Chapter Two
The beast charged out of the trees on all fours with a heart-stopping growl. It was a young male, no more than nineteen or twenty, from Cassie’s best guess, and he’d half-shifted. Moth-eaten patches of reddish-brown hair covered his body, vicious claws tipped his large paws, and his snout bristled with sharp teeth. He was hunched and misshapen, and the skin peeping through the blotches of fur was a sickly gray. A pair of furry wolf ears sat atop his elongated head.
Cassie yanked on the door handle of the truck. Locked. The werewolf pounded down the driveway in a blur of motion, spewing gravel and dirt as he ran. Foam flecked his slathering jaws, and his eyes burned red with madness. How had he gotten past her security system? She must remember to run a spell check tomorrow.
If she lived.
She scrabbled in the side pocket of her purse for her keys, her heart doing a rapid tattoo against her ribs. Her fingers brushed a pen, a lipstick, and a wadded receipt. No keys. The werewolf was closer now, so close she could hear his labored breathing. She risked a quick glance at him and shrieked. He was almost on top of her, his black lips peeled back, exposing his deadly fangs. She whirled to run back to the safety of the house. Too far. She’d never make it. Desperate, she swung back around and whacked the werewolf on the nose with her purse, putting all her strength behind the blow. He yelped in pain. Hurling the purse at him, Cassie dived headfirst into the bed of the truck. Murmuring the first protection spell that popped into her mind, she bounded to her feet. Below her, the werewolf was tearing her abandoned handbag to bits. His head jerked up and he spied her standing in the truck. With a howl of rage, he leapt at the vehicle, his head and shoulders punching through Cassie’s hastily erected ward. For a moment, he dangled there, back legs sawing at thin air, his sharp claws gouging the side of the Silverado with a metallic screech, then the shield collapsed and he fell into the bed of the truck. Surging to his feet, paws sliding on the slick liner, the werewolf fixed his eerie red gaze on Cassie.
“N-nice doggie,” Cassie stammered as the werewolf raised his hackles and rumbled low in his chest. “There’s a good boy.”
The beast pounced with a snarl. Cassie screamed and threw her arms in front of her face, bracing for the agony of slathering jaws tearing at her flesh, and heard a dull thud at her feet. Something hot and wet splashed her skin. Lowering her arms, she saw the werewolf’s severed head lying on the floor of the truck. Blood spurted from the neck stump and pooled on the polyurethane bed liner. The malformed body twitched once, twice, and went still.
“Cassandra, are you hurt?”
The sound of Duncan’s harsh voice jolted Cassie out of her stupor. He stood balanced on the lip of the truck, a bloody sword in one hand. His hair was still damp from his swim, and he was dressed once more in jeans and a T-shirt. Despite his modern clothing, he looked every inch the hard, dangerous warrior. The change in him shocked her. The easygoing, teasing guy who’d mocked her from the river was gone, and his sherry-colored eyes, usually alight with gentle humor, were cold and implacable.
This was the Duncan she remembered. Stern. Fierce. Dangerous. Lord, she’d forgotten what a badass he could be.
Raising a shaking hand, Cassie brushed a stray lock of hair out of her face. “I . . . I’m fine. He came out of the woods . . . so fast. I tried to get in the truck, but I couldn’t find my keys.”
The sword in Duncan’s hand vanished, and he jumped lightly into the bed of the Silverado. He nudged the carcass with his boot. “What ails the demonoid? He has not fully shifted.”
“He’s not a demonoid,” Cassie said, unable to resist the temptation to correct him. “He’s a werewolf. There are two packs in Hannah, Pack Lyall and Pack Randall. This one’s a Randall.” She pointed to the dead wolf. “See those reddish streaks in his fur? Those are Randall markings. The Lyalls are dark-haired with silvery markings.”
“Fascinating.” Duncan held out his hand. “Allow me to help you alight from the carriage.”
“I don’t need your help. I can take care of myself.”
“Of a certainty. You had things well in hand when I arrived.”
She flushed. Okay, so she’d blanked under pressure and cast a simple guardian spell, a respectable bit of magic, if one wanted to protect a home from burglary and theft. Woefully inadequate, however, against a furious werewolf.
“Thank you for . . . for your assistance,” Cassie ground out. Good manners dictated that she thank him for saving her, but Duncan had a way of making her forget her upbringing. “There. Happy?”
“I am happy you are unhurt. I am not happy you were in danger.”
“I didn’t ask to be attacked by a werewolf. And if I had, it’s no business of yours.”
“My dear girl, if you had asked to be attacked by a werewolf, it would be very much my business. You can’t expect me to live across the river from a madwoman.”
He was impossible. Cassie drew herself up. “I’m going inside.”
“An excellent notion. You are in dire need of a good wash.”
She glanced down and gasped. Her hands and arms were splattered with blood, and so were her shorts and shirt. Gore crusted her boots.
