Wolf: A Military P.A.C. Novel (3 page)

Chapter 4 Michael

The boy and his father stood over a grave. A granite angel, her wings poised to fold or fly, tears coursing down her cheeks, rose up from the pedestal that held Rebecca Scott’s name and the remains of her body. The man’s face was seemingly as carved as the angel, though his eyes said something different. The son could see that, the regret in the stone face different from the pain that dragged at his father’s heart. The boy controlled his quivering lip as he looked to his father, but tears still leaked from his eyes to drip on the suit that barely fit him anymore.

“Did she have to die,
Dad?”

“Everyone does,
Son.”

“You could have sto
pped her.” A hint of anger seeped into the boy’s voice.

“Then she would
n’t have been the woman I loved, or your mother.”

“I’m going to join the army. Be like her.” The resolution in the boy
’s words was firm, even though his voice cracked at the moment he said them.

“Then we have a lot of work to do. An IED isn’t easy to avoid.” The father
didn’t hold back the thought or the words. His son already knew how his mother died.

“Tomorrow.”

“No, next week is soon enough.” The man’s voice softened. “We need to feel this.”

Michael’s heart shattered in the depths of Faelon’s cry as he stared at her under the moonlight. This was the woman he had always wanted at his side. Her strength, her presence, and her beauty called to him—had been calling to him since he had met her. That need woke other things in his soul, loss and longing coming together. Michael answered Faelon’s call. He raised his voice to the sky and screamed it out to her. Screamed out everything he was: the death of his friends; his missing father; the confusion at the end of the war; his emotions, past and present; all of his needs; his need for Faelon. All of it went into his cry.

When he walked over to her, drawn in a way he couldn’t explain, Faelon’s scent filled his nostrils
—pine and wilderness—feeding his heart, building it into something stronger. More capable.

He sniffed, leaning into
the woman that couldn’t be. His shoulder touched hers, their cheeks met and her breath burned his neck. His arms wrapped her up of their own accord and he pulled her into an embrace, softly, a caress of movement that wouldn’t scare her away. She settled her weight against him, her chest pushing against his, her hands questing past his buttons and over his skin. A laugh escaped her throat, and a look of surprise crossed her face. But it didn’t keep the laugh from coming back, or her hands from warming his skin.

Michael
grabbed Faelon around the buttocks and slowly lifted her off the ground, and then pulled back to look at the woman in his arms. Arousal had warmed her eyes to the colour of dark gold in a setting sun. He raised a hand to her waist and hugged her closer as he walked into the house. Pressing his face into her slim neck, the soft flow of her muscles twitching under the pressure of his lips, he pushed into the softer curves of her body and felt a growl rise in her throat. She nipped his shoulder.

“Ouch.”

“Ouch,” she said. It was the sexiest growl he’d heard.

He walked past the living area and the small bathroom
, and eased Faelon to the bed. She flipped over into a crouch, facing him, her shoulders lower than her hips, the feral grin that had warned him off earlier now inviting him to play.

He reached out to touch her. She nipped at his fingers.
Michael felt a smile pull at his face. He crouched down beside the bed and looked at her, finding the gold of her eyes in the dim lighting that surrounded them. “What are you?”

She didn’t answer this time, but eased towards him. She opened her mouth, her teeth sharp and deadly, brushing the skin of his nose. He heard her pull in his scent and then her teeth were around his throat, nuzzling him. Instead of pulling away, he returned the gesture, instinctively, his cheek sliding over her skin and his teeth finding their mark against h
er throat. Then he kissed her, softly, a sensuous musk filling his nostrils. The feeling in his chest turned to an ache. A need he had never felt with another woman.

She backed off, surprise widening her eyes and a sharp bark coming from her throat. “Please, what are you
. . . ? But he couldn’t finish the question filling his mind as she came back and nuzzled his flesh, moving lower this time, pushing under his arm, lifting him. His chest ached even more at the renewed touch.

He found his hands on her face, drawing her in and kissing her. The taste of her lips wild
and her response unfettered as she returned his attention with a fierce joy.

The loneliness he had been feeling, the ache and cry that had filled the night, disappeared as she pulled him towards her. Nothing else mattered to him at this moment than taking away the same feelings from the woman that folded into his arms as if she had always been there. And
would always be.

