Terry Spear - A SEAL in Wolf's Clothing

Rock in hand, he headed back up the steep path. Halfway up it, he heard a woman’s blood-curdling scream. He froze. His first thought was that it couldn’t be Meara. Never in a million years would she scream about anything. But there was no one else out here. He shifted into his wolf form, silently apologized to Rourke and prayed he’d last until Finn could return, and dashed back to where he’d left Meara all alone.

Meara’s heart was still beating a million miles a minute as she screamed and ran into the woods, shoving aside branches, climbing over a fallen tree trunk, and traversing limbs torn from trees in a recent storm. Okay, so she didn’t think she could run away from an armed nutcase, but she did think that Cyn might just chase after her and not shoot her.

She was right. The only sounds were his heavy boots clomping on the woodland floor, his heavy breathing, and his heartbeat accelerating as he quickly closed the gap between them way too fast. He was six-two, and his lengthy stride was gobbling up the ground in a hurry, nearly giving her heart palpitations.

In the horror movies, the woman always looked back just before whatever was chasing her got her. She wouldn’t look back. She was afraid he’d strike her in the head with the butt of his weapon, knock her out cold, and then haul her off to some undisclosed location. But she wouldn’t look back.

Not until she heard the sound of a wolf in rapid pursuit of Cyn. He was quiet, but still she knew the sound of a wolf running on four padded feet, knew the way he moved when he was chasing his prey, knew beyond a doubt that he would kill Cyn before he had a chance to turn and fire off a shot.

But if Finn didn’t reach him in time, Meara had to ensure that the shot Cyn tried to fire went wild.

She looked back and saw Finn racing to her aid, his fur swept backward from the breeze and the run as he tore toward her. Or toward Cyn. Finn’s gaze met hers for a second, as if making sure she wasn’t injured, as if telling her she had nothing to worry about, his tongue hanging out of his mouth, panting hard, his eyes narrowed with anger.

Cyn had stopped and rapidly turned and, in a SEAL way, readied his weapon to kill his pursuer.

Meara had to stop him. She couldn’t slam into his hard body and make any difference, she didn’t think. She grabbed a sturdy branch lying on the ground, probably torn off in the last big storm they’d had, and ran up behind him. He heard her, but he ignored her, knowing the real threat was the wolf in front of him.

She swung the branch at Cyn’s head with all her might, connected with his ear and head, and distracted him just enough to make him miss his shot.

She was sure he wanted to kill her now, but one pissed-off wolf lunged at him, and Cyn didn’t have a chance.

Finn’s jump knocked Cyn on his back, and Cyn dropped his weapon. He reached for a sheathed knife, but Finn was too quick, biting him in the throat, and ending his murderous reign. For a moment, he sat panting over the body, but then he looked at Meara and then again at Hunter’s house.

“Rourke,” she said.

She raced toward the house, but Finn woofed, then headed to where his clothes were. She turned and watched him, confused. He poked at his pants, and she ran back to where he stood over his clothes. When she found his lockpick, he bowed his head and raced back to the house. She ran after him, trying to catch up and fearing Rourke would never make it on his own. She was damned glad to hear the growling in the house, which meant he was fighting for his life but still alive.

Chris bit Rourke in the cheek, causing sharp pain to rip through his face and pissing him off. What if he was disfigured for life?

He snarled and growled and fought tooth to tooth with the sub-leader. He tasted blood, his blood and Chris’s.

That made him even angrier. What if he chipped a tooth or, worse, lost one?

He hadn’t fought wolf-to-wolf much, but thankfully, the instinct came to him naturally. When Chris growled at him again, Rourke gave an even lower, deeper bass-sounding growl, rumbling from low in the belly. He pulled back his lips and bared his sharp canines. And when Chris clashed with him, the two stood on their hind legs, forelegs thrashing for a better hold, heads swiveling to get a bite in where it would count.

This was not a game, like he’d played with the other wolves, which had just been a practice for a real hunt. This was a battle to the finish.

Oh, if only he could be the victor and write about it in a news story!

Rourke bullheadedly shoved Chris out of the bedroom where he’d been confined by the bed and dresser. Now in the more open living room, they bumped into a table, sending a candy dish and pale-pink and green candy squares flying. Next, they upset another table and sent a lamp to the floor where it broke with a loud crash. Rourke realized now how important having a place of his own could be, not an apartment where next-door neighbors could hear the disturbance, if he ever again had the chance to get into another wolf fight, and call the police.

Chris was a tenacious bulldog of a wolf, though. He kept going for Rourke’s throat, and Rourke kept twisting his head around to counter the attack, biting and snarling even more aggressively than Chris. He thought it was because Chris was always quieter. But the growling made Rourke feel more at home with being a wolf, more in control of his situation, better equipped to fight another wolf who wanted him dead.

They both banged into the couch and then the coffee table. Rourke kept trying to get hold of Chris’s throat, but the wolf was as adamant about keeping him from doing so as Rourke was about protecting his own throat. They danced again on their hind quarters, sparring and fighting, then down again with Rourke persisting, pushing, and trying to wear Chris out. But Chris wasn’t wearing out, damn him. Rourke was.

Somehow they’d ended up back in the bedroom.

But then Rourke got a lucky break. Chris backed into a clothes tree, and it began to fall on him. When he turned his head slightly to see what he’d run into and probably where to go next to continue the fight, Rourke had his chance. And took it.

With Chris’s head turned, Rourke grabbed for the sub-leader’s neck and bit down hard.

Meara reached the back door where Finn circled her, anxious to get inside Hunter’s house to rescue Rourke. She was so nervous that she fumbled with the pick, finally managing to unlock the door and shove it open. Finn rushed into the house, both of them expecting the worst. Finn would have to kill Chris, and Rourke would already be dead.

The place was a wreck: end tables on their sides, a candy dish broken to pieces, and the remnants of pastel after-dinner mints scattered all over the carpet. Chris and Rourke’s scents and the smell of blood wafted into the living area as soon as they entered. But there were no sounds of anything. The place was quiet as death.

Then Finn ran down the hallway and entered a guest room. Meara waited, expecting to hear more growling as Finn fought with Chris. But then Finn poked his nose out of the room, smiling like only a wolf could.

“Rourke,” she cried. He had to be all right. She rushed to the guest room as Finn headed through the living room and exited the house. As a wolf, Rourke was panting on the carpeted bedroom floor, while Chris’s dead body lay near the bedroom window, a clothes tree on top of him.

She wiped away annoying tears and wrapped her arms around Rourke, pressing her face against his cheek. His tail thwapped enthusiastically against the floor. She didn’t want to give him ideas and finally released him. She also didn’t want Finn to see her hugging Rourke when he returned and get any wrong ideas.