How to Win Friends and Influence Yakuza

Back in the day (the day being sometime in the 1950s), Route 15 had been a quiet little two-lane blacktop that wound into the mountains and eventually brought unwary travelers to the town of Talbot’s Peak, which even in those days had a rep among the monkeys as being a couple bubbles off true. There was a motel down at the foot of the mountain, and Super Stock Car Raceway and its partner, the Rodeo Arena, and an amusement park whose owner must have looked at Disneyland and said, “Feh. I know what kids like.” The owner had been dead wrong, but with little else for miles around the better-than-nothing rule was in full effect.

Then around the mid-60s the interstate came in, and the Talbot’s Peak exit became a happening place. Like the gold rush towns of yesteryear, a whole civilization sprang up beside the on- and off-ramps, heavy on the motels, fast-food joints and gas stations. A bowling alley and movie theater (which later grew to a multiplex) joined in, followed by bars and clubs, all geared to getting those folks whizzing by on the highway to pull over and spend a few bucks.

Somehow the Raceway survived, though these days it relied more on monster trucks and demolition derbies to bring in the paying customers. This being Montana, the rodeo’s continued existence was assured, in spite of the annual PETA protests. Uncle Fuddy’s Funland also lasted through the decades, with occasional updates to bring it into the modern era. A video arcade joined the kiddie rides, skill games, miniature golf and train ride in the 1980s, while the old swimming pool was filled in. You could still get a cherry Sno-Cone there, and the chance to barf your guts out on the Tilt-A-Whirl.

Ewan, who’d grown up at the Jersey Shore and its many boardwalk offerings, was not impressed. He wasn’t here to be impressed. He was here to save his mate. Yes, mate. Usually he ignored his wolf half, but this time the big hairy mutt refused to back down. If it meant he got some on a regular basis, then the coyote in him was all for it. With both his natures in full accord, he studied the mini golf.

“Is it just me,” he said to Deuce, “or is that really creepy?”

The mini golf’s theme appeared to be classic horror movies. A ten-foot Frankenstein guarded the entrance to a stone laboratory with several tunnels for golf balls. A Dracula in an unmoving plastic cape lorded over a many-towered castle decorated with rubber bats on the 4th hole. A generic masked maniac with a chainsaw guarded the 13th fairway. Ewan also spotted a witch in the window of a gingerbread house and a dinosaur stomping the hell out of the obstacles surrounding the 5th hole. The creature looked just different enough from Godzilla to avoid a copyright lawsuit.

Deuce also peered around the course, with a frown on his face. “You think the lab’s near here?”

“I think it is here,” Ewan said. He thought, If I was a mad scientist, where would I put my secret entrance?

His narrowed gaze automatically went straight to the building guarded by Frankenstein’s monster. Pretty on-the-nose, but that’s how humans thought.

He started toward it. Then he stopped, and stopped Deuce before the wolf could follow him. “We got company.”

A few bored folks were halfheartedly knocking little colored balls around, but Ewan wasn’t worried about them. His concerns centered on the men seated on benches at various spots around the course. In coloring and ill-fitting clothing they were cut from the same spicy cloth as Silent Sam, but in much better physical shape. A closer squint at the golfers turned up one of their number poking around the fiberglass hazards surrounding the holes. Ewan saw no telltale bulges, but pros wouldn’t advertise their armament anyway.

“Tiger Yakuza,” Deuce muttered. “How do we get past them?”

“We don’t,” Ewan said. He picked the nearest ninja and strode right up to him. “Howdy.”

The man glared at him suspiciously. Now that they were up close and in each other’s personal space, Ewan could smell the tiger on him, just as he was sure the tiger had a healthy dollop of coyote up his nostrils. That would account for his sour scowl. “The name’s Ewan,” he said, and offered his hand. “Zhere Ghan sent me.”

