Instead of replying, she pointed toward the barn and another building that looked like a large kennel. “Change and follow me, okay? I think I’ll definitely need backup.”
When he nodded, she took off. One second she was moving away from him, the next—Mac couldn’t believe it. To his shocked amazement, she changed in midair, like that fake wolf in the Twilight movie. One moment, she was human, a woman charging in a full-out run. The next, a giant wolf with a glossy coat the exact same sable color as her human hair. Her clothing, torn and shredded, fell to the ground in tatters. Eyes glittering in the smoke, she turned and eyed Mac, waiting.
Damn. He shook his head. Not only was she a beautiful woman, but an absolutely gorgeous wolf.
Quickly stripping off his soggy clothing, he tossed it on the ground, wincing as his head throbbed. Taking a deep breath, he mustered his strength and began his own shift into wolf.
His change, while quick by Pack standards, wasn’t as flashy or dramatic as hers, but the instant he was fully wolf, renewed strength and power flowed into him. Changing had been the right thing to do, attackers or no attackers. As human, his capacity to fight was limited to whatever weapon he had at hand, including his fists. As wolf, he could use his entire body; his ferocious essence would be leashed and tamed no longer.
She touched her muzzle to his, taking his scent and giving him hers. Next to her, he felt invincible, a phenomenon he’d never experienced, even when running as wolf with other Protectors. Heady.
Side by side, they moved forward. Immediately, the scents assailed him, amplified a hundred times stronger than anything his pitiful human nose could detect. In addition to the overriding smell of smoke and fire, he could scent dog and man and wet earth and leaves, along with something more, something awful—the scent of decay.
He knew this scent. It meant vampire. The walking dead. He growled, glancing at her before he leapt forward. Baring her teeth in a snarl, she followed, her four feet as swift and sure as his on the muddy ground. His wolf coat made a much better barrier against the wet, damp cold than anything designed by humans.
Mac stopped. As Kelly came up beside him, he stared at the three hooded figures now facing them. All vampires? No, he also smelled flesh and blood and life.
Metal flashed. One of them had a gun.
He glanced at Kelly. Side by side, his wolf form dwarfed hers. Despite that, he sensed she was equally powerful and dangerous. Their gazes met briefly, be fore they returned their attention to the others. Their enemies.
One of the three made the mistake of moving, using that gliding run peculiar to vampires. Instantly, Mac took him down, slashing at the undead corpse with his powerful teeth and claws. Though the action wouldn’t kill the vamp, unless he remained out when the sun rose, it would take him out of commission for now. One less vampire to deal with.
Two remaining. Were they human, vampire or shifter? Something about one … He sniffed, catching a whiff of blood and skin. Half-human, half-shifter. Half ling, like him? Even as he pondered, the vamp made a move toward him, while the other circled around Kelly.
No time to think. Mac acted instinctively, leaping forward, teeth bared, hitting him directly in the chest. He slammed into him, the other’s body oddly hollow, not whole or solid like that of a living creature, but a husk, a shell. The undead. Another vamp.
Baring his fangs, he went for the creature’s throat, planning to take him down the same way he’d taken down the other. A loud bang went off, too close. Pain and heat sent him reeling back, flinging him off the vamp, as though a giant hand had lifted and thrown him. Shot. He’d been shot.
Dammit. But nothing he hadn’t survived before. Except this time, the wound felt different.
The bullet—hard, foreign—seared through him, white-hot agony trailing in its wake. What the …? Not a normal bullet. A silver one. That meant his life was over. Suddenly he realized what she’d meant when she’d said they were one. If he believed the superstition he’d read in the case file, now he couldn’t die unless she died, too.
No way. He had no time to believe in fairy tales, preferring reality. Even his own wife, Maggie, a Tearlach herself, had discounted it as nonsense. She’d even found it amusing, refusing to ever say the ritualistic words to him.
Sure as hell, no words had been able to save Maggie. After her death, he’d wondered if saying them would have made a difference. Other than prolonging his life without her, he didn’t think so.
Steeling himself, he thought of his children. Twins, barely eighteen months old when they’d been stolen from him. They’d be two and a half now, nearly three. Would they even remember him?
And now this new wrinkle in things. This Kelly had told him they were one. The ritualistic words. And he’d agreed. If the superstitious nonsense was true and he lived, that would mean she’d saved his life. He would owe her. He’d owe a Tearlach, his sworn mortal enemy, part of the ones who’d stolen away what remained of his life.
He had to get them back. He mustn’t fail, couldn’t fail. Isobel and Caleb would be coming home.
That is, if he didn’t die. A silver bullet was always deadly. No exceptions, except Tearlachs. If the legend of her protection wasn’t true, then he would die here, without even seeing his and Maggie’s precious children ever again.
Either way, he wouldn’t go down easily. Defiant, he clenched his teeth and struggled to get to his feet, refusing to cry out or even acknowledge the pain.
A silver bullet. Hell hounds.
With every breath, the dangerous metal spread silver poison throughout his body. He knew he must get the slug out if he wanted to buy more time.
The bullet had to come out. But how? As he tried to focus, his vision faded in and out. He held on to what reality he did know for certain. Cold misty rain, hot blood in his veins and—looking up—the sheer viciousness of his assailant’s grin as he watched Mac suffer.
The second shock—that Halfling was no vampire. That shifter looked vaguely familiar. A Protector? Surely not. Because if he was, that would mean Mac had been played for a fool all along.
Mac’s vision blurred and he sank to his knees.
Having taken Mac out, his attacker turned away, lifting his gun and sighting the weapon on Kelly. Unable to do more than watch, Mac grunted with pain and turned his attention toward his own wound.
The bullet must come out.
Grimacing, he bit at his own leg, teeth connecting with fur and muscle and sinew. Bracing himself, he counted to three and then yanked, biting back a yelp, snarling instead.
Bullet must come out. He repeated this like a mantra.
Ruthless, he tore at his own flesh, searching for the slug. Finally, his teeth connected with metal and he clamped down on it, gagging at the acrid, bitter taste of silver, mortal enemy of his kind.
As it exited his body, bringing with it muscle and sinew and skin, blood welled up in the wound, pouring from the gaping hole in his matted leg and dripping from his teeth, the coppery bullet metallic and poison in his mouth.
Evil. He spat it on the ground, then eyed his wound. Must stop the bleeding. After all, blood was irresistible