Chapter 5 Faelon

The warmth of the den was soon replaced with the spring sun caressing her fur, the wind an almost constant companion. It told her about the earth: the weather, when it might rain, or snow, what was food, what wasn’t. They had no enemies, not that Faelon knew of, with the protection of her sire and his mate as constant as the wind that read to her. But there were animals to be wary of—the great grizzlies that roamed the hills, and for a pup, even an eagle was a concern. She learned the growls of the bitch that trained her. A sharp nip or bite reinforcing what was expected of her was common, as well as the soft nudges of her nose and body when her bitch was rewarding her. Those expectations were simpler than what her sire asked of her. But his lessons came when she was older, wiser, and more patient.

His training was different. He coached her with gentle words an
d a compassionate touch, never a bite. He scratched in the dirt the lessons he wanted her to know while she looked on, her head cocked to one side in confusion, for much of it. For the longest time it didn’t make any sense to her. It didn’t help her hunt or learn the behaviour of prey. But her sire persisted for the seasons he was with her, teaching the language of men, and the nature of sand.

Faelon felt the heat of
Michael’s body beside her.

She had curled up beside her sire and his bitch, knew what the sharing of warmth was, what affection meant to pack members, but
Michael’s warmth was different. He filled her with a heat and a need she had never felt before, a feeling that left her complete. She loved his scent; it was a reminder of her sire and the rich scent of fire and smoke, and with Michael the addition of the musky scent of his sex. But underneath was the smell of sickness. That saddened her, left her feeling more alone than when she had run outside willing the fur and form she had always known to come back and nothing had happened. And that emotion was foreign to her, the angst of not being able to run as a wolf.

She rolled away and stretched, her new paws in front of her, hips in the air,
and then shook out her muscles. She missed the warmth of her fur. She slipped off the bed, as Michael had called it last night, and padded over to the door and stepped out into the morning light, leaving the door ajar.

Now
, how did she hunt in this form? Her sire had done it, but that was with tools, and while he had talked to her the way Michael did, and explained it, all of that was a long time ago.

She breathed in the scent of the mountains: the sharp smell of pine, the actinic smell of stone, the sweet smell of water, moss, and
—rabbit. She crouched down. Snow crunched under her new paws as she moved onto all fours. Faelon followed her nose and her hearing: the soft rustle of leaves in the wind, the snow caressing the landscape, and the heartbeat of her prey.

She was still a wolf on the inside. Faelon tracked the animal over the countryside, the hills and trees and terrain all familiar to her. She noticed the
rabbit’s movement, and shifted her own to herd it the way she wanted it to go. The loud snap told her she had done it right.

Faelon walked into the bowl
-shaped clearing where she had met Michael. The rabbit twisted with fear. The scent was sweet and acrid at the same time. She reached out and grabbed the animal, held it down, and pulled its head back until it stilled. The crack of its bones was a sharp echo in the wind. She pressed down on the release mechanism of the trap, the same way her mate had, and picked up the rabbit. She bit into its flesh with her sharp teeth, and ripped leaving a piece of the body near the trap. An offering, as her sire had taught her. Then she ate a bite, savouring the blood and flesh.

The rest was for her mate.

Faelon looked at Michael in his lair and held up the half-eaten rabbit in her hand. It dripped blood on the floor. She dropped it and moved with a smooth lope to jump the last metre onto the sprawled form in the bed. He rolled at the last minute tangling in the blankets, but managed to grab Faelon before she bounced. She let him pull her in close.

“God
, woman. The sun’s not even up. And you left the door open. It’s bloody cold out.”

She didn’t understand some of the words
, but his tone was comforting, and playful.

“Food,
Michael.”

“How do you understand?”

She turned her head to the side.

He bit her shoulder; she felt the muscle twitch in response to him.

“Faelon?”

She didn’t know what that word meant
, but when he used it she could feel it resonate in her chest, a sense of belonging taking over her whole being. She stared at the rock-brown colour of his eyes. The emotions she felt last night were close to the surface. She knew now, with him, they always would be.

“Hmmm. Food,
Michael.”

“Right. No answers. You’re worse than the military.”

He went and closed the door. He marked territory into the white stone using the same slow movements as when he had shown her the door the other night, so she knew it was another lesson about his world. Then he loosened water into the tiny pond on the ledge, and bathed his hands. She noticed his back where she had raked him with her claws. He hadn’t healed yet. Faelon slipped off the bed, came up behind him. She ran her new paws over the skin of his arms, as soft as possible, and leaned in closing her mouth over one of the open wounds.

“I know you didn’t mean it. It’s okay.”

