Monday, April 30, 2012
Nilambari ran as if her life depended on it, because it definitely did. Her escorts had released her arms to get the bags out of the car. She’d seen her chance and sprinted for the forest, shedding her jewelry as she ran. The second she hit the trees she’d shifted. Her expensive sari unfurled and fluttered to the ground behind her like a discarded bridal train, like the life she’d rejected with her dash to freedom. This bright new country had better fulfill its promise of plenty, because now she had nothing.
Other than the two tiger shifters currently on her trail.
One she might have fought or eluded. Not two. So she ran, weaving between trees and employing every scrap of woodcraft she knew to throw them off the scent. The crashing through the brush behind her foretold futility. These were Yakuza. They answered to Shere Khan. He would have their heads if they didn’t bring him hers.
To her advantage, she was young and quick. Tigers weren’t built for speed or stamina. Perhaps she could outrun them.
She vaulted a jumble of rocks and landed on top of something furred, firm and squiggly. Her own momentum rolled her off it before it could buck her away. She landed in a crouch, to the sight of a paw and a set of wicked claws aimed at her face.
The claws slammed to a stop a hair from her eyes. The cat had scented her sheness. He lowered his paw and stared at her with his head cocked to one side.
Nilambari had known only a few Indian lions. They were weak creatures, unlike the full-fed kings who ruled the African plains, and no match for the tigers who held sway in India. This tawny male was smaller even than they. And maneless. If not for his decidedly masculine scent, she would have taken him for a lioness.
No lions had been among her escorts. This cat must be a native.
The crash of heavy bodies announced the arrival of the Yakuza. Nilambari slunk into the bushes.
The two Yakuza tigers appeared at the top of the rocks. They lashed their tails and snarled and bristled themselves even larger to intimidate the native cat.
He regarded them with more calm than he had Nilambari’s sudden arrival. He rose up abruptly and shifted. In human form he was tall but less bulky than a tiger, with the same tawny hair now falling over bright golden eyes. Those eyes narrowed to suspicious bars. He flexed his fingers as one would claws.
Nilambari hissed. That fine human body was about to get itself clawed to pieces. Why had he not stayed a cat?
“You’re trespassing,” he informed the tigers. “Get off my mountain and I’ll let you keep your stripes.”
For a moment the tigers gaped at him. No one defied the will of Shere Khan, certainly not this scrawny mangy native lion. Then one of the Yakuza shifted. “Out of our way, house cat,” he spat.
The lion-shifter shrugged. “Can’t say I didn’t warn you.” He backed a stride to the small campfire behind him and picked up a rifle. He shot at the tiger’s feet. The man fell over backwards with a yell of surprise. The other, still in tiger form, continued to crouch atop the rock until a bullet pinged beside his paw and convinced him to crouch elsewhere. The lion fired again, creasing the tiger’s spine fur. Both plunged down the mountainside back the way they had come.
“Stinking Yakuza,” he muttered. He relaxed, but kept hold of the rifle. “You going to come out,” he said toward Nalimbari’s hiding place, “or do I have to come in after you?”
# # #
Rick Donnelly watched the slender tigress creep out of the brush. His look of frank appraisal turned to one of shock when she shifted. Human, she was slim as a cat-tail, with dusky skin and raven-wing hair tumbling down to her waist. She had practically no hips or boobs. Or, he judged, many years to her credit.
He inclined his head toward the sound of the fleeing tigers. “Do I even want to know?”
“It’s best if you do,” she said, in a low, husky voice. “They’ll hunt you now, for shielding me. Shere Khan won’t rest until he has me back, and takes your head.”
Rick looked her up and down. “And what did a little thing like you do to piss off Shere Khan?”
She looked at the ground. “My father owes him a debt. He demanded me as payment. I was to become his concubine. I did not wish to be the concubine of Shere Khan, so when I saw my chance, I ran.”
Rick hissed in a breath. “Are you even legal?”
“In my country, girls younger than I are already married and mothers.” She continued to look at the ground. “I’d hoped my advanced age would spare me, but Lord Khan seems not to mind.”
That filthy old perv, Rick thought. He had, what, a dozen wives already? And still thought nothing of tossing yet another one into the cage. “Just how ‘advanced’ are you?”
