Authors: Rebekah Turner
Bite Deep
Rebekah Turner
Bite Deep
Rebekah Turner
From Rebekah Turner, author of the Applecross Chronicles series, comes a paranormal romance set among the biker werewolves of rural Tasmania.
Ben âBulldog' Jericho, president of the Diablo Dogs motorcycle club and werewolf alpha, bears the grim burden of leadership, punishing any who stray from pack rules. When one of his own is murdered, he knows justice must be served.
Constable Lydia Gault has fled a traumatic past on the mainland for her Tasmanian hometown of Camdenâand she has blood ties to hunters of Jericho's kind.
Now, Lydia and Jericho must join forces to hunt a killer, even as pack politics and werewolf hunters intrude on the small town, threatening to reignite an ancient war.
Rebekah Turner was born in sunny Queensland, Australia, but has lived all across the country, including stints in Bundaberg, Townsville, Adelaide and Melbourne. With a degree in graphic design and a raging coffee addiction, Rebekah escaped the corporate world to now freelance in between sensible adult jobs. She rides a scooter called Skittles, owns two dogs who don't get walked enough, and can never seem to find a blue pen when she wants one. She's a dedicated movie gal, with a special affection for old sci-fi and action movies.
To Charlotte and Dion, many thanks. Again. And a big thank you to Belinda Holmes and Ainslie Paton for all your help.
Contents
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Ben âBulldog' Jericho moved like liquid shadow, combat boots silent against the forest floor. His strides were fluid and his mood deadly. His right hand clutched a heavy semi-automatic, loaded with silver hollow-points and a trigger filed down for a faster pull. Moonlight laced the ground, not that he needed it. Breed saw just fine in the dark.
He paused and sniffed the air, searching for his prey, his senses expanding. It was autumn, and nature's temperature dial was set at a ball-shrinking single digit that made his bad knee ache. Around him, King Billy pines loomed, pines rustled and the fresh night air percolated with a woody, resinous smell. His footsteps sank occasionally into the spongy moss that crept across the forest floor and nearby tawny frogmouths croaked, joined occasionally by a far-off scream of a Tasmanian devil scavenging for meat.
A faint throb of music pulsed from an apple orchard that adjoined the forest and he could just make out the trees, heavy with fruit. The pulse turned into a steady beat.
Rap.
His lip curled in a silent snarl. That music gave him a fucking headache.
He turned as one of his crew members, Reaper, came up beside him. The large man wore similar clothes to Jericho: ballistic vest with a steel-laced collar and tactical holsters strapped to jean-clad thighs. Reaper's long, ragged black hair hung loose and his heavy brow was furrowed in concentration. They both paused a moment, waiting for the third member of this night's hunting party to join them. Reaper tugged at the snug collar of his vest, then tapped the logo on the front of the vest.
âIt's a butterfly,' he said in a low, suspicious tone.
Jericho grunted, but didn't answer. The crew had laughed their asses off when one of the prospects had ordered the vests from China, thinking they might need it in the event of a riot inside the compound. The vests had been heavily discounted, and when they arrived it was plain to see why. The material was a sickly green colour and the manufacturer's oddly shaped logo was splayed on the front, resembling a Rorschach image.
Reaper looked up from the vest, squinting towards the fruit orchard. âIs that music coming from the farm?'
âIf you can call it music,' Jericho replied shortly. His mood was dark and nasty, thoughts focused on the role he was supposed to play tonight. Lance Lepkowsky had been delivered to the rehabilitation centre two weeks ago, trussed up in the back of a van and guarded by his old pack. Lance was a burly retired cop whose alcoholism had triggered multiple near-reversions and he'd been pretty messed up when he'd arrived. Had even taken a few swings at those trying to help him. But Jericho was used to stunts like that, and had promptly sedated the old man for two days before he was able to assure the cop he wasn't about to be executed for breaking pack law.
Jericho's lips tightened. It was a promise he had to break, because Lance had begun to turn and once the process of reversion began, only the strong could pull back to regain their humanity. Now it was up to Jericho to take care of him, just as he'd been forced to take care of another pack member last month. In fact, his hand had been forced three times over since the start of the year, an unprecedented number of reversions, and each death sat like a weight on his chest.
âHow can you not like this song?' Blades joined them, not bothering to keep his voice down. Ex-bounty hunter and good-looking bastard, Johnny âBlades' Collins was blessed with a smooth tongue and baby-blues that melted women's panties by the dozen. His sandy hair was tucked under a black cap and throwing knives were strapped across his vest. He was an expert tracker; Jericho knew if Blades didn't see the need to whisper, their prey wasn't near enough to hear them.
Reaper cocked his head to the side. âI can hear it now. I like this one.'
Blades grinned, teeth white in the gloom. âGoddamn, Bulldog. One day I'll have to educate you about modern music. There's more to life than that depressing shit you listen to.'
