Cherise Sinclair - Hour of the Lion

As his paws hit the earth, Alec felt the touch of the Mother as Her love flowed into him. Raising his head, he sniffed the air. Already in cougar form, Thorson stood in the doorway. Alec butted his shoulder affectionately and led the way out of the tunnel.

The light of a pale, cold moon shone down outside the cave, and the scent of the pine needles under their paws rose around them. Alec looked back to see the gleam of cat eyes and then sprang forward into the dark forest. Joe followed.

Vic woke, didn’t move while she assessed her surroundings. Warm, smooth fabric over and under her, a faint lemon scent-sheets. She lay in a bed. A bed was good, much better than concrete.

Where? The new rental. Lord, her brain was moving slow. The house stood silent. No stench of gunpowder or sweat or blood. Things were looking up. She opened her eyes…and winced. The curtains glowed in the morning sun, the print a garish display of lions and tigers and bears.

“Toto, we really gotta get out of this place,” Vic muttered and slid her legs over the side of the bed with a loud indulgent groan. Jesus fuck, she hurt. She rubbed her face. Was she really planning to look for people who turn into animals? In the light of day, the idea sounded insane. She didn’t believe that shit, did she? Then again, the bite and claw marks on her body offered pretty good proof.

And speaking of claw marks, it was time to take inventory; easy to do when you sleep commando:

One : a headache throbbing like a ghetto blaster with the bass on high. The room felt like a sauna. Great, she had a fever.

Two : her left shoulder felt like some lion had ripped a chunk out of it. Oh, wait-that’s what had happened. Considering the way her week had been going, she probably had gangrene. She pessimistically peeked under that bandage. Well, halleluiah, no putrid green gunk, but the surrounding redness showed a brewing infection.

Three : Under the gauze wrap, Lachlan’s claw marks on her back and sides looked like a red-streaked geometry lesson: parallel lines do not intersect . And wouldn’t those be cute scars…but they weren’t infected.

Four: She sucked in a deep breath and groaned as unseen knives stabbed into her left side. Cracked ribs. Alas, no cure for them except time. And revenge . She looked forward to a rematch with the ape called Swane-and they would meet again, count on it-when she’d kick his ribs in.

Five : her right knee ached, but thank you, God, she could put weight on it and not fall-down-go-boom like some spastic cripple.

I’m alive. Life is good.

As she headed across the bedroom, she snorted a laugh. The same maniac had bought both the curtains and wallpaper. On the walls, deer and elk wandered through the forest like Bambi gone wild . “You’d better hope the lions stay on the drapes or you’re all breakfast,” she warned the herbivores, then shook her head. Bad enough to be talking to herself. Conversing with the wall? Next stop, psycho ward.

A shower cleared her head. She ignored the rainbow trout swimming along the bottom of the blue shower curtain. Thank God the sunny kitchen and living room lacked the wildlife obsession. No coffee though.

“Must go shopping.” She couldn’t do anything without a full load of caffeine-and some ibuprofen for the pain and fever.

First, she needed to call her handler. The old man got cranky if he didn’t know where his agents were, even the ones on medical leave. Taking a chair at the small kitchen table, she pulled out her new cell phone and punched in the numbers.

“Wells.” Voice low but edged. Typical Wells-speak softly, then gut them with a sharp knife.

Didn’t it just figure that he’d actually answer his phone this time? She’d have preferred voice mail-recordings never asked awkward questions. “Sir.” A nonchalant tone, that’s the ticket. “I’m getting out of the city and heading into the mountains. Might be out of touch for a while.”

“Is there a problem, Morgan?”

“No, sir. Well, come to think of it…” Excellent lead-in, not too pushy. “Perhaps one thing.”

“Go on.”

Here it got tricky. Dammit, she’d never lied to him, and doing so felt like gravel in an open wound. “I had a drink with an old buddy from Afghanistan. She told me about an ex-marine named Swane.”

“Swane.” She heard the scratch of his pen as he wrote the name. More anal than a proctologist, Wells jotted everything down. Hell of annoying at first, until she’d learned other people often forgot stuff…like the moron last year who’d forgotten the GPS quadrants for the pickup zone and her best friend had died. She swallowed. Stay on track, soldier.

“What is the problem-I assume there is one-with this individual?” Wells asked.

“Seems he’s torturing homeless people and using a cop contact for the cover-up. Doesn’t look good, sir, to have a screwed-up marine loose in Seattle.” After a few scandals involving recently discharged soldiers and violent altercations, the military was walking on eggshells. Although this wasn’t in Wells’ area, he’d still do something.

A grunt. “No, that’s not good. Your buddy’s name is…?”

“I’d rather not say, sir. I don’t want to betray a confidence.”

Silence. She knew what he was thinking. Duty to your country outweighed any other loyalty, including what you owed to your friends. But she’d made a promise to Lachlan. Unless the shifters were dangerous, she wouldn’t put them in Wells’ sights.

“All right, Sergeant. I’m not in-country, but I’ll look into it when I return.”

In spite of the pain, she grinned. Getting Wells onboard was siccing a pit bull on a poodle. “Thank you, sir. I’ll be in touch. Good-”

The line clicked. Wells never said goodbye . He thought it sounded like a curse, so he saved his farewells for his enemies.

“Goodbye, Swane,” she said cheerfully. “Bye-bye, Mr. Asshole-Suit. ‘Parting is such sweet sorrow’.”

Yeah, if anyone could find these guys, Wells could. The first time she’d seen him, she’d been doing sit-ups to burn off her anger at being turned down for combat duty. She looked up at this man. Older than her father. Sharp nose, icy clear blue eyes, tailored clothing like some English aristocrat. He’d watched her for a minute, before giving her a thin smile. “I hear you want to join the fighting in Iraq.”

She’d frozen halfway through a sit-up as he said, “If you don’t mind wearing civilian clothes, I can promise you all the danger you’ll ever want, and that your work will make a difference.” He’d won her over with his final words. “I need you, Morgan.”

He’d kept his promise then and always. She could safely leave the kidnappers to him.

Time to go shopping. But when she rose from the table, her headache went ballistic. Then dizziness hit, a riptide sucking at her consciousness. Dropping back on the chair, she shook her head. Oh, this wasn’t good at all. Fucking-A, was she going to die like that old woman?

As she staggered into the living room, sweat broke out on her skin like she was in the fucking desert. But her legs crumbled under her, and she hit the floor hard. God! Everything hurt so bad she didn’t know what to hold first. Just shoot me now.

“Lord, look down on Thy Servant! Bad things have come to pass.

There is no heat in the midday sun, nor health in the wayside grass.

His bones are full of an old disease-his torments run and increase.

Lord, make haste with Thy Lightnings and grant him a quick release!”

After a minute of not moving, she groaned and tried to push to her feet. Her stomach turned over, bile flooding her mouth. Werecat bites-not for the faint of heart.