Shifters and Spice: A Shifter Romance Box Set Page 11

  “Like most mythology there is a shred of truth to it, but Diana was not only a goddess, she was also a shifter. The moon is powerful for all werewolves, but you have a special connection. It is stronger than the rest of us. You can use the power of the moon for magick and guidance.”

  “Wait, what? Does that mean I could use the moon to restore my power?”

  Adam sat silently, considering her words. “If you can, I don’t know how. But that is an avenue we have not explored. To be honest, I’m not even sure where to begin with that. As I said, you are the last in her line. This is why it’s so important for you to have children to carry on the lineage.”

  “Adam, this is just so much information. Are you telling me the truth? So help you if I find out…”

  He stopped her mid-sentence. “This is not something I would joke about. Listen, why don’t we shower and then I’ll call a meeting with the pack. I want you to meet them, officially, and someone might have an idea or know more than I do. There are some ancients among us.”

  “You said officially? Does that mean I know some of them?”

  Adam grinned. “Hell, half my team is part of the clan.”

  Sara rubbed her forehead. “The wives?”

  “Some of them are mated, yes.”

  Jesus, she’d thought so many bad things about them and they’d probably heard every thought no wonder they never bothered to get close to her. “Okay, let’s get this over with.”

  They jumped in the shower together, which was probably not the best idea since they couldn’t seem to keep their hands off each other. Eventually, they were ready and just as they were about to head out the door, the alarm alerted them that someone was at the gate.

  Adam glanced over at the monitor and cursed under his breath.

  “What is it?” Sara reached for her sweater.

  “Fucking Jonathan, he’s got the nerve to show up at my house.” Adam took a deep breath, trying to center himself.

  Sara glanced over to the screen. Jonathan was just as handsome as she recalled, but there was no lust in her thoughts when she saw him, only distrust and slight curiosity. “You better let him in.”

  Adam clicked the button and they watched as the gate swung open. His sports car rolled to a stop in front of their doorway.

  Before he had a chance to knock, Adam swung the door open. “You better have a damn good reason for showing up on my doorstep.”

  “I came to apologize, to both of you.”

  Adam and Sara exchanged a glance. Adam stepped back allowing Jonathan to enter.

  “Before you get into any bullshit, how did you know who Sara was?” Adam demanded.

  Jonathan ran his hand through his hair. He’d yet to glance at Sara.

  “May I sit down?” Jonathan asked.

  Adam led them into the living room. Jonathan sat down on the couch, Adam remained standing, Sara by his side.

  “As you know I’m the only survivor of my pack. I’m older than most, several hundred years in human time.”

  Sara’s eyes darted to her husband’s, but he didn’t look surprised.

  “Growing up, I’d heard tales of the line of woman that descended from the huntress, Diana. She was one of the deities our clan worshiped. There were times her spirit would come through one of our ancients, with the gift of holding a spirit’s energy for teaching, messages, etc. So I have been in the presence of her essence. you wife, Sara, has the same scent. I knew as soon as I laid eyes on her who she was. I acted on instinct. My first thought was, how can I use this to my advantage? I knew of the hatred my wife feels for Sara’s bloodline for taking her mate. I thought perhaps there was a way that I could—” He finally glanced her way. When their eyes met she could see the regret in his eyes. “I thought perhaps, I could hand her over to my wife in exchange of being free from our bondage. I’ve longed to leave her side and strike out on my own, but as long as she lives I am bound to her side. We are not mated in the traditional sense, but we are still together bound by ancient laws. I despise being married to her and have considered killing her myself, but I couldn’t go through with it. I thought perhaps I’d found a way a compromise could be made. I knew the only way would be if her bond was broken with you, and the only way to do that would be to claim her as my own.”

  “Did you tell Olivia?” Adam asked, the tension coming off him in waves.

