The Wolven. Deborah LeBlanc
Читать онлайн книгу.
read cards, then she pointed this way. I wasn’t sure which one of you she meant, though.”
“She meant me,” Caitlin said, then directed him to the reading room. “If you’ll wait for me in there, I’ll only be a minute.” She waited until the man waddled away, then turned to Shauna. “See the couple standing over by the herbs?”
Shauna glanced in that direction, saw a young man and woman, both with spiked, multi-colored hair. They swayed slightly on their feet as they pointed to different bags of herbs and giggled. “They look wasted.”
“Wouldn’t surprise me. They were asking for help a minute ago. Tend to them while I do that guy’s reading, will you?” With that, Caitlin headed for the reading room before Shauna could protest.
Shauna let out a heavy sigh. She had a sneaking suspicion that the help the couple wanted wouldn’t involve questions about the healing properties of certain herbs. More than likely they would want to know if the store carried pulverized bats’ wings or hogs’ hooves, or some other nonsensical item that someone had told them they needed to cast a certain spell. Normally, no matter how spaced out they were, Shauna would have taken the time to give them the 411 on herbs and try steering them away from the stupid cliff. But she wasn’t up for it today.
The unrest that had swooped down on her earlier was turning into a case of the jitters. She felt agitated, on edge. Maybe it had something to do with the mingling energies from all the people in the store. All those energies swirling right alongside her intuitive whisper might have tilted her off-center. Whatever the case, she was in no shape to steer anyone in any direction right now. If the couple wanted bat wings, she would simply send them to Sistah’s. Lurnell would be more than happy to sell the couple a half ounce of ground up seaweed or Spanish Moss, all the while swearing it was pulverized bats’ wings that had been harvested back in the eighteenth century in Transylvania.
As Shauna headed toward the couple she tried tuning into the center of her mind, to the only truly quiet place she knew. She had discovered that place as a child, when her keen sense of hearing wound up collecting too much data from too many directions and over-stimulated her. Fiona had been the one to teach her how to find that special place. How to close her eyes and focus on the small dot of light that always appeared behind her eyelids. Her sister had told her that the light was her center, and that if she concentrated hard enough, that light would always lead her back to a balanced, peaceful place.
For the most part, Fiona had been right. Over time, Shauna even figured out that she didn’t have to close her eyes to find that light. All she had to do was let her mind’s eye find it, focus on it, and bring her back to center. That certainly made things easier when she was walking through a crowded mall or heading toward a stoned, spike-haired couple.
Shauna’s mind had just latched on to that dot of light when a strange sound caught her attention and stopped her dead in her tracks.
It was an odd, low sound. So low that even with her sensitive ears she wondered how she’d heard it at all, with so many people talking in the shop, Lurnell’s voice booming above them all, noise pouring in from the street.
She closed her eyes for a moment, concentrated on the sound. It grew louder and made the hair on the back of her neck stand on end. She’d never heard anything quite like it before.
Not quite a moan …
A distant wail …
No. More like an elongated … howl.
The moment Shauna thought “howl,” her intuitive whisper became a shouting banshee. What she heard was keening. Someone in the throes of such grief, their physical body couldn’t contain it.
It was the wail of death.
A plea to the universe.
A howl of mourning.
And it was coming from one of her weres …
Chapter 2
So much blood.
Facial features distorted. Almost unrecognizable.
And the eyes—dull with death, yet imprinted with a final, indescribable emotion. A concoction of panic, fear, surprise, horror. The kind of look that might haunt a living man who’d seen it forever.
Danyon Stone was no stranger to death. Being alpha of the Wolven pack that lived along the East Bank in New Orleans, he’d witnessed the fallout from territorial battles that occasionally took place between his weres and those from other packs in surrounding parishes. When weres fought to the death over territory, or over a mate, the evidence from those fights generally looked the
same. Clothing ripped to shreds, gouged flesh, puncture wounds, and blood. Sometimes a lot of it. But this death was far from common.
The victim was Simon Filk, a young were from Danyon’s pack. Simon had been bright and loyal, eager to learn anything his leader was willing to teach him. Although Simon hadn’t known it, Danyon had been training him for a leadership position. He’d had big plans for him. Now, seeing the young were lying dead at the foot of the levee, Danyon wished he had told Simon.
In fact, he wished a lot of things right now. He wished he had someone around to explain what the hell he was looking at.
Heavy cable had been wound about Simon’s chest and feet, binding his arms to his sides and his ankles together. Another cable had been wrapped around his neck. His clothes were only tatters of cloth strewn about his body, and he was soaked in blood. What left Danyon gaping and boggled, however, was that Simon remained in were-state—except for his claws and fangs, all of which had been ripped from his body.
How in the hell is this possible?
Different breeds of werewolves carried certain traits, particularly when it came to the triggers that caused their transformation from human to werewolf and vice versa. Some breeds mutated at will, others only in the face of a full moon. The wolven were different in that their transformation usually occurred when they reached an intense emotional state, be it anger, fear, even sexual arousal. As a wolven matured and learned to control the range of his or her emotions, the mutation trigger became more controllable, the transformation more a matter of will. The same controlling factors existed when it came to reverting back to human form, only reversed, the transformation occurring when the heightened emotion was abated, satiated, or controlled. The only time this didn’t apply was at the time of death. Without any exception that Danyon was aware of, the moment a wolven’s heart stopped beating, no matter the manner of death, he assumed human form. The fact that Simon was dead but remained in were-state was incomprehensible to him.
“Who would do such a horrible thing to Simon?” Andrea Doucet cried.
“Ain’t no way it was a who, girl,” Paul Mire, who was standing beside her, said. “It had to be a what to mess him up that bad. Look how that poor boy’s tore up. Thing I can’t figure, though, is how come he ain’t changed? Why’s that, Danyon, huh? Why’s Simon stuck like that? How come he didn’t change back?”
Wondering the same in spades, Danyon glanced over at his two weres. He had been so taken aback by Simon’s condition that he’d forgotten Andrea and Paul were even there. The two of them had stumbled across the body while walking home from Roosters, a small bar and grill where they both worked, waiting tables.
Danyon shook his head, indicating he had no answer. The truth was he feared if he opened his mouth right then, the anger roiling inside him would take charge and force a transformation that would demand vengeance. He had to keep a clear head. He might not have answers now, but he was determined to find them or die trying. Right now, his weres were frightened, and, as their leader, he had to take charge and keep his emotions in check. If he didn’t, his entire pack might get skittish, and then he’d have an even bigger problem on his hands.
He turned to Andrea. Her eyes were swollen from crying, her square, chubby face blotchy. “I need you to go to the Quarter and find Andy Saville. You know who I’m talking about, right?”