Читать книгу The Werewolf's Wife - Michele Hauf - Страница 10

He had a very bad feeling about this. But he wasn’t a wolf to run with his tail between his legs.

Shifting into gear, Ridge drove the pickup, headlights out, up the long drive that preceded the River pack’s property. If the pack was holding a blood sport match, the grounds would be open to any wolf, even those from other packs. He’d attended a few of the games when the Northern pack had been holding them. He hadn’t a choice, because that was when he would have done anything for Amandus’s respect. From that experience, he knew they would be frisked and assessed before being allowed entrance into the private games.

Ridge also knew he would never be allowed entrance. Since he’d taken over the Northern pack he’d received a very clear message from the other packs that he was not welcome. He’d slain Amandus Masterson. Strangely, many had admired the old wolf. The many who believed they could do as they pleased and participate in a vicious sport that tortured vampires. Ridge had gone so far as to denounce the blood sport. And though there were packs that had agreed not to participate after the Saint-Pierre match had proved successful, those packs would not publicly denounce it, for fear of being detested by their peers, as well.

It was a fine line to walk, yet Ridge wasn’t about to cower to maintain a perceived standing of misplaced solidarity among the other packs. If they couldn’t handle him open and truthful, then he didn’t want to deal with them. A man was nothing without his integrity.

The only thing that bothered him was the few pack members who had left the Northern pack in search of the family he was unable to provide may have joined up with a pack involved in the sport. It hurt his heart to know the men he had once called brothers could participate in something so cruel.

Perhaps Abigail was wrong, and the River pack was merely holding some kind of party tonight, celebrating or something festive like that.

Unfortunately, intuition pricked his hackles like no full moon ever had.

Ridge exhaled, accepting what would come.

Abigail strode around the hood of the truck, fluffing the fur coat collar about her neck. The white fur framed her black hair and heart-shaped face, and for a second Ridge saw a snow goddess, pale and like porcelain, but possessed of a steely inner strength her outer appearance wanted to conceal.

A woman like her certainly did not need a man, or a husband, to survive. Hell, with fingers such as hers wielding magic, survival was a guarantee. Too bad. He could imagine protecting her and holding her close.

The clatter of tiny ice crystals on the surface of the snow sounded like a symphony at their feet. It redirected Ridge’s thoughts from holding her to eerie foreboding.

He held out a hand to keep her behind him, but when she instead clasped his hand, he sucked in a breath and tugged from her touch as if hit by her electrical magic.

“What’s wrong?” she asked.

Everything. He didn’t want to think about how soft and warm she was right now, even though it was her suede glove against his bare hand. How just beneath the fur rimming her neck were full, gorgeous breasts, rising and falling, tempting him to touch. He needed to stay alert and ultrasensitive to his surroundings.

“Can you stay behind?” he asked, knowing her answer before she would refuse. “If this gets tough, I won’t be able to keep an eye on you.”

“I’m a big girl, Ridge.”

“Big enough to stand against a pack of shifted wolves?”

When she didn’t reply, he almost lifted her over his shoulder to carry her back to the truck and shove her inside and lock the door. At least there he could be confident she wouldn’t get in harm’s way. But the scent of another warmblooded creature distracted him.

Ridge lifted his head and closed his eyes. The icy air focused every scent, yet also kept it close to the source, making it difficult to grab distant odors. Yet it lingered, teasing his nostrils.

It came to him on a whisper. Barely there, yet traveling the atmosphere on heavy particles. Blood. And not from a small animal that may have landed in a hunter’s trap in the nearby forest.

It was thick, and too strong, vibrant yet with life. Vampire. He hated that smell.

“Something is going on,” he muttered, his jaw tight. Heartbeat racing, he squeezed his hands into fists. “Follow me, and stay out of sight.”

A dozen vehicles were parked in the snow-plowed area before what was actually an old barn that had been reconditioned and made to look new with a fresh coat of red paint. A rooster weather vane sat still at the roof peak above the double doors.

Ridge sensed the wrongness of the place as soon as they emerged on the cleared parking area beneath a shelter of high-trimmed northern pines. The blood scent traveled his system and formed a tight knot in his gut. Aggressive male shouts from inside the barn prodded at his inner beast. No chickens or cows on this pseudofarm.

