Gray Bishop (11 page)

The black beast that joined him a moment later stood with his head at Bishop’s waist. Thomas McQueen’s beast form was a majestic sight, and the mighty roar he bellowed from deep within rattled Bishop’s bones. Several of the fighting beasts stopped. A few ran away.

Father and son launched themselves into the chaos.

***

Jillian tore out a few more throats on her path to her dad’s house. She didn’t care why strange loup were in her town. They smelled of death and deception, so if they got in her way, they died. Her beast knew no other solution to their interference.

The front door was open, the air thick with the stink of blood and of rotten oranges. Dad’s blood. She knew his scent. She howled as she began to search the house. A bloodstain in the living room had been smeared by two pairs of feet, then tracked out the back door.

She followed the blatant trail left behind. Through the backyard. Someone had broken through the fence dividing that yard from their neighbor. That yard was empty, the trail of blood just as strong.

The black blur slammed into her side, knocking Jillian over. She stumbled as the small, wiry body wrapped skinny arms around her neck and tried to bite. Grateful for the super-thickness of her beast’s fur, Jillian rolled, smashing the offensive triplet beneath her superior weight. The girl squealed. Clawed hands ripped at Jillian’s chest, finding flesh beneath the fur. Burning.

Jillian thumped down, then rolled again, dislodging the girl. She whipped around and lunged, jaws snapping at the girl’s midsection. Her target leapt away. Jillian tasted blood, just fast enough to slice the girl’s hand with her teeth. The girl screamed.

“You bitch!”

Unable to respond with a few choice words of her own, Jillian snarled.

“Bet you wanna know what my sister did with Daddy, huh?”

Not Desiree, the crazypants triplet who called her. Had to be Victoria or the other one with no name.

“You might find him before he bleeds out, but I doubt it.”

Jillian lunged. The girl danced out of the way with preternatural speed, then came in to land a hard punch to Jillian’s ribcage. The blow and subsequent sharp ache fueled her counterattack. She slammed into the girl’s side, tossing her a few feet into the wood fence. And the psycho girl came up laughing.

“That all you’ve got little puppy? I’ve killed hundreds of your filthy kind, and you can’t even take one of me down?”

She growled. Jillian looked forward to killing this bitch.

“Yes, yes, growl at me. I like it. You and me? We actually have something in common.”

Jillian huffed, wishing she had her voice. She studied the way the girl moved, her whole body tensing a moment before she sprung to a new position, a new part of the yard. Teasing without attacking. In the distance, engines purred and new howls joined the horrific chorus playing around them.

Backup had arrived.

“I took a look around your daddy’s house while Desiree played with him. I saw your photo so many times. What happened to your baby, Jillian?”

Hate burned in Jillian’s chest, so consuming it nearly blinded her. But she couldn’t win this on emotion. She tamped it down, allowing only a single growl.

The girl slid a hand down to her flat belly. “Maybe you lost yours. Did you? I won’t lose mine.”

Jillian blinked.

Victoria. The chess piece
did
mean something. And it’s meaning for Knight stabbed her in the heart.

“We might have lost Knight to you, but we got something useful out of that whole mess,” Victoria said. “Don’t worry. We’ll get him back. My baby will need cousins, after all. Or will they be brothers, since they’ll have the same father? How does that work?”

She really was insane if Victoria was standing around discussing her future children with her mortal enemy. Victoria made the mistake of looking away, up at the sky like it held her answers.

Jillian rushed her. Victoria moved too late. Jillian snapped, clamping down on Victoria’s hip. Tasting blood. Feeling flesh rip. Victoria slashed at her face with those partly shifted animal claws of hers. Slicing the delicate skin around Jillian’s muzzle and eyes. Unwilling to risk being blinded, Jillian let go.

She took a chunk of Victoria’s left side with her, then spat it out. She tasted of the same rotten oranges that she smelled of, and it nauseated Jillian.

Somewhere in the near distance, Bishop screamed. An agonized scream that made her howl in response. Victoria fled. Jillian hesitated only a moment, then raced toward the sound of the man she had claimed.