Her voice dropped to a shamed whisper. “Nearly twenty.”
He just barely stifled his chuckle. “Yep. Over the hill for sure. Well, you’re on my mountain now, and I don’t put up with tigers. Male tigers,” he amended at her stricken look. “I’m sure I can keep an old lady like you safe. What’s your name?”
“Nilambari.” Finally, she lifted her head. Her green eyes seemed to take up half her thin face. “Are you a lion?”
This time he did chuckle. “Mountain lion. I used to prefer cougar, until the humans got hold of it and changed the meaning. I’m Rick. Welcome to Montana.”
He held out his hand. She stared at it for a long time before she finally took it. His big paw swallowed hers. Funny, he thought. In her tiger form she was probably bigger than he was. Tigers. What the hell had brought a pack of tigers all the way to Montana, and why couldn’t they learn to stay the hell off his mountain?
Though he didn’t mind this one’s presence so much.
She had transferred her stare from his hand to his rifle. “You carry a gun?”
“Not to hunt. This is my range. Some folks, like grizzlies and the Yakuza, haven’t caught on yet.” He grinned down at her. “I know my limits, and I’m not stupid.”
Nilambari withdrew her hand. “I should go. So should you. They’ll be back, in greater numbers.” She looked from him to the gun again. “They will also come armed.”
“Whoa!” He caught her arm when she tried to slip away, and growled mentally when she openly flinched. A cougar she would have clawed his face off. What did those stinking stripies do to their cubs? “You can’t go into town the way you are, not even in Talbot’s Peak. C’mere, have a seat.”
He guided her over to the fire, where a groundhog roasted on a spit. He didn’t miss the covetous way she eyed it. Did tigers drink coffee? Did he have any tea? Whenever Rick went on patrol he tried to prepare for anything his mountains might throw at him, but they’d never thrown a frightened tigress at him before. Rummaging through his pile of clothing, he found a sheepskin jacket and offered it to her. She slid it gratefully over her shoulders.
“Help yourself to dinner,” he offered. She seated herself crosslegged before his fire. Rick sat opposite. “Slow down,” he advised when she ripped, tiger-like, into the meat. “Sounds like we’ve got a ton to talk about. This could take a while.”
Saturday, April 28, 2012
Friday, April 27, 2012
"Breathe." Between the gentle reminders to continue taking in air and the tippy-tap of her purple fuck me boots Penelope assumed everything would be okay.
Dante’s call letting her know there’d be a room ready at the pleasure club by six left her floored. While Penelope adored spending time at Dante's, especially in sin, no way could she maintain her word to Burgess under such strain.
Dante however insisted she be there at six and follow each directive he set down.
1. Wear the boots. Tied tight and all the way to the top—no folding them over.
2. Wrap the mink around her throat.
3. Only bells allowed beneath her trench coat.
4. No orgasms.
Rule four became almost impossible to follow considering where the bells from three were laced. She smiled though as Danny's coarse little tongue slid up her neck and behind her ear.
"I'm excited to, Daniel. Two months is far too long to be apart from our blue-haired penguino.”
Burgess had been called away on some super secret, not to be divulged, mission so long ago. The wait for his return began to grind on their nerves.
“Okay, we must to calm down.” Penelope tugged at her boots one last time and straightened out the trench coat. “I’d adjust the bells too, Daniel, however that would force me to break my promise, 10 steps away from our Aussie.”
“G’day, Mistress Penny…”
Have a wonderful weekend!
Tuesday, April 24, 2012
A HUGE HOWL OF THANKS! To everyone who stopped by during the Earth Day Blog Hop.
Warning: This flash scene contains a dose of gratuitous violence. My dark side took over. But don't worry, the hero from down under still wins. And, oh yes, apologies to any Aussies for the admittedly clumsy use of your slang words.
Covered by the darkness of night, Shere Khan twitched his tiger nose, and stared through the thick tangle of forest brush. The noxious odors of the Global League's soldiers filled him with a mighty rage.
However, the wisdom of his long life kept him still, and observing. His ninja scouts had not been mistaken.
Shere Khan had not wanted to accept their dutiful report. He'd traveled a great distance through the deepest forest and partway up the mountainside to discover the truth for himself.
