Wild Instinct (32 page)

“Keep her quiet, Josiah. And don’t let her come out, no matter what.”

She felt Josiah’s nod against her arm. His hand grabbed hers.

“I’ll see you in a few hours.”

Hours? He expected them to stay here for a few hours? She leaned out. “Curran.”

He stepped away, pouring some whiskey on himself, staggering around the area where Josiah’s sleeping bag had been, his feet blurring signs that anything else had been there. The stench of alcohol obliterated anything else. He couldn’t think pretending to be drunk was going to accomplish anything.

With a wave of his hand he motioned her back. Josiah tugged at her hand. “You’re ruining his plan.”

Curran had a plan? How the hell could he have a plan? His plan had been for them to ride those bikes tomorrow. Nonetheless, she folded herself back into the crevice, grimacing when the rock bruised her skin through her clothes.

She heard a noise. A thump followed by a series of smaller ones that came faster and faster until they were like a vibration in her head. Her breath caught in her throat. Everything in her cried out for Curran. She lunged for the opening. Little hands pushed her back. Josiah shook his head at her. His eyes glowed red in the dark. The pressure on her hip was incredibly strong. Josiah was calling on his wolf, following Curran’s order to keep her there. She didn’t care. Curran was in trouble.

Other scents spread through the cave. Male. Werewolf. Unfamiliar. Rogues. Too late. It was too late. Grabbing Josiah, Rachel pulled him to her, a silent wail of agony welling from inside. Josiah squeezed her hand.

“What do we have here?”

There was the sound of boots scraping over dirt. “A drunk wolf.”

“If he’s drunk, ass, he has to be a mix,” another said.

“Of course he’s a mix,” another scoffed. “Look at the hair. No wolf has hair that color.”

There was a pause. More footsteps entered the cave. How many did that make? Seven? eight?

“So, who is it?”

“Could be one of Haven’s mongrels.”

“Damn, it stinks in here.”

“Get up.”

There was the sound of something hard hitting something soft.

“Did the damn fool drink himself to death?”

“If he did, I’ve got dibs on those bikes.”

The betraying thump came again. “The hell you do.”

“Check his pulse.”

Curran. They had to be talking about Curran. She held her breath. When the answer came she sagged.

“Nothing.”

Oh, God.

“Stupid breeds. All the benefits they get from our blood and they throw it away on drugs or alcohol.”

Rachel wanted to leap out of her hiding place and rip out the speaker’s throat. Josiah pressed against her thigh. He shook his head. He was right, but not for the reasons he thought. If she left the crevice, the rogues would be compelled to search the cave to see who else they had missed. And they’d find Josiah. She didn’t know what had happened to Curran, but she couldn’t afford to fail Sarah Anne. She’d promised to keep Josiah safe, and she would.

Someone spat. “And Haven wants to welcome them all.”

“Leave them to the Carmichaels.”

“Except for the girl. The girl is ours.”

“What do we do with him?”

“Leave him for the bugs.”

“And the bikes?”

“Mark the cave. We’ll pick them up on the way back.”

“You think the Carmichaels will keep their word?”

“Who cares? We just need them to believe we’re going to keep ours.”

The deeper voice laughed. “Until we don’t.”

A couple of grunts and then, “And then we’ll have it all.”

“You think Haven is going to put up that much of a fight?”

“I think the McGowans can command enough respect to keep the Carmichaels busy long enough.”

Long enough for what? Rachel memorized the wording. It might be important later.

Again the sound of someone spitting. “There isn’t enough respect in the world to make a traditional pack like the Carmichaels accept a mongrel pack like Haven.”

“It was Wyatt Carmichael’s dad who sanctioned Haven.”

“On his death bed. No one can hold a pack to that kind of sanction.”

“I still think you’re underestimating the Carmichaels.”

“Think what you want. You’re not in charge. Unless you’ve worked up the courage to challenge?”

The cave filled with tension. Rachel could easily envision the scene. Two males facing off, shoulders squared, hands open, legs slightly bent in a crouch, ready to fight to the death unless one backed down. One always backed down. It was the wolf way. Hierarchy was set by birth. Rarely was it upset by battle.

“That’s what I thought.”

“C’mon. Let’s get moving.”

“Remember, the bikes are mine.”

“Yeah, we all heard you.”

Yes, they had to move. Dear God,
move.
The need to get to Curran clawed at Rachel like a living creature. The urge to dart out grew by the moment, threatening to override her good sense. Rachel closed her eyes and built a mental image of Curran, focusing on his broad forehead with the lock of hair that tended to fall over it, the arch of his dark brows over his hazel eyes, and that mobile, perpetually-on-the-edge-of-humor mouth set above his square chin. He had to be all right. And they had to leave.

Josiah tugged at her leg. She looked down, the image dissolving away, leaving her with only a sense of panic and Curran’s name screaming in her mind. Josiah motioned her to follow. Quick as a wink, he was out of their hiding place. Before she’d even ascertained it was safe.

“Josiah,” she hissed.

She came around the corner to find him kneeling beside Curran’s body, holding on to his hand as if it was a lifeline. Rachel couldn’t look away from that hand. That big, capable hand that had seemed to command the world since the moment she’d met him. Had it been only forty-eight hours ago? How had he become so important to her in forty-eight hours?

Mate. And he lay dying.

“What kind of reassurance was that?” she whispered, dropping to her knees beside him. “Telling me we’re not even going to have a chance.”

Josiah sobbed, looking like what he was for once, a lost little boy. “What happened?”

She touched Curran’s cheek, held her hand over his mouth, her finger under his nose. “I don’t know.”

