Wolf's Capture (2 page)

It took him but a moment to clamber his chosen aerie—while wondering if he texted Aunt Betty-Sue whether she’d bake one for him just for the hell of it. The woman loved to cook, and he loved to eat. It was a great friendship—especially since it gave him opportunities, behind Betty-Sue’s back, to taunt her son, Travis, mercilessly. And got the grizzly in trouble when he retaliated. Hehehe.

For his hiding spot, Brody chose an old Sitka Spruce, which towered well over a hundred feet and provided ample cover. The branches were thick and sturdy.

Brody did his best to climb while disrupting as little as possible. Nothing like a shower of greenery at the base of a tree to announce the presence of something overhead.

The branch he chose was fat enough to hide him if he sat still. From his vantage point, he could glimpse parts of the town laid out before him and perhaps catch an early peek at whatever was setting off his danger meter.

Let it be something good.

Edible,
added his wolf.

Brody would settle for anything if he got to act.

Hours passed. The sun blazed, and nothing happened except for the irritated squeak of a squirrel acting territorial. Stupid creature dared to chatter at him, so Brody showed it some lip and growled. It wisely scooted away.

It was the most exciting thing to happen so far.

Hunger made his belly rumble. He ignored it. He’d gone longer without food in the past. Besides, Betty-Sue had texted him to say she’d not only made him a cake—fist pump—she’d left him a lasagna in his fridge since she accidentally made an extra.

The knowledge almost had him abandoning his observation post. The cruelty of having to wait.

He fought the temptation. He did, however, sip sparingly from his flask, water, not booze. A wolf never drank on the job. But after? He could totally picture getting rip-roaring drunk and singing off key.

Time rolled by without any action. The evening glared bright, the sun unwilling to lose its grip. Welcome to Alaska in the summer time when daylight reigned supreme. Eventually, as the hour grew late, the mighty sun finally deigned to dive down past the horizon for a respite.

And that was when Brody’s hours of silent watching and waiting paid off.

No sooner did the dark of night envelop the land than the figures came slinking, proving his gut right yet again.
I’ve still got the knack.

At first, they crept in single digits; a lone wolf here, a jackrabbit there, a man, who was more than a man and who never once bothered to look up.

Idiot.

Anyone so lax wouldn’t prove much of a challenge. Good thing a couple of the interloper’s buddies accompanied him on his stealthy trek toward town. They definitely emitted a seriously nefarious vibe.

Or, as was known in the Lycan world, promising a violently good time.

What a way to celebrate the solstice. Once he got out of the tree. Preferably alive.

The numbers were kind of against him. It wouldn’t do to get noticed while he was here alone. Besides, think of the fun when he snuck up behind them and howled an attack.

Since Brody didn’t dare inhale too deeply, or do anything that might emit the slightest sound lest he give his presence away, this meant he couldn’t identify what caste the slinking strangers belonged to, but he would have wagered his favorite knife—the blade sharp enough to shave with—that at least one of the males who’d gone by was some kind of ocean shifter. Maybe seal.

Bleh. Want red meat.
His wolf had a definite preference. Maybe Brody would save that one for Gene, whose polar bear really enjoyed the occasional blubbery treat, with pepper. As for Brody? The only good seafood came with a shell, roasted over an open fire with a butter sauce for dipping.

The salty-smelling fellow didn’t travel alone. While those on two legs were few in number—from what Brody could discern from his perch, for all he knew there were dozens a few hundred leagues over approaching from the north—the wild beasts who accompanied the enemy shifters numbered in the dozens. Probably more given Brody could only spot a small section.

And still no audible warning from any of the sentries.

The town was about to be attacked, and yet, not a single sentry cried out. Not a single flare lit the sky in warning.

Slackers.

A good thing Brody had staked himself in the tree long enough to spy them, else the town would have been caught unprepared. But better than saving the day, he’d get to fight.

I’m gonna get to hit something.

Awoo.

Yes, he was excited. Brody craved the adrenaline of battle, and not just because he enjoyed hitting things. Keeping his skills honed took practice, but testing their efficiency required an opponent.