The children—images of their broken and mutilated bodies flashed through her mind. There had been blood then, too. The forest floor had been drenched with it. But for Maggie’s flowered cotton pinafore and Jimbo’s boots, she would not have recognized them.
A white mist flickered at the edge of her vision and spread. The truck pitched beneath her feet, and she fell.
When she came to, she was lying on her back on the couch. Her boots were gone and her legs were elevated on pillows.
“Feeling better?” Duncan laid a cool cloth on her head. “Your color is returning, thank the gods.”
Cassie swatted his hand away and sat up. “Don’t touch me. And get out of my house.”
His tawny brows rose. “What has cast you into the boughs? You fainted. I caught you and brought you inside.” He searched her face, his expression of lazy amusement fading. “Ah, I see. This is about the little ones.”
“You left.” Duncan’s return had ripped the scab off the wound, and the old rage and grief bubbled to the surface. “I am Dalvahni. I cannot be with you. Your blood is tainted with evil. That’s what you said, and then you left. You chased that monster into the area and bolted. Less than a week later, Jimbo and Maggie were dead. I promised my brother I’d take care of them. If you had been here—”
“Don’t you think I know that?” Duncan was white around the mouth. “If I could turn back the clock and save them, I would and gladly, but even a Dalvahni warrior cannot bend time.”
He reached for her, and she jerked away.
He dropped his hands in defeat. “I left, it is true, but it did not take me long to regret my arrogance,” he said in a low voice. “I came back, but you were gone and the younglings were dead. That I could not undo, but I never stopped looking for you or the monster that killed them.”
Cassie gave him a seething look. “That monster was my mother, remember?”
It certainly wasn’t something she could forget. Whoever said ignorance is bliss had been right. For years, Cassie had wondered about her birth mother. What she’d been like. Why she’d disappeared without a trace. She couldn’t ask her family. Her older brother, Jamie, had refused to talk about their mother. As for Luke McKenna, the only father she’d known, he became stone-faced and mulish when her mother was mentioned, so Cassie had quickly learned to avoid the subject, but that didn’t mean she hadn’t wondered. Had her mother died, or simply walked away from the grinding exhaustion of life on an isolated farm? People did that back then, walked into the sunset and disappeared.
The not-knowing had nearly driven Cassie crazy.
Be careful what you wish for, because she had the answers now, and she wished to God she’d stayed in the dark. Her mother, Cybil McKenna, had been demon-possessed. Since a human taken by a demon seldom lived long, Cybil should have died within a year—two, at the most. But Cybil had been a conjurer and a healer, not a norm, and she’d used magic to bind the demon to her. If she died, so did the demon.
The spell had worked, and Cybil had lived, but dark magic has a price. She was transformed into the Hag, a monster with an insatiable hunger for human flesh. So monstrous a craving that the Hag had killed her own grandbabies, Jamie’s sweet son and daughter, the children entrusted to Cassie’s care at Jamie’s death.
At the time, neither Cassie nor the Hag had guessed their connection. Jimbo and Maggie had been nothing to the Hag but fresh meat.
Jamie’s children weren’t the Hag’s only victims. The Hag had slashed a bloody swath through Behr County for years. Eventually, the attacks subsided and the Hag had faded into legend. More than a century later, Cybil had moved back to Hannah, assumed the name Ora Mae Luker, and taken up residence on the river. In outward appearance, she was a sweet little old lady with an affinity for growing prize pumpkins and squash. In reality, her penchant for gardening disguised a bustling marijuana business. Drug dealer or granny, the demon inside her would not be controlled for long, and bloodlust soon had the Hag on the prowl again.
Circumstances had thrown Cassie in the Hag’s path and, to her horror, she’d discovered the monster’s true identity. The Hag, the fiend who’d murdered Jamie’s children, was her mother. The knowledge made Cassie want to peel out of her own skin.
“You are not your mother, Cassandra,” Duncan said, as though reading her thoughts. “The Hag’s sins are not your own.”
“I know that. Still, I’m surprised you stay in the same room with me, seeing how you’re a demon hunter and so perfect.”
Duncan sighed. “You are angry because I rejected you, and rightly so. I was an unmitigated ass. But you have brooded long enough, Cassandra.”
Cassie rubbed her temples. She was tired and her head had started to ache. She rose from the couch and gave him a steady look. “I don’t want to fight with you, Duncan. I’m going to take a shower. When I come out, be gone.”
She strode out of the living room without waiting for an answer and went into her bedroom, closing the door with a sigh. This was her sanctuary. She’d left the aged walls unpainted, grayed and silvered by time. The ceiling was whitewashed to contrast with the exposed beams that supported the roof. The furniture in the room was simple: a large four-poster bed, a bedside table, and a chest of drawers. A chair and a half with squishy cushions sat by the window overlooking the river. The bed linens were white, the pillows fluffy. Scented candles were scattered around the room. The lamps in the room that had once burned oil had been wired for convenience. Cassie had been raised on candlelight, but she gladly embraced modern convenience, including electricity, indoor plumbing, and hot and cold running water.
