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Maybe then we can shed a little light on our dilemma to help them understand
just where we're coming from."
~
"Shogun, we have to stop. The men are dropping where they stand from fatigue
and dehydration." His second in command's eyes stopped glowing as his wolf
form re-treated to leave a naked, shivering man on the verge of collapse.
"We'll die in the tunnels, and there'll be no glory for that."
Shogun paced back and forth and then shifted into his human form. Rage and
frustration hardened his almond-shaped eyes, and his normal, neat, single
braid was loosed as a wild mane of black silk. "How many of us have they fed
on, eaten like cattle before the UCE Conference has even commenced?" He spoke
through his teeth, his eyes glittering with fury as he appraised his exhausted
men. Murmurs of discontent rippled through the underground Werewolf caverns,
echoing off stalactites and stalagmites.
"And the Shadow packs talked about us, separated themselves from our breed
because they thought only we carried the contagion," one soldier muttered.
"Bitches," another weary were-soldier said. "They pointed the finger at us
because they knew that if they caught the contagion, it would be so much worse
in them than ever in us."
Shogun ground his teeth, seething as he listened and re-membered years of
civil wars between the Shadow Wolf clans and Werewolf clans. Torn between his
own personal vendetta that caused his father's death and what was right for
the Southeast Asian clan that he now headed, he spewed words from his mouth in
hot, angry bursts.
"It's a matter of honor!" Shogun shouted, having heard enough conjecture from
the ranks. "For forty-eight hours they've preyed on us infected Shadow Wolves
drawing us into lairs behind demon doors where even our own infected brethren
might attack us. But our own would have enough respect not to be filthy
cannibals . . . and they shun our kind? Am I not to seek redress?"
"Yes ... but at the UCE table not here. We've done as much as we could do,
have chased as many as we could as far as we could, and have enough evidence
to prove that it was infected Shadow Wolves on the loose, not in-fected
Werewolves this time." His second in command held his gaze with a plea in his
eyes.
"I am not placating those goddamned Vampires!" Shogun bellowed, and then spit
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on the ground. "To hand over hard evidence at the UCE against our distant
cousin wolves is to give the Vampires what they want an open license to kill
us all. Our battles are internal. . . wolf-to-wolf."
"What about the prophecy?"
Shogun stared at his enforcer. The cavern was so quiet now that only the drip
from moisture echoed amid the breaths taken by weary were-warriors. After a
stunned pause, he raked his fingers through his hair. The prophecy: When the
wolf would be one, brought together by one not born of them, yet made . . .
strengths of both warring wolves will be sealed in one skin, with one heart.
Strategy replaced rage. Shogun turned away to look into the pitch-black
darkness in the cave before him and then turned toward the weak light
filtering in from the opening. Sasha. She was a Shadow Wolf. He was a
Were-wolf. Although he'd never admit it to his pack brothers, he'd wanted her
so badly before, wanted to tell her of the prophecy, but time had run out and
she'd rebuffed his ad-vances.
His sister would be a problem. So would Sasha's current mate the huge North
American Shadow clan leader. But if anyone could be the go-between, to get
word to the Shadow packs that they needed to meet and had to form a cohesive
unit before the Vampires, it was her. Sasha was different.. . even her aura
was different, although he wasn't sure why it didn't resonate with the thin
band of silver that would normally nauseate a Were-male. She also was oddly
raised by humans, not in a pack, and worked for the human military in a way he
couldn't understand. But then she'd taken a male Shadow to her bed and had
hunted beside him as though they were mates.
Shogun continued to focus on the gray filter of light. This gorgeous female
warrior presented a conundrum. The moment he'd laid eyes on her his soul told
him she was a part of the prophecy, if not the prophecy itself. His enforcer
was right there was another way.
"We gather our forces, rest, replenish ... and then we gather information."
Shogun's shoulders relaxed and true fatigue clawed at every muscle in his
tall, lean frame.
"How? When they have us hiding and on the run like dogs?" one of the men
called out.
"There's a little pub in the French Quarter The Fair Lady that has Fae
peacekeeping forces. The proprietor there, Ethan, is the nervous Fae type. He
wants peace at all costs and will broker information for the grant of
pro-tection."
His enforcer smiled. "We can do that."
~
"Francois, man ... I thought we had a deal?" Dexter flung the lid off the
pristine, mahogany coffin that was placed on a central marble stand within the
master bed-room. The Vampire within it awakened with a belligerent hiss.
"Thought I might find Etienne in there with you. Coulda gotten two for the
price of one."
A wicked smile tugged at Barbara's misshapen snout as she flipped on the wall
light.
Francois immediately went to the gold-leaf frescoed ceiling near the crystal
chandelier, arched, and spit like a treed cat wearing a paisley silk robe. The
crimson fabric dangled precariously from his pale, upside-down, athletic frame
as he bared fangs in a rage.
"How dare you violate my mansion! Where's my manservant?" Francois's irises
became coal-black orbs of gleaming fury.
Dexter chuckled and spit out a small bone and a piece of gristle that had
still been lodged in his teeth. "Tasty, al-though a bit old for my liking. Too
chewy."
"You ... swine ..." Francois glanced around nervously at the gang of infected
Shadow Wolves that were amusedly fingering his timeless keepsakes and damaging
the expen-sive upholstery on his Louis XIX furnishings. He watched, mute and
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furious, as Dexter rounded his four-posted bed and yanked on the satin cord
that moved the velvet drape to expose four nude and very dead society women.
"I understand that you have gorgeous gardens here, Francois," Dexter said in a
low, laughing growl as he stalked to the window on his bent hind legs and
clasped his clawed hands behind his back. He faced the heavily draped window,
the threat implicit. "Acres of antebellum grandeur, Spanish moss-laden trees
... so pretty in the daylight."
"Don't," Francois said, his voice tight and eyes frantic.
"Then tell me what happened with my delivery." Dex-ter didn't turn around.
"I was delayed, as you can see," Francois said, motioning to the bed with a
petulant wave of his hand. "What began as a simple feeding took multiple
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