The tiger continued to glare, first at Ewan’s hand, then at Ewan in general. “Yeah, I’m a coyote,” Ewan went on, “which means I’m not an idiot. That’s why I switched over to your side. I’m here to help you get your hands on Dr. Morloxian.” He took a stab in the dark and said, “Is the signal still coming through?”

The tiger’s widening eyes told Ewan he’d hit the bull’s-eye. “You find the entrance yet?” Ewan asked. “Bet you didn’t, or you wouldn’t be sitting around.” He leaned in close for a conspirator’s whisper. “My money’d be on Frankenstein’s lab over there. It has symmetry. Apes love symmetry.”

His new bestie said nothing, but his hand moved in a choppy signal. The ninja poking around Godzilla’s feet abandoned Little Tokyo and cut across the greens to the lab set. They watched him try the door. It didn’t budge. The ninja turned at once toward the towering fiberglass Frankie.

“No,” Ewan said, thinking aloud. “Kids’d hang on those arms. Same for the sconces and the gargoyles. They’d climb all over this stuff. I wonder if—naw. Some teenager at some point would’ve kicked Frank in the jewels. What wouldn’t a kid go near?”

The tiger listened to all this intently, without appearing to. He mumbled something in a foreign language into his lapel. The ninja sniffing around Frank suddenly climbed nimbly up the ten-foot statue, beyond the average kid or teen’s reach, to twist the bolts that jutted from the monster’s neck.

The door to the “lab” swung silently inward.

“Well, I’ll be a son of a hound,” Ewan said. “You boys are good.”

The tiger smiled thinly up at him. Then he rose, still without a word, and sprinted for the lab. From all around the course similar dark, silent men converged on Frankenstein’s lab and ducked through the open door.

Deuce trotted over to Ewan. “What just happened?”

“The Yakuza found the way in,” Ewan said. “There being more of them, I figured we’ll let ‘em run interference for us. We’ll wait here five minutes and then go in. They should have the place in a right proper panic and the mutant werewolves occupied by then.”

Deuce stared at him in awe. “You’re twisted.”

“That’s ‘cause I’m a coyote, son.” Ewan stared at the doorway. It hadn’t been anywhere near five minutes, but he had a special damsel to rescue from distress. In addition to being twisted, coyotes weren’t big on patience. “C’mon. Let’s go be heroes.”

Gray (Wolf) Matter

“I’m sorry, Ewan,” Dante said, and meant it. “We didn’t get to the truck in time. They must have been transferred to another vehicle. I’ve got everyone available looking into it. We’ll find her.” His private cell phone buzzed. “You’ll have to excuse me. I need to take this.” Dante turned away. “Still? What’s so fascinating about that place that the Tiger Yakuza would stake it out?”

Dead end. Ewan wanted to bite something. Scratch that; he wanted to grab hold of something and rip it to pieces. Tiny little pieces. He turned to his only other lead, another dead end but who knew? Sometimes the weirdest little things led to something bigger. “Go through it again. Even stuff that doesn’t seem important.”

“There’s nothing to tell,” Deuce, Dante’s double agent in his sire’s pack, shrugged helplessly. “We were headed to the lab in Colorado. Taylor pulled over at the exit to gas up for the trip. Rufe said the air smelled funny. Next thing we know we’re sprawled out on park benches and some cop’s telling us to move along. And the truck’s gone.”

And Maureen, who’d been in the back of the truck, but Deuce was kind enough not to point that out. “Dante found the truck about thirty miles up the interstate. Nobody was in it. They’re combing the area now. We’ll find her, man, I swear.”

“What about the driver?”

“Taylor was with us when we woke up, barfing up his guts like the rest of us. Whoever took the truck left it like we said. Smelled like seven kinds of crap. No idea who or what was driving it. We should’ve picked up Hoover. Maybe he would have known.”

“That fits in with what we found at the lab,” Ewan muttered. “The Doctor took off without telling Hancock. Wherever he took her, he didn’t want Damien to know. That’s why you got gassed.”

