Starr, Ellen - Wolf's Passion [The Joined] (Siren Publishing Ménage and More) (6 page)

Chapter Eight:

Nothing Good

Jean-Paul slammed the phone down. He looked at his hand gripping the black plastic. His knuckles were white. With a loud snap, the plastic cracked. He took a deep, ragged breath. Letting it out slowly, he willed himself to relax. Grief and rage surged through him. Remy was dead. He couldn’t quite believe it. He thought back over his long life. Remy had always been there, through every trial, bad times and good. They thought they would never die.

With another deep sigh, Jean-Paul moved to the chair beside the phone table. He sat with his face buried in his hands. His shoulders shook with silent sobs. Everything seemed to be falling apart.

He needed to pull himself together. Jean-Paul berated himself. He had allowed himself to grow soft, complacent, stupid in this age of ease. With a soft curse, he gripped the arms of the chair and shoved himself to his feet. Disgusted with himself for sinking into self-pity even for so short a time, Jean-Paul strode into the library.

Inside the room, he went first to the windows, pulling the heavy drapes closed. Then he stopped at the floor-to-ceiling shelves beside the fireplace. With a smile that held no humor in it, he reached out to caress the decorative carving that graced the mantle. It was a work of art, designed by a master craftsman. Nothing like it had been built in many years. Modern houses were soulless, Jean-Paul thought. He continued his appreciation of the hand-carved wood. When he reached the roaring lion, he slipped a finger into its mouth.

The shelving made a soft, nearly silent click then swung outward slightly. Jean-Paul grasped the edge and pulled the shelving open the rest of the way.
Bless the Victorians and their obsession with secrecy
. He stepped into the dark opening, stopping to turn down a small lever, shutting the door behind himself.

The passageway smelled of disuse and dust. No light reached inside, but he didn’t need light to see where he was going. He hurried down the stairs, heedless of the blackness surrounding him. At the bottom, he reached another door. This one also opened silently at a gentle touch of his hand. The room it revealed glowed with soft phosphorescence.

Jean-Paul sighed. He had not been in this room for many years. Cora did not know it existed. He’d never felt the need to show it to her. She was a child of the modern age. The things here belonged to his past. Jean-Paul traced the hilt of a broadsword. Memories of wielding it in battle alongside his Templar companions came flooding back. It was a good weapon but not what he needed. Such an obvious weapon would attract too much attention. He needed something more subtle. It lay on the table exactly as he had left it some ninety-four years before.

The smooth, polished ebony of the cane brought back memories much like the broadsword, though these memories were more refined. He loved the Victorian era, such well-mannered people hiding such vice. He liked to see corsets coming back into style. When he was with Cora once more, he would buy her several. With great care, he slid the silver sword free of its scabbard. The blade still held its edge. He smiled. He remembered many nights in both Paris and London when he’d put the sword to good use.

This was a different time. Swords were no longer the weapon of choice. Jean-Paul put the cane sword down. He reached for the polished cherry wood box. He lifted the lid with reverence, gazing down at the 1873 Colt .45 Single Action Army revolver. A gift from Doc. He ran a fingertip over the cold steel of the weapon. Memories of the gold and silver camps, Doc at the poker table, Kate threatening to shoot him, all came flooding back along with the memories of long nights in the saloons or in some whore’s bed. This was what he needed now, along with some silver bullets. Just in case. He remembered the desert crawling with preternatural creatures.
Cora, where are you?
He shook his head. Who would have thought it would take a cult and a missing lover to get him to see Doc again.

Jean-Paul thought about the last time he saw Doc. He could almost taste the dust and gun smoke of that day. Jean-Paul lifted the gun and aimed into the darkness. Gazing down the barrel, the scene unfolded before him. Unconsciously he adjusted his stance. Doc had stood to his right and Wyatt and his brothers a little farther on. After months of ambushes and insults, they faced the Clantons and part of their Pack that day in the lot across the street from the OK Corral.

History had forgotten his role, but Jean-Paul didn't mind. He preferred to remain anonymous. Other memories of events long past threatened to overwhelm him. With difficulty, he pushed them back and focused on controlling his breathing until he relaxed.

He allowed himself a soft, private chuckle.
Who knows,
I might just get into a little trouble while I’m there. Doc always did love a good fight
.

Chapter Nine:

Sheep

Rafe stepped out into the moonlight. He looked up at the stars. For several minutes, he enjoyed the simple pleasure of gazing at the glittering points of light. He heard Wolf inside, fucking Cora. From the sound of her moans, things were going well. Time to go find Dale before the sounds of his Alpha mating Cora worked Dale up too much to be handled. Rafe did not fancy being bitten. He adjusted his cock and thought about distracting his feral friend.

Rafe walked down to the barn, looking for Dale. The young man was nowhere to be seen, and the corral was empty. Rafe frowned at the unusual circumstances. Normally there would be several horses there. He couldn’t see the few cows they had not sold in the small pasture nearby. He realized with a sinking feeling he couldn’t hear any sheep either. None at all. Cold washed over Rafe, taking away any arousal he’d felt. He picked up his pace, walking faster toward the barn. If Dolores ordered her Pack to do anything to their livestock, Wolf would tear out their throats no matter what the council rules said about attacking a fellow Werewolf.

