Michele Hauf - Ghost Wolf

She huffed and picked up into a jog. He was tired out from his run, but Beck could keep up with her if he had to. And he wanted to. But—hell, he was winded. What was up with that? Normally shifting invigorated him.

“Who are you?” she blurted angrily.

“I’m Beckett Severo.”

The pretty pink wolf stopped abruptly, dropping her hands to her sides. Flipping back her hair with a jerk of her head, she eyed him up and down more carefully than he’d taken when looking her over. “Oh.”

“Oh?” Beck slapped a palm to his chest, feeling as though she’d just seen parts of him he’d never reveal upon initially meeting someone. “That oh sounded like you must have heard of me?”

“Uh, yeah. Something about your father?”

“Right.” Beck looked away. Shoved his hands in his back pockets. He didn’t need this conversation. It was still too raw in his heart. He hadn’t spoken to anyone about it yet. Not even his mother.

Didn’t matter who this pretty wolf was. If she knew about his father, he didn’t want to listen to the pity.

The walk into the closest town was fifteen minutes. His town was ten miles north by car. And the small bits of sleet were starting to stick to the back of his head and shoulders.

“You shouldn’t run around in the forest by yourself,” he said, changing the subject and keeping his back toward the brunt of the sleet. “The local hunters have developed a bloodlust for wolf pelts.”

She shrugged and turned to walk, but slower now, unmindful of the icy pellets. Tugging a pair of black mittens out from a jeans pocket, she pulled them on. “I trust this neck of the woods.”

“You shouldn’t,” he said with more authority than he wanted on the subject.

Beck was a werewolf. Like it or not, he made it a point to know what the hunters were up to. Because even though they didn’t believe in his kind, and they hunted the mortal realm breed of canis lupis —the gray wolf—when in wolf form, his breed could easily be mistaken for the gray wolf. And thanks to the DNR delisting the wolf from the endangered species list, the hunt had become a free-for-all.

A fact he knew too painfully well.

“Didn’t you hear the gunshots earlier?”

She shook her head.

“There are hunters in the vicinity.”

“Maybe the ghost wolf warned them away from me?”

Beck chuckled. The ghost wolf was what the media had taken to calling the recent sightings of a tall, wolflike creature that seemed to glow white. Scared the shit out of hunters.

“You shouldn’t put your faith in a story,” he said to her. “You’re not safe in the woods, plain and simple.”

“Well, you were out alone.”

“Yes, but I’m a guy.”

“Do not play the guy card with me. You think I can’t handle myself?”

“No, I just said you could probably scratch—”

The petite wolf turned and, without warning, punched him in the gut. It was a good, solid hit that forced out Beck’s breath and jarred his lower ribs. Picking up her dropped mitten, she turned and walked off while he clutched at his stomach, fighting his rising bile.

“Thanks for the chat!” she called. With that, she picked up into a run.

Beck was perfectly fine with letting her run off and leave him behind. He swallowed and winced as he fell to his knees amidst the wheat and snow.

“The guy card?” Swearing, he leaned back, stretching at his aching abdomen. “She’s got a great right hook, I’ll say that much.”

And he was getting weaker with every shift he made to werewolf. That was not good.

* * *

Daisy Blu Saint-Pierre landed at the edge of town just as the headlights of a city snowplow barreled past her on the salt-whitened tarmac. She’d left her winter coat at home, not expecting it to snow tonight. She never took along more clothing than necessary when going out for a run. Chilled, but still riding the high from the shift that kept her muscles warm and flexible, she picked up into a run.

Her teeth were chattering by the time she reached her loft in the Tangle Lake city center. There were three other occupants in this remodeled warehouse that featured lofts on the second and third floors. She wandered up the inner iron staircase, cursing her need to not drive unless absolutely necessary. Blame it on her parents, who were uber-environmental-save-the-planet types. Her dad drove an old pickup that must have been manufactured in the Reagan era. She suspected it would be more environmentally friendly to put that rust heap out of its misery and off the road, but her father, an imposing werewolf who could silence any man with but a growl, wouldn’t have it.

Once inside the loft, she stripped away her clothes, which were coated on the back with melting sleet. Leaving them in a trail of puddles behind her, she beelined toward the shower and turned it on as hot as she could stand.

The last thing she had expected while out on a run was to literally collide into another werewolf. Though, why not? should be the obvious question. The wolves in the Northern and Saint-Pierre packs used that forest all the time. Yet lately, with the hunters spreading out and some accidentally trespassing onto private land, even that forest had grown less safe.

She never ventured too near the forest’s borders, and always kept an ear and nose out for mortal scent and tracks. The gunshot had been distant. She’d not smelled the hunter, and usually, when out in nature, she could sniff out a mortal scent two or three miles away.

Beckett Severo, eh? She’d heard about his father’s tragic death not long ago. Killed by a hunter who must have assumed he was just another gray wolf. Must be awful for Beckett. She had also heard he had been there with his father when he’d been shot.

Daisy felt awful for punching him, but it had been impulsive. She didn’t know the man, and couldn’t trust him, and he’d been all in her face and trying to chum up to her. She preferred to meet her men in public places, and preferably with an advance review from a friend so she knew what she was getting into.

So maybe she wasn’t an expert on meeting people. Her defenses tended to go up for no reason other than that she was uncomfortable making small talk.

Because really? That man had been one fine hunk of wolf. He’d towered over her, and looked down on her with ice-blue eyes. She’d never seen such clear, bright irises. His sun-bleached hair had been tousled this way and that. A scruff of beard had shadowed his chiseled jaw. He’d reeked of strength and—she could admit it—sensuality.

What a man. What a wolf. It was rare Daisy met a male werewolf who appealed to her on more than a simple friendship basis. It was much easier to be a guy’s buddy than to flirt with him.

He hadn’t known her? Probably because he wasn’t in a pack. Yet she knew about his family. Severo, his father, had been a grizzled old wolf. Unaligned with any pack, but respected by many pack wolves for common sense and wisdom that had come from centuries of life. Surely Daisy’s father had mentioned Severo reverently a time or two.

Maybe. Didn’t matter. She didn’t intend to bump into Beckett again soon, so she’d have to satisfy herself with a few fantasies about the sexy wolf.

With the way her shifting abilities had been testing her lately, she was more self-involved than she cared to be. Much as she preferred shifting to wolf, the faery half of her always vied for superiority. She wasn’t sure what the deal was with that, but it was annoying. And embarrassing. She couldn’t remember when she’d last shifted around a family member. So she spent much time in her human shape, which was all right by her, save for her lacking social skills.

She was trying to break free of her introvert’s chains by competing for a freelance internship for the local newspaper. Every January the Tangle Lake Tattler offered an internship to a journalist who offered the winning story. Story competition was never fierce. She had two opponents. But that didn’t mean Daisy wasn’t giving it her all.