And lucky him, he already had more than enough sneaking in from the northern section of these woods, an area that shouldn’t have any kind of foot traffic.

How did they make it past the sentries? And, damn, will Gene be pissed about this.

The head of defensive perimeter, Gene had spent the last few weeks revamping their early-warning system. They’d needed it.

Some prick kept attempting to weaken the clan, to cause trouble. Sneaky shifters kept stealing while weirdly trained wildlife kept attacking in small spurts. Sure, a snarling raccoon on his own wasn’t a big deal, but a swarm of them? The women of town would have warm hands this winter with all the new mittens they’d be making.

So far, the people—snicker, okay, maybe he should call them what they were, shifters—of Kodiak Point smacked down the assault by the oddly trained wild creatures each time. However, so far, most of the incursions were small and easily rebuffed. In the case of the rarer large attacking groups, they’d received advance warning of incoming trouble from the sentries.

Sentries that were currently silent despite the several two—and four—legged bodies he could see.

If the boys on duty weren’t already dead, they’d wish they were once Brody got through with them. Those guarding the borders to their clan land were supposed to raise the alarm at the slightest hint of anything hinky. Judging by the shadows that crept in under the cover of darkness, they’d failed.

Or they were dead.

In which case, I will avenge you.

Given the number of enemy he’d seen pass by, this was the battle they’d waited for.

On the eve of the summer solstice, only a few scant hours of night existed, a short window to launch a furtive attack. The ambushers knew enough of their defenses to either avoid or take out their early-warning system. Someone planned well.

But not well enough.

The clan would meet the ambush because Brody would make sure of it. Muting the glow of his screen by tucking it inside his jacket, he fired off a quick text to Reid, Gene, and Boris.

ATK—
short for “We’re under attack, get everyone’s ass ready and armed.”

Awoo. Party in the village tonight.
Sorry, you sneaky suckers, but you’re about to get a nasty surprise.

Fun fun fun! But only if he ever got out of the bloody tree.

When the last of the sneaky varmints passed under his unnoticed watch point, Brody swung himself down, dropping as silently as possible. The last thing he needed was for those who’d recently passed to hear him and turn around.

Some might have questioned his courage at not confronting the hoard, and to them, he said piss off. Only a stupid man attacked when the numbers were against him. Actually, not entirely true. Gene never calculated the odds. When that big-ass bear went into a berserker rage, he had no concept of odds. It was probably one of his more endearing traits.

Smarts kept Brody from attacking, but never fear. When the time came, he would join the battle and rank high when it came to his share of kills. After all, he did have a reputation as a bad-ass wolf to maintain and a certain moose to put in his place.
All about the rack indeed.

It was time to put those who thought their antlers were so mighty in their place. Never doubt the power of fur and fang.

With his feet on the ground, and the attackers well out of sight, Brody wasted no time, shedding his clothes and tossing them at the base of the tree before letting his flesh ripple and his shape twist until he stood in his four-legged form. He stretched, a mighty timber wolf with brindled fur, sharp teeth, and a howl that could carry for miles.

Antlers can’t do that
. But they did make great chandeliers. Odd how Boris didn’t appreciate the ornate one Brody had sent him on his birthday. Ungrateful moose.

Sucking in a deep breath, Brody howled, an ululating cry meant to warn any inhabitants still slumbering or unaware.

Someone heard his warning and passed the message along. The quiet of night soon filled with snarls and roars as his kin, not military trained and less prone to quiet, prepared to meet the menace threatening them.

Welcome to Kodiak Point. We might seem civilized from the outside, but threaten us and we will tear your throat out.
And that was just the men.

The women could prove even more vicious if you threatened their cubs and pups. Brody didn’t know a woman in town who didn’t have some kind of recipe passed down to deal with naughty kin. Brody’s grandfather used to lament the good old days when one of the most sought after delicacies was Traitor Tourtière—an old recipe from some French settlers that relied on several species donating some meat. Lest you think his grandfather was an utter carnivore, keep in mind the pie also sported a thick, flaky crust and potatoes—soaked in the juices of lots of meat. Tongue lolling.

