Gods and Mortals: Fourteen Free Urban Fantasy & Paranormal Novels Featuring Thor, Loki, Greek Gods, Native American Spirits, Vampires, Werewolves, & More (314 page)

I looked down at myself. Dirt stained my clothes as if he’d dragged me all the way back here from the motel...by my feet...through mud. I reached up to comb my fingers through my hair, and a leaf fluttered to the floor. I stared at it in disbelief and let my hands drop back to my sides. He’d left me looking like a wreck. What was going on with this guy?

“What happened after I left? Did he follow me?” I watched Sam closely. If he didn’t respond with complete honesty, I wouldn’t be responsible for what I said next.

“Not right away. When you started walking, he looked up from the truck and watched down the road for a while. Long after you passed from sight anyway. Then, he just took to the woods, leaving my truck in a heap.”

Apparently, he wouldn’t let me go easily. Not that walking half the night had been easy. It also meant he’d left after I’d walked far enough that I could no longer see his spark. He’d probably tracked me by scent, keeping his distance. Clever. But why?

I needed to talk to him and figure out what he wanted. There were probably new rules—his rules—that I needed to learn, too. My impotent frustration grew. Better to get it done now so I could figure out a way out of this mess.

“Where is he?”

“Gabby. Before you do anything else, I’d like two minutes of your time. You need to hear what I have to say.”

My anger at Sam still lay in a dark, dormant pool inside me. I didn’t want to listen to anything he had to say. Some of my anger and frustration collapsed in on itself as I acknowledged the truth. Sam’s dishonesty bothered me, but my brush with freedom, to have it so close and then ripped away in the last few seconds, hurt more. Besides, if I didn’t hear him out, I’d wonder what he had wanted to tell me. Defeated, I agreed.

“Fine, but please hurry.”

Sam turned and walked back to his bed. I followed.

“His name is Clay,” Sam said, sitting on the lumpy mattress. “Clayton Michael Lawe.” He looked up at me as I moved closer and eyed me from head to toe.

In the brighter light of the living area, I really did look like I’d been dragged, or at least rolled, in mud. How had I slept through someone carrying me for miles?

“He’s twenty-five and completely alone. His mother died when he was young. An accident. Shot by a hunter while she was in her fur. His dad took him to the woods.”

That meant he’d been raised more wolf than boy. Sam had explained much of the recent pack history to me when we first start coming to the Compound. They’d only maintained enough of the original buildings to keep up appearances and used the 360 acres that came with it to live as wolves. Charlene’s arrival had brought about huge changes, mostly in the social aspect of the pack. Afterward, most pack members started acclimating to their skin. Only a few of the old school werewolves still preferred their fur.

“His father died a few years back,” Sam continued, pulling me from my own thoughts. “Clay’s been on his own ever since, still choosing to live in his fur more than his skin. He’s quiet and has never been trouble. He comes when an Elder calls for him but still claims no pack as his own. So, by pack law, he’s considered Forlorn.”

Forlorn. I closed my eyes tiredly and recalled my werewolf history.

Prior to Charlene, the decimated numbers had only supported one main pack in Canada and a few packs overseas. Over the last two decades, the Canadian pack had grown enough to consider splitting their numbers.

Because of the dangers of discovery, joining a pack ensured an individual’s safety and continuity for the pack. Some, like Clay, stubbornly remained reclusive. The majority of those who stayed solitary did so because they disagreed with the changes Charlene helped establish. Many felt the superiority of the pack entitled them to an elitist isolation from humanity and the world.

By staying on his own, Clay had effectively stated his opinion on the pack’s reentry into human society. However, Sam’s comment about never being trouble meant Clay had not yet actually sided with the other opinionated Forlorn.

Yet Forlorn, not having a link to a pack, still had the link to the Elders. A link all werewolves shared. Elders acted as the lawmakers and enforcers for all werewolves while the pack leader enforced the rules for the pack, settling disputes. Elders and pack leaders worked hand in hand to keep the pack healthy and growing. Though a pack leader did not control any Forlorn, the base society rules laid down by the Elders still bound them.

According to Sam, a werewolf could not break their society laws. Once an Elder declared a law, it became an ingrained piece of the werewolf. Sam had compared it to a hypnotist. The werewolves heard the law, could contemplate it, have opinions about it, but followed the law regardless of their thoughts and feelings. Most laws made sense and werewolves didn’t try to fight them, but even when a werewolf disagreed with a law, there was no choice other than to obey it.

At least, no one had proven otherwise. However, I’d overheard Sam speaking with another Elder about several instances where a Forlorn had ignored certain aspects of their laws, which made the relationship between pack and Forlorn even more strained.

