Eventide of the Bear (The Wild Hunt Legacy #3) (4 page)

She wasn’t a particularly likable female. He’d only brought her to the mating room because it was easier to mate with her than to keep brushing her off. Nonetheless, a decent male didn’t leave a female in need. He’d get her off one more time.

As his balls drew tightly against his groin, his teeth ground together as he fought for control.

One more minute.

The brunette’s mouth twisted as she shoved her hips up. “Harder, dammit.”

No soft words and sweetness from this one—just demands. This was the first and last time he’d bring her upstairs.

He easily pinned her in place and angled his cock to rub against her G-spot.
Right. There.

Under his palms, her muscles went rigid. Her back arched. Her cries broke forth, sharp and high, as her cunt spasmed around his shaft.

And as she came, he slipped out of her and shot his seed into the furs covering the floor.

Far, far back in his mind, he felt the Mother’s displeasure that he’d waste his essence this way. He had for years. After learning how his mother died, he wouldn’t impregnate a female, no matter the wishes of the Goddess or clan. Didn’t mean he couldn’t satisfy a female, though.

Beside Sarah, he propped his head on his hand and idly caressed her lush breasts as she recovered. He could feel the thudding of her heart under his hand.

She turned her head. “You’re as big as my sister said.”

He grunted a response. The God endowed his warriors with added size and strength. Ben’s size wasn’t anything of his doing—he’d rather be admired for his character.

Pushing his hand away, Sarah sat up and stretched, obviously not needing tenderness after mating.

Truth be told, he preferred the ones who wanted his attention after sex.

After a shower, Ben walked downstairs with Sarah clinging like a burr to his arm. Other shifters were on the way up. One female had a littermate on each side; another had three brothers.

An ache filled his chest as he remembered how he and Ryder would mate females on Gathering nights. Ben would direct, and Ryder’d add his own inventive ideas. Afterward, they’d cuddle the female between them. Once upon a time, he’d planned to share a mate and children with his littermate.

Life had cut that trail short.

In the main room of the tavern, females were scattered here and there, each surrounded by a group of males vying for attention.

Ben tried to pull away. “It was—”

“You were
wonderful
.” Sarah rubbed her breasts against his arm and clung tighter. “Now that I’m living in Cold Creek, I hope to see more of you.”

Did he act as if his brain was located in his dick? She didn’t like him any more than he did her. “I’m afraid I’m pretty busy.”

“Oh. Fine.” Pouting, she looked around. “Can you take me over to the healer?”

Of course, Ben thought cynically. The god-touched—cahirs, healers, Cosantirs, and blade-mages—were popular with the females. Vicki, a werecat who’d been born human, labeled status-hunting females as
guppies.
No,
groupies
. “Sure thing.”

Nodding at friends, he escorted her across the room to Donal who, as usual, had several females vying for his attention, all of whom had males trying for theirs.

Gathering nights were a type of sexual war.

“Donal, this is Sarah.”

She gave the healer a blinding smile. Her cheeks were reddening as her arousal rose again.

Donal nodded to her, then glanced at Ben, expecting more.

Ben shrugged. By Herne’s antlers, he had nothing more to say. The female took, didn’t give, the mating had been empty. Her only interest was in taking down a high-status male.

Donal’s head tilted slightly before he nodded, getting all that Ben hadn’t said. The healer was no fool. He motioned to the bar. “The Cosantir’s looking for you, Ben.”

“Donal, it’s good to meet you.” Sarah moved closer.

“And you.” With a smile, the healer put his arm around another female’s waist. “Excuse us, please.” He moved toward the stairs with his choice.

Hissing under her breath, Sarah latched onto Ben’s arm again.

Demon-guts, now who could he dump her on? He scanned for prospects. Good thing he was taller than everyone in the room. He spotted Wesley, a good-looking cat shifter—and a coveted cahir—and escorted her to him.

“Hey, Wesley, this is Sarah. Sarah, Wesley is a cahir from Canada. He’s here to study killing hellhounds with Shay and Zeb.”

