Moment of Truth

Sergei stood among the trees, his long black coat and black slouch hat turning him into just one more looming shadow. He looked down on the shabby little cabin in the hollow. It sat right on the border of Hancock territory, just far enough from the hub of power to be overlooked. If Damien Hancock knew who’d taken up residence there, he wasn’t showing interest, testament to his arrogance. It was Zhere Ghan who’d seen a danger in this particular chess piece, and wanted it off the board.

He prowled around the cabin twice, drawing ever closer. He found no wolf-sign in evidence. Warner Hancock wasn’t about to announce his presence until he was ready. Would the current crop of Hancocks even know his scent? Doubtful. They wouldn’t see much threat in an aged Alpha, his child bride and an infant. Only a Ghan would hear a challenge in a newborn’s cry.

A thin curl of smoke ghosted out of the chimney. From within he heard the chime of a girl’s laugh.

The front door, when he gingerly tested it, was locked. The back door off the kitchen was not.

One of his targets, the infant’s mother, was standing at the sink. Her laughter cut off on a squeak when Sergei threw open the kitchen door and stepped into the cabin. Her eyes grew wide and her mouth formed a perfect O. Soapy water dripped from her fingers. She stared at him in shock for only a moment, then grabbed a saucepan that still smelled of beef gravy and swung it at his head.

A poor weapon, poorly handled. The girl was no fighter. The saucepan missed his chin by a wide margin. He caught her arm easily and squeezed until she dropped the pan. She struck out with her free hand, fingers aimed at his eyes. He caught that arm as well. She snarled and snapped at air with her human teeth and kicked his legs. She might as well have been striking at a redwood.

From the little room just off the kitchen he heard a baby cry.

And a roar. Warner Hancock charged out of the bedroom and launched himself at Sergei. He’d grown too old to shift; he was forced to defend his family in his human form. Sergei shoved the girl away and grabbed him by the neck. A simple thrust through the open doorway sent him tumbling into the back yard. One threat disposed of.

He turned toward the other and was hit by wiry muscle and leaping fur. The girl had gone wolf. He caught her by the scruff of the neck, like a cub, and tossed her outside after her husband. Then he shut and bolted the door.

The infant continued to wail. He followed the sound into the little bedroom.

# # #

Ilsa hit the ground, rolled, scrambled upright and threw herself at the door. She clawed at it frantically while Warner first tried the latch, then slammed his shoulder and then his foot against it. Neither helped. “The axe,” he panted. “Where the hell’d I leave the axe?”

She forced herself still, nose working and ears pricked. Her own panic, more than the reek of tiger musk, nearly choked her.

She couldn’t hear her baby any more.

Both doors were locked. The axe would take too long. She had to get in there now.

The window. She’d been cooking. She’d left the kitchen window open.

She dashed around the corner of the cabin and leaped for the window. Her paws scrabbled at the sill before they found purchase. Ilsa hoisted herself up and shoved her wolf body through the opening. She landed with her paws in the sink, slipped, and tumbled onto the rough wood floor. The impact jolted her back into her human form. Warner was right behind her, levering his aged body over the sill.

Ilsa didn’t wait for him. She dashed into the silent bedroom and skidded to a halt.

Sergei stood beside the bed with Anitra cradled in his arms, crooning a lullaby in Russian. The infant sighed and snuggled more firmly into his huge arms.

“So tiny,” he said. He did not even look at Ilsa. “I have not held baby in long, long time. Such a little bit, to cause so much trouble.”

Shaking, Ilsa took a step forward. She held out her arms to him, silent, pleading. He handed the baby to her. She all but snatched Anitra from him. The baby squirmed and growled a little, but didn’t wake.

Warner charged in with the axe raised. He stared with mouth agape at the tableau.

“You must leave here,” Sergei said. “Is not safe.”

“No shit,” Warner snarled. “Where the hell’d Damien dredge you up?”

“Not Hancock. Zhere Ghan. The tiger lord has plans, and you are in his way. You need to go.”

“Go where? We go into town and the wolves’ll get us, just as soon as they figure out who we are.”

Sergei looked at the wall above their heads. “West of here, on other side of mountain, is farm owned by lion and wife. They will shield you. They owe me favor.”

Ilsa eyed him doubtfully. “Lions?”