  “No, I’ve been struggling with this since you left. When I connected with Sara’s mind, I could feel her pain from the loss of her family, the deep longing to belong, to anyone, anything. It was very similar to my own longings. I felt a kinship with her and, god help me, I wanted her for myself.” Jonathan held up his hand. “Don’t pounce. When you and I fought, I also merged with your mind. I could feel the love you have for your wife. It would not be fair of me to take that from you. The bond you share with her is fated, the desire I felt was borne of desperation, loneliness. I’m ashamed of what I almost did.”

  Adam’s body relaxed.

  Sara was surprised to feel a deep sadness for the man before her. Because she could relate to the depth of his pain, the loss of her parents was etched deep in her soul.

  “I did not sense that within you when we linked,” Adam said, his voice uneasey. “All I sensed was lust for power.”

  “That was all I wanted you to sense. I had not made up my mind as to what I was going to do with the knowledge. Even after you left I struggled with it. I’ve come here to ask for your forgiveness, from both of you.”

  Adam nodded curtly. “I can’t speak for Sara, but I can understand where your mind would have been. I might have done the same thing if I thought it would get me what I’ve ached for most of my life. The question is, how can we trust that you won’t use this information? Won’t Olivia know your thoughts?”

  Jonathan laughed. “That woman is only concerned with herself, I’ve blocked myself from her probing many years ago.”

  “While I don’t appreciate the idea of being a bargaining chip, I do appreciate you coming forward to make amends. What I don’t understand is why don’t you just leave the pack? I know I’m new to this but it seems like you could just leave if you wanted?”

  Adam and Jonathan exchanged a glance. “It’s not that easy. I’m the alpha of the pack and you can’t just walk away. There are laws we live by. It’s too much to go into now, but I’m sure Adam can fill you in later. The real reason I am here is I thought you should have something. I’m not sure if it will help, but I thought you should at least have a chance to try.” He reached into his pants and pulled out a multifaceted crystal. He stared at it for a couple of minutes before reaching forward to hand it to Sara.

  “This is the stone the ancients used to converse with Diana. I’ve never been able to get it to work, but you might have better luck.”

  Sara grasped the stone in her hand and felt energy emanating off it. It felt strange, almost as if electricity was tingling through her hand and up her arm. “I’m not sure what to do with this, but thank you.”

  Jonathan rose to his feet. “You have my word I will not tell Olivia, but I have to warn you, I think Anna knows who you are.”

  Sara was so shocked she couldn’t speak.

  Jonathan reached out his hand and shook Adam’s. Sara sat down on the couch holding the crystal and thinking about what he’d just said, his words had sent a shiver up her spine.

  Adam sat down next to her. “We’ll figure this out. Together.”

  Sara heard him but her mind was on Anna. Why did she feel this woman was the key? The question was, was she the key to the renewal of her power, or the key to destroying them all?

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  About the Author

  A.J. Bennett lives in Nashville, TN with her husband and bulldog. She's addicted to co
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  Blood Sport

  H.D. Gordon

  The Pit is a way of life for some wolves. Shift, fight, survive. Win one hundred fights, and freedom is yours. Just because no one has ever done it, doesn't mean it can't be done.

  Chapter 1

  On the nights before a fight, the masters would let the Dogs out on the town.

  Most ended up at an old barn off Route 60 where the others like us gathered in the moonlight hours to do unspeakable things. Stuffed with strays and pack alike, the barn smelled of blood, sweat, and wet dog. A crap DJ known as DJ Sound Bite played five nights a week, setting the mood for drunks to gyrate beside each other before stumbling out to the wheat fields that surrounded the barn like a yellow sea to take part in more unspeakable things.

  The barn shined like a beacon into the endless night sky, providing the only lights to be seen along the countryside until one hit Kansas City thirty miles to the west. On clear evenings, amidst the rolling fields, it seemed possible to see every star in the cosmos.