And that was that. Nobody’d seen anything. Nobody knew anything. By now Maureen could be in Canada, for all anybody knew.

Dante was still on the phone, grilling his agent over the confusing behavior of the Tiger Yakuza. Ewan caught himself trying to listen in. Something kept nagging at the back of his mind, telling him this was important.

“I know some people,” Deuce was saying. “I can draw on Hancock resources. If we backtrack—”

Ewan waved him off. “Be quiet a minute. I have to think.”

Normally wolves laughed when a coyote said anything about thinking. Deuce just nodded and backed off.

For the last day and a half, ever since Maureen had been snatched from the parking lot, Ewan had been running in wolf mode: find mate, kill something. That had got him a fine pile of squat. He needed his coyote side, and whatever it was that passed for a brain among coyotes.

Wolves think in straight lines. Their brains go from point A to point B without any little side journeys. Give them a task and they stick to it till it’s done. Give them a puzzle and they’ll worry it to death, and usually come up short.

A coyote’s brain doesn’t work that way. A coyote, when he bothers to think, thinks in leaps and hops and zigzags, making connections where a wolf wouldn’t even see a pattern. Especially if there is no pattern. Coyotes don’t need patterns. Their minds are attuned to chaos, out of which they bring, if not order, then at least slightly more ordered chaos. Give them a puzzle and they’ll work it out in seconds and then wander off to see what’s in the fridge, while a wolf is still scratching his ass.

Right after Maureen got kidnapped, a bunch of Yakuza went on the move. You’d think there’d be no connection there, unless you were a coyote. “Who did you guys grab, besides Maureen?” he asked Deuce.

“Two human males. The big blond one knocked her out for us, then Taylor did him the same favor. Then this other guy went up to Taylor and said they were his friends and he couldn’t let him take them. So Taylor knocked him out and took him too. We loaded ‘em into the truck and that was it.”

“What did this other guy look like?”

Deuce shrugged. “Kind of stocky, dark skin and hair, glasses. Some kind of accent. He sort of mumbled when he talked, like he was trying to hide it.”

“What about smell?”

“I was getting to that. He smelled like a spice rack. Stuff I’m not familiar with. I’d hate to see what he gets on his pizza.”

Dark. Glasses. Tried not to talk. The blond, of course, was Atcheson. Shaggy and Agent Mulder had been taken prisoner and were awaiting Dante’s decision on their fates. According to Deuce, the last anyone had seen of Comic Book Guy, he’d been hoofing it over to the Bighorn Diner. “Probably still there,” Deuce said. “It was all you can eat day. Hope Elly stocked up on syrup.”

Silent Sam, Ewan thought. Had to be. He hadn’t said a word the whole time Ewan had been in the motel room. Hiding an accent. From where?

He stopped thinking eyes and started thinking nose. Held hostage in the van. The usual smells: pizza, unwashed monkey, fast-food flavored farts. Maureen’s homey scent, the result of her wolf genes. And just a little whiff of spice, from somebody whose diet didn’t always match up with his buddies’.

“Son of a hound,” he said. “Dante!”

Done with his call, the alpha turned. He raised a brow in inquiry. “The Yakuza. The ones who up and ran off. Where’d they go? What are they staking out?”

“If you must know, they appear to be watching the mini golf down at the exit. They’ve been there for hours.” He eyed Ewan intently. “You think it’s related?”

“Could be. Deuce, how close was that gas station you stopped at to the mini golf?”

“Right up the road, but—”

“But, my butt. Zhere Ghan wants the Doctor too. He snuck a spy into Cochrane’s outfit. A human guy, so Hoover wouldn't spot him. Guy never talked ‘cause they’d wonder about his Indian accent. He just couldn’t live on the junk food, though. Had to eat native every once in a while. It showed up in his scent. He let you boys kidnap him, so you’d take him to the lab. Then he signaled the Yakuza. They’re looking for him now. They didn’t follow the truck because he wasn’t in it. The truck was a diversion. They’re still at the exit.”

