Hour of the Lion by Cherise Sinclair (reading a book txt) 📕

were boys sneaking reads of comic books in his store, but he showed no memory of that now. As close as he was to changing, he probably only saw the black eyes and the aura of power.

'Cosantir, please. I need—'

'We can manage here, Joe,' Calum said. 'Purge your grief on the mountain. Alec, go with.'

As Thorson stumbled toward the exit, hands reached out to him—carefully—to stroke in shared sorrow and friendship.

Alec led him into the cool, silent cave like a child. Without speaking, they stripped, Alec lending a hand as Thorson fumbled. Then, Alec called the magic. As the wildness enveloped him, his mind sank like a stone, deep into animal instincts. There was only now, and the sorrow at the youngster‘s loss was buried under the wave of scents and sounds. And this was why Thorson needed the forest. His grief would return when he returned to human form, but...less.

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