Wolf Tales 12

Wolf Tales 12

KATE DOUGLAS

KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP.

www.kensingtonbooks.com

All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

Table of Contents

BOOKS BY KATE DOUGLAS
Title Page
Acknowledgments
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Teaser chapter
Copyright Page

This final book in the series is dedicated, with much love, to all of you—the wonderful readers who make writing so much fun. Thank you for your thoughtful, encouraging notes, for allowing my Chanku—and me—to be part of your lives, and for asking such interesting questions about my sexy shapeshifters.

You have no idea how inspirational your questions are!

To Yahaira Huertas, a very special thanks for your fascinating observations. Your questions and comments about the effect of nutrients on Chanku babies gave this final story a twist I hadn’t even imagined!

Acknowledgments

I’ve said all along that it takes a village to produce a book, and I’ve been blessed with a most amazing village from the very beginning of the Wolf Tales series—my sincere thanks to Camille Anthony, Lena Austin, Dakota Cassidy, Sheri Ross Fogarty, Treva Harte, Ann Jacobs, Willa Okati, Devyn Quinn, Jan Takane, Rose Toubbeh, Karen “MT” Williams, Rhonda Wilson, and Karen Woods for their eagle eyes, pithy comments, and advice over the years. I could not have done this without your help, nor would I want to.

I also want to thank Mischa Parris for the wonderful Chanku family tree she created for the series. This final effort was a labor of love, and I can’t thank her enough.

Many thanks also to my agent, Jessica Faust, of Book-Ends LLC, for managing my career, an involved process that also includes occasional hand-holding and therapy sessions; to my editor, Audrey LaFehr, for seeing the potential in a series of short stories that refused to follow any rules, and then giving me the freedom to continue breaking those rules; and to Assistant Editor Martin Biro, for doing what it takes to keep me somewhat organized.

You can’t help but notice I’ve been blessed by the cover art gods, thanks to the amazing and multitalented Kristine Mills-Noble—I doubt you’ll find a series anywhere with more beautiful covers, though I have to admit, I’d really have appreciated an invitation to at least one photo session. (Anyone listening?) Thanks also to the production staff, those talented folks behind the scenes who somehow make sense of my scribbled editorial comments and then turn them into a real book.

Most of all, my deep appreciation to Kensington Publishing for taking a chance on stories that really didn’t fit anywhere in particular.

Somehow you made it fit.

To Margaret and Bill Riley, owners of Changeling Press—the birthplace of the Chanku—my sincere thanks for setting my shapeshifters free to roam. (Anton thanks you, too.)

And to my husband, who has managed to keep the homestead in order while putting up with me on a daily basis through deadlines and stalled plots and characters who take charge and won’t pay attention . . . there really are no words, and for a writer, that’s quite an admission.

Last but not least, my thanks to you, the readers—those who have faithfully followed my Chanku from the very beginning, and those of you only now discovering life on the wild side. Your willingness to open your hearts and minds to the world of Wolf Tales has made this a most amazing journey.

Chapter 1

Montana, early August

He paused, raised his muzzle to the dark sky, and sniffed the subtle currents on the night air. The scent was there—faint, but still calling to him, even as the silent night, the gentle breeze, the resinous scent of pine and fir called.

His eyes narrowed and his ears pricked forward. Using all his senses—those of the wolf, those of the man within, and those amazing Chanku senses—he tested the world around him.

This was where he belonged, in this wild, unforgiving place. This was home—the only home he wanted. The only place where he could truly be free.

But what good was freedom without his mate? What was the point? She didn’t run with him tonight. She hadn’t run with him for much too long.

A low whine sounded from the thick tangle of willows. Cautiously he sniffed the air again. The scent was stronger. Not his mate. No, but someone every bit as important. Someone he sought here in the forest, in the ripe hours balanced on the knife’s edge between darkness and dawning. Those perfect hours when all about him slept.

Even the skitter of mice in the long grass, the squeak of bats overhead, the soft hoot of owls . . . even those sounds had faded away as all the woodland creatures went off to sleep, to hide, to mate . . . to celebrate another night of life before the rising of the sun.

But he was awake, and so was this other, the one who was his friend, his brother, his closest male companion. The one he loved above all other men. The one who called to him now.

Quite literally, in fact.

“Anton? Over here.”

Anton Cheval slowly turned in the direction of the soft call and blinked as Stefan Aragat rose to two feet. Despite the darkness, Anton saw his smile. Thank the Goddess for a man who smiled, even when all about them seemed so . . . what? How could it be, that he felt so dissatisfied?

Life was good. All was well, and yet . . .

Shifting, standing as a man beside his lover, Anton chuckled. “You couldn’t sleep, either?”

Stefan shook his head, ran long fingers through dark hair threaded with silver, and sighed dramatically. “Teething is the bane of parenthood.” His familiar dry sense of humor eased some of the odd tension stringing Anton tight as a bow.

“I did my fatherly duty,” Stef said, placing his right hand over his heart. “I spelled Xandi the first half of the night, but it’s her turn. She’s on kid duty now, praise the Goddess!”

Anton flashed him an understanding grin as he stepped over the low-growing willows. “Lucia was fussing, too. I waited until she fell asleep. Unfortunately, Keisha was nursing her when they both drifted off. There wasn’t much room left in the bed.”

“There was always plenty of room for four adults.” Stefan laughed and hooked his arm around Anton’s neck. “How is it a single woman and a three-month-old can take up the entire bed?”

Silence stretched between them for a long count as Anton thought about the statement Stefan had made in jest. “So much has changed,” he said, unsure if it was a good or bad thing. He leaned into Stef’s casual embrace and stared toward the east, searching for the coming dawn. Was that a faint glow between the trees? No. Not yet. He glanced at Stef. “It’s all good, I think. All these changes, but . . .”

Stefan’s amber eyes twinkled. “But you’re dissatisfied. I can feel it. What’s wrong, my friend? Everything is as it should be. The pack is growing. Our children are strong and healthy. We’ve gone a full five years without an attack, a kidnapping, an assault of any kind against any one of us. . . .”

“Not since the assassination attempt.” Anton shoved his tangled hair back from his eyes, remembering. Those hectic months following the attempt on the president’s life had ended with lengthy prison sentences meted out to their worst enemies. There were still plenty of bad guys out there, but at least none were focused on controlling or destroying Chanku.