“With no love for either Hancock or Ghan. His wife is young and looking to start family. She will welcome chance to practice.” He smiled down at her and her baby. “Husband does as she tells him. He is well-trained American male.”

“Ain’t that the truth,” Warner said with a snort. He lowered the axe. “West of here, over the mountain? There’s nothing that way except—”

“Armed turkeys. You will be careful, yes?”

“So Abram Turkle’s still around? Why didn’t you say so?” Warner cackled. “That old son of a buzzard. Maybe we can strike a deal. I wouldn’t mind having him at my back. At least he and his clan can shoot straight.”

“Is best you go now, before others come. I will show you trail.”

# # #

The two wolves gathered up their belongings—mostly things for the baby—and set out along the path Sergei pointed out. He gave them a long head start, then followed at a discrete distance. Warner must have known this mountain once, because he never once wavered from the trail. They crested the mountain and found the farm with no trouble. Sergei watched from concealment as the lion and his tiger wife opened the door. The wife had Ilsa and her infant inside before the lion could even get his rifle up. He held a brief and bemused conversation with Warner before the elder wolf was also ushered in. Only then did Sergei turn back.

His arms still felt the slight weight of the baby. So little, so helpless. Undeserving of death.

A grown tiger, on the other hand, one who would order such an atrocity—that was another matter entirely.

With purposeful strides he retraced his steps across the mountain, aimed for the Ghan compound.

The Mountain Lion King is now available!

It's here! Rebecca beat me to the punch by pre-reviewing yesterday, but I wrote this blog and, by Castiel, I'm going to post it. My first self-published Talbot's Peak novel, The Mountain Lion King, is now up at Smashwords and Amazon. It should be up on Barnes & Noble, Apple, and your favorite e-book outlet within a week or so.

Cougar shifter Rick Donnelly is happy living alone on his mountain and isn't looking for company. Then company literally falls into his lap, in the form of tiger-shifter Nilambari, who's fleeing from her arranged marriage to the vicious Ravi Ghan. Rick has no love for tigers, but for this terrified tigress he's willing to make an exception. Provided he can defend them both from Ravi, who's not about to let his bride-to-be go without a fight.

Regular readers will know this book began as a series of posts here on the blog. The original, now-rewritten opening can be found here. Plus, here's a new snippet to whet your appetite:

Excerpt

Rick stepped in from a night in the foyer and stopped dead. Now here was something you didn’t wake up to every day: a woman trying to wipe the dirt off cave walls. She’d already swept the floor. He could easily picture the bedchamber scrubbed to within an inch of its life, the bed neatly made. “You’re up early,” he said cautiously.

“You’re up late,” she countered. She continued to dust and straighten. “Would you like tea?”

“No tea.” He stared about. Son of a gun, it really did look better in here. But just the same … “You don’t need to do this. Really.”

“I do,” she said. “Really. Do you never clean in here?”

“It’s a cave. You can’t clean a cave.”

“You can make it cleaner. This also.” She reached into a pile she was building on a chair and held up one of his shirts. “This needs to be washed, and the others too, and my own clothes. The sheets should be changed as well. Is there a stream or pool where I might launder them?”

This, Rick thought, is what happens when you let a woman into a bachelor den. He expected to find curtains hanging, and his kitchen didn’t even have windows. Part of him was pleased and touched she’d go to so much trouble. The rest was just bemused.

“Okay, okay. We’ll go into town. They have a laundromat.” Wait. Did he have any change? Scat. Civilization got complicated after a while. That was one reason he had abandoned it. “Just stop sweeping, all right?”

Nilambari’s eyes lit up. She set the broom aside. “Can I visit with Mrs. McMahon? She’ll know what herbs can be harvested here, and what plants are edible. I need to learn this. I will also need a bath.”

“What for?”

She stared at him as if he’d gone insane. “Mrs. McMahon is a fine herbivorous woman. I can’t go before her with fresh blood in my scent. It would be rude.”

Rick made a face. A bath? Wasn’t that why cats had tongues? Anyway, Elly was married to a wolf. He doubted if she found Vern’s scent insulting. His eating habits, maybe.

Still … Rick reminded himself he was speaking to a young female. Their thought processes differed from normal creatures’. “I suppose I’ll need a bath too?”

Nilambari fixed that young female stare on him. Rick gave in. “Fine. No time like the present. The pond should do, now that the horses are gone. Let’s get this mess over with.”