A silent growl vibrated his throat and his tail tip slashed the air. For a century now, the Tiger Yakuza held in their possession, a negotiated contract with the European cabal. Now the vile Machiavelian pirates violated his territory.
Shere Khan burned hot as white fire, his muscles tensing, ready to crash through the stand of brush. Only knowing now was not the time to make his move stopped him. Even so, his claws flexed as he envisioned shredding all twenty of the foul, soul-perverted humans who dared soil his territory.
'Summit,' he growled inside his mind.
Shere Khan despised the idea, yet he well knew a summit meeting with the werewolf, Dante, would be necessary to protect Talbot's Peak and the surrounding territory. A unified and superior force would be required. Ah, yes, a temporary alliance, assuming the powerful alpha could persuaded.
Dante's strong alliance with the superwolf, White Fang, and his lover, the cat goddess, Z'Pasha, would prove to be a major obstacle. Continuing to stalk the elite soldiers' movements with his gaze, his further thoughts were rudely interrupted by the pungent scent of canine.
'Terrible threat, eh mate?'
Dugger slid his words inside Shere Khan's mind like the deft slice of a knife. He knew knives in his human form. Especially the Crocodile Dundee model.
"Dingo," Shere Khan snarled once he spun around, facing Dugger.
With his usual icy cool, but with his hackles raised, Dugger stood his ground about thirty feet away from the Tiger Yakuza leader. Dante had given him a crash course in the major players before agreeing to his troubleshooting scout-about.
Ever since losing several of his human friends to the cruel killer mercenaries, Dugger had made it his personal mission to track wherever the Global League placed its demonic army. The instant he'd known there was a planned takeover of the wild lands surrounding Talbot's Peak, he'd contacted his motorcycle-riding mate, Dante.
Hours later, unseen by security and the crew, Dugger hopped a transport plane as his dingo self, and left his native Australia. He'd been panting like a right stud anyway to visit the Interspecies Pleasure Club. Yeah, two birds were almost within the snap of his jaws.
Now he and Shere Khan stared at each other like TV Western gunfighters. Neither he or the white tiger blinked. Yet, both of them kept one ear cocked toward the Global League squad. All the while their animal eyes blazed at each other instead of pistols.
Alerted by suspicious sounds, then running steps in their direction, he and Shere Khan whirled around by tacit agreement. The fight was on. Already weapons fire flashed toward them.
Mad as cut snake, and with his blood on boil, Dugger burst into a run slipping through the wall of brush. Fleeter of foot than Shere Khan, and more agile, he positioned himself opposite the obviously enraged tiger.
Not expecting to be attacked by a dingo and a white tiger, the squad halted and with their backs to each other, fired at random. At first, he and Shere Khan circled at full speed, avoiding the spray of bullets.
Even with their special ops training, the soldiers were unprepared for a wild-animal tag team. Dugger dashed in and out, leaping, crushing the wrist of his hated enemies with one bite.
From the corner of his eye, he watched Shere Khan charge. His massive jaws broke arms like twigs.
Once the squad had been disarmed and their blood saturated the forest floor, Dugger searched for any vulnerability. On instinct, he ripped through their uniforms with savage fangs. No mercy lived inside him as he ended their earthly lives.
Dugger knew rogue soulless killers when he tasted them. And he'd tasted a lot of them recently. The Global League had declared war on the human population of Earth -- a ruthless war most of humanity knew nothing about.
As his sides heaved with exertion and triumph, Dugger watched Shere Khan fling the leg he'd just torn off with a primitive vengeance. After a roar that reverberated throughout the forest, the tiger turned glowing eyes on Dugger.
'You, dingo, and I have a common enemy,' Shere Khan mind-communicated. 'They will send more of their warrior hirelings to conquer us. Soon.'
'Yeah, spent a deal of time tracking their bloody arses, and watching 'em. Warned Dante about the roach-like infestation coming his way.' Dugger kept his gaze keen on the Tiger Yakuza leader, but relaxed his posture as if they were speaking over a couple of coldies.
Shere Khan regarded him with a shrewd and fierce eye. 'What is your personal interest in Talbot's Peak, dingo?'
'Just arrived from down under to give a bikie pal a helping paw. And you know the Pleasure Club by reputation.' Dugger gave him a wink, then a brief grin of his canine lips.