***

Bishop had made a mistake. He’d allowed the arrival of their backup from Cornerstone to distract him from all fronts, and the blow landed from behind. Heavy and hard, it knocked him to his knees, his head spinning, equilibrium gone. The second blow strapped across his back and sent him face-first into the grass. A baseball bat flashed in the corner of his eye. Wooden.

Ouch.

The bat sailed at him again. Bishop rolled, and the weapon hit the ground. He lashed out, kicked his attacker in the kneecaps, and the guy tumbled sideways. Bishop had lost his shotgun to a group attack of three half-breed men who’d provided quite a challenge, until a black Springwell female helped him out. He reached for the baseball bat, hoping to wrestle it away from the new guy, who also reeked of half-breed.

A booted foot crashed down on his arm, cleanly snapping bones, sending agony lancing up Bishop’s arm and shoulder. He screamed, releasing the searing agony through sound so he could use the quickly following anger to fuel him. Adrenaline surged, fighting off the pain.

The boot stomped again, then sailed at Bishop’s face. Clipped him in the cheek. More pain. Dizziness. Not good.

And then a black blur was there. Jillian.

She ripped out two throats in the time it took Bishop to crawl up onto his knees, his broken forearm cradled to his chest. She came over and licked his cheek, hatred blazing in her copper eyes, her muzzle cut and bleeding

“Thanks for the save. Did you find your father?”

She shook her head and huffed.

With the arrival of the Cornerstone loup, the battle appeared to be winding down and turning quickly in their favor. Wounded Springwell loup, shifted and skin, began assembling on the west side of the park, protected by those still able to fight. Rook and Devlin, two fast black shapes, raced past him, intent on some target. Jillian stayed close, allowing him to use her as he stood up, steadying himself with a hand on her back.

He ached all over, but especially his arm. “Go find him, Jillian, I’ll be fine.”

She looked up, head tilted in a question.

“Go.”

She did.

Bishop grabbed the baseball bat with his left hand, an awkward hold, but the best he could do. He turned, intent on the cluster of locals, until a new sound made his blood run cold. Never in his life had he heard his father squeal in agony while in his beast form. Bishop followed the sound to a cluster of bushes. Rounded them.

Father’s beast was fighting off two of the triplets at once. They swiped at him with disfigured, clawed hands. His black fur was matted with mud and blood, and it dripped from his coat in a dozen places. He lunged at the triplet with a gaping wound in her side. Powerful jaws clamped down on her throat, and they crashed to the ground together. The second triplet pounced on his back and dug in with those menacing claws.

“Rook! Help me!” Bishop didn’t recognize his own voice.

He swung at the top triplet. She ducked the clumsy blow, then kicked. Her foot smashed into his broken arm. Bishop landed on his ass, pain blurring his vision.

Rook and Devlin smashed into her at the same time, knocking her to the ground. The three tussled away, jaws snapping, the girl cussing at them.

Bishop dragged himself to his father’s side. His big furry body had collapsed on top of the triplet he’d caught, her eyes wide, empty. Dead. He moved gently as he breathed, eyes shut. The ground around him squished under Bishop’s knee, damp with blood. His father’s blood.

“Father?” Bishop smoothed his palm over his father’s muzzle, across his head, between his ears. He tried to assess the injuries, but the thick fur made it difficult to see the gashes, much less how deep they went. Real fear chilled him to the core. “Dad? Dad, you’ve got to shift back so we can see where you’re hurt.”

He huffed.

“Please.”

Rook appeared on their father’s other side, his teeth dripping with blood.

“She dead?” Bishop asked.

Rook shook his head no and snarled. Then nosed Father’s cheek. Devlin and A.J. loped over.

“Make sure the fight’s over and that the last two triplets are gone. Collect the wounded.”

They yipped understanding and ran off.

Rook settled next to their father and gave Bishop a meaningful look. Confident he’d interpreted correctly, Bishop stroked the top of his father’s head. “Dad, Rook is going to shift back with you, okay? Use his strength. Let him help you. We’re both here.”