“Oooo, hellhounds. You’re so brave,” she cooed and ran her hand up the young cahir’s arm.

Wesley’s chest expanded. He tossed Ben a superior look as if he’d won a fight for the brunette rather than having her dumped in his lap.

Cubs.
Perhaps in a few more years, the young, overly-testosteroned male wouldn’t see everything as a competition.

Feeling more weary than amorous, Ben threaded his way through the crowd to the bar. The sexual dance was all fine and well, but he’d already had three females, and face it, as a male grew older, the obsessive lusts of a full moon diminished.

Calum was behind his bar, as usual. Although lifemated, the guardian of the North Cascades Territory still monitored the Gatherings. This male was more protective and conscientious than any Cosantir Ben’d met in his extensive early travels.

“A beer?” Calum was already drawing a glass.

“Thank you.” Ben settled himself on a bar stool, content to wait. Building a Guinness couldn’t be hurried. “Have you need of me, Cosantir?”

“Aye.” Calum set the beer in front of Ben. Almost as tall as a cahir, leanly muscled, black haired, the Cosantir had level gray eyes that would flash to black with the power of the God. “A bear is raiding the human campgrounds located just inside the territory border.”

“Is it our concern? The humans have their police—forest rangers or such—to deal with animals.”

“They do. Apparently, this bear breaks into bear-proof containers and opens car doors.”

“Interesting.” Ben watched the dark beer’s foam dissolve. Many bear-proof containers required manipulating a key-like device. No matter how clever, a bear didn’t have fingers. But Calum wouldn’t bother him if a human vagrant was the culprit. “You think we have a feral shifter?”

Calum shook his head. “I can tell there is a shifter in the area, but a feral would eat the humans, not their food. It’ll take some time to get there. Can you accompany me after moonset?”

“You?” Ben straightened. Herne provided cahirs to handle anything requiring warriors. A Cosantir shouldn’t be at risk. Ever. “I can handle a bear, whether a shifter or not, whether feral or not.”

“I do not doubt your abilities. However, a Judgment might be required.”

The power of life and death rested in a Cosantir’s hands. Ben was grateful the power wasn’t his…and that the God had gifted this territory with a guardian both canny and strong.

“Your will, Cosantir.”

‡

North Cascades Territory – night after full moon

T
he scent of
cooking meat drew Emma back to the human campground. With every step, her broken leg caught on brush and downed logs. Pain stabbed into her over and over, and the agony was getting worse.

The knowledge she wouldn’t survive much longer was actually a relief.

Since her injury half a moon ago, she’d been unable to hunt. Even going to a stream for water was almost impossible. Under brittle, dull fur, her muscles sagged from dehydration and weight loss. She was finding it harder and harder to move. But in bear form, her animal nature wouldn’t quit, no matter the inevitable conclusion.

Regret for a life cut short curled through her like wood smoke from a fire. Once, she’d had dreams—how she’d find loving mates, cherish her cublings, please her clan with songs and stories. Instead, she had caused the deaths of two shifters.

If the Goddess found the rescue of the human children to be an adequate balance, Emma would call herself content…for she had no remaining time left to her.

Under cover of the forest, she surveyed the clearing. Two large men sat at a campfire. A hint of a familiar, wild scent caught her attention. She sniffed, but the elusive smell disappeared under the heavy odors of wood smoke and grilling meat.

Meat.

Despite the driving hunger, caution lent her patience. She was too weak to fight, too weak to run. Yes, patience would gain her all.

Unhurriedly, the two men smothered the fire, cleaned up, and stored their food in a bear-vault. Rather than erecting a tent, they simply stripped and climbed into sleeping bags.

Long and long, she waited. An owl hooted nearby. She caught the scent of a skunk, probably a scavenger like her. A weasel passed by, probably after the tiny shrew in the leaf litter.

The men’s breathing slowed. They were asleep.

Slowly, Emma entered the clearing, holding her injured rear leg up to eliminate any noise. It hurt so badly, she barely felt the stabbing pains from her broken front toes. Step by step, she advanced.

