Season 0f The Witch (Claws Clause Book 2) Page 2

  His father was standing in the front of the office, his mate standing next to him, providing balance and strength to an already powerful alpha wolf shifter. More than twice Colt’s age, Terrence was still in the prime of his life. He was built along the same lines as his eldest son, with wide shoulders, strong arms, and thighs like tree trunks. In fact, the only way to tell the two apart was by the scars lining Terrence’s face.

  He was the force behind their pack. He’d cobbled it together in his youth, following the big reveal fifty years ago when paranormals were forced to come out in the open. Too many shifters tried to challenge him for control in the decades since, with every gash and scar on his weathered face another fight he survived.

  It was common knowledge that he didn’t plan on leading the pack forever. He had a dream of settling down on a patch of wooded land far away from the heart of the pack, living alone with Sarah while his hand-picked successor took over for him. When Maddox was still in the Cage, it seemed as if Terrence had resigned himself to being Alpha forever. Now that Maddox was free and fully bonded to Evangeline, it was only a matter of time before Maddox challenged his father for the top spot.

  Until then, Terrence was the Alpha and all the shifters in their pack knew it. He cleared his throat, the harsh sound instantly snaring the attention of every last one of them.

  His golden eyes gleamed. His grizzled face twisted in a furious sneer. And when he snarled, “Looks like we have a Nightwalker problem,” you could’ve heard a pin drop.

  Colt was stunned. Their pack was made up of mainly predatory shifters. Wolves, bears, lions… they were always the problem.

  What the hell?

  2

  After the pack meeting broke up, Colt decided to leave his truck at his parents’ home.

  His wolf needed to run.

  Ever since he put his paw down about not taking a mate, he had been forced to keep one hell of a leash on his beastly half. With his head full of everything they discussed during the meet, he decided he could risk shifting shapes if only to burn off some of the rage coursing through him.

  Four bodies in less than two weeks. That’s what Terrence told the assembled pack council. All human. All local.

  All their problem now.

  Nightwalkers were draining their victims and leaving them near enough to pack land that his Alpha had—rightly, in Colt’s opinion—no choice but to interpret that as an open threat, if not an outright invitation to war.

  Fucking corpses.

  He wasn’t a big fan of the turned vampires. True, he wasn’t a big fan of all the non-shifters, but Nightwalkers were right up there with witches in his opinion.

  Colt’s hatred of witches was legendary. Most of the witches in the area—and that didn’t include his Bumptown anymore because, well, hatred—regarded him as an enemy. Not because he ever acted on his dislike, but because his temper and his stubborn nature meant he never hid it, either.

  When he was younger, it had to do with their magic. He just couldn’t understand how, with one flick of a finger or a wave of a hand, a witch could cancel out his brute strength, inch-long canines, and razor-sharp claws.

  Right after the almost-fatal car crash, when the truck carrying Maddox and Evangeline toward their honeymoon careened off the mountain, Maddox got thrown into the Cage. Every time Colt visited his brother over the last three years, he was only reminded that witches were a traitor to other Paras.

  The paranormal prison was warded. Witches. The glass partition separating the brothers in the visitors’ room was enchanted to be Para-proof. Witches. The covens were even responsible for the silver collars used to leash the shifters locked inside. Even after Maddox was freed, the ring of ruined skin remained, the terrible scars a memento of his time forced into the silver collar.

  Fucking witches.

  Then Priscilla had ruined Maddox’s life, broken Evangeline, and tried to murder Colt when he confronted her. The lone witch was twisted, obsessed with the idea that she could use her witchcraft to create a bond with Maddox. Cilla thought magic could trump fate; with enough diamonds, she could get rid of her competition and make herself Maddox’s mate instead.

  He had hundreds of reasons to hate witches, and his family wondered why he just couldn’t accept one as a mate?

  He might’ve been able to get over his knee jerk reaction about falling in lust at first sight with a stranger—he was a shifter and, unfortunately, finding his mate had long been a possibility even if he’d never actually looked—but a witch?