She took a deep breath and closed her eyes, willing the serenity of her retreat to seep into her pores, calming her shattered nerves. Over the muffled rush of the river and the sound of the wind in the trees came the steady rat-a-tat-tat of hammers in the distant woods.
Her eyes flew open. Damn Duncan and his insomniac construction crew. Was she to be robbed of peace in her own home? It was beyond bearing.
She shoved away from the door and stripped out of her bloody clothes with a shiver of revulsion. The late-afternoon light pouring through her bedroom windows was golden and hazy with dust motes. Hard to believe violence had touched this place not long ago.
Something was up in the werewolf community. This was her third sick were in a month. Several weeks earlier, two members of the Randall pack had come to her complaining of the belly gripe. They’d been nervous and uneasy, starting guiltily at the slightest sound. She’d given them a tisane of cumin and goldenseal and sent them on their way.
If Mac had come to her, perhaps she could have helped him, too.
Her blood ran cold when she recalled the madness in the young were’s eyes and his obvious signs of physical distress. Mac Randall had suffered from something a lot more serious than the backdoor trots. Something that went beyond mere illness.
Something that smacked of dark magic.
Her instincts as a conjurer and healer were roused, and her professional ethos was offended. Dark magic was dangerous. It was not something norms or untrained kith should dabble in. Power equaled responsibility, and Cassie despised sloppy magery.
Whoever had done this—kith, norm, or were—had crossed the line and caused grievous harm. They must be stopped before someone else got hurt.
Stepping into the shower, she turned the water on and let it run until it was hot. She soaped her body and washed her hair, then stood under the water a long time, trying to wash away the horror and sadness of the day.
Duncan was back. She could stand in the shower until she pruned, but she couldn’t wash away that fact. He was sorry he’d hurt her, and he’d never stopped looking for her. All these years, she’d lived with the painful certainty that she’d been discarded without a qualm, scorned and despised. God, she’d loved him. Losing him and the children within days of one another had nearly killed her, but she’d endured and moved on.
Moved on, huh? Then why are you still angry? The thought made her squirm. Damn Duncan. She’d been fine until he’d shown up, stirring the pot. Moving in on top of her. Skinny-dipping in her river. Whacking werewolves with his sword. Sure, he’d saved her from a horrible death, but did he have to cut the poor kid’s head off? What was she supposed to do now, show up at Zeb’s place and say oops?
She got out of the shower and towel-dried her wet hair, then slipped into clean clothes. Unearthing a pair of hiking sandals from the bottom of her closet, she shoved her feet into them and padded into the hall, letting out a startled yelp when she spied a familiar figure.
“Dammit, Duncan, I told you to go home.”
He pushed away from the wall. “What about the werewolf? Do you plan to return him to his kin?”
Now he was a mind reader. Great.
“Yes, but I don’t need you.” Cassie realized with a prickle of annoyance that she was beginning to sound like a broken record. “The last thing I need is two alphas dancing around one another.”
Duncan’s brows rose. “An he threatens you, ’twill be a dance of death. But worry not, sweet. As I killed the werewolf, I will be the one to make redress.”
“Now, see here, Duncan, you can’t waltz in here and—”
The doorbell rang, startling her. She glanced at the bell on the wall in annoyance. Why hadn’t it dinged? Damn, damn, damn. There was something seriously wrong with her alarm system.
She started for the door. Whoosh, Duncan got in front of her, sword in hand.
“Stay back,” he said. “The dead were’s kin could wait without, seeking bloody vengeance for his death.”
“Cool your jets, Drama Boy,” Cassie said. “A ticked-off werewolf wouldn’t ring the doorbell. It would come through the window or take the door off the hinges.”
Duncan lowered his sword. “Your observation has merit. I admit, mine own experience with werewolves is somewhat limited.” The doorbell chimed again. “Whoever he may be, your visitor is most insistent. You may proceed.”
“Gee, thanks.” Cassie’s voice dripped with sarcasm. “I can’t tell you how grateful I am to have your permission to answer the door in my own house.”
Duncan inclined his head and stepped aside. “Appreciation noted.”
Cassie gave him a darkling glare and flung open the door. A blue-jeaned waif hovered on her back stoop, her slim body tensed and poised for flight. She was young, with a cap of strawberry-blond hair, pale, freckled skin, and a pair of large, melting eyes straight out of a Margaret Keane portrait.
The girl looked familiar. Kith, more than likely—purple eyes were common among demonoids. Cassie had seen her before, but where?
The waif’s anxious gaze darted past Cassie and found the big warrior standing in the hall.
“There you is, Mr. Duncan,” she cried in a throbbing voice. “You got to help me. I’m in a pickle, fer sure.”