One True Mate: Shifter's Solace (Kindle Worlds Novella)(4)

Now the flames were roaring up the stacks. Thick, black smoke plumed towards the ceiling. One of the towering piles toppled and smashed against the floor in a shower of ash that scattered across the floorboards, its smouldering edges catching the bundles of clothes and the fringes of a filthy old rag rug.

She turned for the stairs, but flames blocked the doorway, crackling red and orange, shot through with black. The heat was building, pressing in on her, and she tried to draw in a breath, choking on the smoke and the scalding air.

She screamed for help – but only inside her head.





Chapter Three


Ben was scrubbing the showers. He wasn’t on the rota, but Rory didn’t give him a hard time. He probably needed some time alone to get his head on straight. He knew how that went. Most of the rest of the squad were playing cards at the table, or sprawled on the couches and squabbling over the remote control for the TV.

Rory was reading a paperback book he’d found in one of the unused lockers.

Actually, he wasn’t. He was pretending to, turning over the pages every now and again, but really he was brooding. Ben would have described it as sulking, but Ben wasn’t there, so he could bite him.

Fact was, he couldn’t stop thinking about the half-angel mates who’d been promised to the shiften in a prophecy. It was like an ache inside him, the thought that he would never have his own mate. A woman who would love him and only him. A woman he could protect and adore and keep safe from the bad things in the world.

He tossed the book to the floor. He couldn’t keep moping like this. Living in close quarters with the other guys for days at a time, he knew how one pissy mood could sour the whole squad, turning everybody growly and snappish. And with the job they did, that was dangerous. So he’d ask to be dealt in to the game of cards , where as usual Brady was slaughtering everyone else, very nicely, very quietly, and very thoroughly. His pile of matchsticks – the Chief had nixed gambling for money from the get-go, and good thing too or they’d all be in indentured servitude to Brady – was mounting up nicely.

Rory stood up. “Hey,” he started.

Then he froze as he heard a voice in his head.

Help! Oh god, help me!

An image flashed across his vision. Orange fire. Columns of charcoal, burning and toppling. Bitter, ashy smoke. Skittering sparks.

The other guys were looking at him, waiting for him to finish his sentence.

“There’s a fire,” he croaked. “We have to go. Move out.”

They just looked at him. Some of them looked worried. Some of them annoyed. None of them looked surprised by his outburst. Had he been acting weird? Letting his misery show? How long had they thought he was losing it?

“There’s a fucking fire!” he roared. “There’s a woman trapped. Move your furry fuckin’ asses!”

Ben sauntered through from the showers, drying his hands on a rag, narrowing his eyes quizzically.

“There hasn’t been a call,” Brady pointed out reasonably.

“I don’t give a shit! We have to roll now!” Rory said frantically.

In his head, the woman was crying for his help.

Hold on, he sent in ruhi. Hold on, I’m coming.

Did he get a response? Maybe he felt something – a little flutter of thought – or maybe it was wishful thinking.

The Chief stepped out of his office. “What the fu—” he started.

Rory rounded on him, snarling. “There’s a fire, we need to go!”

The Chief looked around the room, judging the expression on each of his firefighter’s faces before he returned his gaze to Rory.

“We haven’t been called out,” he said steadily. “There’s no chatter on the police scanner – human or wolven. What makes you so sure—”

Rory exploded out of his clothes, his transformation swift and savage. It hurt – it always did when it was so uncontrolled – but he didn’t care. What hurt more was the voice of that woman, crying in his head, pleading for his help.

His bones warped, getting longer and thicker as his spine contracted. His face pushed out into a snarling, bellowing muzzle, and shaggy brown fur washed down over his body. He bellowed his pain and anger at the Chief.

The human part of him, in the back of his head, told him he was committing suicide. The challenge to the power structure – to protocol – was unforgivable. It was the action of a moonstruck shiften, unable to control his inner beast.

Around him, other members of the squad shifted, shaking fur out of their bodies like a wet dog shakes off water, falling to all fours with floor-shaking thumps. They growled deep in their massive chests, a warning.

But the Chief held up his hand. “Shift back. Now. All of you,” he said. “Don’t make me bind you.”

Reluctantly, they did, gathering up their clothes and dressing. Rory was still frantic.

Before he could speak, the Chief said, “We’re moving out.” He quelled the rumble of protest with barely a look. “We’re going. Gear up. Move out. Rory – we’ll follow your lead.”

As the others jogged out of the room , the Chief caught him by the elbow. Rory barely restrained his snarl – he could still hear her screaming in his head.

“You’d better be right about this. You challenged my authority, son.” He wasn’t angry. He sounded sad. Worried.