Shifter Alpha Claim 1-6 Omnibus (3 page)

Merck

I feel the knot form between my brows.

I'm not emotional. You can't be a Changer and get all buried in superfluous bullshit. Lycans are an economical group. We don't take time to
feel
.

But I'm feeling Talyn. When she exits the gym and just stands there by herself, looking so—lost—I have to smother my instinct to go to her.

She's not ready.

If she were, all this restraint would be a moot point. I'd introduce myself, tell her she's a human-werewolf hybrid, and guess what? You've won the jackpot of becoming a Lycan. Congrats.

Wrong.

Every change is different, but I've never had a female I couldn't subdue. I've always been Alpha.

I hold still while silent sobs fall out of Talyn like pieces of a broken heart.

Moon dammit
.

My fingers tense, my talons making crescent-shaped marks inside my palms.

Talyn puts herself back together piece by piece. Her efforts at resurrecting her aloof exterior are hard to witness.

But I do.

A branch groans. I drop to my haunches, surveying the immediate environment. Nothing.

My eyes swing back to Talyn. She's already making her way back to her office.

I follow, and though I can't scent anything threatening. My instincts are blaring an alarm.

Something's out there.

But I'd sure-as-fuck like to know what could be out there in silence and without me scenting it.

*

I love the challenge of my wolfen form. Half-lycan, half-wolf, I lope after Talyn, using the forest's border as a sort of superficial cover.

If humans knew what to look for, they'd see us.

But they don't. They only see what their mind will allow them to easily explain.

My pants are of the stretchy, black athletic variety. A zippered pocket at the side of my thigh keeps my pulse at-the-ready for contact with my superior. Charles keeps tabs on all his Changers. Or he's more like our warden.

It's a fact in my life that I don't like.

But I love what I do. There's nothing more rewarding than saving a hybrid from a mundane existence, and inevitable early death.

I had been tasked with Talyn Phisher because she's considered a complicated change.

She might be more complex because she is a full fifteen years older than our average change. But she's only female. She will want to transition just like the dozens I've helped before her.

I slow to a jog as Talyn draws nearer to her vehicle.

Counselors must make
good
money.

She pulses her lock to open, and slides into her fully loaded beamer. I watch her car buckle her as she pulses the engine to life.

The soft purr is impressive. My acute hearing, made even more so by my wolfen form, tells me she's a regular at getting her ride serviced.

So many little details about Talyn Phisher.

None of which matter right now.

I follow her departure until her car is a bright red dot in the last of the  early summer twilight.

*

I'm not winded as I sprint through the forest. Leaves churn with my passing, branches appear to lift and I recognize it for what it is—velocity. I'm sure there's an explanation of physics somewhere in there, but I never was a school boy.

Rather, I've been self-taught through the school of hard knocks.

Talyn Phisher's probably never had the challenge like a Lycan of the pack would. Of beating—and being beaten—until your life hangs in the balance of forfeit to another.

Females do not fight for Alpha status. They are born Alpha—or not. Males must prove their Alpha role.

I proudly wear the scars of my position. It was an even fiercer test within the warrior ranks of Changers. Lycan Changers must be ready for the challenges that present in acquisition, in transition. And the very real possibility of aggressors who would take who we seek to change.

I hunker down, grabbing a low-lying branch in a rare patch of conifers. In Sioux Falls, there's not sufficient forests to cloak me. It's an urban oasis. Islands of trees, mostly deciduous, rather than true swaths of trees allow a sort of complicated stealth.

I manage.

Near Talyn's small craftsman bungalow, great trees stand in a vacant lot, and I use those as habit. They dance above my head, a testimony to the plains wind, sweeping without obstacle of mountain or sea to stop its assailment of everything in its path.

Her sleek luxury BMW creeps along the antique cobblestone alley and the garage door lifts. The car slowly rolls inside. I hear the muted click as she slides the gear into park and the shuffling descent of the garage door.

An exhale of relief slides out of me.

My change is safe.

I've already been through her home. It is scentless. Absent of danger.

That is—if you're looking for threats. Her house is filled with the exotic scent that is Talyn.

Her house cat stays on the top of the fridge during my illicit visits. Long tail shaking high above its head like a snake shaking its rattles.

Still my disquiet is not completely put to bed. My talons are full of bark from nervous motion. I've made a bare spot on the trunk of the tree I lean against.

My eyes see nothing.

I shut them and let my sense of smell do its job. I scent the pine needles beneath my feet. Below that, the decay of last autumn's leaves reek of earth and musk. Further away, blacktop from five years ago still smells like it was laid yesterday, fresh rain slicking the surface like oily water.

Further I smell Talyn.

My eyes open as I suck in a deep breath. It expands my lungs, and I hold the many scents that present themselves inside me. Engaging, identifying and cataloging

I exhale slowly.

I'm pleased she's finally degrading. I'm not thrilled with what I think I'm scenting.

It's rare, but not unheard of that a female hybrid can transition
and
go into heat at the same time.

