Page 26 of Shift of Destiny
They disappeared from view, but Chance saw the beam of a flashlight and heard the shuffling of feet as they stepped onto the packed dirt road.
“Chaffet,” said Moira in a loud, overly sweet voice, “Underwear too tight on your nuts? Shove me again, and I’ll shrink them to fit.”
“How do you know my name?” Suspicion mingled with fear in the man’s tone.
She laughed. “The same way I know the van is about a mile down the road, on the hill above it, with one asshole inside, jacking off to Internet porn. I hope none of the rest of you touches that joystick, because,ewww.” Bless his clever, magical mate for her bravery.
“She’s a witch, you dumbfuck.” The older wolf sounded disgusted.
“Fuck you, Washenko.”
Chance focused on Richie, whose shifter metabolism had undoubtedly already healed whatever pain Moira had caused in his genitals. His body language said he was trying to pick up Chance’s trail without shifting. Richie was no alpha, so he didn’t have half-shift capabilities, but most shifters, even sick ones, had better senses than the average human. He looked left, right, and behind him, then turned quietly to his left and walked southward, leading with his nose.
Richie could wait. The two twitchy wolves with guns on his mate had first priority.
Chance left the rocks and ran swiftly north, then crossed the road and headed southwest, trusting the net of Moira’s magic to help conceal him.
Once he got closer to the van, he discovered more men deployed in a large defensive circle. Judging by the first two he’d found, they couldn’t see each other, but were in constant communication via radio and headsets. He couldn’t smell them, meaning they probably wore concealment charms like Chaffet and Washenko had. They all had a military air about them, and plenty of firepower.
Time to even the odds.
* * *
Moira told herself she wasn’t afraid, but she’d never been good at lying to herself. The breath of her escorts exuded a stench of carrion, like they hadn’t eaten fresh meat in months, Chaffet especially. Only their fear of her witchy powers and their greater fear of Pruhon, their pack leader, kept them from hurting her.
On the know-thy-enemy principle, she focused her knowing magic on the two men… no, wolves in men’s clothing, but she couldn’t tell if it helped. She’d already figured out that Chaffet was a sly whiner and not very bright, and that Washenko hid feral savagery under a thin veneer of civility. The magic charms they wore, the ones she’d instinctively disabled, were easier to discern as coming from a disdainful sorcerer for hire who sold the cheaper goods to no-talent humans and numbskull shifters because they wouldn’t know the difference.
As much as her instincts urged her to run, she doubted her magic was strong enough to hide her from inhumanly fast, inhumanly strong wolves with guns. Not to mention, she didn’t have shifter night vision to find her way in the dark. Her only assets were her wits, luck, and, she hoped, Chance.
“So,” she said conversationally, “how does it work in your pack? Does your alpha get first crack at me, or am I someone’s reward?” She hoped she sounded like she didn’t care that they probably intended to hurt her or worse.
“Mates weaken wolves,” said Chaffet loftily. “We’re selling you to the highest bidder.”
“Oh, stealing me from Witzer, then.” She shrugged elaborately. “Your business, of course, but take it from me, he’s definitely the type to hold a grudge.”
“Nah, he’ll blame his scheming sons for losing you, and because you’re a witch, too, we’ll get a million for you, easy.” Chaffet grinned. “Win-win.”
“You talk too much,” grumbled Washenko.
Moira agreed, and took advantage of it. She discovered they planned to fly her out of the mountains in a helicopter, then use their private company jet to deliver her to the auction winner like she was a mail-order package. When Richie had helped the twins kidnap her, he’d discovered she was a witch with shifter-mate potential, and notified Pruhon of her real value. Richie and Chaffet used their satellite phone to report she was missing from the cave, and Pruhon sent Washenko and the others to hunt her. She didn’t want to expose her ignorance by asking what the hell “shifter-mate potential” meant, and how they knew. Which in turn made her wonder if Chance knew, and if so, why he hadn’t told her. Unless it was only for stinky wolves, in which case, yuck.
“Shut up for a minute,” ordered Washenko. “I haven’t heard any radio chatter for the last ten minutes, and Dorsey isn’t answering.” He powered his shoulder radio off and on.
Chaffet waved dismissively. “Probably fucking with the drone.” He tapped a button on his radio. “Hey, Cho Lai, if you’re dry-humping a juniper, I’m not pulling the needles out of your dick.”
They grew more alert with the ensuing silence.
“Richie seems fond of double-crossing people,” Moira observed, hoping to sow doubt.
Chaffet growled his denial and raised his gun, eyes tracking from side to side.
Washenko looked more thoughtful, but raised his gun, too.
A not-so-distant animal roared in the night. Chaffet instantly spun to his right and shot into the dark, only missing Washenko’s eyebrow by inches.
Moira dove to the ground, skinning her already sore palms, but Washenko hauled her back up again. “Give me that!” He snatched Chaffet’s gun and shoved her at him. “Hold her,” he snarled. “She’s our insurance.”
Washenko slung two of the rifles onto his shoulder and pointed the barrel of the third into the side of her neck. “The van.”