After giving Dugger a short stare, Shere Khan shook his huge head, an indication he felt no immediate threat. 'Perhaps you will deliver a message to your pal, Dante.'
'Yeah, yeah, what is it, oh great tiger one?'
The massive white tiger's eyes flamed for an instant to be replaced with a glint of amusement. 'I wish a summit meeting. Does not a formidable enemy make strange bedfellows, even when considering the numerous and varied carnal opportunities at the Interspecies Pleasure Club?'
'Can't argue with you on that point. Yeah, I'll pass your message along.' With that Dugger spun on his hind legs, and began an easy, ground-eating trot.
Life had taken a damn ace of a turn, and he was already feeling at home in Talbot's Peak. After a bit of conversation with the biker werewolf, and a long curled-up snooze, Dugger planned on doing some serious exploration of the Pleasure Club.
So far, time hadn't been on his side when it came to the amenities Dante had offered. Now that he'd decided to stay on, that was about to change. Dugger grinned and broke into a lope.
Happy Sun in Taurus!
Savanna Kougar ~ Run on the Wild Side of Romance ~
Monday, April 23, 2012
# # #
Jillian Spooner shaded her eyes and peered first at the sere expanse of grass her ranch had become, then up at the pale, bleached sky. No clouds at all up there, no promise of relief. No water, no rain. No hope. A phoenix, its brilliant feathers bedraggled from the heat, dropped down to perch briefly on the withered tree beside the corral, uttered a single melancholy squawk, and then flapped on.
Sighing, she trudged to the well and began the tedious process of cranking up enough liquid to fill the trough and water the stock. The horses were a tough breed, descended from fey mares her grandfather had brought up from the south. They could live on dew and the wild beans whose vines crisscrossed the pastures, but not forever. They needed grass and grain to stay healthy. All the valley did. There must be water, and soon.
Jill turned gritty, bitter eyes to the north, to Fountain Hill. The spring on its peak, it was said, had been a gift of the benevolent, maternal Goose Woman herself, enchanted to never run dry. In happier times water had tumbled in an unending cataract from that hidden source, and irrigated the entire valley. But times change, and magic ends. The track of the cataract gleamed like a bone, the Goose River had shrunk to a narrow trickle in its cracked and brick-dry bed, and what people said of Goose Woman now Jill would not repeat.
The Spooners had their well, but that was not nearly enough. The Peterses, their nearest neighbors, had already packed up and gone, leaving their pumpkins to split and curl beneath the merciless sun. The widow Mary Sparks, contrary to the last, clung stubbornly to her parched garden patch. She’d outlasted troubles worse than this, she said, and vowed to sit tight. Jill wanted badly to do the same, but how long could they hold on?
With the trough three-quarters full, Jill set to drawing two last buckets for herself and Uncle Orly. Alerted by the scent of water, the horses drifted in, their once-bright faerie coats now dulled by dust. Her heart ached to see them so. “I’ll make it better,” she promised them. “Somehow.”
Phaedra, the lead mare, halted abruptly. She turned her head and pricked her ears toward the wavery horizon. Jill squinted along the line of her interest and spotted movement. Another neighbor pulling out? That didn’t look like a wagon. That was a rider, headed for the ranch.
Jill set the bucket down, suddenly alert. She’d left her rifle inside. Before she could move toward the house, however, something about the rider struck her as familiar. She froze in place, staring, as her heart did a series of painful flips and her throat became a dry and dusty echo of the land. All the while the rider drew ever nearer, nearer.
She stood rooted to the earth and let him approach her. No mistaking him now. Within the lean, rangy face and form of the man she could still make out the sparkling eyes and careless ease of the boy she’d known. That brought back to her mind the careless, easy way those eyes had broken her heart, just before he’d ridden off without a word to her. Her legs found their resolve again, and she reconsidered a dash for her rifle.
Too late. He reined his horse to a stop just inside the gate. She automatically assessed the stallion with a horsewoman’s practiced eye. Those eyes grew wide. A tigerstripe! Their fey blood mingled with Gorgon; it was said they couldn’t be tamed. Yet horse bore rider with no complaint. No easy or careless man could get near a wild tigerstripe, let alone catch it and break it to saddle. She peered more closely at his face, suddenly uncertain. Perhaps this wasn’t Jack after all.
