Hour of the Lion, Cherise Sinclair [good story books to read TXT] 📗

and touched her leg. Rubbed her knee. No pain. She did a snap kick, a side kick, and lunged, putting all her weight on it. No agony, no weakness. Healed. She was healed!

'Hooyah!' She did a victory dance from one side of the clearing to the other. A second later, she whipped out her cell phone. The reception was barely adequate, but she dialed anyway.

'Wells.' Her boss wasn‘t one to waste words.

'Sir. It‘s Morgan. I‘m ready to return to duty.'

'Sergeant.' His voice warmed. Now that was a shock. 'You believe you are fully recovered?'

'Yes, sir.'

'Not that I would ever doubt your word, Sergeant, but I need a doctor‘s confirmation. Are you still in Washington?'

'Yes, sir.'

She heard scratching sounds, shuffling papers. 'I‘ll send the paperwork for a physical to Lewis-McChord. See Doctor...ah, yes, Dr. Reinhardt. I will accept no other physician‘s okay, is that clear?'

Hell, another one of his unbribable people. 'Clear, sir. I‘ll call him tomorrow.'

'Good enough. As to the matter you‘d mentioned before—' More paper shuffling. 'Yes.

The ex-marine named Swane. I‘m back in the States now, and I‘ve started some inquiries. Do you have any additional information for me?'

This was her chance to bring up shapeshifters... She remembered Lachlan‘s terrified face and sighed. I gave my word. 'No, sir. That‘s it.'

'Then, I‘ll talk to you after I have Dr. Reinhardt‘s report in hand.'

'Thank you, sir.'

Her grin faded as she closed the phone. Once again she‘d dodged telling Wells about the shifters. Dammit, she needed to return to Baghdad where the issues were clear and she knew her ass from a hole in the ground. And where she wasn‘t getting sucked into people‘s lives and lusting after civilians.

But her mission wasn‘t over. She had to find Lachlan‘s grandfather. And be certain the werebeasties posed no danger to normal, unfurry people, or no matter what she‘d promised Lachlan, she‘d turn over the investigation to Wells. Her promise to the American people came first. Hell.

As she scowled, she saw something skitter across a branch, then a tiny face peered down at her. Another of those tree-thingies? She pointed a finger at it. 'Whatever you fuckers are, do not—I repeat—do not follow me to Baghdad.'

*

Joe Thorson squinted against the bright afternoon light as he stepped out of his bookstore.

His twisted knee burned like fire, and the massive purple bruise on his jaw had turned shaving into a hellish exercise.

He deserved every bit of it.

Nodding at Al Baty who waited on the sidewalk, Thorson eased onto the ironwork bench by the display window.

'You look like you got caught in an avalanche.' Al took the matching chair. He grinned, fingered his chin. 'The human packs a punch.'

'Does she,' Thorson said in a dry voice.

'At least—'

'Shut up.' His soul felt tattered with humiliation. What had he been thinking to attack a female? No matter the species, it was wrong.

He waited silently as Calum and the human strolled down from the tavern. As they approached, Thorson stood and waited. And watched, noting how Calum‘s eyes darkened, his posture turning protective. Surely the Cosantir hadn‘t formed an attachment to this...human.

Thorson turned his gaze on the female. Pretty enough, he supposed, but lacking—his eyes narrowed—actually, she wasn‘t lacking. She had a werecat‘s grace although not the wild scent of one who‘d run the forests. He could see why she might, possibly, have attracted Calum. Still, any relationship with a human would be as doomed as an air sylph trying to mate a fire salamander.

'Calum,' he said, nodding to the Cosantir, then grudgingly tilted his head to the female.

'Miss.'

She was silent, an unusual trait in a human. One to be appreciated.

'Victoria, this is Albert Baty. He owns the grocery store,' Calum said. 'Joe Thorson owns Books.'

Her gaze was cool, her voice husky. 'Great name for a bookstore.' No tedious, pleased to meet you, or how are you niceties from her.

'Have you suggestions for reciprocity?' Calum asked. Strictly business was the Cosantir, especially when something raised his ire. He wasn‘t one a shifter wanted to rile up. Although he‘d never wanted the God-given title, he‘d led them with wisdom…and power that had become legendary.

Al stepped forward, his gut leading his chest by a good few inches. He needed to get into the forest more, run some of that flab off. 'First, Miss Waverly, I‘d like to say that I‘m sorry. I was drunk...and stupid.'

Her eyes narrowed. 'I‘ve dealt with stupid drunks before. Never seen one try to knife a person in the back.'

Al cringed like a whipped dog. Thorson barely repressed a snarl.

The grocer‘s face turned red enough to match the broken veins in his nose. 'I-I.'

The woman sighed. 'Do me a favor. If you want to drink, leave the weapons at home.'

'Yes, miss. I will,' Al said.

By Herne, if Al had been in wolf form, his tail would be under his belly. Thorson really needed to rethink his friends, or, at least, avoid submissive werewolves.

Al continued, 'My thought to balance the debt is free meat from the grocery for you as long as you live in Cold Creek.'

The human‘s eyes widened. She glanced at Calum.

The Cosantir considered, then nodded. 'A fair exchange. Let it be so.' He turned to Thorson, his pupils very close to totally black. Not a good sign. He obviously held Thorson to blame for the fight.

'My apologies also, Miss Waverly,' Thorson said stiffly. He wouldn‘t—couldn‘t—crawl like his dog of a friend. Not for a human, even a female one.

She tilted her head, studying him. 'Why do you hate me?'

The question came like a slash to the jugular. Because you"re one of them who killed my boy.

Human. Images of Lachlan flooded his memory. The day the boy arrived, his mother dead, his little face so white. Giggling under a pile of books dislodged when he‘d tried to climb a bookcase. His wonder at his first trawsfur . His body lifeless on a steel table. Killed by humans.

Thorson choked on hatred. His hands closed into fists, tingling with the beginning of trawsfur.

Calum pulled the human