But it's not a good development. It's calling the dinner bell for any werewolf within a hundred miles.

Lycan Changers hunt their hybrid females in secret.

Humans are already a problem. But they're not the number one problem.

My own kind is the real threat.

Talyn

I slop to the bathroom—do my business.

Then do the worst thing I've done since getting up at six a.m.

I look in the mirror.

Oh
shit—
I look like roadkill.

My face is flushed red like I have a sunburn. My normally clear gray eyes are slightly shiny and bulge in my pinched face like poached eggs with muddy glass dotting the center.

The best news—I have a big zit on my chin.

I am way too old for pimples.

My head slumps. God, it's like I have a wart. All I need is a pointy hat and I'm good to go.

The hell with it
. I jerk open the medicine cabinet, grabbing the zit zapper astringent and nail the boil.

I used to have perfect skin.

Not anymore. Now that my crotch is imploding, my skin is boiling from the inside out and my teeth are aching—it's a whole new reality.

I slam the medicine cabinet shut, ignoring my urge to take a second glance at my reflection. Instead I stalk to my pulse.

I swipe the thumb dock and
initiate,
thinking
voice
call
.

I probably shouldn't do general for this, but there's too many symptoms for me to play around. He's diagnostic, at least. And I know him.

The canned female voice comes online, telling me to
think
my message after the chime.

A musical note sounds. I wait. When it ends I
think:

This message is for Dr. Colbert. This is Dr. Phisher. I'd like to schedule an appointment for a full physical and blood work set. Please phone back with a time that is mutually beneficial.

I think
end message
.

The screen of my pulse darkens, slowly fading to the deep black of hibernation.

Some of the tenseness leaves my body.

I don't know why I put that off. Oh yeah, because going to another doctor is always awkward when you're one yourself.

And it's a big time-waster.

I guess it won't be a waste of time if there's something to be done.

*

I pet Pooky's head, and she meows her acceptance of my gesture of affection then turns, giving a dismissive tail flick as she jumps to her favorite perch on the top of the fridge.

She gives another plaintive meow.

I put my hands on my hips. “I don't know what you're saying. But I
do
know you're making me late. It's Friday and we already have our date of Pride and Prejudice,
and
Ben and Jerry are coming for ice cream.”

Large greenish-gold cat eyes give an unimpressed slow blink. Another meow. The orange that covers her left eye looks back at me like a pirate's patch. Wrong color, same effect.

I sigh. “You haven't forgotten, have you?”

This is normal for me. Talking to my cat. Pooky.

And
I'm
the counselor.

She gives a really sharp meow and I frown. I toss my pulse inside my handbag. “What's up, Pooky? It better be good. I'm late now because of your shenanigans. I don't know how many more behind-the-ear scratches I have left.” A total lie, of course.

Her paw swats the top of the fridge, and something hard drops to the floor with a sharp clatter.

“What is that?” I ask softly. I bend over and pick it up.

Drop it again as though I touched a flame.

I race to the bathroom, ignoring my blotchy face, and open the medicine cabinet. I push aside Midol, two-year-old mascara and find the tweezers.

I snatch them, leaving the door ajar and run back.

I pluck the object off the ground at the pointy end with the tweezers. I grab a magnifying glass out of my catchall holder of miscellaneous crap.

I hold it above the object to see the detail.

My heart thuds at the realization of what I'm holding.

I have a minor in Biology. Useless in some ways, but I loved learning about all things living.

This is no exception. It's a tooth.

Canine.

Though it looks like a regular wolf's—it's not. I was fascinated with wolves when I was an intern. And I remember holding a wolf canine. Root and all, maybe it was two inches, plus.

But if memory serves, it was certainly not the four and a half inches that sits inside my palm.

The tweezers aren't wide enough to accommodate its length or girth and as I try to examine it, the tooth slips out of the too-small pincers.

When it hits the floor a small bit breaks off. I scoop that from the floor and haul out a plastic zippered bag, dropping it inside. I lift the baggy, shaking the bit of tooth inside.

I think I'll be calling in a favor from my favorite lab geek best friend.

I can't even speculate what I have here. I look up at Pooky. “Who was here, girl?” I ask the cat that can't talk.

She purrs, chartreuse eyes gazing back with typical casual indifference.

“You're no help,” I mutter.

Meow.

I grunt my response. I use tongs this time and clamp the mostly intact large canine and put it in the junk drawer.

Nice way to contaminate all your stuff, Talyn.

And the mystery deepens.

I drop the baggy with the strange piece inside my purse, and swipe my pulse.

I
think
a message to Arden that I've got something really unusual to show him.

He lives for The Weird.

He'll get right back.

I don't have time to wait. I give a last thoughtful glance at Pooky and go to the garage. I toss the baggy into my post chute and thumb in Arden's full name. The whir of the chute engages, whisking the bit of strangeness to his home directly.

I walk quickly to my car. I'm already late for work. But for once my life's taken an exciting turn.

If one considers finding a five-inch long canine tooth in their home exciting.