  No.

  No.

  Not even one as kind and as sweet and as caring as his.

  Now, when it came to Nightwalkers, he wasn’t alone in his dislike. Of all the different types of paranormals—shifters, vamps, phantoms, witches, and othersiders—Nightwalkers were universally despised. They were dead, though they didn’t appear that way except for their strangely silver eyes and their pale skin. As a whole, the turned race of vampires were vicious and cruel, their lusts only tempered by their blood-drinking and, if they could find one, their betrothed.

  Not many people wanted to tie themselves to a Nightwalker unless they liked to be used as a pincushion. A Nightwalker could offer pleasure with its bite, but there was a cost. Non-Nightwalkers could grow addicted to the high a Nightwalker could offer, becoming a Donor who existed solely to give blood and wait for their next fix. A Donor only loved the feeling, never the corpse; they could never be a vampire’s blood-bonded mate.

  In the past, most Nightwalkers were solitary by nature, only relying on the humans they could feed from. Since Paras were forced out into the open, individual Para quirks were more tolerated. Sure, the drinking had to be done behind closed doors, but nowadays there were synthetic blood shops and blood banks even in mixed towns.

  There were even a couple of Nightwalkers living in his Bumptown; not many, since there was definitely something in their make-up that made them more reclusive than other Paras.

  They settled together in a corner referred to as Little Transylvania. Though Colt was abso-fucking-lutely positive that the vamps in his Bumptown didn’t have anything to do with the bodies, he decided to run past their hidden corner and sniff around after he made it back to the Bumptown.

  His wolf needed the exercise. And Colt needed to focus on something that wasn’t Shea Moonshadow.

  To make matters worse, right before he left, his mother had cornered him to ask if she would see him Thursday for dinner. Before he could snap at Maddox for involving their parents, he put two and two together and realized that Thursday—the day Maddox wanted him over to eat—was Thanksgiving.

  No wonder Dodge had looked at him like he was an idiot for not understanding why Maddox was pushing the whole family dinner thing.

  His mother was waiting for Colt to finally make Shea his mate in truth. She wanted her boys to settle down and nagged in that loving way Sarah Wolfe was known for. Luckily, Terrence stepped in and told his mate that Colt wasn’t a pup anymore.

  When Sarah snapped her teeth at her mate—the only member of the pack who could challenge the Alpha without it being a true challenge—Colt tucked his tail between his legs and dashed out the back door.

  He narrowly missed running into Ralph, waving off the unnecessary offer of a ride back into town before he kicked off his shoes and shifted on the spot. His t-shirt and jeans exploded into tatters as the over-sized, white arctic wolf appeared where the boyishly handsome twenty-seven-year-old Colt had been seconds before.

  He ran the entire way home. Sure, he’d have to find a way to get his truck back tomorrow, pick up his discarded boots, too, but that was tomorrow.

  Tonight was for his wolf.

  Of the two Wolfe brothers, Colt had always been the most in tune with his beast. Not lately. Both halves of him were locked in a constant battle as they fought over his… his mate.

  Five months later and Colt couldn’t stop thinking about her.

  He couldn't stop fantasizing about her, either.

&nb
sp; Shit.

  Just as he crossed onto the wooded land that surrounded the perimeter of his Bumptown, he couldn’t hold back any longer. In mid-stride, the wolf shifted back to his two-legged shape, revealing a very naked, very aroused male.

  That wasn’t so unusual. From the moment he woke up in his bed and discovered that she was there, that she was touching him, that she knew she was his mate, Colt struggled to deal with his hard-on. It was like his damn cock had a mind of its own. No matter how Colt tried to convince himself that he wasn’t going to mate her—that he couldn’t—his cock went stiff at just the slightest thought of her.

  Her curls.

  Her smile.

  Her tits.

  The head bobbed, pointed skyward as Colt went down on his knees. It was cold out, November on the east coast, and he felt the chill like a caress on his overheated skin. How many times had he stroked himself, praying for some relief, wishing he could tame his wayward cock without going to Shea and sacrificing his stubborn pride?