Heat level: mild. Cover by Serena Shay. Nice, no?

Inside Information

When in doubt … My brain went blank this morning, so once again I’m dipping into my WIP, The Mountain Lion King. Rick just found the dead grizzly and now knows something deadly has invaded his mountain stronghold. He heads to Talbot’s Peak and the Grease ‘n’ Grill diner for the inside skinny.

# # #

Vern already had a hungry bunch seated and ripping away at their food. Wolves, primarily, with one booth taken over by coyotes and a solitary bobcat at a corner table crouched over his fish and chips. Every head turned toward them when they came in, marked by predators’ glares. Only the bobcat made a sound. He recognized their feline nature, hissed, and pulled his plate in even closer.

Just for a second Rick experienced a jab of concern. By now the tale of Ravi Ghan’s runaway bride would have spread all over the Peak. Vern’s carnie crowd was more suspicious than the laid-back patrons at Elly’s. Would Nilambari’s disguise pass muster here?

One glance and he realized he needn’t have worried. All female sways had vanished from her walk. Her stride matched his in length and swagger. She eyed the wolves coolly, ignored the coyotes completely, and acknowledged their kinship to the bobcat with a brief nod. The bobcat growled at her and deliberately shoved a fish fillet into his mouth.

“Rick!” Vern McMahon boomed from behind the counter. “Back in town again already? Don’t tell me you’re turning social.” His gaze fell on Nilambari. “And, um … ”

“Barry,” she said smoothly, in a voice pitched low as a boy’s. “It’s good to see you again. I’m hoping we get the chance to visit with your wife.”

“After we eat,” Rick added. “What’s the special?”

“Bison burger, so rare it fights back when you bite it. And fries. Coffee’s fresh, for once. I must have guessed you’d be coming.”

The burgers were all that Vern promised, except for the biting back part. Just as well. Rick preferred to save his fighting energy, and his roiling rage, for the battle he knew would be coming. Fuel would help. Nilambari ripped into her meal with similar gusto. Rick watched her eat in a kind of bemused wonder. “It’s okay to slow down,” he advised. “Just because we’re in a carnie joint doesn’t mean you have to eat like one.”

“I’m supposed to be male, correct?” She spoke with her mouth full, just like the wolves. “This is how men eat. The ones I’ve served always did so.” She swallowed and smiled at him, her eyes dancing. “You eat so daintily when you’re human. And you never guard your food.”

She snatched a fry from Rick’s plate and popped it into her mouth. One bite in her jaw froze, as the consequences of her daring suddenly hit her. Rick only grinned and stole a fry from her platter. “I’m smaller than a tiger. I don’t need to eat as much, or cram it in as fast. Keep that in mind, cousin mountain lion Barry.”

Nilambari swallowed her fry with an audible gulp. When no punishment was forthcoming she returned to her burger, this time devouring it in less frantic bites. She watched Rick over the rim of her bun. Her eyes regained their sparkle.

Like jewels, he thought. Like emeralds in the bosom of the earth. He must have been smiling because she smiled back, adding a string of pearly teeth to the flash of her emerald eyes.

Something dangerous had invaded his turf, Rick reminded himself. Helluva time to go poetic over a girl with a smudge of ketchup on her chin.

When they were done Nilambari left to cross the square to the Bighorn Diner and her promised visit with Elly. Rick got up and made his way to the register. On the way he bumped and was bumped by the group of coyotes exiting their booth. One muttered something. Rick only caught a snatch of it, but it sounded vile. He snarled down at the smaller canine. The coyote tipped his hat with a smarmy grin. The whole pack filed out the door.

“Coyotes,” Rick said to Vern. The men shared a shrug. Rick pitched his voice low. “Got a minute?”

“Sure.” Vernon rang up his tab. “What’s on your mind?”

“Nosy neighbors up on my spread. You know about Vesuvius?”

“That ol’ bugger? Is he still kicking? I always figured he’d die of orneriness. Do grizzlies get ulcers, you think?”

“He’s not kicking any more, and it wasn’t an ulcer that got him. It was a shifter, and he was in his human form when he snapped the grizzly’s neck. You know anybody in town with the muscle power to put paid to a raging grizzly bear? While human?”

Vern’s grin vanished, replaced by a look of disbelief. “A shifter killed that old bear? You sure it wasn’t a Sasquatch?”