Deuce was staring at him like he’d gone scatty. Not Dante. Most wolves couldn’t stand to be around coyotes. Dante always kept a couple on the payroll. Coyotes saw into corners a wolf wouldn't even know were there. “The mini golf was shut down last week,” he said now. “For ‘maintenance.’ Hoover reported it. He wanted to take some girl there and it was closed.”

“Same time as the bugout at the Colorado lab?”

“Roughly.” Dante reached into his pocket and pulled out a set of keys. “Take my car. It’s faster than it looks.” He smiled. “Good work.”

“We don’t know for sure yet. It’s only a long shot.”

“It’s all we’ve got. Good hunting.” Ewan bounced the keys in his palm and glanced over at Deuce. “You want in?”

“Sure,” Deuce said. “I owe those monkeys. They made me yark up half my breakfast.”

“Atta boy. Let's go play a round of golf."

Smash and Grab

Maureen backed up against the van. Her eyes darted past Atcheson’s sneering face toward the bar and the parking lot and any chance of help. Her hopes soared at sight of the cop car, only to plummet when Barry and Lowenstein climbed out of it. A delivery truck rumbled into the parking lot. Odds of the driver coming to her aid wavered at 50-50. One other car sat at the far end of the lot, but its driver appeared slumped behind the wheel. Some late-night partier, sleeping off his binge. He’d be useless even if he did come to in time.

She caught sight of one of the bar staff at the window, motioning to the manager. Atcheson waved to Barry and Lowenstein. “You boys go have fun,” he said. “I want a private word with Maureen.”

Barry and Lowenstein charged at the bar door just as the staff charged out. Surprise and momentum carried the hunters inside, driving the wolves before them, and dashing Maureen’s last slim hope of rescue.

Maureen tried to duck around Atcheson, but he slammed her up against the side of the van. “Now, where were we?” he said. “More importantly, where were you? And what the hell have you got on?” He fingered a fold of her harem outfit, then dropped it with a snarl of disgust.

“They kidnapped me,” she said desperately. “There are too many of them. We need to get out of here.”

 “We’ll leave, all right. Once every single wolf in there is dead. Then we go looking for Cochrane. Has he been here?”

“I—I don’t know. I haven’t seen him since the motel. I thought he—”

Atcheson struck her across the face. “Worthless bitch. I told him we shouldn’t let a woman on the team.”

Maureen slumped to the ground, barely conscious. Ewan, she thought bleakly. He was still asleep in the harem room. He’d think she’d run out on him again. He’d never know what happened to her. Assuming he even survived.

Atcheson lifted her and propped her upright against the van with his hand around her neck. “Now what am I going to do with you?”

A blackjack cracked against the side of his head. Atcheson dropped like a stone. So did Maureen. They landed in a heap at the feet of the driver of the delivery van.

“Funny,” the driver said. “I was just asking myself the same thing.”

He reached for Atcheson. And jumped when a hand came down on his shoulder. “Your pardon, sir … ”

# # #

From his vantage at the far end of the parking lot Ranjeet observed Maureen come out of the shifter bar. She paid no attention to the police car when it rolled into the lot, but he did. His keen eyes spotted Atcheson behind the wheel. Ranjeet slumped as if asleep, and watched the mini-drama play out while considering options. Interfere? Rejoin the team? Which would serve him best?

Then the delivery van appeared and the driver got out. Ranjeet sat up. He’d been well briefed in Damien Hancock’s known henchwolves. This one and his pack were suspected of snatching humans for Hancock’s mad doctor’s experiments. Other wolves got out of the truck and gathered near the cab while their leader took care of the hunters.

Ranjeet was not a fighter. He was not equipped to take even one wolf back to Zhere Ghan for questioning. However, this turn of events provided the perfect opportunity for him to engage in his forte: infiltration.

