J. Tyler: Hunter's Heart

Aric’s voice floated above him. “Ryon? Can you hear me?”

He nodded, once.

“Good. If we take out the knife, can you shift?”

He nodded again, or thought he did. Concentrating, he attempted to call his wolf, but it howled in pain. Retreated deep inside him, strength draining.

“Ryon? Hang on, man . . .”

His Pack brothers’ curses, their insistent pleas, melted far away. Into nothingness.

Daria Bradford tossed back her single shot of whiskey, relishing the warmth that slid down her throat to her stomach. The nights grew cool in the Shoshone National Forest in the early fall, so the small indulgence was welcome.

Sitting by the fire, she picked up a bottle of water and rinsed her shot glass. Then she dried it before returning the glass and plastic travel flask to her backpack. The nightly ritual comforted her, made her feel more at home, so far from civilization. It was a tradition she and her father had shared before he retired from the life’s work he’d loved so much. The work that she carried on.

Her father had taught her all he knew about studying wolves. As a young girl, she had accompanied him on many a trip. After high school graduation, unlike many of her peers, Daria had known exactly what she wanted to do with the rest of her life—she would follow in her father’s footsteps. And so she had, becoming a wildlife biologist who specialized in the field of studying what, to her, were the most beautiful and elusive creatures on the planet.

Her father had been part of the conservationist group in the 1980s that was instrumental in saving wolves in the Shoshone from the brink of extinction. Watching them thrive once again was one of the two great joys in his life, along with doting on his daughter. But eventually his arthritis prevented him from scaling the mountains and valleys he loved so much, so he now lived vicariously through her tales. She made sure to bring him plenty to hear over their cozy nights by the fire, their whiskeys in hand.

Smiling to herself, she thought of all she had to tell him when she went to visit in a few weeks. The wolf packs she’d checked on so far were doing very well, the pups growing. By the dancing light of the fire, she retrieved her spiral notebook and logged her notes on each of the local pack members for the day. Then she put it away and crawled into the tent, zipping it shut against any nighttime visitors that the flames didn’t dissuade.

Exhaustion crept into her bones and muscles, but it was the nice sort earned from an honest day’s work. She crawled into the sleeping bag and before long, sleep cocooned her and she drifted off, content.

That’s when the nightmare invaded.

She was standing in a dark place. A dirty corridor. City noises came from nearby—traffic, people talking. Then came the shouting. She moved closer to the noises, and realized it sounded like fighting. As she crept forward, she saw dark shapes. Pale, humanlike figures dressed in rags, snarling, yellowed fangs slashing in the gloom.

They were attacking a group of men, and for a few moments, it appeared the evil ones would win. How she knew the defenders were the good guys, she couldn’t say. She only knew she was invisible to them as they battled, as the men gained the upper hand at last.

But one of their number went down under two of the dark ones. There was a flash of silver, his choked cry ending terribly. Suddenly. One of the attackers yanked back his head and ripped into the man’s throat with those awful yellowed fangs.

Stumbling forward, Daria shouted at them to stop, but nobody heard. Her breath froze in her lungs as the man’s companions came to his rescue, dispatching the remaining creatures. That’s what they were—creatures—but she couldn’t put a name to them. Thoughts of the ugly ones vanished as she walked close, looked down and studied the man whom his friends were trying so hard to save.

He was, without a doubt, the most beautiful man she’d ever seen. He was lying on his back, arms and legs limp. Moonlight fell into clear, crystal blue eyes and glinted off his shaggy blond hair. His nose was straight, and he had grooves around his mouth and full lips that hinted at a man who smiled frequently.

But at the moment, he was struggling to breathe. A splash of red marred the torn flesh at this throat, and there was more of the crimson lifeblood flowing from around the hilt of the knife buried in his side. Worry for the man and a deep, sudden sadness overwhelmed her. She tried again to speak, but could not make a sound.

Then his gaze found hers, widened. Just for a moment, the world narrowed to the two of them. Raising his arm, he reached for her with bloodied fingers. She wanted to hold his hand, bring him what solace she could.

Then she was sucked backward, falling out of the dream as she cried out in protest.

No!

“No!” Daria’s shout rang in the tent as she bolted upright.

Hand on her chest, she sucked in several deep breaths. Gradually, her racing heart calmed, but the horror of the nightmare remained. Because she knew better than anyone that it was no dream. The scene had been a vision.

Only her father knew of the “gifts” bestowed upon her, supposedly by a Native American ancestor. Everyone else would think her crazy, so the two of them guarded her secret with great care.

All of her life, she’d been plagued with visions of scenes that were either imminent or had just occurred. Most of them were useless, nothing more than innocuous flashes. In the more serious, detailed ones, she typically didn’t have a clue who the person in the scene was, and couldn’t do anything to help. Well, not directly. Her other gift—astral projection, the ability to send her physical body into a dreamlike state and visit another place in a spirit form—was also useless if she didn’t know who to help, or where they were.

Squirming on her sleeping bag, she worried over the handsome blond man in her vision. Who was he? What were those horrible things that had attacked him and his friends?

Most important, was he going to survive?

She didn’t know why he mattered so much. Why the need to find him and make certain he was alive was like ants crawling over her skin. Maybe, with this one, she could find out. Because, unlike all the others, for one brief instant, Daria and the man had connected. Even now, as the rest of the vision seemed distant, a thin tendril remained, trailing from her consciousness to his. She felt it, but would need to project astrally to access it. However, she couldn’t do that until she’d recovered some. The strength of this vision had left her drained.

Settling down again, she tossed until daylight broke, sleep elusive. Rather than being rested, she was tired and rattled. She’d been so afraid she’d fall asleep and wake up to find the thread connecting her to the sexy stranger had vanished. But it was still there, waiting.

Centering herself, she sat with her legs crossed and closed her eyes, arms loose in her lap. Focusing inward, she let the sounds of the waking forest carry her away. The telltale tingle danced over her skin, the signal that her body was going into its trancelike state. Slowly, her consciousness separated from her body, leaving it behind. Looking back, she saw herself sitting peacefully in the tent and, satisfied, set out to follow the thread.

At first the journey was easy. Not confined to flesh, she soared over the trees, basking in the sunlight and the beauty of the day. Onward she traveled, the connection leading her to a curious break in the forest, a place where the trees had been cleared. In the center of the clearing sat a large building boasting several wings. The thread led to one of those wings in particular.