The bear-proof container lay on its side under a tree. She hesitated, fighting the fiery throbbing in her leg and ache in her left forepaw. Where was the coin or key to open the metal-sided canister?

A pile of copper pennies caught her eye. Now she needed fingers. All she had to do was be human.

As she visualized turning in a circle, a door glowed—so very dim—in the rear of her mind. The magic was dying. She was dying. She opened the door and stepped through. Magic ran over her skin in a glorious tingling that, for one wonderful second, wiped out her pain.

A breath later, she stared at her fingers splayed on the sparse grass. Dirt and pine needles ground into her bare knees. Unable not to look, she checked her lower leg and flinched. The oozing, gaping wounds exposed the muscle and the jagged ends of bones in a ghastly, agonizing mess.

As she reached for the food container, her shattered leg grated as if blunt nails were being hammered into the bones. She clenched her teeth as tears flooded her eyes and dripped onto the dead leaves and into the dirt.

“Child.” The low voice came from behind her.

No, no, no.
The men were
awake
.

She jerked around. Her broken leg caught, twisted.
Oh, Goddess.
As agony overwhelmed her, she lost her grip on her shape and fell through the door to the wild. Her flesh blurred, transformed. Fur. Fangs. Claws.

As the pain ebbed, horror filled her. She’d
trawsfurred
in front of
humans
. She spun around.

A man stood in front of her. Olive skin. Dark hair. No weapon. His dark eyes were turning black and—

Bear instincts took over. She rose, trying to balance on one leg, and let out a roar of anger.

Run, human. Please, run.

Instead, an answering growl came from the side. Another bear.

She dropped to all fours and tried to flee, but her bad leg hit the container. The flare of pain shot red-tinged lightning through her. Her eyesight fuzzed and—

Slam.

The bear hit her shoulder and knocked her off her paws. Before she could move, the massive grizzly flopped across her, driving the air from her lungs.

Caught. Trapped.

Panicking, she struggled, grunting and growling.

Fearlessly, the human went down on one knee beside her head. He caught her muzzle in an unbreakable grip and forced her to meet his gaze. His eyes had turned black as a winter’s night.

“
Trawsfur.”
His voice held the power of the God.

A force in her head pushed her through the door to human and locked it behind her. Her fur, her claws, her size melted into a human frame. He’d forced her to shift. How could he…?

New fear struck. She couldn’t
breathe
.

The man shook his head. “Remove yourself, Benjamin, before you suffocate her.

With a growling snort of amusement, the grizzly rose, shook out its fur, and changed to human.

They weren’t humans; they were shifters. The familiar wild scent she’d caught was theirs. As Emma’s leg throbbed with pain, she stared at them through tear-blurred eyes.

The werebear’s cheekbone held a blue knife-shaped scar. He was a cahir, sworn to protect the clan.

And the other male? Only one type of Daonain held the power of transformation. He was Cosantir of a territory and Herne’s representative on earth.

Her doom had found her. She closed her eyes and inhaled, knowing her breaths could now be counted on one hand. And despite her pain and sorrow, the air was sweet, fragrant with evergreen and wood smoke, and the scent of other shifters.

Nonetheless, truly, she was blessed. Her death would be quick at the hand of the Cosantir, and…she wouldn’t be alone.

She met the Cosantir’s gaze. Black for the God’s presence. “Send me back to the Mother,” she whispered. “I’m ready.”

To her surprise, he shook his head. Silver-gray was breaking into the darkness of his eyes. “I fear I am not.”

He glanced at the terrifying bear shifter who was pulling on a pair of jeans. “Benjamin, get some information. I’ll bring the first aid kit from my pack.”

She struggled to sit up as the werebear approached. The male—Benjamin—was enormous. Over six-five. His straight, brown hair was cut to ear-length and shorter than most shifters preferred. Curly chest hair made a triangle over his thick pectoral muscles. His angular features were big-boned, his jaw square and strong. Not handsome, but far too compelling.