He got out his cell phone and punched in a secret number. Code words were exchanged. Ranjeet activated the phone’s GPS. Then he got out of the car and approached the Hancock wolf.

“Your pardon, sir,” he said once he had the wolf’s attention. “These are my friends. I cannot let you take them.” He braced himself for the expected reaction.

The wolf looked him up and down. “You gotta be kidding me,” he said, and whacked Ranjeet with the blackjack. Ready for the blow, Ranjeet rolled with it. He went down, dazed but still conscious. The phone and its signal were not damaged.

“Load ‘em up,” the wolf ordered his pack. He shot a glance toward the bar, where the sounds of battle raged. “Before Dante’s team rips those yahoos up and comes after us. Dr. Frankenstein’ll just have to be happy with three.”

Strong hands lifted Ranjeet. Through slitted eyes he watched Atcheson and Maureen similarly wolf-handled into the back of the delivery truck. “Hey,” one of the wolves said. “This one’s a she.”

“Hey. This one’s a genius. Haul tail, Einstein. You want those bouncers on us?”

Ranjeet was thrown into the back of the truck. The engine roared to life. A quick Uee in the lot rolled him into Maureen. He wriggled himself off her and saw she was awake, if not fully aware. Her glasses had been knocked askew. He adjusted them for her, and patted her hand.

He also patted his pocket. The phone continued to send out its signal to the pursuing Tiger Yakuza.

Maureen’s mouth moved. “Pete?” she managed.

“Don’t be afraid,” he whispered. “All is going according to plan.”

Rick vs. the Tiger Yakuza

The brain went blank today, so I pulled a scene out of one of my WIPs. Rick the cougar-shifter has rescued tiger shiftress Nilambari from the evil Tiger Yakuza. He leaves her at his den and does a recon to make sure they’re not being hunted. Unfortunately, the Yakuza doesn’t give up easily …

# # #

Rick flattened his cat form against the ground and watched them poke around. There were seven of them. The original two must have picked up reinforcements. Only one had kept to human form. Rick marked him as the leader, the one who’d need human vocal chords to issue orders. All of them worked in meticulous silence, scouring every inch of rock and dirt. None carried weapons. Sizing up their muscles, weight, teeth and claws, he figured they figured they wouldn’t need any.

Dammit, he should have brought his rifle. He had a sling that let him carry it while in cougar form. He could have picked off a few from a distance and evened the odds a bit. All he had against seven trained Tiger Yakuza were his knowledge of his mountain, and his wits.

His lips pulled back in a feline grin. There were ways other than bullets to trim a tiger pack, as long as one kept a cool head. He settled in to wait and watch.

The tigers found nothing useful to them at the campsite. He watched them cast about for a trail. Good luck with that, you stripe-assed assholes. Rick always went out with his scent disguised, and he knew how to hide where he’d been.

Except he hadn’t been alone at the time, had he?

Even as this dawned on him, one of the tigers chuffed. The others gathered around him and the bush he crouched before. The one on two legs plucked something from its prickly branches. Recalling Nilambari’s thick cascade of hair, Rick could guess what the tiger-man held.

The man barked an order in a foreign tongue, then shifted. The tigers set off single file, along the path he and Nilambari had taken.

Shit.

Rick circled to another trail, then dashed to intercept. He caught up with the tigers at a break along the western slope. They’d already fanned out to cover more ground. Five minutes of spying confirmed his worst fears: they were definitely working their way toward his den, and the helpless Nilambari.

Seven tigers, any one of which outweighed him. No rifle. Brute strength wasn’t going to cut it. Okay, brain. It’s you and me.

Rick straightened up out of the concealing grasses and screamed a threat at the cats. Seven tiger heads popped up and jerked in his direction. Once he saw he had their attention, Rick turned tail and ran for the forest.

