Wolf Tales II. Kate Douglas

      KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP.

       http://www.kensingtonbooks.com

      To paraphrase a well-known politician, it takes a village to write a book. I am so fortunate to have such a terrific village supporting me—friends who are so willing to read my rough drafts and be brutally honest in their assessment—sometimes a little too brutal, if you want the truth! My sincere thanks to Camille Anthony, Dakota Cassidy, Sheri Carucci, Ann Jacobs, Shelby Morgan, Willa Okati, Treva Harte, Cassie Walder and Karen “MT” Williams. These are just a few of the people who help me bring my Chanku to life.

      Contents

      Prologue

      Chapter 1

      Chapter 2

      Chapter 3

      Chapter 4

      Chapter 5

      Chapter 6

      Chapter 7

      Chapter 8

      Chapter 9

      Chapter 10

      Chapter 11

      Chapter 12

      Chapter 13

      Chapter 14

      Chapter 15

      Chapter 16

      Chapter 17

      Chapter 18

      Epilogue

      Prologue

      San Francisco, California—January 1986

      A gun-metal-gray sky closed in upon the small group of mourners standing near an open grave. Ulrich Mason glanced down at the tiny hand clasped in his and wondered once again how any father went about explaining death to a six-year-old.

      Mommy’s gone to live with the angels? That, of course, raised the question of why Mommy loved the angels more than she loved Tia or Daddy. God needs Mommy in heaven? How could God possibly need Mommy more than they did? Mommy belonged here, alive and laughing, her strength a tangible support in the structure of their lives.

      The small fingers wrapped in his large hand trembled. Ulrich took a deep breath and closed his eyes against the pain.

      Damn you, Camille!

      How the hell could she leave them like this? Damn her, she’d done things her own way, in spite of the risk.

      How the hell was he going to survive without her?

      And what about Tianna? Ulrich leaned down, lifted his daughter easily, and held her tightly against his shoulder. The expected, “I’m a big girl, Daddy. Put me down,” went unsaid. Instead he felt Tianna’s bony little frame shudder, heard her soft, broken sigh, then lifted his chin to make room for the defeated press of her head against his throat. She tucked herself tightly under his jaw. Tianna’s wild frizz of blond curls, so beautiful against her deeply bronzed skin, tickled his ear.

      The minister’s soft words floated in and out of Ulrich’s reality. Caught in the rhythm of Tianna’s warm breath against his throat, he inhaled her clean, fresh-soap, little-girl scent. He was only peripherally aware of the scuffling and quiet movements of the few mourners standing around the grave and the steady hum of traffic on a nearby freeway.

      Ulrich let his memories wander back to Camille. Warm and alive, she paused just outside his consciousness, smiling that secretive, seductive smile that had caught and held him so neatly just eight short years ago.

      He felt her warmth, her love, her strong, courageous nature, and, most of all, her amazing sensuality surrounding him, holding both of them close. Camille’s beautiful eyes, caught somewhere between green and gold, sparkled in the sunlight. She raised her hand, her silky skin shades darker than their daughter’s, and beckoned him, calling….

      A soft tap on his shoulder yanked Ulrich back. He blinked, noticed the minister had closed his Bible, saw the other mourners now talking quietly among themselves. Ulrich turned slowly to see who had touched him, who had dragged him away from visions of Camille.

      A tall, powerfully built young man wearing Marine Corps dress blues stood beside him.

      “Captain Mason?”

      Ulrich shifted Tianna’s slight weight in his arms. She sagged against him, asleep finally after so many sleepless nights. “Yes. I’m Ulrich Mason.”

      As tall as Ulrich and darkly handsome, the mourner could have been any young marine officer, though there was something about him, something Ulrich sensed beneath the clean-cut surface. A friend of Camille’s? A lover? Ulrich didn’t recognize him—at least, not at first.

      “I…” The man looked away, down at his sharply polished shoes, back at Ulrich. “I am…”

      The truth exploded in Ulrich’s mind, took the breath from his lungs. Suddenly made sense in a most horrible manner. “You are the one who shot my wife.” Ulrich nodded at the man’s stricken look. “I thought so.”

      “I am so sorry, Captain Mason. It was a horrible accident, it was…”

      “It was inevitable.” Ulrich sighed and rubbed his chin against Tia’s silky crown. Suddenly he felt much older than his forty-three years, and very, very tired. He stared into the younger man’s amber eyes, eyes very much like his own, very much like Camille’s, and knew exactly what he had to do.

      “You…this…all of it makes Camille’s death even more tragic, if that is at all possible.” With one last glance at the dark scar in the earth, the final resting place for his beloved wife, Ulrich turned away.

      The young man waited, obviously confused. Ulrich stopped. “Aren’t you coming?”

      “With you?”

      “Of course.” Impatient now, facing the path he knew his life must take, Ulrich shifted his small daughter’s weight in his arms and led his wife’s killer across the wet grass toward the parking lot.