His voice dispelled her doubts. “Jillian,” he said. Just that, but it broke open her heart and flooded through her like a torrent down an arroyo. Somehow her mouth found enough liquid to swallow.
“Jack. You’re—” She couldn’t go on.
“I’m back,” he said simply. He removed his hat. There were the sparkling eyes and the lean face with its easy smile. The eyes did not sparkle as brightly, but the smile still invited a woman’s confidence, and tempted her lips to touch his. A dangerous thing, that smile. First in the hands of the boy he’d been, especially now on the face of the man he’d become. Jill tried to steel herself against it, and already felt herself faltering. The bucket weighed like lead in her hand, but she couldn’t look away from him long enough to set it down.
“What do you want?” she managed.
She wavered anew before his frank stare. As if he were assessing her, as she had his horse. The tigerstripe eyed the mares at the trough. Jack looked at her with much the same expression. “I’ve come home,” he said, “to claim what’s mine.”
Before she could respond to this, a rifle clacked behind her, startling them both. The tigerstripe skinned back its lips, revealing teeth far too sharp for a normal horse. Jill risked a glance over her shoulder. Uncle Orly stood in the doorway, the rifle trained on Jack.
Jack only smiled. “Orlando Spooner. Peaceable as ever. How’s that dance-hall girl you got to run away with you?”
“She run off on me. What do you think?” Uncle Orly settled his aim on Jack’s chest. “You ride on, Horner, and you keep on riding. You’re not welcome here.”
“Too bad. That gal was quite a dish.” He resettled his hat on his head, and tipped its brim to Jill. ”Jillian. I’ll be seeing you again.”
“No, you won’t,” Uncle Orly said. “There’s no place for you in Goose Valley. You be on your way.”
Jack smiled to them both, but mostly at Jill. He turned the tigerstripe and rode off at a leisurely trot.
Uncle Orly didn’t lower the rifle until Jack had traveled well beyond the gate. “Horner,” he muttered. “Like we didn’t have enough trouble. You all right, sweetheart?”
That was debatable. Up until five minutes ago she’d have sworn before the parson Jack’s return would not affect her, that she’d cried him out of her system years back. That was before he’d trained his eyes on her and made that remark about claiming. Somehow the pain and the years between dissolved before those eyes.
Mentally she shook herself. She was no woman to wear a man’s brand. Certainly not Jack Horner’s. She hefted the bucket. “I’ll be all right,” she assured her uncle. “Let’s get dinner started.”
Friday, April 20, 2012
Jada Bi’sone sat at the bar, picking her nails, and waiting her turn. Each person in the lineup had picked a be-bopping, Britney blah of a song. Not her though, she been practicing for weeks to perfect her favorite song for tonight's karaoke madness.
DOWN TO EARTH
Laurie gazed out at the garden through Digger’s kitchen window. “It’s working,” she said.
Behind her, Digger took a pitcher of iced tea out of the fridge. “Huh? The what now?”
“The garden. You planted it to attract rabbits, right? Well, it’s working. There’s a whole—herd? Flock? What do you call a bunch of rabbits?”
“Breakfast, lunch and dinner.” Digger darted to her side to peer out the window. His enthusiasm left him in a blast of profanity. “Scat.”
“What is it?” Laurie said, but Digger had dashed out the back door. Puzzled, Laurie followed.
She was surprised to see the rabbits still in the garden. She’d expected them to bolt in all directions when Digger burst outside. This must be a really brazen bunch, or really stupid to hang around with a wolf eyeing them up. Laurie debated going back inside. If a bunny massacre was in the offing, she didn’t want to see it.
Digger didn’t lunge into the garden with jaws snapping, as she expected. He stood with his arms folded over his chest. “Okay, how many of you freeloaders are shifters?”
For answer, the whole bunch shifted. A dozen naked dirt-smudged men and women now sat in the garden. Most still nibbled on the carrots, radishes and lettuce they’d been snacking on when Digger came out. None displayed even a touch of guilt.
Digger shook his head and sighed. “Yeah, that’s what I thought. C’mon, guys. What does that sign say?”
“What sign?” the wererabbits chorused.