Only one tiger roared—probably the leader, probably a command. He heard their heavy bodies behind him, plowing through the brush. They made no other noise. He slowed his pace, with his ears tipped back to catch any auditory hints. Tigers weren’t the chasing type. They’d let him run and stalk him. He had to stay just close enough to keep them interested. His plan depended on them being clumped behind him. This would have to happen quick.

The number of his enemies, their size as compared to his mountain lion, didn’t matter to Rick. He’d set his paws over every inch of this mountain and carefully marked its borders. He knew where every twig rested, every bird nested, where the deer made their trails and where foxes laired up. This was his mountain, and he’d defend it to the death.

He’d failed in that responsibility only once before. Never again.

Harsh breathing, to the left and behind. He’d let one catch up. It called to its fellows. Thanks, buddy, Rick thought at it. Keep ‘em close. The spot he wanted lay just ahead. These kitties needed to learn a lesson in the art of guerilla warfare.

He leaped on top of a fallen log and stopped there, as if to catch his breath. The tiger stopped as well, and took up position in front of him. Another appeared, then another. He heard a third creeping up behind him, to his right. They would try to surround him, give him several tense minutes to consider his hopeless situation, then move in.

Tigers. So predictable.

He bounced up and down on the log. Gravel, bark and loose earth rained into the dark depression beneath it. The tigers halted their approach to stare. They shared bewildered glances among themselves. Their eyes got even wider when he shifted back to human. They must think he was totally scatbrained.

A tiger slid forward one uncertain step. That would be their leader. Rick split his attention between the lead tiger and the hole beneath the log. This had to go right the first time. There’d be no second try.

A small, black rodent head poked out of the hole. Rick snagged the beast by the scruff of the neck, flung it at the leader, shifted and sprang away in the opposite direction, all in a single breath. His leap carried him right over the startled tiger that had been sneaking up on him from behind. Rick hit the ground and ran like hell.

The lead tiger’s hiss of surprise quickly switched to a yowl of pain. Seconds later the stench hit.

Here’s a tip for you, stripie. Skunks really, really hate it when you chuck them at people. Be sure to tell all your friends.

Well beyond reach of the skunk’s retaliation, Rick caught only scattered whiffs. The leader would have gotten the full brunt of it. That put him out of the fight. No telling how many others had got caught in the blast. He wasn’t in the clear yet.

A mile away, and well upwind, Rick found a thick-boled tree and scaled it. Stretched out on a sturdy branch, he could watch his back trail in comfort. It also gave him a chance to consider plans of attack. His strategy would be determined by how many tigers remained on his trail.

They didn’t get it. Nobody got it. This mountain belonged to him. He would not be killed or driven away. His very territory was his weapon.

Last-Minute Switch

The blog I was planning to write all weekend didn’t want to get written, so here’s another one. I just finished a book and I’m floundering around trying to pick out the next one. One of the contenders is Rick and Nilambari’s story. This scene takes place shortly after Bari unexpectedly ducks out on her meeting with her promised husband, Ravi.

# # #

Ravi stalked the halls of his father’s mansion in a white-hot fury. Only minutes before he’d stood at the window to watch the delivery of his intended bride. A comely young woman, just out of her teens, older than he normally preferred. Still, he’d been assured she was virgin, and he’d been looking forward to schooling her in how to properly serve her new lord and master.

And what had she done? The stupid bint had run away. Those incompetent excuses for an escort hadn’t even gotten her to the door. She’d shifted to her tiger form and run away. From him.

Heads would be ripped from necks for this. Beginning with hers, when he caught her.

A figure loomed out at him from an office as he passed. Ravi whirled with a snarl that would have made anyone else recoil in well-deserved fear for their lives. Anyone, that is, other than his older brother Tasman.

“What’s all the ruckus outside?” Tasman asked. “Has your bride arrived? Congratulations.”