  Finding another woman was out of the question. He couldn’t have Shea—he was too stubborn, too hard-headed, and he’d lost any chance of getting inside of her a long time ago. No matter what, though, she was his true mate. The one fate picked out for him. He couldn’t have Shea, but he wouldn’t take anyone else.

  So he jerked off. A lot. Considering how many times he’d brought himself to come in the last five months, it amazed him that he’d never masturbated before he found Shea. Male shifters couldn’t even get an erection until they chanced upon their true mate—another reason why he knew Shea was supposed to be his—and it seemed as if he was making up for lost time.

  Taking just a second to make sure no one else was close enough to see what he was doing, Colt wrapped his hand around his shaft. It was hot, it was hard, and a bead of pre-cum was already forming at the tip of the mushroom-shaped head.

  He gave it a vicious tug, then another, every rough stroke like another punishment. He refused to find any type of gratification in the act. It was another biological urge, one he didn’t have the strength to ignore. When the friction started to burn, he increased the pace, throwing back his head and moaning when the quick jolt of pleasure overtook the pain.

  Come spurted out on the frozen grass. He wiped his hand against his bare ass, chest heaving in the brisk night air. His cock twitched, still semi-hard, and he took a deep breath, struggling for control.

  He took a deep breath and snuffled back through his nose.

  He’d been too preoccupied with his quick orgasm to use his nose. When his ears and his wolf assured him that he was the only living creature around him, he left it at that. The deep breath he just took? The stench of carrion, of rotten meat, blood, and death that nearly slapped him in the face… he was right.

  He was the only living thing around.

  Nightwalkers stunk like that. Once you caught your first whiff of the dead vampires, you never forgot it. Only… he wasn’t anywhere near Little Transylvania.

  Colt shifted back to his wolf, choosing fur over bare skin. Not that he gave a shit if someone caught him with his cock out when he wasn’t tugging on it. Shifters always came back from their animal shape without any clothes on. Far as he was concerned, nudity was definitely more of a human hang-up.

  But, as he dashed over the wooded terrain, four paws were faster than two legs. His wolf lifted its muzzle high, tasting the blood in the air, following it to the edge of the boundary that butted up against Colt’s immediate territory.

  His wolf kept its mouth open, tongue lolling as he sampled the scents, processing them. It belonged to a Nightwalker, one who was long gone and unfamiliar to him. But… that wasn’t the only scent he caught as he got closer.

  Human. That was a human female scent wafting toward him, nearly covered up by the copious amounts of blood.

  He spurred his wolf to go faster.

  There wasn’t supposed to be a human around for miles.

  Sometimes Ants approached a Bumptown on a dare. When they did, they almost always avoided the Zoo—the area of the settlement populated by a mix of solitary shifters and smaller, segregated packs—because of its reputation.

  Okay, Colt allowed. The reputation of predatory shifters like him. If you wouldn’t want to square off against a true wolf, cougar, or bear in the wild, that went double for dangerous shifters.

  In the Zoo, the ordinances outlined in the Claws Clause were more like… guidelines, rather than laws.

  If they had any brains in their heads at all, they stayed away from Little Transylvania, too. The name was cutesy; the Nightwalkers that guarded their immediate territory were definitely not.

  The Dayborns were pretty safe. Natural-born vampires who thought they were more civilized than their turned counterparts, they could almost pass for humans if they hid their fangs.

  Well, unless you had a shifter's nose.

  Colt prided himself on his nose. He could scent a threat to his territory from more than a mile away, more if the wind was blowing toward his home. He could separate trails, pick out one particular scent out of countless others, even decipher emotions and intentions by the way it smelled.

  Like how a lie had a curdled taint to it, and sharp fear was bitter and acrid.

  The female scent seemed human. Nowadays, though, that didn’t mean anything, did it?

  Colt started to jog toward it, once again dwelling on his witch as he went.