“Don’t think so. Bigfeet leave that wet-fur stink. It’s kind of hard to miss. It wasn’t a dragon, either. A dragon would have flamed him. This bastard clawed him up, then switched to human for the coup de gras. Then he took the time to wipe out his tracks.”

Rick discovered he was gripping the counter’s edge hard enough to hurt his fingers. He pried his hands loose and balled them into fists. “Everything in me wants to say tiger, but the Yakuza run in packs. I’m pretty sure there was only the one.” He slid enough money over the counter to cover their breakfast, with a more than generous tip. “Be nice if I could put a name on him.”

“Well, you can scratch off Ravi Ghan. He kept coming into town and raging at everybody. Claimed we were hiding his wife and he’d tear the Peak apart if we didn’t give her up. He made such a nuisance of himself Daddy finally sent him out of state on some trumped-up business trip. That’s the only stripie been seen nosing around, here in town or elsewhere.”

“Oh,” Rick said. Not that Ravi had been high up on his suspect list. He just couldn’t picture Ravi Ghan fighting a grizzly, let alone winning. “Okay, then. Thanks.”

“Though now that you mention it … ” Vern counted out enough of Rick’s money to pay for the meals, with only a moderate tip. The rest he slid back across the counter. “The old rug’s added a teacher to his staff since the days when you were a regular in town. Supposed to be a mentor to his sons. That’s the cover story. Whispers on the wind say the cat’s an assassin. Does the old rug’s dirty work.”

Rick leaned forward. “Tiger?”

“Yeah, but not Bengal. His name’s Sergei. He’s Russian. Siberian. A white tiger. His human form’s albino. He’s got to be at least seven feet tall, every inch of it solid as steel. He likes to hang out at Java Joe’s. They’ve got some tea he likes. He wears this long black coat and a black slouch hat. Maybe nothing else in town is big enough to fit him.”

“Sounds like a pretty hard fellow to miss.”

“You’d think so.” Vern’s voice dropped to a growl. “Except Marissa over at Java Joe’s says nobody’s seen him around for the last week or so. Since, oh, about the time you chased those Yakuza off your mountain. Like I said, Ravi Ghan was not a happy kitty.” Vern leaned his elbow on the counter. “You might want to send your cousin back to Utah.”

“That’s not happening.” An albino tiger assassin. From the description, he certainly sounded physically capable of finishing off a wounded bear. But was he bulletproof? Doubtful. Nevertheless, Rick decided he’d better go join Nilambari, pronto. “Thanks, Vern. I owe you. We’re about to owe Elly. Barry went over for cooking tips. Native edible plants and stuff.”

“She—I mean, he cooks? Lucky you. Elly does her best, bless her heart, but meat’s just not her thing.” Vern glanced around the diner. “Don’t tell anybody, but I’m developing a taste for veggies. Mostly the greens. At my age, anything that helps the ol’ digestive tract along is a plus.”

Where It's At

I came up empty today, that’s why this is late. Luckily, I’ve got a WIP set in Talbot’s Peak. In this scene, Rick the mountain lion points out where everybody lives in relation to the Peak. If you don’t agree with my geography, let me know so I can rework it. That’s what drafts are for.

# # #

Rick led them by a roundabout trail to a high rocky promontory that offered a spectacular view in all directions. Around them and below, the trees cut off in a distinct line and gave way to grassy slopes and meadows. A wide pond lay in a dip at the bottom. In the distance Nilambari could see more peaks, some with trees, some rocky and bare, even a few with snow.

“That’s where you came up from.” Rick pointed to the slopes behind them. “Zhere Ghan’s compound is back that way. There’s only one trail, and I check it a lot. I’ve got the trail and a few other spots rigged. Anything big—say, tiger sized—tries to get up here, I’ll be able to tell.

