Wolf Song (Wolf Song Trilogy #1)(15)
“Yeah. That Brick Northridge character, lives up the mountain.”
Halfway between Shady Heart and Los Lobos. Right in the path of Cal’s land grab. He’d suffered the lone wolf’s presence only because Gee had planted him there as a brutalized teen. And no one crossed Gee. And because it annoyed the shit out of Magnum that he’d given the banished rogue a pass so close to cat territory, allowing him into Shady Heart when he pleased.
He nodded. “The one who carves the animal figurines Brynna sells in her boutique. She can’t keep ’em stocked. The tourists—hell, even the cats—love ’em.” And all cash exchanges in Shady Heart eventually floated up or trickled down for the greater good.
“Yeah. Comes in for a drink—or to get laid—from time to time, when he brings the carvings and stocks up on supplies. Usually minds his own business. The girls like him. But this…hell, Boss. It’s Summer. ”
Damn it. The wolf was no skinny youth now. He’d grown huge and muscular, at least as big as he and Smash. Likely his niece had no idea what she played with. Or…maybe she did. But no way he’d let the standoffish clan princess, who’d rejected the suit of every one of his cats, hook up with a f*ckin’ wolf. Not while he lived.
“Get ’em in here,” he growled. “Now.”
Chapter Five
Three big cat shifters jumped Brick from behind, twisting his arms behind his back, holding him down. He flashed back to ten years earlier, Timothy Leary without the Day-Glo posters or the psychedelic buzz. Another bar. Another bar fight. His challenge to Magnum in The Den in Los Lobos, when he’d been beaten bloody and senseless and banished from the Black Hills Pack.
But he’d done nothing this day…except enter the Graymarket Trading Company Saloon and Casino with Summer Krazy Glued to his side. A scramble of voices immediately bombarded him, made his skull go all Excedrin Headache No. 42. Until his female stroked the back of his neck, calming and soothing as only she could. The “Macarena” of sound inside his brain slowed to a jiggle, the cacophony of white noise and static ebbing and dimming, her gentle song playing in the background. But her apparent willingness to touch him so familiarly in front of the cats—hell, her need to—seemed to craze them.
His gaze riveted on her. His need to wrap himself around her mushroomed. Her face grew taut, anguish stamped on her tight features, as chaos erupted in the saloon. He smelled the cats, the flood of testosterone, their sexual arousal. They wanted her. As much as they wanted him dead. Must. Protect. Her. No matter the cost. “Get the hell out of here, sweetheart,” he muttered. “I’ll follow. Go. Fly, Aura Lee.”
“Yeah, not quite yet, Summer.” The largest of the cats grabbed her by the elbow, effectively clipping her wings. “And who the f*ck is Aura Lee?” He spat onto the floor. “You messing with this wolf, giving him free samples, and he doesn’t even know your name? When there’s so many cats would put a ring on it for you?” He shook his head in disgust. “Your uncle wants to see you.” He nodded at the thugs holding Brick. “Bring him to Cal’s office.”
But Brick wasn’t an untried cub any longer. And his female would not be wrested from his grasp. A howl burst from his throat, loud enough to curdle their cottage cheese. He martialed a flurry of long and patiently practiced t’ai chi moves, kicked out at his captors and caught them off guard. The moment their grip on him relaxed, he quickly shifted. He knew his mature wolf loomed huge and formidable, bigger than any of them, when the crowd edged back in fear.
Baring his fangs, he forced them to retreat with unholy snarls, his gaze traveling from one to the next as if they were Hungry-Man Backyard Barbecue and his inner dinner gong had rung.
He hunkered onto his haunches, gathering muscles, preparing to spring at the male holding Summer. To tear the creep’s throat and heart out, for daring to lay a hand on his…mate. Put a ring on her? Fuck that shit. Only one male would do that.
Mine. He growled. With lethal athletic speed, he went Cape Canaveral aerodynamic, launching his bulk into the air.
“Not today, wolf. Not in my house.” Cal Seven, the owner of the saloon and casino, stood in his office doorway, a shotgun on his shoulder, aimed unerringly in Brick’s direction.
Stinging pain seared into his back, his hind quarters, his shoulders. He dropped like a boulder, crumpling to the ground.
***
When Brick came to, he lay on a parquet wood floor, a throw rug blanketing his naked human form. Cotton balls —hell, an entire cotton field, boll weevils included, grew in his mouth. Clouds rolled through his head, black and stormy. No blood. But darts of pain, as if he’d been pin cushioned by a swarm of bees.
“Tranq gun,” a deep voice drawled above him. “What we use to subdue a feral animal in our midst. Before we decide if the creature’s rabid and needs to be put down. Took about ten rounds to topple you.”
He cranked his heavy eyelids open. Cal Seven leaned back against his desk, arms crossed over his chest. Behind him, on the wall, a vast map of the mountain. Red pins dominating. A sprinkle of green pins where Los Lobos should be. His beast yowled, jabbing frenzied claws into his flesh. Great. Skin needled inside and out. He’d probably leak from all the punctures if he had something to drink. Speaking of which…his mouth had gone totally Mojave.