Sam sighed and rubbed a hand over his face.

“He was here last night to help keep the peace. He didn’t come to be Introduced to you.”

At least that explained his presence by the door and not in the line with the rest of them. My conspiracy theory that Sam had set me up shriveled.

“There are two things I can promise you. Though he is technically Forlorn, he’s always followed pack rules. He has no issue with humans. With him, you are safe. His control over the change is unusually strong.”

When over stimulated, the change could burst upon a werewolf with less than adequate control. Sam had drilled that into me when I first started hanging out with Paul and Henry unsupervised. He didn’t want me to freak out if one of them went wolf on me for no reason. He’d stressed that whether in their fur or in their skin, they had the same intelligence and instinct. The change was just a defense mechanism because in their fur, they had teeth and claws to fight. So, what he meant was Clay had control, and he kept his emotions in check.

“And he won’t give up,” Sam added.

Clay hadn’t been looking for a Mate like most werewolves did once they reached puberty. Did that give me any advantage? I doubted it. Sam had repeatedly stressed that instinct ruled this business. And fighting instinct proved extremely difficult for werewolves. So Sam’s final warning was a given. Once they scented their Mate, they couldn’t turn back. I sighed. Why couldn’t werewolves get strategically-timed head colds like the rest of us?

“All right, where is he?”

“I think he’s still tinkering with my truck. Try there.”

Sam slid back under his covers, and I turned off the lights for him before walking out the door. My sock-covered feet, the only thing on me that didn’t seem too dirty, muffled the sound of my passing. By the front door, I found my mud-caked shoes and put them on. They hadn’t been that dirty when I took them off at the motel. I couldn’t believe he’d put them back on me before abducting me. Had I really been that tired? Maybe there’d been something wrong with that water. But why were my shoes caked with mud if he carried me?

W
hen I stepped
out the door, the sun, already high in the cloudless sky, shone brightly. Moving off the porch, I closed my eyes for a moment and tilted my head back to soak in the warmth. The sound of a ratchet drew me back to my purpose.

I found Clay right where Sam had said, his torso bent over the grill of the pickup. He looked closely at the engine. Purposefully relaxing my shoulders, I started toward the truck. The yard was empty compared to yesterday. It left Clay more room to spread out the pieces he continued to remove.

Slowing my approach, I studied him a bit. The mid-day sun didn’t make him look any better than he had in last night’s shadows. He still wore that heavy jacket, despite the warm day, and some type of very dirty, baggy cargo pants. His bare feet looked surprisingly clean after walking miles last night, then carrying or dragging me back.

I looked at his feet again, then down at my shoes. No way! How were his feet cleaner than my shoes? He couldn’t have worn my shoes; his feet were bigger than mine. Didn’t Sam just tell me he had complete control over his change? Couldn’t he have partially shifted his feet? Maybe. It still didn’t explain how I slept through being carried.

He continued his examination of the truck. I knew he could hear me coming, but I waited to speak until I stood next to detached hood.

“We weren’t officially introduced last night. My name’s Gabby. Gabrielle May Winters.” I tucked my hands in my back pockets and hoped I wouldn’t have to shake his hand or anything.

He straightened, turned toward me, and gave me his undivided attention. I didn’t think it possible, but he was even dirtier than I’d first believed. Long hair hung in clotted strands obscuring his eyes while his unkempt facial hair covered the rest of his face. I kept my thoughts about his hygiene to myself.

At no less than six feet to my five-five, he intimidated me, and I fought not to show it. His continued silence didn’t help matters. It puzzled me until I remembered Sam’s comments about his upbringing. Maybe he didn’t even have the social skills to return a greeting.

There had to be a way out of this. Please let there be a way out of this.

“Sam said that your name is Clay.” I waited for some type of acknowledgement, but didn’t get one. He just continued to look at me. At least, I assumed I had his attention. I couldn’t really see his eyes to know for sure.

“Listen, Clay, I know you think I’m the one for you...”

I decided to change my approach. Choosing my words carefully, I started again.

“I don’t have a sense of smell to depend on, like you do. Although the Elders say to trust the instinct of werewolves, I don’t trust blindly.”

He didn’t move. How was I supposed to know if he understood what I was saying? We stood maybe five feet apart with the front quarter panel of the truck separating us. I couldn’t read his expression or anything in his body language to hint at what he might be thinking. I decided just to say what I wanted.

“I really want to go home. If I asked to borrow someone else’s car, would it live?”

He turned away and continued with his examination of the truck, his body language, finally, easy to translate.

“Ok. I’ll take that as a ‘No’,” I mumbled more to myself than him.

