Prologue
Stump River, Ontario, Canada…
Armand St. John narrowed his eyes as he watched the scene unfolding. While a casual observer might well assume nothing was happening, he knew differently.
It was dusk, the solid shapes of trees and shrubs slowly blending with the growing shadows as his eyes struggled to adjust to the changing light. The conditions were perfect for a foe to strike and so he searched the treeline looking for an anomaly in the shape of a trunk, some hint that an individual was using it as cover. When nothing revealed itself, his gaze shifted lower to the tangle of grass and weeds; the height was sufficient to hide someone crawling on their belly. Not even the tip of a blade twitched yet still he watched and waited.
A minute ticked by and then another. While his partner’s breathing pattern showed signs of impatience, his own was calm and steady. Self-control was second nature, experience having taught him the reward at the end would be all the sweeter because of it.
Evening damp crept into the air, the musty smell of soil and decaying foliage teasing his nostrils. The wind stirred, the trees moved in response before stilling once again. Clouds drifted past the moon, fireflies flickering against the dark canopy replacing the now obscured stars.
Staid complacency settled over the scene. His eyelids lowered to half-mast, his muscles felt loose and then…then it happened.
A hint of movement near the perimeter, a shift in the depth of the shadows. It melted away only to reappear nearer the building.
“They’re making their move.” He mouthed the words to the man beside who nodded in understanding.
He didn’t bother to test the air for a scent. The identity of his quarry was already known to him; their strengths and weaknesses taken into consideration, the trap prepared accordingly. His foe had spent weeks studying and planning how to penetrate the target, but he and his partner had also been at work. Now it was down to a contest of cunning and skill.
The first barrier, a high fence around the property, had been breached with ease and the second, a set of laser beam triggers scattered throughout the forest, had also failed to foil their attempt. No doubt they were riding high on their success and that would be their downfall.
His companion nudged him, gesturing towards a window, half-hidden by a large shrub.
He nodded and, with a stealth born from years of practice, began to move.
The invaders were intent on their task, their actions revealed by the metallic glint of a knife, a soft sound as the alarm on the window was disengaged and the frame slid upwards.
“They’re in! They shouldn’t have gotten this far.” Disbelief laced his partner’s voice. “I say we move now.”
He stilled the man with a shake of his head. “Wait.”
Barely a second later, an alarm went off, the siren piercing the night as the lights in the house flashed on and a pair of strangled cries filled the air.
“Dammit! I thought we were in!”
“Armand, turn this stupid thing off before we go deaf!”
Chuckling, Armand rose from the crouched position he’d been maintaining some distance from the pack house. Beside him, Ryne did the same, nodding in approval.
“That worked well.” Ryne clapped him on the shoulder as they walked towards the house. “All the months we spent pouring over possible systems and installation companies paid off. I was worried for a minute, before I remembered the secondary alarms on the window.”
“The research was a good way to pass the winter months.”
He followed Ryne into the house where Bryan and Daniel were sulking over their failed break-in.
“Good thing you sent everyone out of the house,” Bryan shouted to be heard over the alarm.
“Yeah, that noise would wake the dead,” Daniel agreed, his hands cupped over his ears.
Armand disarmed the security system, the resulting silence greeted with sighs of relief before practicality took over. Bryan and Daniel helped themselves to the supposed ‘treasure’ they’d been seeking—a plate of brownies—while he and Ryne discussed how the control panel worked and examined the window.
A breeze drifted in through the opening, bringing with it a sweet flowery scent and he sneezed loudly. There was a lilac bush planted directly outside and he was allergic to the damned thing.
“Maybe I should just plant flowering shrubs around the house. It would keep you out at least.” Ryne laughed at his own joke and the others joined in.
Armand grumbled good-naturedly. His allergies were a source of amusement each spring and he knew his friend was trying to lighten his spirits given recent events. The loss of the woman he’d hoped to claim as his mate had sent him down a dark path from which he was only now emerging.
The locals had been good to him as he worked through his grief, invitations to dinner and requests for help felling trees or doing repairs had come pouring in as everyone sought to keep him busy. Even Ryne’s sudden desire for a security system was yet another example of the residents rallying around him. It made him uncomfortable to be the focus of such attention even though he knew it was well-intentioned. He was more used to giving aid than being on the receiving end.
Still, he was happy to spend his time with the local pack. After all, they’d been good friends to him since they’d moved to Stump River, the first shifters to do so since he’d settled in the town ages ago.
