Wolf Whisperer

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 to a vampire. Even, he thought dazedly, shifter’s blood.

A hiss came from above. He looked up, knowing what he’d find. The vampire had gotten back up and faced him, no doubt attracted by the scent of fresh blood. His glowing red gaze appeared transfixed by Mac’s wound.

Of course. As he struggled to hang on to fading consciousness, he wondered what would happen if the vampire drank his blood as he lay dying. Would he then be reborn, one of the undead, a new form of being, a lupine vampire?

Right. He groaned. As if there could ever be such a thing. Though Tearlachs existed, so why not?

As he peered up through a haze of pain, the vampire leaned closer, white fangs gleaming. It was going to bite him. Seriously? He bared his teeth in self-defense.

Kelly appeared, growling low in her throat. She forced the vamp to back away from Mac, keeping the monster from defiling a dying wolf and drinking and draining his blood.

Mac closed his eyes, letting out breath he hadn’t even realized he was holding. Hounds help him, he was glad.

The shifter appeared and lifted his gun. Kelly snarled, and leapt forward at the exact same moment that the bloodsucker did.

Bang. Once. Bang. Twice. And then a third time. Kelly kept going, apparently undeterred despite having taken three bullets. Three silver bullets. Or had they gone into the vampire?

Damn. Despite his pain, Mac couldn’t help but be impressed.

Dropping the gun, the shifter spun on his heel and took off in a speed-blurring run. The vampire, too, had vanished, nowhere in sight.

Blood dripping from her wounds, the wolf—Kelly—did not pursue.

Mac must have blacked out then. The next thing he knew, Kelly—in human form—cradled him in her arms. She gently shook him awake.

“Change back,” she urged softly. “I need you to be come human. Let me take a look at your wound.”

Struggling to focus on her incredibly beautiful face, he took a deep breath and willed himself to shift back to human form.

He was so weak that shifting to man took longer than usual. But finally, it was done and he lay, naked and bleeding, in her arms.

Her blood-soaked arms.

“You were shot, too,” he croaked. “Three times. Right?”

“No.” She sounded supremely unconcerned. “Only once, and I already took care of that. Right now, we’ve got to stop your bleeding.”

Already took care of … Damn it. The benefit of being a Tearlach. Invulnerable to anything and everything, except fire. Despite horrific injuries, Maggie would have healed, would have lived if the car hadn’t exploded. He let himself drift with the pain.

“Where are your clothes?” she asked.

Dazedly, he looked about for something to use as a makeshift bandage. “Over there.” He pointed.

She grabbed his sodden hoodie off the ground. “This will work. Hold still.”

Wrapping the hoodie around Mac’s leg, Kelly tied off a makeshift tourniquet.

“I hope this will stem the bloodshed. If you were full-blooded, a nonsilver-bullet gunshot wound would heal almost instantly. But because you’re a Halfling …” She shrugged. “It’ll take a bit longer.”

He couldn’t take offense, because she was right. Half lings healed only slightly faster than humans. Not that it mattered. None of that mattered now. No shifter, full or half, lived after being shot by a silver bullet.

The Tearlach crap be damned. They were both going to die. Strangely enough, this knowledge brought him peace. Truth be told, he had nothing, really, to live for. If he couldn’t have his children, he was ready to go.

Unless, the niggling thought wouldn’t go away, the legends were actually right about Tearlachs and their magical powers. If they were, he wouldn’t die. And neither would she.

Mind-boggling and probably the product of a dying mind. Wishful thinking. Yet once it had occurred to him, the thought would not go away.

Being around Kelly could save him. Might save him … No. Would save him. The true significance of the words she’d spoken. We are one—Mo Anam Cara. Spoken by a Tearlach, that meant he was under her protection. Which meant, in theory, like her he couldn’t die unless by fire.