  He didn’t know Shea’s innate scent, the one that belonged to her and her alone. In the beginning, before he knew she was a witch, he wondered if she used a scent-reducer to hide it. Fucking witches were making a killing on that charm, creating soaps and shower gels and perfumes to cover up a person’s scent. It was anti-Para as hell but, then again, most things were.

  Bumptowns.

  The Cage.

  The ridiculous Claws Clause.

  He hated it, but even Colt had to admit they had a point. In the case of shifters, all it took was one sniff and they knew their one true mate. Vamps, too, supposedly, though humans were more worried that they smelled like lunch to the bloodsuckers.

  Not that Shea’s missing scent meant shit. Colt already had a troubling suspicion from the first time he heard her voice and his wolf gentled for the first time in ages. Then he saw her at her shop and his heart nearly stopped.

  And when she accidentally brushed his arm, a totally different part of him came to life in a rush of pleasure and lust.

  His body was sure she was his mate, his wolf was certain of it, and he still didn’t know what her true scent was. A woodsy hint here, a pleasant earthy aroma drifted to him when he least expected it, only to be caught off guard—and brutally reminded that she was a witch—when his nose got hit with a hint of the telltale stink of baby powder.

  She wasn’t hiding it, though. Not on purpose. It had everything to do with protecting herself. Shea claimed she wasn’t a witch—at least, not a practicing one. She was a healer, though, as well as an empath, and she kept herself locked up behind an almost impenetrable set of shields that kept the whole world out unless she invited them in.

  Colt didn’t want a mate. He also didn’t want her to suffer due to her gifts.

  So the shields? He was torn. His wolf wanted nothing more than to break through them. At the same time, it absolutely hated the idea of causing her any further pain.

  Colt’s repeated rejection was bad enough. He couldn’t get a read on her emotions or tell through her scent, thanks to her shields, but the bond… he could feel her sadness every time he pushed her away.

  Still, he kept on doing it.

  He had to.

  Shea deserved better than him. She deserved better than a broken shifter who didn’t know what the fuck he wanted.

  The wind blew past him, the scents so strong he had to shut his nose off before it triggered his wolf’s hunting instincts. As he loped over the invisible line that separated the edge of the Bumptown from the next town over, his fur ruffled as his wolf’s eyes spied a b
ody sprawled out on the ground.

  The female’s back was to him. Her clothes were disheveled, the white material covered with large, dark stains. The source of the blood? It had to be. Shifting back to his two-legged shape, he perched on the tips of his toes, crouching low as he moved around her, careful not to disturb the scene.

  She was dead. It was obvious, but it wasn’t what he noticed at first.

  His heart stuttered. His claws slipped out, his fangs lengthening as he got his first look at the body. Petite. Slender. An olive complexion and thick, glossy curls that were matted with blood, covering half of her face.

  Her eyes were closed.

  Were they purple?

  Shea stopped wearing her glamour months ago. He’d know her eyes anywhere.

  Were they purple?

  Before Colt lowered himself, anxious to lift the dead female’s lid, he breathed in again. He pulled back, shaking his head, forcing himself to focus.

  His nose was right. Though his eyes nearly tricked him, showing him Shea’s pretty face when he looked at this battered female, he knew in an instant that she’d been a human.

  Poor thing had also been brutally murdered and drained.

  * * *

  He forced the wolf to sprint back to his house.

  As soon as he was back inside, he shifted back to two legs. He didn’t bother reaching for clothes, in case he needed to shift again; instead, he grabbed his phone. He needed to report his find to his Alpha and pass it off to the rest of the pack.

  It was a test, Colt decided, and not just that. The Nightwalker who dropped its kill just outside of Colt’s territory was making a statement. They wanted Colt to find the body without actually crossing the lines.

  Another casualty of an unclaimed war? Or a Nightwalker killer out having its kicks?

  Colt didn’t know, but he had to call this in. He let out a frustrated snarl when the phone rang and rang and rang. Fifteen rings later and he was still waiting.