The Werewolf's Wife. Michele HaufЧитать онлайн книгу.
on the side of the road and turned off the headlights.
“We can’t stop—”
“We are going to think this through,” he said firmly over her complaint. He cast a narrow, hard gaze at her that she could see, despite the darkness in the truck.
Abigail did not back down. Instead she lifted her shoulders and delivered an admonishing gaze right back at him. No one told her what to do.
“You can stare at me all you like, Abigail, but I can smell your fear. So just chill and let me think this through.”
“If I wasn’t afraid I’d be too cocky,” she challenged. “Fear is necessary when facing an enemy.”
“Abigail.” He clasped her jaw and turned her chin to face him. Normally she’d fling magic at anyone who touched her without consent, but his domineering manner quieted that urge. “This is going to be dangerous. I know nothing will stand between you and saving your son, but let me be your shield, will you? Don’t get in front of me. In fact, stay as far back as possible. Let me stand before whatever danger presents itself, or neither of us will survive.”
“But I can throw magic—”
“How far? And what kind? Are you going to geld them all like you did me? That’ll only make them angry, and you know they’ll all wolf out then. If they’re not already in werewolf form.”
“I didn’t geld you.”
“Close.”
“Whatever. I’m a master with air magic. I can toss a man through the air, send objects flying like a car, weapons, whatever you need me to do. I’ve also mastered fire.”
“Is that so? Tell me how a practitioner of fire gets herself tied to a stake with a circle of flaming fagots laid around her feet?”
Indeed, how? Had it been because she’d been so stupid in love—as was her frustrating mien—that she hadn’t seen it coming? “He overpowered me. I am a woman. That means there are some men who are stronger than me, no matter what my skills.”
“Exactly. So let me do the talking, right? And keep your flaming trigger finger holstered until I say so. No flames, Abigail. Deal?”
She nodded, but mentally crossed her fingers. She’d walked through more than a few wars in her time. She knew how to wield magic in battle. Real battles that had involved men on horseback brandishing swords and fighting for their king and country.
This witch could certainly handle a few werewolves.
Chapter 4
He had a very bad feeling about this. But he wasn’t a wolf to run with his tail between his legs.
Shifting into gear, Ridge drove the pickup, headlights out, up the long drive that preceded the River pack’s property. If the pack was holding a blood sport match, the grounds would be open to any wolf, even those from other packs. He’d attended a few of the games when the Northern pack had been holding them. He hadn’t a choice, because that was when he would have done anything for Amandus’s respect. From that experience, he knew they would be frisked and assessed before being allowed entrance into the private games.
Ridge also knew he would never be allowed entrance. Since he’d taken over the Northern pack he’d received a very clear message from the other packs that he was not welcome. He’d slain Amandus Masterson. Strangely, many had admired the old wolf. The many who believed they could do as they pleased and participate in a vicious sport that tortured vampires. Ridge had gone so far as to denounce the blood sport. And though there were packs that had agreed not to participate after the Saint-Pierre match had proved successful, those packs would not publicly denounce it, for fear of being detested by their peers, as well.
It was a fine line to walk, yet Ridge wasn’t about to cower to maintain a perceived standing of misplaced solidarity among the other packs. If they couldn’t handle him open and truthful, then he didn’t want to deal with them. A man was nothing without his integrity.
The only thing that bothered him was the few pack members who had left the Northern pack in search of the family he was unable to provide may have joined up with a pack involved in the sport. It hurt his heart to know the men he had once called brothers could participate in something so cruel.
Perhaps Abigail was wrong, and the River pack was merely holding some kind of party tonight, celebrating or something festive like that.
Unfortunately, intuition pricked his hackles like no full moon ever had.
Ridge exhaled, accepting what would come.
Abigail strode around the hood of the truck, fluffing the fur coat collar about her neck. The white fur framed her black hair and heart-shaped face, and for a second Ridge saw a snow goddess, pale and like porcelain, but possessed of a steely inner strength her outer appearance wanted to conceal.
A woman like her certainly did not need a man, or a husband, to survive. Hell, with fingers such as hers wielding magic, survival was a guarantee. Too bad. He could imagine protecting her and holding her close.
The clatter of tiny ice crystals on the surface of the snow sounded like a symphony at their feet. It redirected Ridge’s thoughts from holding her to eerie foreboding.
He held out a hand to keep her behind him, but when she instead clasped his hand, he sucked in a breath and tugged from her touch as if hit by her electrical magic.
“What’s wrong?” she asked.
Everything. He didn’t want to think about how soft and warm she was right now, even though it was her suede glove against his bare hand. How just beneath the fur rimming her neck were full, gorgeous breasts, rising and falling, tempting him to touch. He needed to stay alert and ultrasensitive to his surroundings.
“Can you stay behind?” he asked, knowing her answer before she would refuse. “If this gets tough, I won’t be able to keep an eye on you.”
“I’m a big girl, Ridge.”
“Big enough to stand against a pack of shifted wolves?”
When she didn’t reply, he almost lifted her over his shoulder to carry her back to the truck and shove her inside and lock the door. At least there he could be confident she wouldn’t get in harm’s way. But the scent of another warmblooded creature distracted him.
Ridge lifted his head and closed his eyes. The icy air focused every scent, yet also kept it close to the source, making it difficult to grab distant odors. Yet it lingered, teasing his nostrils.
It came to him on a whisper. Barely there, yet traveling the atmosphere on heavy particles. Blood. And not from a small animal that may have landed in a hunter’s trap in the nearby forest.
It was thick, and too strong, vibrant yet with life. Vampire. He hated that smell.
“Something is going on,” he muttered, his jaw tight. Heartbeat racing, he squeezed his hands into fists. “Follow me, and stay out of sight.”
A dozen vehicles were parked in the snow-plowed area before what was actually an old barn that had been reconditioned and made to look new with a fresh coat of red paint. A rooster weather vane sat still at the roof peak above the double doors.
Ridge sensed the wrongness of the place as soon as they emerged on the cleared parking area beneath a shelter of high-trimmed northern pines. The blood scent traveled his system and formed a tight knot in his gut. Aggressive male shouts from inside the barn prodded at his inner beast. No chickens or cows on this pseudofarm.
It was difficult to maintain stealth with the ice pebbles coating the snow. It had misted fine sleet earlier in the day, and the delicate ice beads crushed like glass beneath their feet and skittered across the glossy, iced surface, no matter how carefully they stepped.
He scanned the parking area, taking in the cars and finding no one inside any of them. He saw an old farmhouse, one that had been added