The wolves are like family, but we still do not have our mate, his bear murmured.
His smile faltered at the reminder before he pushed it to the back of his mind. Life wasn’t always going to be perfect and pining for what you couldn’t have was a fool’s game.
He cleared his throat. “This was a good test but there are a few things I think you should ask the security company to change. Spotlights should go on outside the house if the laser beams are tripped and the volume of the alarm—”
“Is too loud.” Ryne nodded. “If it ever goes off by accident it will scare everyone half to death, especially Gracie.”
“Isn’t the point of an alarm to scare criminals away?” Bryan asked between bites of brownie. “It helps prevent property loss.”
“I’m sure they could arrange some kind of interface with the phones. We’d get a warning, but the intruders wouldn’t know.” Daniel made the suggestion as he took the milk from the fridge. He was about to drink straight from the carton, but Ryne glared at him. With a sigh he went in search of a glass. “Anyway, a silent alarm might allow us to catch them red-handed.”
Ryne considered the point. “What about a compromise? Alarms on the fence and the laser beam triggers...”
A few hours later, Armand strolled down the road that led into town. After discussing possible upgrades to the security system and sharing a few drinks with his friends, he was heading home. Ryne had offered him a ride, however he preferred to walk, the night air clearing the alcohol from his head.
The breeze had faded, not a leaf moved. Moonlight illuminated the path he travelled, the gravel on the side of the road crunching under his feet. As he passed by the cemetery he paused as he always did, his eyes drawn to a well-maintained grave.
Lucy’s grave.
At its base, he could see the shadowy outline of the bouquet of wildflowers he’d placed there a few days ago. They were drooping, the brightness of their petals already dimming. Like the woman in the grave, their cheeriness had been destined to fade.
His heart ached at the harsh reality and he paused, hands shoved into his pockets, as he stared at the cold slab of stone that was supposed to remind the world of Lucy’s existence. Her name, date of birth and death. Stark facts that conveyed nothing of her essence. What of her beauty and laughter? Her wisdom and kindness? Her generous heart?
Forgotten. Erased from the face of the earth by a criminal act. She’d been a lovely flower plucked in her prime. While her energy no doubt survived in some new form, it was a cruel twist of fate that she’d been taken so young.
As it often did, darkness filled him at such thoughts and he quickened his pace, wanting…no, needing to exorcise those feelings before they dragged him down into a pit too deep to escape.
He unlocked the back door of the bar and climbed the stairs to his private rooms. Passing the bedroom and small sitting area with its sturdy wooden furnishings, he entered his art studio, put a fresh canvas on his easel and grabbed his paints and brushes.
Dark blues, purples and black, hard-edged shapes that spoke of his grief and torment, bold strokes that spattered paint on his forearms and shirt. He vented his feelings through his brush, unaware of the passage of time, his whole being focused on the creation before him. There was no beauty in the piece, no hope or light, just rage and sorrow and darkness.
When he was done, he stood back weary yet at peace after the cathartic process. The painting now held his feelings, leaving his mind clear and his spirit calm.
As he cleaned his brushes, he studied the work. It was good, not that any of his friends or neighbours would realize it. He favoured the modern art movements of the early twentieth century, especially the style of Les Fauves or The Wild Beasts. Not only did the name appeal to his sense of humour, the style allowed him to express his personal experience of his subjects, his visceral response, without having to stay true to reality. The real world had many constraints but, in his art, he could be as free and impulsive as he wanted.
Long ago he’d made apologies for his painting, the activity not seeming to suit the burly bear that he was. Now he lived to please himself. He was who he was. There was enough deception in his life due to being a shifter, he wasn’t going to complicate matters by lying about what made him happy.
With a sigh, he dragged his hands through his hair, combing the wild curls back from his face and then rolling his shoulders. Too many memories filled his mind tonight and it would be dawn soon. He should go to bed, try to get a few hours’ rest. When the painting was dry, he’d find a place to hang it downstairs. The walls of his own rooms were reserved for more uplifting pieces; canvases covered in pure, bright colours and natural forms that spoke of nature, beauty and all that had been Lucy. It was his private collection, the emotion too personal to share.
A yawn cracked his jaw and he rubbed his eyes. Sleep. That was what he needed, energy to face the day and all that it might bring.
Our mate? His bear hinted.
No. Not Lucy. She was gone. But someday, maybe the right woman would walk through his door. Life was about moving on, or so he told himself.
Giving the painting one last look, he turned off the light and shut the door.