Father huffed and opened his eyes.

Bishop stayed close and endured the harrowing process along with them. Shifting in general hurt a great deal. Shifting from wounded skin to beast to aid in healing an injury sustained while in skin was a special kind of agony, but it left the loup in a better place physically. Shifting as a wounded beast back to skin did nothing for the healing process, and only left a wounded man behind. Bishop had done it, and the experience was brutal. The injuries were felt all over again, each cut or break endured a second time as the body remade itself. The shift itself could easily kill their father, but they couldn’t stop the bleeding like this. He was too big to move, too furry to bandage.

Bishop babbled while his father keened, trying to stay present for the horror he was facing. The indescribable pain that had to be burning through his body and his sanity. Rook shifted just as slowly, taking his time, the magic of his change urging their father to do the same. Giving him strength.

A woman from Springwell appeared with a handful of towels. Her clothes were bloodstained, her feet bare. “Use these,” she said, then scampered away, probably to deliver more to the other wounded.

Father’s shift completed, and he lay naked on top of the dead triplet. His back had several deep scores from shoulder to buttock, and his left leg was bleeding heavily from a ragged bite. Rook helped Bishop gently roll their father onto his back, off the dead girl. Bishop’s heart skipped, and his beast roared.

Their father’s chest and stomach was a torn mess of flesh and muscle, the ground where he’d lain soaked in red. He wheezed and gasped for air, far too pale. Skin too cold. Bishop pressed a towel to his chest with his good hand, knowing it wasn’t enough. Even if Dr. Mike had been right there beside him, it was too late.

“You got one, Dad,” Rook said. “We wounded the other one.”

“What about the third?” Bishop asked.

“I don’t know.” Rook clasped Father’s right hand in his. Bishop kept steady pressure on the towel, wishing he could do the same.

Father’s head listed toward Bishop. He met Bishop’s gaze, too much knowledge simmering in his eyes. Too much awareness of how fleeting this moment was. He swallowed hard, the action staining his teeth and lips red.

“I’ll protect them all.” Bishop’s voice sounded odd, raspy. Fractured. “I’ll see the last two hybrids dead and the Magi punished for their creations. I swear to you.”

“Love my boys,” Father gasped.

“We love you, too, Dad,” Rook said. “We’ll take care of each other.”

“Hate going. Too much to do.”

“You’ve taught us to be Alphas, whether we hold the title or not. All three of us. We’ll weather this.” Rook choked. Coughed. “You rest, Dad.”

Awareness of others nearby didn’t distract Bishop from this moment. The moment when everything in his life changed, as the light and life disappeared from his father’s eyes. A man he’d grown up believing to be invincible. A man who should have lived to see his grandchildren and to retire in peace. Not a man dying in a pool of his own blood, surrounded by fear and death.

His chest rose and fell once. Twice. Air gurgled, then ceased. His eyelids drooped. On a hot September morning, miles from his home, flanked by two of his sons, Alpha Thomas McQueen died.

A horrific pain speared Bishop’s chest, burning his lungs and his eyes. Consuming him. He had to release it before it destroyed him. He threw back his head and howled, his beast roaring the angry, mournful song. Moments later, Rook joined him. More voices, familiar and foreign, united in a symphony of grief.

His father was dead, a town was destroyed, and Bishop had no idea what to do next.

Jillian found her dad in the same moment that the mournful howling began half a mile away in the square. She knew its source because she knew her town. She’d picked up her dad’s scent not long after leaving Bishop behind—Bishop, whose howl had begun the song that rose up and filled the air. It raked chills up and down her spine.

She forced herself into a fast shift, desperate for the pain that meant she’d become skin again. Her beast couldn’t help her dad. Her bones and spine realigned, reformed. The tail disappeared, fur receded. Claws replaced with fingernails. Her jaw cracked and ached with the change. Her face and chest screamed in agony over the fresh wounds there. As soon as the hateful shift stopped, she lurched to her feet.