“Over there is the peak itself, the one the town was named for.” He pointed out another mountain crest opposite their own. Nilambari sat up and squinted. She thought she’d seen a flash of sunlight bounce off something halfway up the other mountain’s side. Rick nodded when she mentioned it. “Hancock headquarters. The Hancock pack are the dominant wolves in this area. Damien’s the current alpha and a major piece of work. He hardly ever comes out this way, though. Too concerned with keeping tabs on his neighbors. That’d be Ghan and the Fledermaus spread, over there on his flank. The Flying F is a cattle ranch, run by bats. Fruit bats, I think, not vampires. They might fly over, but they won’t bother us either. There’s a little dude ranch tucked off there to the right, bordering the Peak and the Flying F. Again, no threat to anybody. Talbot’s Peak—the town, I mean—is down at the foot of Hancock’s mountain. You can’t see it because of the fold of those hills. The only way from there to here is that road we were on this morning. If you follow Route 15 in the other direction you’ll come out at the interstate. It’s a whole other world out there, mostly humans. I’ll take you there sometime if you want, after the heat dies down.

“Down that way”—he pointed to the slope in front of them—“the Turkle clan has a cabin tucked away in the woods. Old Man Turkle used to run the game farm, but he retired. Do not trespass on their land. They’re turkeys, and tend to shoot anything that moves. I’ll show you where the borders are. Learn them.”

“What’s a turkey?”

“No turkeys in India? It’s … it’s like a big chicken with a head like a buzzard and a tail like a peacock. You won’t see them. You’ll just hear the gunshots.”

He went silent. Nilambari waited for him to complete his aural map, with the burned-out farmstead at the foot of Rick’s mountain and its absent owner. Was he human or shifter? What if he returned? But Rick did not continue.

She started, “What about—”

“Shhhh.” He held up his hand. His voice dropped to a hiss. “We’ve got company.”

She followed the line of his stare to the pond. A band of horses was picking a cautious path across the meadow toward the water. A brown mare scouted every inch of the way to the water’s edge. She decided all was safe and allowed the others in. A big gray stallion trailed the herd, keeping lookout.

“Damn,” Rick muttered. “I know this bunch. They belong to that little dude ranch. Sometimes they wander over here, following the grass. Merry’s man Dash’ll be over in a day or two to herd ‘em back. Until then, no hunting. They’re off the menu.”

Nilambari eyed the horses. She judged their condition, the height of the grass and the available cover. “But I could—”

“So could I, but I have an arrangement with Merry. I don’t kill her horses, and she doesn’t shoot me.” Rick flashed a grin. “I don’t much care for horse meat anyway.”

Nevertheless, he seemed most interested in the big gray. “There’s a new face,” he murmured. “That’s no mustang. Didn’t think Merry could afford a new stud.” He shucked his poncho in one smooth motion. “Stay here.”

Before she could protest he was gone, a tawny lion bounding down the slope. He made no attempt at stalking or silence. The horses couldn’t help but notice him.

And they did. The stallion bugled an alarm. The brown mare cut between Rick and the others. She bunched her nervous band together and started them away from the pond, while the stallion high-stepped and tossed his gray mane and whinnied threats at Rick.

For his part, Rick simply sat and commenced washing a paw. Don’t mind me, go about your business. Except he was their business now. Nilambari didn’t like how the stallion’s prance-and-weave brought him and his hooves ever closer to Rick, or how the mare had circled back to flank him from the left.

Nilambari ripped off her moccasins and flung her poncho aside. In tiger form she raced down the slope to Rick’s defense.

Her roar was drowned by the stallion’s scream. He half-reared, started a charge, then broke off and fled. The mare had already bolted, as had the rest of the band. In seconds the last flailing horse-tail had disappeared from the meadow.

Rick shifted to human and stood. “What was that about?”

Nilambari circled him, snuffling. He was unhurt. She also shifted. “They meant to attack you.”

“G’wan. It was a bluff. I know that mare. She’s got a temper, but she isn’t stupid. She knows the difference between a hunting cat and one just passing through. That big boy, though, him I don’t know.” He gazed thoughtfully toward the stallion’s last visible location. “No brand on him. Good lines. Too well-bred to be wild. Wonder if he came off the Flying F? Be a smart move on Brand’s part.”

“Who?”

“Brandon Fledermaus. He owns the Flying F. He can afford a whole herd of horses that classy. Wouldn’t surprise me if he let one kind of wander over to Merry’s. The dude ranch isn’t much, but it makes a good buffer between Fledermaus and Hancock. Damien would just love to gobble it up, put pressure on Brandon’s borders. But Merry won’t sell.” Rick bared his teeth, sort of like a smile. “Brand likes Merry and Dash. He sends a lot of rich clients their way. He probably sent the horse too. Wherever that feller came from, he sure as scat doesn’t like tigers.”