Rhyannon Byrd - Last Wolf Watching

With a knot in his gut, Brody wondered if they had explained to her exactly what the Novitiate’s ceremony entailed. Any moment now, Max Doucet would experience his first shift as a Lycan. Under close watch, his guards would have alerted the Elders when it was time to begin, recognizing the signs. Fever. Sweating. Cramping. The initial change was always the hardest, both mentally and physically, and only the strongest humans survived. Brody hoped the kid had it in him, because if his body failed to completely accept the shape of his wolf, yet he still lived, the rules of the ceremony were that he’d be killed—and then he and the others would have a battle on their hands, with Drake inciting the pack into a vicious frenzy.

With a cruel smile, the Elder’s cold gray stare traveled over their united force, lingering with bitter disapproval on his offspring, Eric and Elise, before cutting to Jillian Murphy. “It’s clear where your loyalties now lie,” he sneered, curling his lip as he addressed the pack’s Spirit Walker. Through her maternal bloodline, Jillian held the sacred position of holy woman, or witch, for the Silvercrest pack. She was also the mate and fiancée of Brody’s fellow Bloodrunner, Jeremy Burns. Beneath Drake’s scornful stare, Jillian didn’t so much as bat a lash, but beside her, Jeremy bristled with outrage.

“Rest assured, Jillian, that I’ll be demanding your resignation,” Drake continued with malicious pleasure. “Silvercrest will no doubt be better off without you. We can’t have you marring the purity of our young through your association with ones who are so repulsively impure. To be honest, I’m surprised you have the gall to face us.”

“And after last week, I’m surprised you don’t know any better than to watch what you say to my mate,” Jeremy snarled as he took an aggressive step forward, looking more than ready to knock the racist Elder on his ass. Brody knew just how badly Jeremy wanted to take Drake apart, piece by satisfying piece, and he didn’t blame him. Under the Elder’s orchestration, an attempt had been made on Jillian’s life the previous week, and it was only by some clever thinking on the part of Eric Drake that Jeremy hadn’t killed the bastard in a murderous rage. If he had, the Silvercrest penalty would have been death, and Brody and the Runners would have lost a man who was more like a brother to them than a mere friend.

“Are you threatening me?” the Elder demanded of Jeremy, the sinister gleam of triumph in his chilling gaze revealing his ploy. He wanted Jeremy to make a move on him tonight, so that he could retaliate with the full force of the pack, using his position to strike out against the Runners.

Before Jeremy could react, Mason placed a cautioning hand on his partner’s shoulder and Jillian stepped into his side, putting her arms around his waist. The group held their collective breath as they waited to see what he would do. Finally, Jeremy shook his fisted hands out at his sides, and draped his arm around his fiancée’s shoulders. “I don’t make threats,” he said in a quiet drawl, flashing the Elder a contemptuous smile. “I make promises. I’d tell you to speak to my mate with respect, but the truth is that you’re not good enough to speak to her at all.”

Drake looked round at the pack. “Are you going to allow him to address his betters with such lack of respect?”

“ Stefan ,” Dylan Riggs softly muttered, speaking for the first time, while the other Elders remained silent, their expressions tight with concern.

“The pack knows who deals with its trash so that it can sleep in peace at night,” Cian called out, his words crisp with the lilting notes of his Irish accent. He pulled a pack of cigarettes from the pocket of his black leather jacket, placed one between his lips, and cupped his hand over the tip as he flicked open a silver butane lighter. After the first long drag, he lifted his head and sent the Elder a lazy grin. “If I were you, I’d worry about keeping on our good side, Drake.”

“You’re not a member of this pack,” the Elder spat, glaring at Brody’s partner. “None of you are.”

“By choice,” Mason rasped in a low slide of words, which were true. Nearly all of the Bloodrunners had achieved their required number of kills to rejoin the Silvercrest pack, though they chose not to. “It’d be wise of you to remember that.”

“It’s time now,” Fuller announced, stepping forward, sending an apologetic look in their direction. Graham Fuller may have been the best friend of Mason’s father, Robert, but he still held the position of Lead Elder among the Silvercrest League. As such, he carefully walked the line of neutrality when dealing with the ancient bad blood that existed between the purists, like Drake, and the crossbreeds. Even Dylan, who Brody personally didn’t like, but was a close friend of the other Runners, had his hands tied when dealing with his fellow Elders. If he showed too much support for the Bloodrunners, Drake would demand a vote on his removal—and there was too much prejudice among the Silvercrest leaders to think Dylan’s position was secure.

Which meant the Runners were left on their own, same as always.

Wishing like hell that there was something he could do, Brody watched the guards pull Max to the center of the clearing. The boy stood silent and still, his head bent toward the ground, but Brody could see the thick sheen of sweat covering the young man’s skin. The veins in Max’s arms thickened with the heavy flow of his blood, the tendons at the side of his neck, leading into his shoulders, rigid with strain, while his hands fisted at his sides, his chest rising and falling as he took each breath harder…and harder.

“Do you know what’s happening?” he asked in a rough whisper, brushing his lips against Michaela’s ear. The enthralling scent of her skin filled his head, and he clenched his jaw, determined to ignore its devastating effect. “Did Wyatt or Mason explain to you what will happen?”

She nodded mutely, and then quietly whispered, “He’s terrified.”

Taking his gaze from Max, Brody looked down to see her pulse rushing beneath the fragile column of her throat, so slender and pale and delicate. His tongue felt thick against the roof of his mouth, and in his head, he could hear the beating of her heart in perfect tempo with that wild rush beneath her milky-white skin. Then suddenly, like a blast hitting from out of nowhere, her words sank in…and he remembered a crucial element that had somehow slipped his mind during the chaos of the evening.

Michaela Doucet was not your average, everyday human female. No, she held powers, talents that had yet to be completely explained to him, but which suddenly seemed like a massive tactical error on his part to have forgotten. She could read people she was physically close to, he recalled Torrance telling them one night over dinner. Like peering through a window, she could sense their emotions, their feelings.

He was a goddamn idiot! The last thing in the world he needed was to be here, holding her, giving her the opportunity to nose around inside his head! His fingers released their hold on her hip, the muscles in his arm flexing, ready to pull away from her—when in the next instant Max Doucet threw back his head and let out a bloodcurdling scream of horror that echoed through the quiet night like a sound torn straight from the bowels of hell.

“It hurts,” she gasped, her voice cracking, and with a surge of fury at his inability to help, Brody realized it wasn’t his head she was in. No, it was Max’s. She was sharing her brother’s terror…his pain!