He surprised me by turning back toward me again. I struggled to decipher his mood from his face. His ridiculously long and shaggy facial hair obliterated any trace of a smile or frown.

“Clay, I’m not trying to be rude here, but I’m struggling to figure us out. What’s the plan?”

No visible response.

“Am I just supposed to stay here until you decide I’m not really your Mate?” I hated saying that word.

Again, nothing.

“Would it help speed things along if we spent a little time together?”

This time a shrug. One-way conversations rarely worked well when trying to get to know someone.

“Do you talk?”

And again, I lost his attention to the truck engine.

“Ok. No talking. Got it.”

Did being raised in his fur mean he’d turned feral? The thought of spending time with a Tarzan mentality werewolf worried me. Who knew what he might do? Only Sam’s assurance of my safety eased my fear before it could fully take hold. No, he couldn’t be feral. He appeared to understand everything I said. For whatever reason, it seemed that Clay had no intention to speak to me.

I sighed, pulled my hands from my back pockets, and leaned against the truck. Chin in hands, I watched him check the different fluids.

“You seemed to like the idea of spending time to get to know each other,” I said. He turned toward me again. “But what’s the point in spending time together if you don’t want to talk to me? Isn’t the point to get to know one another?”

And he turned back to the truck. Good to know the windshield washer fluid was getting low.

Frustrated, I wanted to kick a truck tire but figured I’d just hurt my toe. Instead, I walked back to the main entrance. The one-sided conversation hadn’t given me any useful information. Why keep me here if he didn’t want to talk to me? And he obviously wanted me here. First, he killed Sam’s truck. Then, he brought me back to the Compound in the middle of the night after letting me walk for hours. That reminded me...I needed a shower badly.

Inside, the hallways remained empty. I let myself into the quiet apartment. Sam no longer curled under his covers. His bed was made. He’d probably left in search of coffee.

I grabbed some clean clothes, headed to the bathroom, and cringed at the sight of myself in the mirror. He wouldn’t speak and dragged me through mud and leaves. How exactly was that a good start to a relationship? I spent longer under the hot spray than I would have liked as I tried to work the leaf debris from my hair. Too late, I concluded brushing the leaves out first would have been better.

Someday, I’d have to get the full story about how I got so dirty. But how could I? He wouldn’t speak to me. He seemed willing to listen though...until I said something he didn’t like. When I talked about talking, he stopped listening. Did that mean he wanted me to do all the conversing? It made sense that he wouldn’t really want to reveal anything about himself given what Sam mentioned about his childhood. I could empathize. There wasn’t much I wanted to share with a stranger about my childhood either.

I tugged on the last of my clean clothes, a pair of cotton shorts (I’d been counting on a lounge day) and a tank top. Having planned a three-day weekend, I hadn’t packed much. I balled up the dirty clothes, tossed them into a plastic bag, and set it by the bedroom door. Hopefully, Sam’s washing machine could take the abuse.

I sat on the edge of my bed and, swinging my bare feet over the carpet, thought over my options. Stay and accept my fate or find a way back home to continue with the plans I’d made for my own future? Sure, I could stay and make an effort to understand and learn more about Clay. But I’d already made my plans. How fair was it to expect me to change them? If Clay truly lived in the wild, it wasn’t as if he had any plans. Maybe he didn’t even understand the concept of planning. Could I possibly talk Clay into letting me go? He didn’t seem too fond of me.

Absently, I started to towel dry my hair. When I had hinted we might not be Mates, he hadn’t turned away. Did that mean he had doubts too? If he did, maybe I had a chance.

Determined, I tossed the towel aside and stood. Due to the pull I had on human men, I’d honed my skills of reason and avoidance. If reasoning didn’t work, I avoided them. This would be no different. Piece of cake.

I gave myself a pep talk as I hurried through the halls. A few of the men I passed gave me curious glances. I remained focused on finding Clay, while thinking of, and rejecting, the possible reasons for his doubt.

The main door swung open with a nudge. I hopped off the porch into the sun and winced when my bare feet met with the sharp gravel. Too absorbed in my purpose, I hadn’t thought of shoes. Resolute, I tiptoed across the parking area as quickly as possible

Clay still tinkered with the truck. However, when he heard me, he turned to watch my approach. Other than a few quick glances at him to ensure he didn’t leave, I focused on placing my feet in the smoother areas where tire treads had cleared the stone and left sand behind. My ill-timed, stiff steps made a prancing dance. I hoped no one had a video camera.

As I neared, he took a shop rag from his pocket and set it on the ground near the truck. I paused mid-prance and looked down at the soiled rag. I’d just showered. What was with getting me dirty? Not a fair thought. My soles were probably already filthy. The insistent bite of the gravel decided it. I stepped onto the rag, wiping my feet on the grease and carbon stained surface to dislodge the piercing shards still stuck to them. The relief made it worthwhile.

