A Cowboy in Ravenna

Prologue

Shatter me and fling me across the fabric of space and time.

Make me nothing. From nothing make me everything again.

—Rumi

Trinity March’s heart slammed against his ribs. He sat up on his sofa bed. He should have been deeply asleep, but the argument at the pack gathering had nagged at him all night.

Trin had brought Calhoun to the meeting, argued they hire him to help protect their women and children. Their alpha had scoffed. So what if one of the villages had been attacked by rogue shifters, with warriors killed, women and children enslaved? They’d been weak. The tribe Trinity had served as shaman was three times as large. They didn’t need an enforcer like Calhoun.

Calhoun’s attitude hadn’t helped. His chilling appearance in black leather and mirrored shades had matched his reputation as he’d leaned against his motorcycle, his scarred face impassive. He hadn’t seemed to care if the pack hired him or not.

Trin shoved hair out of his eyes, knowing he wouldn’t be able to sleep with worry eating his gut. He’d felt this way for months.

He looked out the window and through the yellowed lace curtains he glimpsed a light on in the cabin of his elderly human neighbour, Mr Jenkins. The old man had been limping when they’d both visited their mail boxes yesterday. Trin needed to mix up a remedy, use it as an excuse so he could put a hand on the man’s shoulder, touch him, heal him, if only temporarily.

Thinking of healing eased the tension, brought back normality. He would get up and grind some herbs fresh from the garden out back. Then he’d find a way to convince his alpha to see Calhoun, to speak to him alone.

Outside, that light from Mr Jenkins’ cabin flickered as a shadow moved, fluid as dark liquid.

A wolf.

Trin’s enhanced eyesight caught the turn of the knob on his cabin door. It opened softly, admitting the breath of the night.

The scent he caught was unwashed skin, motor oil and stale beer.

It did not belong to any of his pack mates.

The cabin only possessed two rooms, the great room where he was lying on his sofa bed, and his son Sage’s room. Listening to the drum of his heart, Trin eased the covers off, hyper aware of the too-loud rustle of his bedding.

He rolled off the bed and onto the floor, snaking to the ground.

Bang!
His pillow exploded.

“Dad!” Sage screamed.

“Get the kid!” a harsh voice ordered. “And for Christ’s sake don’t hurt him like you did the other kids. This one has power, thanks to his papa. I want him undamaged for our buyer.”

Trin recognized that voice. Dempsy, leader of the rogue shifters.

Trin flung himself at the men, his needle claws spearing into someone’s gut, shredding internal organs. He yanked them free, watched the burly man with long, unwashed hair drop his pistol. “Huh?” The stranger touched his unravelling intestines before he fell on them.

Trin’s rep was as a gentle, solitary healer. These rogue shifters had assumed he wasn’t a warrior. They probably thought he wouldn’t fight to protect what was his.

They were wrong.

“Fuck! Kill him!” Dempsy shouted, stepping back as the lamp swung in an arc above, highlighting the pool of blood on Trin’s hardwood floor.

Trin fell to his knees, taking punch after punch, his face splitting. The pain—

Couldn’t shift.

Hands ripped at his clothing. They were going to play with him before they killed him.

“No!” He grabbed Dempsy by the balls, twisting his grip, fired by hate. Dempsy screamed, grabbing his crotch as he crumpled to the floor.

Free, Trin crawled, body blazing pain like ugly neon.

He had to… He had to shift. No matter what, he had to shift! Something stirred inside him. A huge shadow, a claw of death. He would rip him up, comin’ out. Rip him to shit.
His wolf, but not
his
wolf. He shook his head, disoriented.

He staggered to Sage’s room, leaving a bloody handprint on the door as he shoved it open. A spark of agony chewed skin off his shoulder as a bullet thudded into the wall beside him.
Hurry, hurry. Dammit, I have to hurry.

Time seemed to slow… He could see each freckle on Sage’s pale face standing like stars on a milky background. Sage, eight years old, wearing his favourite blue pyjamas, huge eyes fixed on his face, looking for direction, for reassurance.

Sage.

Trin scooped up his son, shouldering the door shut behind him. It boomed and trembled. A kick?

They’re coming.

He dropped Sage back on his feet and shoved the chest of drawers they’d painted sky blue in front of the door.

Sage opened his mouth.

Trin covered it, making a ‘shhh’ gesture with his finger to his lips.

He herded Sage to the window, opened it, sweat stinging his skin. The dresser scraped across the floor behind them.

They’re coming.

“No matter what, you don’t come back here,” he told his son. “You run. Run like never before, you hear me, little robin?”

“But I want to stay with you!” Sage whispered. “I can shift, I can fight!”

“No.” God, he hadn’t had time to prepare Sage, to tell him of their special legacy. “Daddy won’t be safe. You need to run.
Promise me.
”

He didn’t have time to kiss his son, to pull him close. His heart ached with love, with words, useless now. Sage’s eyes, the shape of his face, the sturdy little shoulders.

Trin shoved Sage out the window, saw him look back one last time, saw him running for the trees.

Trin swung around, blades erupting from his fingers, his hair rippling in a rage down his back as his coat grew.

A great grey wolf sprang for the men who had come for his son.