His tone was soothing, as much as her saliva would be to his wounds. He tried to pull away from her, but she held him still, wrapping her arms around him and pushing into the ledge of not-rock in front of him, and continued her ministrations. It’s what pack did for each other, but it made him smell of surprise, like salmon when it’s pulled from the river and eaten fresh. Alive.

“I’m not sure that’s healthy, Faelon.”

But she didn’t stop. There were things in each of their worlds that the other needed to understand.

“If that’s infected
, you could get sick. Don’t, please.” He pulled away again, and this time she let him. He turned around and did that strange bite, this time against her forehead, his hands reaching around her. Even that made the cub sounds want to slide from her throat. His hands plied over her skin, and his mating tool showed his intention again. She went into the same rutting heat that had come over her last night. It seemed he could draw it out of this body whenever he wanted. Faelon had a thought about cubs but lost it when he took her back to the soft bough of the bed. She left his limbs alone this time, ripping only one of the blankets under her not-claws.

Chapter 6 Michael

Robert Scott sat at the breakfast table, his face eased from the stone-like countenance it had held a week ago. Paper covered in scrawls, ideas, and drawings was scattered over the table: lists of meta-materials; the specs on carbon Nano-tubes; the crude design for a materials engine. His breakfast was forgotten in front of him when his son came to the table.

He look
ed up, a kindness in his eyes, but mixed with hard choices and a regret he wouldn’t show his son. He wouldn’t let his emotions show if they stole choices from Michael. “It starts today. I won’t tell you again. Nothing will hurt you for the first while, but you know what pain is for, right?”

“Tells us what we miss.”

“That’s right, Son. And who. It’s the best teacher in the world.”

Three days later Michael open
ed his bedroom door. A Nerf arrow plunked off his forehead, the tip replaced with a small washer of steel. It hurt. When he looked in the mirror, the red spot it left was a clear indication.

“Bang, you
’re dead,” Michael said.

Michael
stepped out of the shower and towelled himself off. With the two of them in the stall, and Faelon’s joy at the artificial rain, they had used almost all the water. He would have to go outside and fill the tank with snow earlier than normal. A small immersion heater would do the rest. Beside him, Faelon shook herself out the way an animal would, the longer guard hairs in her mane having protected her hair from becoming soaked. Just like a wolf. It fluffed up almost dry when she was done. Otherwise, she was human, except she wasn’t limping and didn’t have a broken leg. Or a bruise. Or a cut where the steel trap had closed over her leg. Her healing abilities were better than a P.A.C.’s.

Michael
shook his head. The military, and his father, had taught him to adapt, always, or it would mean his death. Disdaining clothes, Michael picked the rabbit up from the floor, took it to the sink, and ran the water, soaking a rag to clean the blood from the floor. With several wilderness survival programs under his belt, he didn’t see anything wrong with the half-eaten carcass. It was food. But the missing fur bothered him. It meant Faelon had eaten that as well.

“Eat,
Michael.” Faelon came up beside him and rubbed her wet shoulder against his. The soft pink of her skin still glistened with moisture. She turned her face and brushed her nose against his cheek. A soft wuff told him she was breathing in his scent. He took hers in, a light musk, with all the richness of the forest, crisp as pine boughs. It brought a shiver over his muscles and set his heart beating faster. She smiled at him, as if she could tell exactly how he felt. She probably could smell his emotions.

“I like some meat cooked, Faelon.” With the rabbit washed, he grabbed a knife from the wooden block, pulled a cutting board close, and deftly cut the meat from the bones. Faelon watched him with avid curiosity. He turned the small induction stove on, put a frying pan in place, and tossed the rabbit in after a slice of butte
r. Faelon’s nose wrinkled up, her eyes going round.

“Hot.” He eased her hand into his, kissed her palm, and slowly brought it down over the cast iron. H
e spoke his warning again, making sure the awareness came to her eyes before he released her hand.

“Hot,” she said.

He sliced some celery, pulled from the stasis cooler, along with some egg whites and cheese. He stirred the rabbit, added the egg whites and celery, and grated the cheese into the pan. Bread went in the toaster.

“Cheese. Have some.” He held a slice out to her, eating some first, continuing his teaching method.

“Food?” she said.

“Yes.”

She took the morsel he offered, grasping it with her hands as if it was natural to her. Her amber eyes never left his. The intimacy—he accepted it, but it scared him too. There was something happening here between him and Faelon. More than sex. More than the isolation he usually revelled in could account for.