Satisfied the town was alert and ready to meet the charge of attackers, Brody prepared to rush the enemy from behind, only to stop as an unusual scent caught his attention.

Exotic. Sweet. And mysteriously compelling.

What is that smell?

It blew to him from the north on the wings of a gentle breeze. The brush of it across his nose teased and distracted him. He didn’t recognize it, but he knew enough to wager it wasn’t human, not entirely. Nor was it animal. So what did that leave?

Did it matter?

The enemy was closing in on the town he called home. Did he really have time to chase down strange smells?

Could he afford to ignore it?

Hadn’t his sarge said, “Never let something inexplicable go uninspected,” especially when it came to reconnoitering?

So long as sniffing away from the main trail didn’t affect a current, time-sensitive mission, then the hunting down of the unusual was encouraged. After all, sometimes it took only one clue to stop a war.

And the clan was on the verge of war.

Screw verge, they were about to engage in one given the numbers now approaching the outskirts of town.

But who was the one behind it?

In the last year, while the clan of Kodiak Point had repelled more than their fair share of attacks and problems, they’d yet to catch a glimpse of the perpetrator.

No one knew who he was.

No one remembered his face.

And no one had a name.

What if the odor belonged to the mastermind behind the violent acts being perpetrated against them? What if this scent, this oddity in the forest, was a clue and the chance they’d waited for to take out, once and for all, the mysterious figure fucking with their lives?

Tough decision.

Fight or explore?

He knew his wolf’s answer. And it wasn’t easy keeping those four feet planted while he took an extra moment to analyze his choices.

Argh. Both were so tempting. Maybe he didn’t have to choose. First part of the mission, capture the weird smell, then, in phase two, hopefully catch the tail end of the fight.

I’ll have my lasagna, my cake, and knowing aunt Betty-Sue once the violence is over with, the stove will go on, and we’ll all have pie, too.

Since Brody didn’t want to leave all his gear behind, especially in case he needed his phone or the cuffs, he shifted back to his man shape. He pulled his pants back on but left off the shirt and shoes. He’d move more silently on bare feet. The gun he tucked in the waistband of his jeans, and his knapsack—which he’d stuffed with cuffs, water, and his phone and also held some rope good for hog tying and hangings—was slung on one shoulder.

He fired off another text to Reid;
Wrd sml. Ck.
Translation:
I smell something weird and am checking it out.

Reid’s superb reply.
K. Bt u
.
Okay, but you do know this means I’ll totally ream you in battle kills.

Argh. He would, but that was okay. Brody could totally still win the day if he caught someone of import. Head honcho was worth a hundred minion points if counting.

The teasing scent grew stronger as Brody padded through the trees, ghosting much like Gene amongst the foliage. Leaving no trace of his passage and downwind, thus not announcing his presence, Brody stalked his prey.

The tantalizing aroma increased in potency, and still he couldn’t decipher it.

Did it have a hint of cinnamon? He inhaled. Yes, but also a bit of a flowery taint, jasmine if he remembered his botany classes correctly. Which wasn’t some stale course taken within the tame confines of a greenhouse. Oh no. Brody learned his greenery out in the field, sometimes blindfolded by his sarge, who would bark at Brody and the other soldiers that they were poisoned and needed to find a particular plant as antidote.

Such great memories, like the time Sarge saved Brody’s life after he realized Brody had chosen the wrong plant and ingested actual poison. The rhino didn’t hesitate to act. He also didn’t waste the opportunity to teach the other soldiers a lesson. Using Brody’s body as a dummy, he detailed how to purge a victim.

Ah, the good old days.

The scent wafting on the breeze wasn’t a toxin. He would have wagered his life on it. Cinnamon and jasmine. Mixed together it proved an exotic perfume. A palate-tempting one.

It also compelled him.

Drew him.

Practically drugged him.

What. The. Fuck.

He shook his head to clear it as he realized he’d stumbled along, without a care, la-de-da, stepping like a drunken, clod-footed moose toward the source.