Unconscious but alive, her dad was nailed to a large tree in the Lancomb’s backyard. Long carpenter’s nails, dozens of them in his arms and torso held him in the air, suspended. Blood trickled from each wound, and from a larger gash above his stomach.

“Help! Someone, please!” She grabbed a nail and yanked. It came loose and slid out coated in blood. She tossed it away and tugged out a second. “Help me!”

Desperation raised her voice pitch, but she didn’t care if she sounded shrill. Footsteps pounded toward her. Jillian spun around, a nail poised like a spear, ready to strike. Rusty Lancomb skidded to a wide-eyed stop in front of her. Thirteen and gangly, the young Gray Wolf had a first aid kit in one hand and pliers in another.

“I seen them do this, I’m so sorry, Ms. Reynolds,” he said. “But I had to stay inside and protect my baby sister. My parents made me promise.”

“It’s okay, just help me now.”

Jillian kept her dad upright against the tree while Rusty removed the nails one by one, careful that the Alpha didn’t fall forward and cause worse damage. Once he was free, Rusty helped Jillian lower him to the ground. Dad was shirtless, dressed still in his pajama bottoms. The triplets had likely gone after him first, while he was still asleep.

“There’s not enough here.” Jillian held up the single roll of gauze. “Go get a bedsheet and a knife. Now.”

Rusty scrambled off. She used the gauze on the punctures that bled most heavily. Once Rusty returned, she instructed him on cutting the sheet into strips while she put on the too-tight t-shirt and boxer shorts he’d brought her. She wound the strips around her dad’s arms, all the way up to the shoulder, binding him up as best she could. His left arm was stained with spots before she managed to start on the second. And then his chest. He remained unconscious, his breathing shallow.

“Do you know where Dr. Travers is?” Jillian asked.

“No, ma’am, haven’t see him today.”

“Jillian!” Mason was racing toward her, his chest streaked with blood—some his own, some not—a bath towel cinched around his waist. “Christ.”

“He needs a doctor,” Jillian said.

“Everyone’s gathering at the square. One of the triplets is dead, the other two seem to be gone. You’re bleeding.”

“I’m fine. Who else died?”

Mason lowered his head. “Alpha McQueen.”

Grief kicked her in the chest and tried to strangle her. Her beast roared her fury. “Bishop and Rook?”

“Alive. But a lot of our people aren’t. They attacked homes one by one, killing folks in their beds before the alarm was raised and they fought back.”

“We should have anticipated this, had more patrols guarding the woods.”

“No one could have anticipated the hybrids sending in half-breeds and feral loup. Come on, we need to get to the square.”

“Rusty, go get your sister. And your parents’ car keys.” Jillian looped her arms beneath her dad’s pits, waited for Mason to take his legs, and together they carried their Alpha to the driveway. They managed to put him into the backseat of the Lancombs’ sedan.

Mason drove them to the square, squashed into the front seat with Jillian, Rusty, and a sobbing four-year old Tammy. Blood still trickled from the wounds on Jillian’s chest, soaking through her borrowed t-shirt, and she couldn’t bring herself to care. Her wounds weren’t fatal. They’d heal.

Once a peaceful park central to their town’s interactions, the square resembled a war zone triage area. Only a handful of black beasts lingered on the perimeter, on guard and alert. Everyone else was skin, in various states of dress or nudity. The able bodied were tending to the wounded with whatever materials they had, or had been given to them. The air was thick with the odors of blood and death.

They parked in the grass near the largest cluster of citizens. Rusty and Tammy raced off in search of their parents. Two of her father’s enforcers, Benson and Jeremiah, joined her and Mason by the car, both a little mangled but steady on their feet. Looking to her for guidance.

“Our Alpha is badly wounded,” she said. “We need to triage everyone who’s hurt, down to the smallest scratch. Sort out those who won’t make it from the most critical who might. Where’s Dr. Travers?”

“Dead,” Jeremiah replied. “I know basic first aid like most of us, but some of these wounds are bad.”