He broke into a run as he got closer to the barn. Dale loved those sheep. Sometimes Rafe thought Dale was part sheepdog, the way he worked with those animals. If anything happened to them, Dale would be devastated. He was closer to the animals on the small ranch than he was to his Pack. Rafe burst through the side door of the barn. He breathed a sigh of relief as he saw Dale standing by the ladder to the loft. His relief did not last. Dale looked up at him. The young man’s face was pale under his tan. Something on his face glittered in the moonlight. Rafe’s heart lurched when he recognized tears. Dale
never
cried.

“What? What’s happened?” Rafe reached out to pull Dale close, wrapping his arms around him. It was more than an urge to comfort someone he cared deeply about. If Dale lost it, Rafe wanted to have a good hold on him. Cora did not need to see a Werewolf gone berserk. Not after her experiences with those goons that hung with Dolores.

“They’re dead,” Dale whispered. “All of them. Even the babies.” Rafe looked into Dale’s amber eyes. They were glassy. He was in shock.

“Show me.” Rafe nudged Dale around toward the doors that opened onto the sheep pen in back. Dale didn’t resist. He led Rafe out to a scene of pure horror. Their small herd of sheep, twelve animals including four lambs, lay scattered, lifeless, around the pen. Rafe swore under his breath. What the hell could have done this?

“All right, you go into the barn and get the shovels. We’ll bury them, and then we’ll take a run and see if we can find any traces of who did this.” Rafe turned Dale, giving him a gentle push toward the barn. He waited until Dale had gone inside to walk over and push one of the carcasses with the toe of his boot. It appeared he’d be killing some wolves after all. He sighed, kneeling to look closer. All the sheep had been torn apart. Dolores was sending them a message,
join me or I’ll ruin you
.

Rafe stood, testing the air for scent. Nothing but the normal desert smells, mesquite, the creek, a hint of something dead. The sound of Dale coming out of the barn snapped him out of his thoughts. He reached out a hand for the shovel Dale held toward him. “You didn’t hear or smell anything?” Rafe’s hopes fell when the young Werewolf shook his head. If Dale couldn’t pick up a scent, Rafe knew he sure as hell wouldn’t. “All right, let’s go make sure the other animals are safe.”

Dale looked toward the house and Rafe shook his head, answering the unspoken question. “No, we’ll tell Wolf later. He wouldn’t appreciate an interruption right now. He’s mating Cora.”

“Oh. I saw him with her. On the trail.” Dale frowned.

“You knew he would do this someday. She’s the one we need to make this little Pack of ours legitimate to the council.”

“I didn’t expect it so soon.”

“Is there going to be a problem?”

“She’s human.”

“Yes.”

“I don’t know if I can—”

“Be around a human? We’ll help you, you know that, but I don’t think you’ll have any trouble once you smell her.” Rafe smiled at the startled look Dale shot him. Dale possessed a better olfactory sense than any Werewolf Rafe knew of. The young man was going to be floored by Cora.

“She smells like food?”

“Better.”

“What’s better than food?”

“Sex. Pack sex.”

* * * *

Dale rode a few feet ahead of Rafe. He sniffed and rubbed his nose. If the sheep had been killed cleanly, it wouldn’t have gotten to him like this. The poor animals had been ripped apart. There was no reason for that kind of savagery. Dale sighed.

Rafe rode up beside him. “We’ll find who did it.”

Dale nodded. “I’m sorry. I let you down. I should have been there.”

“Dale, there’s nothing to be sorry for. And I’m glad you weren’t there. You might have been killed, too.” Rafe reached over and caught his hand, squeezing it. “You are more important than the sheep. Remember that.”

He nodded again. It was hard to get used to the idea he mattered to anyone but his animals. With a frown, he reined the horse to a stop. “What happens if she stays?”

Rafe stopped his horse and looked back at him. “We grow stronger. Nothing between us changes.”

Dale relaxed. If Rafe said it, then it was how things would be. Some of the sadness in him lifted. He thought about Rafe’s earlier comment. “I caught a little of her scent on the trail.”

“You did, huh? What did you think?”

“She smells pretty good.”

“Told you.” Rafe grinned at him.

Dale let the silence go on for a bit. “Don’t know if she’s better than food, though.” Rafe laughed. Startled, the horses snorted.

* * * *

Rafe tugged on the reins, stopping his horse. “Let’s rest the horses. We’ve been all over the ranch. I don’t think we’re going to find anything.”

“Yeah, my butt is growing to the saddle.” Dale got off his horse and led her to a bush beside the creek. Rafe followed, tying his horse next to Dale’s. They stood looking out at the water and the pale bluish white of the waterfall without speaking.

Dale finally broke the silence. “Nice night for a swim.”

The events of the night caught up with Rafe. The moonlight gave Dale a mysterious wild look that turned Rafe inside out. Rafe laid his hand on Dale’s shoulder. “I need you.”

Dale turned his head and blinked at him. “Don’t have to ask.” He turned the rest of the way and wrapped his arms around Rafe, stepping closer until Rafe could feel Dale’s erection against his own.

Hands worked buttons and zippers in quiet desperation as their mouths sealed together in a rough kiss. Bodies bumped together as they toed off boots and clothes dropped to the ground. Dale went to his knees, dragging his nails down Rafe’s chest. Rafe buried his fingers in Dale’s hair and widened his stance. Dale held his hips, dipping his tongue into Rafe’s navel, kissing it with the same roughness they’d used when their mouths met. Then Dale moved lower.