous flashes. In the more serious, detailed ones, she typically didn't have a clue who the person in the scene was, and couldn't do anything to help. Well, not directly. Her other gift-astral projection, the ability to send her physical body into a dreamlike state and visit another place in a spirit form-was also useless if she didn't know who to help, or where they were.
Squirming on her sleeping bag, she worried over the handsome blond man in her vision. Who was he? What were those horrible things that had attacked him and his friends?
Most important, was he going to survive?