Laurie edged forward to stand beside Digger. “They’re shifters?”
“They’re moochers, is what they are. Those veggies are for the real rabbits. The ones I eat.”
“We’re trying to help them,” a busty blonde proclaimed. “Every carrot we eat keeps it out of some real rabbit’s hands.”
“Real rabbits don’t have hands. Just shifters with sticky fingers in other people’s gardens.”
The blonde looked around for a distraction. Her gaze hit on Laurie. “Hey, is that your human girlfriend? She’s cute.”
“Nice try, Lorelei. Now pack up your buddies and vamoose.”
“You realize you’re interrupting a solemn religious ceremony?”
Digger shook his head again. “Do I even want to know?”
“Earth Day,” Laurie said.
Digger stared at her. So did the rabbits. “It makes sense,” Laurie went on. “Earth is sacred to rabbits. It provides their food and their homes.” She flicked a wry look at Digger. “It gives them a place to hide from hungry wolves.”
“Yes. Exactly,” the blonde said eagerly, hopping up and down. The action created a seismic reaction in her generous rack. The males watched with interest. The big buck beside her hooked his arm around her waist and glowered at the others. Not to be outdone, Digger slipped his arm around Laurie.
The blonde stopped bouncing. The males made rude noises and were shushed by their mates. “You’re up on your shifter lore,” the blonde said to Laurie.
“I’ve got a bear for a brother-in-law. He’s walking me through the finer points.”
“Yeah, it’s Earth Day and we’re all one and it’s the Peaceable Kingdom and all that scat,” Digger said. “Look. I like the earth as much as the next wolf. Maybe more. They don’t call me Digger for nothing. That doesn’t mean I celebrate with rabbits, unless they’re on a plate with mint sauce. Isn’t there some all-you-can-eat salad bar you can invade?”
“They threw us out,” the blonde’s big buck explained.
“Anyway, this is better. More authentic,” the blonde said, patting the ground she sat on. “And it smells so nice. You’re composting?”
“Oh yeah. Rabbit bones and hides. If you’re not out of here in five minutes I’m adding you to the—” He broke off to stare at Laurie. “What are you doing?”
“Joining the party.” Laurie tugged her blouse over her head, then wriggled out of her slacks. “I can’t get down and dirty with these on. What? I’m hungry, and the veggies are almost gone.”
Instantly the rabbits set about gathering up fresh salad fixings to present to her. “Gifts of the Mother,” the blonde said. “By the way, that’s something else we do to celebrate Earth Day.”
“Fertility ritual. Got it.”
“You’re okay with it?” This came from an astonished Digger. “I mean, you’re human. I thought you’d be more … prudy.”
Laurie reached behind herself and undid her bra. “Did I mention I used to be a nudist? I don’t go skyclad all that often. Montana’s too chilly for that. But I’ll risk goose bumps for a good cause.” She let her bra drop to the ground. The rabbits applauded. “If you promise to keep me warm, Mr. Wolf Fur Coat.”
Digger licked his lips. “Hold that thought. No way I’m eating veggies, even for Earth Day. I think I’ve got some leftover barbecue in the fridge. And nobody mentions this to the pack, okay?” he added to the rabbits. “If word of this gets out, I’m toast. Now, who wants iced tea?”
Every hand went up, including Laurie’s. Grumbling under his breath, Digger went into the house.
Posted by Pat C.
“Really? How did you know,” the flighty girl asked.
The White Wolf and His Beautiful Godiva
Their howls split the night air. Wyatt Silvertongue and his white wolf shapeshifter pack sang in tune with Mother Earth. They celebrated her time of Spring regrowth, and her time of celestial regeneration.
Like radio frequencies, their singing howls soared Gaia's essence toward the starry heavens, and into the higher realm. The angelic ones listened, then flowed a blanket of healing vibrations over the Great Mother.
Wyatt observed the golden and silvery rays of light whenever they paused. With the wisdom of his ancestors bred and born into him and his pack, they knew at this time of the 2012 Awakening, that sounds -- music, drumming, tones, songs -- were magickal.
Every living being on Gaia needed the sacred energies of sound to ascend their natures, to build their lives anew. The fifth dimension had arrived.
