|
Scene #73
Calum MacKensie tore open the sealed note and read the ominous
contents. Fury seared his veins. Bloody, buggering humans.
Trying to capture his people? He'd gut the bastards and string
their intestines into tree branches, then shred their bodies into
forest litter. His snarl echoed through the tavern, making his
customers shift uneasily in their chairs. As he set the papers on
the back counter, he glanced in the mirror and saw his gray eyes
had turned the color of his black hair. Clenching his jaw, Calum
forced the anger down. As Cosantir of the North Cascades
Territory, he couldn't afford to lose his temper or control. The
Daonain hadn't survived this long by waging war, but by staying
hidden. Satisfying as action might be, tearing humans apart was
not the solution Then he remembered the iron traps he and Alec
had discovered in the forest last month. Those hadn't been
intended for wildlife, he now realized, but for the Daonain. A
growl rose into his throat as every instinct urged him to a bloody
fight, to do whatever was necessary to protect his shifters.
But instincts were not always right. Caution was required.
Keeping each movement slow and disciplined, he wiped spilled beer
from the bar, carefully considering the implications of the warning
and the steps he needed to take. He'd have to call a meeting of
the Daonain to warn them and work out extra precautions. He should
check that the portals leading into the forest hadn't been
compromised. And what about here? Hanging the white towel on
the hook beside the sink, he leaned on the bar. The
hundred-year-old tavern was built like a fortress. Golden light
from brass wall sconces illumined the big room filled with heavy
oak tables and equally solid chairs. Unlike the movies, no brawler
remained standing after being clobbered with one of his chairs.
He hadn't changed The Wild Hunt much since his mother's
sonuachar had handed it down. His daughter, Jamie, had nagged him
into upgrading the jukebox to digital. He'd lost that battle, but
won the war—the selection didn't include rap or heavy metal—and
Willie Nelson's nasal tunes had been playing since the human women
had arrived. With a groan of damp wood, the heavy tavern door
opened and his brother, Alec, sauntered in. Along with him came
the chill moist air of a Washington autumn to lighten the scent of
beer and peanuts. After a quick study of the room, Alec headed
toward the bar, sending a nearby table of females into a fluttering
frenzy—patting their hair, jutting their breasts, smiling
flirtatiously. Humans. Still, Calum's littermate had exactly
the same effect on Daonain women. Handsome enough with shaggy
cougar-colored hair and green eyes, he was also a high-ranked
cahir. Towering well over six feet, all the muscular clan warriors
drew women like coyotes to a fresh kill, at least at Gathering
time. Unfortunately, few females wanted to commit their lives to a
warrior—or to a Cosantir, either. As Angie at the diner had
explained, Cahirs are always out rescuing someone else, never at
home guarding their own, and Cosantirs? No one in their right mind
would want to live with a man who could turn you to ash with a
touch. "What's up, brawd?" With a lazy grin, Alec settled
himself on a barstool and propped his boots on the foot-rail while
Calum drew him a draft. When their eyes met in the mirror behind
the bar, Alec frowned. As Calum had observed, cahirs—and cops—had
well-honed instincts for trouble. Eyes narrowed, his brother
surveyed the room. But the danger wasn't in here, not at the
table of fluttery females. Not with the dwarf in the corner who
had spent the last two hours drinking and eating peanuts until the
shells formed a circle around him. Not even with the two human
males in cement-stained overalls. Unable to find any threat,
Alec scowled at Calum. "What's wrong?" "There's a—" Calum
stopped as the tavern door opened and a burly man crossed the room
with the distinctive walk of a werecat. He stank of worry, even
fear, and Calum's muscles tightened. Thorson closing his bookstore
early was as likely as the Fae returning to Earth. Putting a
foot up on the rail, Thorson leaned an elbow on the bar. "Could
this old man trouble you for a draft of Guinness?"
"You're not old, Thorson. Just mean," Alec said.
Thorson's white cotton shirt strained across a barrel chest as
he barked out a laugh. Deep lines and gray bushy brows accented
his leathery face. Thin white scars covered his hands and
arms—souvenirs of his younger days when he'd fought to win his
share of females at Gatherings. Although Thorson had been quite
the hell-raiser in his youth, he was also one of the most
intelligent men Calum had ever met. That cunning and experience
might well be needed now. With a nod of thanks, Thorson
accepted the beer Calum shoved into his meaty fist and took a sip
before glancing around the room. His gaze flickered over the
giggling females and the construction workers, and his mouth
flattened. "Nothing like the ripe aroma of humans." Calum
set a fresh bowl of peanuts between Thorson and Alec, trying to
keep his tone reasonable despite his agreement. "Humans belong on
this planet too." "You can't possibly mean that, not after what
they did to your wife." The statement ripped through Calum
like claws. By the God, he'd loved his Lenora. He turned away from
Thorson's knowing eyes, from Alec's sympathy, and drew himself a
beer. She'd been so young. Shy, and harmless, and little more than
a kitten. She'd been frightened of humans. He'd teased her about
that, and the guilt would never leave him…for she'd had good
reason. Five years past, it was, when he'd found her lifeless body;
her own blood used to scrawl the word DEMON across her naked chest.
| 