  Unless you wanted to sit in a barn with some putrid moonshine in one hand and a half-smoked cigarette in the other, staring at the gyrators at center-barn with an undeniable look of disdain, as I was doing currently.

  In the hayloft area above me—and thankfully a few paces to my right—someone leaned over the edge and lost their lunch, vomit-shrapnel splashing up to land on the toe of my boot. I lifted my leg and shook my foot with disgust, taking a swig of the moonshine as if that might settle my stomach.

  When a fight between two beefy betas broke out, I set down my moonshine-filled mason jar and pushed through the gathered to emerge in the hot evening Missouri summertime air.

  Like a glittering black blanket, the night sky opened to me, and I took a deep breath that smelled of dirt and cow, pulled another square from my pocket, and set a flame to it.

  “Fightin’ tomorrow, Rookie?” said a gravelly voice beside me, and I turned to see Mr. Murphy emerge from the tall grasses like a scarecrow come to life—which is actually an apt description of the man.

  “You know the roster,” I replied, my body subconsciously angling away from him.

  Mr. Murphy was protected by the masters, so it was best to just ignore him, to keep my mouth shut or opt for the civil.

  He sidled up beside me, the scent of death and fresh-turned earth lingering on him like cheap cologne. After the fights, Murphy’s job was to take out the dead Dogs and bury them, their bodies nourishing the soil for the crops of the coming seasons. It was a lucky job for a stray, an easy ride that those of us forced into The Pit resented. In the hierarchy that was Werewolf society, the gravediggers were a step above the Dogs, but that one step may as well be a leap.

  They didn’t have to fight to survive, after all, while we did.

  “You thinkin’ about running, Rookie?” Murph asked, and I could sense the crooked, brown-toothed grin that was tugging up his lips without having to look at him.

  I didn’t respond to this.

  He moved a bit closer, and the hair on the back of my neck went up, the Wolf in me raising its hackles. It would be no large matter for me to shift right here and tear his throat out, no issue I’d lose sleep over, but as much as being a Dog taught one to live by violence, it also made it imperative to choose one’s battles.

  “Because you know,” he continued, his warm breath brushing over my cheek, making the moonshine gurgle in my belly, “they catch every Dog that desserts. You know that? Every single one. Then they bring you back here and make an example out of you. Strip you naked and string you up.” His eyes roamed over me. His voice lowered. “When it’s done, I get your body.” A wet sound as his tongue slithered over his lips. “I get to do what I please before I bury you in the fields.”

  I inhaled deeply of my cigarette, held it, turned my head, and blew it coolly into his face. His nose scrunched up, making his nostrils flare, and a little Wolf-Gold lit up his glassy, probing eyes. Werewolves—even those as old and perverted as Murphy—had highly sensitive noses.

  “You seen the Dog you’re up against?” Murphy asked. “They call her The Bear, because she’s the biggest She-Wolf anyone’s ever seen. You’ll make her fifty-eighth fight.” He chuckled. “Her fifty-eighth kill, more like. She’s over halfway home. Only a handful of Wolves could say they ever got there.”

  By ‘halfway home’ Murphy meant freedom. Win one hundred fights in The Pit, and a Dog could win his or her freedom. No one had ever done it, of course, and Murphy was right that The Bear was closer than most. I stared up at the stars, smoked my cigarette.

  “Course, you know all this, don’t you, Rookie? What’s this, your fifteenth, sixteenth fight?” Mr. Murphy moved closer still, and my free hand clenched into a hard fist at my side. “I got money on The Bear,” he whispered, his hot breath stirring the wisps of hair that had escaped my braid. “So if you lose, I get paid, and I get to tend to your body afterward.” Another grating chuckle. “That’s what I call a win-win.”

  When I turned to look at him then, it was my eyes that were glowing Wolf-Gold. Because he was a coward protected by the masters and free to run his mouth without reprisal, this only made him laugh harder.