“He’s not breathing?”

“No.” No. No. No.

Nine

FOR a moment Rachel couldn’t get past the denial that ripped through her soul. Beneath her hand she could feel the warmth of his skin, the illusion of life.

He’d lied. Damn him. “He lied.”

“Mates can’t lie to each other,” Josiah said with a desperation echoing her own.

They weren’t supposed to. “I know.”

It was so hard to talk with pain clawing at her soul. Loss like she’d never known before crashed over her in a tidal wave of knowledge. Why hadn’t she seen this? She’d seen so much, why not this?

“He said he’d see us in a few hours,” Josiah whispered, as if repeating what had happened could change anything. “I wasn’t supposed to let you out, no matter what.”

“You didn’t.”

“I just wanted to see,” he whispered, the break in his voice catching on her awareness. “I didn’t mean to disobey.”

Oh, God. “This isn’t your fault, Josiah.” She pushed the hair off Curran’s face. With her other hand, she pulled Josiah to her. Curran looked so alive, she couldn’t stop touching him. With her sleeve she wiped the spittle from the corner of his mouth. “Whatever happened, it happened before the rogues got here.”

Josiah looked hopeful. “Maybe it was part of his plan?”

“Maybe.” She didn’t know what else to say.

She ran her hands over his side, seeing a dirty smear over his ribs, remembering the thumps she’d heard. A snarl rumbled in her throat. Kicks. They’d kicked him when he’d lain helpless like this.

“What?”

“They kicked him.”

Josiah’s snarl followed her own. “I’ll kill them.”

No, he wouldn’t, but she would. One at a time. She’d hunt them down and make them pay. Stroking her hands over Cur’s chest, she had a flash of insight. Curran standing here, waiting. For what? The vision strengthened, replacing reality with prophecy. No, not prophecy. Truth. Curran trying to swallow, failing, a calm acceptance in his expression underlying the instinctive grab for his throat. Curran falling, feet kicking, convulsing. Curran lying still.

She blinked.

“What did you see?” Josiah asked with a child’s acceptance of things he couldn’t understand.

“Curran.” She couldn’t stop touching him, running her hands from his shoulders to his hips, over and over, as if she could stroke the life back into him.

Licking her lips, she imagined she could taste his kiss under the faint hint of peanut butter. Damn him. Peanut butter.

“He’s allergic to peanut butter.”

Josiah didn’t question the statement, just stayed with her. “He didn’t have any.”

But she had, and he’d kissed her. As if he meant it. But maybe she’d mistaken his purpose for something else. Maybe this had really been part of his plan. Curran as Protector. He had to know he couldn’t fight off eight rogues, but suicide? He’d never do that, even if he wasn’t claiming her as his mate because it would leave a woman and child alone and unprotected in enemy territory.

“Damn you.” He was both were and human. Werewolves didn’t die from allergic reactions. She scooted around until she could lift his head in her lap. Tracing the arc of his brows with her fingertips, she whispered, “I’ll never forgive you if I’m wrong.”

Josiah scrambled to his feet, his fists clenched ready to defend his hero. “It’s not his fault.”

Yes, it was. Every moment of it. “He’s not dead.”

Josiah faltered. “He’s not breathing.”

Running her fingertips down the sides of his neck, she squeezed his shoulders. The man was all muscle and bone. Wonderfully warm.

“I know, but he’s not dead.”

She slid her hands back up the sides of his neck, over his cheeks, his forehead.

“What are you doing?”

“Bringing him back to life.”

“Wow! You can do that?”

“I have to.”

“Why?”

“So I can kill him.”

RACHEL was pissed. Cur didn’t have to scent her anger to know it existed. It radiated from her in waves of aggression, emphasized by her narrowed eyes, clenched fists and tense muscles. Even Josiah, whom she adored, was keeping his distance.

She stood in front of him, right fist slightly drawn back. Was she planning on taking a swing at him?

“How could you do something so stupid?”

“I never do anything stupid.”

“You’re deathly allergic to peanuts!”

He reached for her. She dodged his hand, dancing back out of reach. She wasn’t the only one whose anger was rising. She was upset and it was his duty to calm her.

“Yes, and I know precisely the effect it has on me.”

“How can you know anything? You go into a coma.”

“Garrett told me.”

“Garrett participated in this lunacy with you? The same Garrett with whom you told me Sarah Anne is safe? With whom I’m supposed to trust Josiah?”

He ground his teeth, studying her carefully, glancing at Josiah, who was taking this all in. “Yes.”

“Well, let me tell you, that’s not much of a recommendation.”

“So I gather.”

When she darted to the right, he was ready for her, catching her in the crook of his arm, pulling her kicking and squirming into his side. Josiah snarled.

“I’m not going to hurt her.” Christ, now he was justifying his actions to children. “She’s upset. She needs to be calmed.”

Josiah nodded. Rachel swore.

“I’m not a damn horse.”

Threading his fingers through her hair, Cur held Rachel so she couldn’t head butt him should she get the notion. “I know. You’re my sweet mate.”

Even Josiah snorted at that.

“And you’ve had a scare.”

“I thought you were dead!”

“I told you not to come out.”

“What difference does that make?”

“If you’d done as you were told, you wouldn’t be upset now.”

The logic of that flew over her head.

“Those rogues could have shot you!”

“No soldier, rogue or not, would waste a bullet on a dead man.”

“They could have slit your throat.”

It didn’t seem worth pointing out they thought he was dead already, so he settled for a simple, “They didn’t.”

“But they could have.”

Agreement might be the way to go. “Yes.”

“And then what good would you have been to anyone?”