And because of their unique physiology, couldn’t be taken to a hospital. Sedation and blood work would reveal they weren’t human. “The most critical need to be taken to Cornerstone immediately. I need to know who they are in the next five minutes, so we can get them out of here. Every minute we wait, they come closer to dying.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Jeremiah and Benson disappeared into the crowd.

Jillian eyeballed the survivors, as well as the bodies littering the ground. So many still missing. “Once the wounded are organized, we need to start searching homes. Find the children who are hiding, and anyone who might still be alive. I want all survivors here, in one place, so I know how many are left.”

“On it,” Mason said.

Alone and with a plan in place, Jillian cast around for Bishop. He wasn’t with her people, which did not surprise her. As much as she didn’t want to leave her dad alone, Bishop had lost his father. He needed her, and her beast demanded she find him. She scented the air, but it was so heavy with other things she couldn’t distinguish one loup from another. Only the subtle differences between Springwell and Cornerstone loup.

She wandered away from her people, toward a stronger concentration of Cornerstone’s gentle pine scent. Beyond a decorative hedge, she found them.

Rook and Bishop sat on either side of Thomas McQueen’s body. His chest and stomach was mangled, obvious despite the towel soaked in blood. She’d never seen the powerful man so still. So . . . empty. Rook glanced up at her approach, his eyes wet and red, his cheeks still somehow dry. He and Bishop both clutched one of McQueen’s hands.

“I’m so sorry.” Jillian crouched in front of Bishop, alarmed at his purple, swollen arm.

His gaze flickered toward her. He frowned, probably at the cuts on her face that stung with every movement, then looked back down to his father’s face. Her beast keened for his pain. “We’re triaging the wounded so we can take them to Cornerstone for treatment. The worst will be leaving in a few minutes. My father is one of them.”

That got Bishop’s full attention. Fury and agony burned in his eyes when he looked at her. “You found him.”

“Nailed to a tree.”

Bishop swore. “At least our father killed one of them.”

Jillian glanced at the bloody body of the hybrid, and its familiar hip wound. “Victoria.”

“Yes,” Rook said. “I recognize the bitch’s scent.”

A confession danced on the tip of her tongue. She wasn’t sorry that Victoria was dead, but she had taken an innocent life with her. The pain Victoria had inflicted on Knight was far from finished.

“We should send Father’s body back with the first wave,” Bishop said. He was trying so hard to keep his temper even, not to fly off into a rage. She saw it in his eyes. He was his people’s leader now, just as Jillian was—until her father recovered. “Knight needs to be told.”

Rook made a strangled, desperate sound. “I’ll do it.”

“No, I will.” Bishop grabbed Rook’s shoulder with his good hand and squeezed. “I need all able-bodied people here, managing the situation. I’ll tell him, then stay and get the town prepared for the refugees.”

“Refugees?” Jillian said.

“Springwell isn’t safe. Not anymore. You’ve sustained huge losses, Jillian. You need to evacuate to Cornerstone for now. Our runs must pull together, support each other. I need you and Rook to coordinate that here.”

The faint hint of desperation from a new Alpha far too close to losing it completely made Jillian reach out to him. She cupped his cheeks and made him look at her. Her beast jumped, pleased by the contact despite the circumstances. “We’ll do this together, Bishop, I promise. We’ll get through this.”

His eyes blazed with the reaction of his own beast, and her heart kicked. He wanted to kiss her. She wanted him to kiss her.

Not now. Not in front of the others.

“Come on, let’s get you to a car,” she said.

Rook solved that particular problem by fetching the Explorer he’d arrived in. He and Jillian gently loaded McQueen’s body into the back, then covered him with a spare towel. Rook removed a few piles of clothes from the backseat before shoving Bishop inside. “Get that arm looked at,” he said. “And take care of our brother.”

“I will.”

Jillian drove the SUV closer to the triage area so they could add three more wounded loup. Two women and a man. Devlin agreed to drive them out and help Bishop organize efforts in Cornerstone. Jeremiah would follow him in the car with Alpha Reynolds, and two others who needed blood.

She stood back under the shade of an oak tree and watched as two vehicles drove off with the two most important men in her life.