“Thanks,” I said looking up at him.

Since he’d set the rag directly in front of the truck, I stood closer to him than I would have liked. I could see brown eyes staring at me from behind the stringy hair. He studied me intently, and I felt that strange pull in my stomach again. It reminded me of my problem. We had an obvious connection; one I didn’t want and one he might not want. Maybe, instead of trying to figure out why he might doubt our connection, I needed to explain why I didn’t want it in terms he could relate too as a Forlorn werewolf.

Taking a breath, I plunged into a lie. I knew I played with fire. Living with Sam had taught me werewolves could sense a lie through increased heart rate, smell of fear, or anxiety. But, the simple beauty of the situation—the dash across the gravel, which had elevated my pulse—made the lie hard to detect.

“Sam just told me that you’re to be confined to a room for the remainder of the day. With me. They want to see how we react to each other so they can determine if you really do have a Claim to me.”

A low growl rumbled from him before I finished speaking.

“What? You don’t want to spend time with me?”

He stopped his growling and looked down at my feet on the rag. I glanced at them too and noted what the gravel hadn’t done, the rag had. They were filthy again. If Charlene found me walking though the hallways with feet this dirty, she’d give me an earful.

I looked back up at him. “You do want to spend time with me, don’t you?”

He shrugged, still looking down. Not staring at my feet, then, but thinking. I continued to press my point before he caught on.

“So, it’s not me. Don’t you like being indoors?” He shrugged again, this time looking up at me. “Ok. If it’s not me, and not being indoors, then what?” I let the question hang briefly before I said what I already knew. Ultimately, Forlorn didn’t join packs because...

“You don’t want to be told when or how to spend time with me. You don’t want someone telling you what to do. Is that right?”

He didn’t look away. Didn’t move at all.

“Yeah, me either.”

I watched him closely, waiting for some sign he understood I’d lied to him. His motionlessness felt like a standoff and temporarily shriveled my hope. Maybe there was no reasoning with Clay. No, I just chose the wrong tract.

Ignoring the pain, I stepped off the rag and bent down to pick it up. I shook it out and handed it back to him.

“I’m sorry I lied to you, Clay. I thought maybe if you knew how it felt to have your choices taken from you, you’d understand why I want to leave. It’s nothing personal.”

He took the rag from me and turned back to the truck. Someone had brought him more tools, and he was in the process of taking something off what I assumed was the engine. He picked up a ratchet and started to loosen a bolt.

His inattention didn’t deter me. I had to keep trying.

“Your instincts say I’m the one. I don’t have those instincts. Instead, I just keep thinking how I don’t even know you. And the little bit Sam’s told me...that you spend most of your time in your fur, doesn’t help me understand how there can be an ‘us’. I have no fur. I can’t just run off into the woods with you.” The clicking of the ratchet began to slow. He listened.

“I’ve enrolled in college—one I chose—despite Sam’s opposition. Do you know why I picked it? Because it was far enough away that I knew it’d be harder for people to tell me what to do. Major decisions, up until this point, have been made by others based on what they thought would be best for me. Sure, they ask me what I think and try to consider it, but not always. How do you think Sam got me to Introductions for the past two years? It wasn’t by asking me each time if I felt like going.”

The ratcheting stopped, but he remained facing the engine.

“I don’t mean to sound heartless. I’ve been through enough Introductions to know what they mean to your kind. I’m not trying to throw your traditions back in your face. I’m just asking for some compromise. Don’t ask me to forget the one thing I’ve chosen on my own.”

My pleading didn’t appear to sway him any further so I switched tactics and offered him a little hope.

“If you’re serious about me, then come to the city with me and learn while I learn. We can get to know each other. I need that in order to even consider there being an ‘us’.” He still didn’t move. Frustration crept into my words. “I know I’m asking a lot. You’d need to start talking, stop growling, and bathe. No offense meant, but you look like a crazy man the way you are.”

He moved slightly as if I’d poked him in the ribs. So he did understand how bad he looked. Inside, I jumped up and down on the balls of my feet, clapping my hands excitedly. I leaned against the truck to take some weight off my bare feet and pressed my case further.

“I know it wouldn’t be easy on you. You’ll be surrounded by people. It’ll probably be uncomfortable after you’ve been on your own for so long. But we’d be able to spend time together, to get to know each other—the normal, human way—and see how things go. We’d both be giving a little, then. Well, you’d be giving a little more, but...will you think about it?” I didn’t wait for his reaction. I turned and walked back to the Compound. It had to work. Please let it work.