  I was a Wolf, however, and on top of that, a fighter. Only a complete fool would taunt a Wolf for too long. We were highly unpredictable creatures, and unfortunately, Murphy wasn’t a complete idiot.

  Just mostly.

  “See you in The Pit tomorrow,” he told me before backing away. “Sleep well.”

  Of course, I did not.

  * * *

  A stray Wolf can become a ‘Dog’—sentenced to a life and death in The Pit—one of two ways. The first way was the most common; they were bred into it. Birthed solely for the purpose of being trained and fought.

  The second is to be sold into the trade, straight up modern day Werewolf slavery, as was the case with me.

  My name is Rook, Rookie to those who know me. No last name, no middle. No known history to speak of. My parents both died before I was old enough to remember them. In a deciding twist of fate, rather than being adopted into Vampire Territory—as many Wolf strays and orphans were—I was picked up by my first master when I was three, and have been a captive ever since. A Dog, as we were labeled. Named after the illegal dogfights humans held in the world we shared with them.

  Three years old was a good age for a master to acquire a new Dog. That was just old enough to be capable of a full shift, and caring for a Wolf pup kept in a cage twenty-three hours a day was much easier than looking after a human infant that hasn’t the ability to change into Wolf form just yet.

  The first fighting age group was five-to-seven-year-old Wolf pups, but I suspect I had my first round in The Pit when I was younger, because my master lied and said I was older. He’d gotten me cheap, with no papers or documentation, and he needed a fighter to enter the books, so what did it matter if I lost?

  It didn’t. Not a bit.

  At that age, my kind are like the youth of most species, ruled by needs and instincts and ignorant to the intricacies of the world. I remember as far back as when I’d been picked up by the Sellers, remember being sold, watching it all from the behind the confines of metal bars that caged me so close I could scarcely move. Those are my earliest memories. I don’t recall my parents’ names or faces or where I came from. Like the Wolves that are bred for The Pit, I’m as much a Dog as a Wolf can be, if that makes sense.

  I tell myself there are worse hands to have been dealt. Sometimes I even believe it.

  Hell, I’d made it through seventeen other fights, and many don’t make it past their first round in The Pit. Fifty percent, to be exact. Those are the odds that a Dog survives the first match. Two Wolves go in, one Wolf comes out. That was the way of the world.

  So there was some glass-half-full thinking for you. I was lucky to be alive to be eighteen years old—not that I knew my exact age. My birthd
ay was as much a mystery as my origins.

  I listened to the cicadas call out their night song, inhaled of my cigarette, stared up at the stars.

  The gravedigger had asked me if I’d been thinking about running. Truth was, every single time I knew I was going into The Pit I thought about running. Even if they hadn’t implanted a tracking device in me as a pup, escaping from the master was no small matter. Dogs were watched at all times by large Wolves with firearms called Hounds. The Dogs that did manage to slip away from the Hounds always got caught eventually, and when the Hounds brought one back and made an example out of them, the rest of us were forced to bear witness.

  Believe it or not, it was not these gruesome displays that kept me tied to the town of Peculiar, Missouri. It was the fact that for all intents and purposes, Peculiar was the extent of my world, all that there was, all that existed. Life by The Pit was all I knew and had.

  I was a Dog, and tomorrow when the sun went down, I would step into The Pit with a Wolf they called The Bear.

  And only one of us would leave alive.

  Chapter 2

  The scar separated my face like two sides of a map, beginning at my temple, cutting through my left eyebrow, down my cheek, and ending at the tip of my chin. I got it in my eighth fight when I was ten. The other Dog nearly ripped my face off, and it had taken me off the rosters, gotten me traded to a new master, and ruled out any hope of becoming the first Werewolf Miss America.

  I traced a finger down it now, sitting in a tiny chamber beside the large hole in the earth where the fight would go down, waiting for my name to be called so that I could go stand on a makeshift stage before Wolves in nice clothing as they sized up me and my opponent before placing their bets.