With the magick thrumming through his veins like sweet and raging fire, Wyatt threw his muzzle higher. He sang in harmony with his pack mates, as he did when they played their trippy rock 'n roll tunes on stage at the Interspecies Pleasure Club.
Their wolfen-style music had proved to be so wildly popular, they'd been hired long-term for the Kaleidoscope Party Hardy room at the Club. The regular gig had come at the perfect time since it gave them a chance to put down roots.
Wyatt listened to their howls reverberate around them. He heard the echoes ping off the distant mountain range, causing the enormous stone walls to hum in concert. Using their great power, the granite sang joyous notes along with them.
Once they finished their songs, as one, the pack gazed toward the heavenly body, Venus. Earth's neighboring planet shone with a blazing brilliance Wyatt had never witnessed in his long lifetime.
From atop the ancient plateau, he stood in reverent and alert silence enjoying the night sounds. The brushing winds provided his nostrils with a feast of smells, and once again, Wyatt gave thanks for the lands he now roamed at will with his extended family.
A lone horse's drumming hoof beats caught his attention, and Wyatt pierced the darkness with his kind's telescopic eyesight. The horse raced with a wild stride over the short-grass prairie. Yet, Wyatt knew, both by scent and sound, the mare carried a rider.
Curiosity hummed his blood, and Wyatt focused on the rider. He sat on his haunches fast, astounded by what he saw. The woman rode naked.
Wyatt stared at her athletic and curvaceous figure, at her long hair streaming behind her. He howled a wolf whistle.
"Sing the Earth electric, wolves," Zeanna whispered. She paused an instant listening, appreciating, then leapt astride her mare.
Moon Shadow loved to run the wild animal trail through the long stretch of prairie as much as Zeanna did, always dancing in her stall, and flashing her dark eyes in anticipation. So far this Spring, Zeanna had been able to get away with their weekly untamed run -- with riding Lady Godiva style.
Lessening her chances of being discovered, Zeanna rode at night. She used her second sight to make certain the trail was clear. Besides, the nighttime called to her, made her feel deliciously alive.
Even now as she leaned over the mare's neck, and squeezed with her thighs, her magickal energies rose, crackling around her like an ethereal form of static electricity.
Eager, pulling against the bit, Moon Shadow took off and sprinted onto the trail. Within a few strides, the petite mare ran full out, and Zeanna felt glorious, her spirit unbound.
As they raced with the prairie wind, as the cool air whipped her bare body, Zeanna sizzled with excitement, and burned with freedom -- almost unbearably burned.
She became aware about halfway along the trail that someone with paranormal abilities watched her. The sensation scorched like a laser aimed at her back yet did not immediately alarm her.
Once she knew the trail remained clear, Zeanna cast her psi-gaze in a wide circle, searching. She had no care if 'whomever' merely observed, and meant no harm. But if...
"White wolf," she spoke, only her lips moving. In that instant, Zeanna realized the shapeshifter and his pack had been the ones howling the sacred tribute to Mother Earth -- the wolves raising Gaia's planetary frequencies to the Divine.
The thought thrilled through Zeanna, and she considered making contact. However, as usual, her wary nature intervened.
After all, how many of her ancestresses had been burned at the stake for real? Or their lives destroyed by other means as vile. As well, humankind were not the only enemies her people faced daily.
What the persecutors had not known, did not realize now -- that with each of their heinous crimes, the next generation of her supernatural kind only grew in power -- in their psychic strengths. This ability to protect themselves was part of their ancient genetic code.
Zeanna grinned at the white wolf's appreciation of her naked assets. After mentally wishing him well, she shielded herself against his amazingly keen eyesight.
Tossing off his guitar with a carelessness unusual for him, Wyatt ignored the break-time banter of his band mates. He went on the hunt, his nose telling him the woman he called 'The Beautiful Godiva' had just walked into the Kaleidoscope room.
For weeks now, she haunted him during his waking hours and in his nightly dreams. With increasing frequency, she possessed every moment of his dreams.
Often Wyatt awoke howling in frustration, his cock so hard and miserable he would dive into the chilly waters of the large rushing stream close to his bedroom.
Her cinnamon-fiery scent guided him, and Wyatt soon spotted his Godiva standing at the far end of the bar. About to take a sip of her drink, she lowered it slowly as their gazes collided.