Ravi swallowed the murderous growl that threatened to burst from his throat. Here stood the ultimate cause of all his woes. He could fight, he could demonstrate his ruthlessness, he could prove his worth as an heir to Shere Khan’s empire over and over again, yet he would never overcome the insurmountable obstacle of his birth order. Second son. Second born. Always and forever second to Tasman.

He’d often thought of removing his brother, yet even that would never raise him in the estimation of their sire. Your brother would never have made that decision. Tasman would have done things differently.

Ravi twisted his lips into something that almost looked like a smile. “Thank you. Yes, she’s just arrived. I’m going down to meet her now.”

“Excellent. A wife will be good for you, brother. Work off all that excess energy, eh?” Tasman clapped his brother on the shoulder and returned to his office.

Ravi’s snarl reappeared the instant the door clicked shut. He pounded down the stairs.

The remnants of his vanished bride’s escort milled about in the foyer. Though tigers all, they cowered before his wrath like dogs. As well they should, for their carelessness.

“Convince me,” he said, with teeth fully bared, “why I should not slaughter you all right now, right here.”

“She surprised us,” a guard quavered. “We weren’t expecting it. She’d been perfectly well-behaved the whole trip.”

“Surprised you,” Ravi ripped out. “A woman surprised you. You, the flower of my father’s Yakuza. Vishnu save the house of Khan from the likes of you.”

“We’ll get her back,” the guard promised. “She doesn’t know the woods. Two of our finest pursue her even now.”

“Picture my relief. I want her back within the hour. You will have her brought to me, unharmed.” He’d dole out her punishment personally once he had her in his grasp. Teaching a new wife her proper place was the responsibility of her husband. “Well? Are you just going to sit around while others clean up your mess?”

“No, lord,” the guard said. He bellowed to his fellows. As one, they shed their clothes. Within minutes a troupe of five tigers sped into the forest to join the search for his runaway bride.

Ravi left the clothing where it lay. Servants would collect it, after Ravi exited the room.

Nothing now to do but wait. His entire life, it seemed, was one unending wait for a reward that would never arrive. A race in which he was doomed from birth to finish in second place. When he entered Heaven, no doubt Tasman would have gotten there ahead of him.

A hunt would not assuage his rage. He needed to dominate something. He headed for the stables.

The dozen horses retreated to the backs of their stalls when they scented Ravi. Brainless, unpredictable, grass-eating beasts. But occasionally useful, in their own stupid way. Much like a woman. He selected a large gray stallion and thrust himself into its stall.

The horse met him with bared teeth and flying hooves. This same animal fawned all over his younger brother Sanjay and followed him around like a puppy. That was unnatural. Tigers and horses weren’t intended by nature to get along. It often led Ravi to speculate on Sanjay’s dubious ancestry.

Clearly the horse wasn’t about to submit to any bits or saddling. That suited Ravi and his frustration fine. He was quite in the mood for a battle. No stupid brute would get the best of him. Any tiger who couldn’t win a fight with an herbivore deserved the subsequent trampling.

He dodged a vicious kick and caught a handful of the awful creature’s mane. The horse made a near-successful attempt at a bite. Ravi bit it back, on the neck, hard. The stallion squealed in pain. Ravi took advantage and flung himself onto the horse’s back. It bucked at once, even in the confines of the stall. Ravi dug in and hung on until the stallion tired itself out. It quivered beneath him sullenly, unbeaten but resigned.

Good enough. When it got its breath back it would fight him again, and he would best it again. Perhaps today he would finally kill it and eat it. Better still, he could present its bloody slain corpse to his bride as the wedding feast. But first, both must learn once and for all who was master here.

He slammed his heels into the horse’s sides. The startled beast squealed again and bolted out of the stall. Ravi steered it into the forest with savage jerks on its mane. Perhaps he could ride it hard enough to make it break a leg. It was worth a try. Horse and rider, both boiling over with violence, plunged into the trees.

The Mountain Lion King

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.”