Wild Wolf

Misty couldn’t see what the hiker wore now, but whatever it was shimmered and caught the light.

“Come,” the hiker said again. His voice was deeper than when she’d first heard it, the vowels long, consonants soft. “Rest. Slake your thirst.”

Misty licked her lips, finding them dry and cracked, her mouth parched.

“Drink,” the hiker whispered.

Misty took a step forward. Then she stopped. Everything inside her screamed at her not to go near that fountain, as enticing as it was.

The hiker spoke again, his voice smooth and coaxing. “The Shifter is dying. Take him the water. It is the only thing that will save him.”

What Shifter? Then Misty saw Graham lying on the ground, flowering vines encircling him. His face was wan, blood coated his bare torso, and his breathing was rapid and shallow. He opened wolf gray eyes and stared right at her.

“Misty.” The word was faint, scratchy, Graham’s voice nowhere near as rich as the hiker’s. “Help me.”

“Only the water will cure him,” the hiker said. “Take it.”

He reached into the fountain then lifted his hand and let droplets trickle back into the river with a silvery sound. Misty’s thirst jumped higher.

No, something inside her pleaded. Don’t.

But this was only a dream. It didn’t matter what she did in a dream, did it?

“Misty,” Graham said again. “Please help me, love. I’m so sorry I hurt you.”

Misty froze again, staring at Graham. He looked back at her, sorrow in his eyes.

Now she knew it was a dream. Because no way in hell would Graham ever say in a cultured tone, Please help me, love. I’m so sorry I hurt you.

The dream Graham blinked, scowled, and took a deep breath. “Don’t listen to the bastard. He’s tricking you. He thinks humans are easy.” He sounded much more like himself—gruff, gravelly, impatient.

The hiker’s voice rose to drown out Graham’s. “He needs the water. He will die. Would you let him die to assuage your pride? Save him, Misty.”

No, she wouldn’t let Graham die. All she had to do, at least in the dream, was take him a drink of that water.

Misty started forward. One little scoop, and Graham would feel better. Then the dream would go away, and she could sleep in peace.

A growl made her halt. The growl wasn’t huge and fierce, like Graham’s, but small, childish, and insistent. And at her feet.

Misty looked down. Two wolf cubs stared back up at her. Their muzzles were fuzzy, their eyes big, their ears perked. Both bared little wolf teeth in full snarls. When they grew up, those snarls would be frightening; right now, they were tiny but unceasing.

Misty had met these two before, Matt and Kyle, orphaned twins who lived in Shiftertown. They could shift into twin three-year-old boys, but they liked to stay in wolf form, better for running around and playing, they’d once explained.

“Where’d you two come from?” Misty asked.

Both cubs wagged their tails, but when Misty tried to step past them, they got in front of her again, little bodies vibrating with their growls.

“Leave them,” the hiker said. “They don’t understand.”

One of the cubs, Kyle or Matt—she could never tell them apart—turned to the hiker, planted his little feet, and howled at him. The hiker hissed and pointed his finger at Kyle . . . or Matt.

Misty didn’t like the pointing finger. She expected lightning or something to come out of it, and since this was a dream, it probably could.

Misty leapt between the hiker and the cubs. “Don’t even think about hurting them,” she shouted. “And get the hell out of my dream.”

The hiker started for her. Matt and Kyle were going insane, trying to move around her to attack. Misty put her arms out in an attempt to protect them and Graham behind them.

“Leave the Shifters alone!”

The hiss turned to a snarl, a cold, nasty sound, and then all Misty could feel was ice. It coated the flowers and killed them instantly, then started toward Graham.

Misty snatched up the cubs under her arms—these little squirming guys were heavy. She flung herself and them on top of Graham, trying to shield him from the creeping ice.

“Hey, I’m starting to like this dream,” Graham said, his voice still too weak.

Kyle and Matt wriggled out of Misty’s grasp. Tails moving fast, they licked Graham’s face. “Shit,” he said, screwing his eyes shut. “Now I’m hating it again.”

Kyle and Matt raised their heads and began growling anew. Misty looked up, and screamed.

The fountain had turned into a wave of ice, and now it was coming for them. The ice rose, frost white but with blackness in the center. It dove straight for them. Misty scooped Kyle and Matt underneath her, and stretched out on Graham’s hard body. Graham’s arms came around her, warm, strong, and caring.

The black wave washed over them, engulfing them, sucking them down into hideous darkness.

Misty screamed again and jumped awake.

Two men stood at the foot of her bed. One was Xavier. The other was Reid, tall and tight-bodied, like the hiker, but with dark hair instead of white blond. He had the same kind of eyes though, dark and mind-sucking, staring straight through her.

Misty yelped again and grabbed at the blankets. In her mad scramble, she tangled herself up, overbalanced, and rolled straight off the bed and onto the floor.

CHAPTER SEVEN

"You all right?” Xavier’s firm hand was there to help her to her feet.