Jericho ran a hand over his short beard, not bothering to respond. People either got blues music or they didn't, and considering Blades' questionable taste in trashy women and flashy bikes, he knew he'd be wasting his breath.
Reaper turned to Blades and tapped his chest. âWe're wearing butterflies.'
âIt's not a fucking butterfly,' Jericho said wearily. Personally, he thought it was a badly stitched outline of South America, but he didn't have much of an artistic eye. Seventeen years in the army had pretty much bulldozed any creativity out of him.
âThat's right,' Blades said. âIt's a unicorn.'
Reaper's eyes dropped down to his chest. âAre you serious?'
âSure. And there's a rainbow sticking out of its ass.'
Reaper looked up, eyes narrowing dangerously. âAre you taking the piss?'
âHave you got Lance's trail?' Jericho interrupted Blades, signalling that the jokes were over. He knew both men were just blowing off steam, both as reluctant as he was for this night to go ahead. But they also knew there was no choice in the matter. To let a reverted Breed run free was unthinkable, the damage impossible to contain.
Blades nodded towards the apple orchard. âYeah. He went that way.'
âThen let's move,' Jericho said. âI want this over with.'
All quips and jokes were gone now as they crept to the forest edge, stopping to peer into the dark tangle of apple trees. Jericho spied a thin line of smoke curling into the sky and a white van parked in the distance, down the gentle slope of the orchard. The rap music stopped and a new melody, heavy with guitar riffs, drifted across the field.
Can't put it off.
He entered the field like a ghost, stride long and determined. He had better night vision than the others, and he knew the music would hide the occasional twig crunch from Reaper's boots. Not that he would have considered leaving Reaper behind. While he didn't have the hunting finesse that Blades did, Reaper was the most vicious and effective fighter Jericho had ever seen. Someone he needed to have his back tonight.
As they approached the source of the music, Jericho slowed, sniffing the air. The musky smell of weed filled his nose, chased closely by the floral scent of females, and bright laughter danced in his ears. Inching forward, he got into a position with a good view of a small clearing. A steel drum had been stuffed with wood and a fire crackled away, emitting a pleasant, smoky aroma. Two women crowded around it, giggling as they held marshmallow-topped sticks over sparking flames. Three other women danced nearby, hips swaying to the music as they passed a joint around. Jericho felt his blood rush, the beast chained inside of him clawing with sudden, violent need.
Backpackers. Lord knew the locals in town didn't look like that.
âIsn't that a sight,' Blades breathed from beside him.
âKeep it in your pants for once,' Reaper muttered from behind them.
Jericho searched for Lance and a movement at the far end of the clearing caught his attention: eyes deep in shadow, glinting against the firelight, watching the women.
He tensed, knowing what Lance would do, understanding the urge that was controlling the man: a single-minded pursuit to kill and eat, to rage and ravage and to change, ripping and screaming, into the beast that would devour his sanity in the blink of an eye. Jericho himself had been to that edge a few times before, and knew how difficult it was to contain the raging urge to give in and let the beast take over.
He watched and waited, muscles bunched tight, breath short. Beside him, Reaper and Blades were silent, waiting for his signal. An unspoken worry pulled tight around them, both fear for the safety of the women, and concern that they might witness too much. After all, it was the duty of the Diablo Dogs MC to protect the secrets of the Breed rehabilitation centre, affectionately nicknamed the Dog House, and its safety took priority above all else.
A howl sliced through the night, the sound ragged and torn. The women froze, staring at each other with wide eyes. Tree limbs shuddered across the clearing, then Lance burst into view, covered in blood. He was caught mid-change: all distorted muscle and a mouth pulled long, with a half snout dragging low, gore dripping from it. Long teeth jutted from his lower jaw and his fingers had curled into blackened claws; one eye was twisted by bulging flesh, the other still painfully human. Coarse hair covered his naked upper torso and the metallic stench of sickness rolled out from him.
The women shrieked, falling over themselves in a tangle of hair and legs as they scrambled to flee from the nightmare lurching towards them.
Jericho shot forward, gun snapping up, and Lance froze. Jericho tried to stare Lance down, and though it was impossible, he wanted somehow to save this man, whose only sin had been to be infected with the lycanthropy virus. His teeth ground together and a sour taste flooded his mouth at what he had to do now.
Until last year, his tenure as Rehabilitator had been flawless. He had managed to save all those who came to the centre. But as if a switch had been flipped, men had begun to lose the fight with the virus, even one man who had previously been able to go off his medication, his control reasserted through meditation and breathing exercises. Medications had been doubled, but still men had succumbed and he couldn't understand what had changed. Worst of all, Jericho knew there would be others. He could already see telltale signs. And he knew if he failed them as well, his hand would be forced again.