“Jill?” Mason approached, his face pinched. He held out an iPad. “This is a list of everyone who’s still alive so far. We’re still searching homes, about half done.”

Jillian scanned the names. So many missing. Men and women she’d known her entire life, who’d worked side by side with her at the market. Children’s names. Enforcers. No parents of the two Lancomb children. “So few.”

Out of four hundred and thirty-nine residents of Springwell, fewer than a hundred names were on that list. Her stomach turned, threatening to empty itself. She tamped down the urge, unwilling to give into her grief. She couldn’t indulge, not until her people were safe.

She gave the iPad back to Mason. Looked around. She climbed onto the roof of a car and clapped her hands. Then she let out a mighty growl that captured everyone’s attention. Scared, bloody faces stared up at her from the ground. So many wounded. So many uncertain of the future.

“Alpha Reynolds was wounded in this battle, and he’s on his way to get medical attention.” She spoke with the confidence born of her Black Wolf, and of being the Alpha’s daughter—even though she wanted to shake apart. “Until such time as he’s able to resume his duties as Alpha, I ask for your loyalty and your trust. I will not fail you again.”

Heads shook. Some murmured to each other. No one seemed to blame her.

“We have lost a piece of our hearts today. Our homes were invaded, our lives broken apart. We mourn together for what was taken from us, because Springwell is gone. We must leave her behind.”

Several began sobbing. Jillian tuned it out.

“You may return to your homes if you wish, to gather the things that are most important to you. Please, no more than one suitcase per person. I also ask that you bring all food and medical supplies that you own. Help your neighbors. Support each other. And please come back here by two o’clock.”

“Where are we going, ma’am?” Benson asked.

“Cornerstone, Pennsylvania. We’ll be safe there.”

“Isn’t Cornerstone why we were attacked?” someone yelled from far away.

“We were attacked because the Magi created three very powerful, very insane hybrid weapons. The girls with the black hair? They are not natural, and they are greedy.” She searched the crowd until she spotted Agnes, her own town’s White Wolf, huddling with a trio of parentless children. “They want a prize they are not entitled to, and they are fixated on this goal. Cornerstone has only ever been protecting what is theirs, and these hybrids are lashing out at all of us in retaliation. Trying to force our people to bend to their whims, and we will not.

“We are loup garou. No matter which sanctuary town, no matter which state, we are one people. Every life is important, from the youngest child to the wisest elder. The hybrids struck first when they destroyed Stonehill, Connecticut, last month. I assure you that they will all die before this is over.”

Mason, Benson, and three other enforcers moved to stand by the car. “We support you, Alpha Reynolds,” Benson said. “As we supported your father.”

“Thank you.”

“You have our support, as well!” someone shouted. More agreements rose, along with scattered applause.

Jillian held up her trembling hands to silence them. “Two o’clock. And then we say good-bye to our home.” She climbed off the car before she broke down, amazed she’d made it through that speech.

Mason followed her as she strode in the direction of her dad’s home. “Send some folks to the market,” Jillian said. “Gather up whatever is ours. Nothing that the local farmers have brought, or that we haven’t paid for.”

“All right.”

“And have whoever is searching homes for survivors gather supplies from the dead. We can’t afford to leave anything behind. I don’t want to strain Cornerstone’s resources further than necessary.”

“Understood.”

“And Mason?” She stopped, turned to face him. “Thank you.”

“For what?”

“Helping me not fall down.”

“I’ll always be there to keep you on your feet, Jill. I promise.”

“I know. Still, thank you. See you in a few.”

He walked away to follow her orders. Jillian stopped in front of the Alpha’s house and studied its simple beauty. A home she’d lived in for her entire life, except for the two years she’d lived down the block with her husband. She’d be leaving behind everything she’d ever known, for an uncertain future in a new state.

The Springwell refugees could start fresh somewhere else one day, if that was the Alpha’s choice. Or they could petition the other Alpha’s to allow them to become part of Cornerstone’s run. The Potomac refugees had not officially done so, because of the half-breeds they embraced as equals.