Michael turned back to stir the mixture on the stove until it was ready. He pulled out two plates, utensils, and buttered the toast, setting it on the edges of the plates, before dividing the scrambled eggs evenly. He sat at the table, toast in one hand, and a fork in the other.

He speared the meat
, “Rabbit.” Then one at a time, the other staples. “Egg, celery, cheese.” He went back to the beginning again. “Thank you for the rabbit.” He moved his chair closer and kissed her. She returned it, biting his lip with a quick motion and pulling back to look at him, her fingers going to her lips.

“That’s called a kiss.”

“Food?”

“Almost as good, Faelon. But eat.”

She touched the food with her hand, and then used that as her utensil, gulping the eggs down as if the half-eaten rabbit hadn’t been enough of a meal.

Michael
sat outside his cabin on a large mat, his back straight with his forearms resting on his knees. Faelon was curled up against him, the heat of her body like the banked coals of a fire. His breath came and went in the slow rhythm he used for meditation, slowing his body’s responses, and letting his awareness grow. Today, it was different.

Today the blood felt sluggish in his veins and his breath, as slow as it was, caught in his lungs. The gentle awareness he was used to finding kept coming in spurts and stutters as if something was keeping him from the trance state that let him see the world in a new light.
That kept him fresh and whole and let him tune his organs, aiding his body.

He slowly let his awareness come back, raising his breath in a steady pace
until he had achieved what was called “breath of fire,” his diaphragm pumping like a bellows, raising his metabolism and purging his system.

He leaned forward, pain cramping his stomach as he vomited.

That wasn’t supposed to happen with breath of fire.

Faelon shifted behind him and came forward, crouching low and scenting the sickness on the ground. Then she moved and did the same
to him.

“What?”

Faelon found a rock and sifted through the debris from his belly until she had a half-digested pill sorted out.

“
Michael?” she said. And sniffed at him again, looking at the thing on the ground, her disgust more exaggerated than the look she gave him when she found herself wearing a shirt.

“It’s Acetazolamide. Yeah, I know you don’t understand the word. It’s for altitude sickness.”

“Hot.” Faelon pointed at the vomit, the pill, and the remains from his stomach. Then she crouched down and ran a hand over his cheek, “Hot.”

He didn’t have a fever, that’s not what she was saying. The touch alone resonated somewhere inside him. The concern, after only one night together was enough to frighten him
in its intensity.

But it was exhilarating too.

Michael stood up in one smooth motion, not as graceful as Faelon, but better than most could accomplish it. He walked into the cabin and back out, holding a small pill bottle in his hands. Faelon had moved the blanket and settled on her knees. She was attentive, her ears up, her eyes wide. A whine came from her throat—of worry? Of concern? Michael couldn’t tell.

He opened the bottle and spilled some the pills into his hand. “Hot?”

Her nostrils flared and her nose crinkled up, a snarl coming from her mouth. Low and deep, rumbling from her chest.

“And if I was to take one of these?” He took one from his hand, held between his thumb and forefinger, the motion slow as he brought it up to his lips. He stopped when the growl from her throat was enough to tell him he never wanted this woman as his enemy.

“I guess that answers my question.” He put the pills away, sealed them, and then buried them in the ground beside him. A slow anger was starting to burn at his insides, but he kept that from Faelon. “Happy?”

“Happy
, Michael.” Her hips shimmied and her shoulders rocked. If she had been in wolf form, her tail would have been wagging.

He took a calming breath. “Where did you learn English?”

She cocked her head to the side again.

“Too complex again, eh
? I guess you don’t know who’s trying to kill me then, either.” Michael had a few ideas, but they didn’t make any sense. His doctor didn’t have any family that could be used to force him into this kind of action. And nothing had happened over this last year with the same prescription. His father used to lay traps for him, training him before his enlistment in the military, but they had never been this deadly. What if the stakes had gone up? His friends were dead. What linked them all? The War, for one. Ahmed’s death—the memories he didn’t have. What else?

Faelon leaned forward rubbing her cheek against him,
and then lay at his feet looking up at him, her legs stretched out and her belly exposed. Michael leaned down and kissed her. Her hands wrapped around his neck, responsive, trusting, everything about her saying that she was safe here with him. Lying nude on a blanket in the dead of winter, warmer than he was with thermal clothing on.

“I like to run in the mornings
. It helps me think.”

“Run. Forest. Yes.”