He'd been aware that she'd used a witch's magick to block his gaze. He hadn't known precisely why, other than he was a peeping-tom wolf, and proud of it in her case.
Wyatt halted instinctively knowing she would bolt if he approached too fast. As they continued gazing at each other, he watched wariness cloud her crystalline eyes -- eyes the color of the purple Iris blooming around the remote ranch house he and his pack mates owned outside of Talbot's Peak.
No one, nothing else existed when she took a teasing sip of her drink. With her steps slow and careful, she moved toward him. Alpha by nature, Wyatt leashed himself tightly, though the effort cost him.
A fine sweat broke out on his brow, and he reminded his stud cock to deflate and wait. That, or forfeit any chance of ever mounting her.
"White wolf," she softly intoned, once she stood before him. Her gaze sparkled with naughtiness. "Did you enjoy my ride?"
"I dream of you," he paused, "riding."
For excruciating moments, his little Godiva witch rubbed the rim of her glass across her lovely lips. She sipped, taking her time. When her gaze locked with his again, she sexily crooned, "Should I tell you my name?"
"Wyatt, Wyatt Silvertongue. Now that I've told you my name--" He stopped as her expression became frozen, her gaze guarded.
"Is something wrong?" Everything inside him plummeted at the thought that she would refuse him, flee him. Yet Wyatt knew he would pursue his little red-haired Godiva to the ends of the Earth, and beyond, until she agreed to ride him naked. Only him.
"Mate," she finally murmured. "It is written... but I'm not ready."
Wyatt reached out easing his hand onto her elbow when she would turn away. "You will be, my beautiful Godiva. Once you hear me play."
As he brought her beside him, she didn't resist. She allowed him to cup her elbow.
"Zeanna... my name." Her voice was all breath and hesitant. "Play well enough, White Wolf, and I may not be able to run from you."
Rejoicing like a prize fool, Wyatt led her toward the small stage, and vowed he would play his guitar as if his life depended on it. Because it did.
Savanna Kougar ~ Run on the Wild Side of Romance ~
Wednesday, April 18, 2012
Jenna stumbled off the steps of the Greyhound Limited, local service to Missoula, Talbots Peak, and every single piss-ant little town between the two. She'd seen much more of Montana than she ever wanted to. Curses to every client too stingy to pay expenses for a plane ticket. Or a rental car, at least.
She huffed miserably. Curses on her ex for splitting and taking her car with him. The car may be in her name, but the cops weren't going to actively hunt him down over it, so it might as well be on the moon for all the good that title did her.
Hope was not lost, of course. After this run, she'd be flush enough to buy another car, maybe one new enough to be worth full coverage insurance this time. All she had to do was find one fat Aussie bastard, hand him "his shit", ask if he had anything to take back to her client, then she was done.
Not for the first time, Jenna contemplated the odd phraseology her client had used to describe her mark, but as a contract runner, she'd learned to take the three monkey approach to life: hear no evil, see no evil, say nothing. Just do the job, collect her bananas and leave. Metaphorically speaking, of course—she was an American born dingo, not a monkey. But the only saying for her kind was "the dingoes ate my baby!!!" and that certainly didn't encourage clients to trust her. Whatever was inside the sealed package Jenna carried did not concern her. She’d signed for it pre-sealed so if it caused her to get busted, it would fall on her client to pay any legal costs.
Of course, with her luck, Jenna just might end up stuck in jail, rotting because the piss-ant client ran at the first sign of cops. She signed again and then mentally shrugged. Them’s the breaks. When you are down on your luck, you sometimes have to take the odd jobs no one else wanted. Besides, after this job—assuming the client was lagit and actually paid her—she’d have enough money to buy a car. Then she could start pulling in the good runs again.
A gust of frigid wind blew her hair in her face, smelling of rain and mud and—coffee? Quickly, Jenna stuffed her hair back into her hood and sniffed. Yep, coffee. And good coffee, too; not the crappy coffee she'd choked down at the ten minute rest stop three towns back.
Jenna spun around, frantically looking for the source of this divine aroma. Not only would an extra tall latte warm her bones and make that hellish 300 mile bus trip worthwhile, a coffee shop would be a good place to start looking the “fat Aussie bastard.”