It was difficult to maintain stealth with the ice pebbles coating the snow. It had misted fine sleet earlier in the day, and the delicate ice beads crushed like glass beneath their feet and skittered across the glossy, iced surface, no matter how carefully they stepped.

He scanned the parking area, taking in the cars and finding no one inside any of them. He saw an old farmhouse, one that had been added to over the years, as if someone glued two houses to each side and had painted each with a few tones darker paint. It was lit with a soft inner glow, but he didn’t see figures moving inside behind the pale curtains.

A couple of wolves carrying blue plastic cups wandered around behind a dented SUV to take a piss. He pressed Abigail behind him where they stood in the midnight shadow of a pine tree with branches stretched out over the car in front of them.

“Shh,” he said, and sensed her heart beat a rapid pace.

She’d said fear was good. That was true. But doing the right thing was also a good reason to stand tall and proud and never let them see you sweat.

Times like this, he wouldn’t ask to be anywhere else. Sure, he felt it best to avoid confrontation. But if this pack were involved in the crime of blood sport, he wanted them to answer to his wrath.

Glancing to Abigail, he conveyed a warning. She nodded and pointed at the ground, studiously placed her feet together, as if to say, “I’ll stay right here.”

Not completely satisfied she would stay in the shadows, but unwilling to argue with an opponent who could win with a flick of her fingers, he stepped out beyond the car bumper. Here, where the tires had rolled over the packed snow, the ground crunched like Styrofoam under his boots.

One of the wolves scented him, his head lifting and breath exploding in a foggy cloud before his face. Eyes narrowed, the ski-capped wolf turned to sight the new wolf walking casually toward them.

“Chilly night, eh?” Ridge offered. “The match already begin?”

“Yeah,” the one who was zipping up said, as Ski Cap approached Ridge cautiously. “Beer’s inside, and on the house. Or should I say on the barn? Ha!”

“Martin, shut up,” Ski Cap snapped. “Who are you?” he asked Ridge, his pale eyes narrowing. “We’ve closed for the night. Full house. And I don’t recall you checking in earlier at the gate.”

“I’m late. And I didn’t see a gate.” Ridge splayed out his hands, opening himself in an attempt to appear as nonthreatening as possible. His fingertips tingled though, his talons aching for the shift even as he told himself the situation was a bad one. “I brought a roll of cash for wagers.”

The one in the back, Martin, chuckled and lifted his cup in a toast. “Benjamins!” He was already wasted, which was not so much a good thing as a warning.

Ridge stepped up and the one in front, taller and slimmer than Ridge, but not lacking in bulk for his arms arched out from his muscled form, took a step forward, as well. He wore no coat, but instead a thick, insulated plaid shirt over black leather pants. He scented the wolf’s aggression, and tried not to put out his own surging rise to anger. He must remain calm if he wanted to gain admittance.

“What’s your name?”

“Richard Addison,” he answered. Few wolves knew him by his birth name.

“What pack you with?”

Now that was the question he couldn’t honestly answer without shutting down this reconnaissance adventure faster than a speeding bullet.

“I just wanted a look at the fight,” he said. “Won’t bother anyone. Come on, we’re all brothers, yes?”

He saw the fist swing toward his jaw, and caught it smartly with his open palm. The loud smack echoed in the still winter night. A bird fluttered out from high in a pine tree.

Martin the beer drinker wobbled, but he observed their interaction with keen eyes.

“Now that wasn’t very nice,” Ridge said. “I was being polite and all. Why’d you have to do that?”

“I know who you are.” The capped wolf bounced in preparation to deliver another fist. “You’re the one who killed the Northern pack’s principal. Think you’re all high and mighty now, do you? Did you come to preach to us against torturing vampires?” He swung again.

Ridge dodged the slow fist. The man’s breath reeked of beer but he wasn’t as inebriated as the other, who stood watching, his jaw hinged open and beer dribbling out of his tilted cup.

“I’m not a preacher by any measure of the word.” Ridge lifted his fists in defense. He liked a good fistfight. No high kicks or martial arts moves for him. Keep it simple. Nothing fancy. A well-delivered fist trumped a kick to the jaw any day. Pummel your opponent’s weak spots and organs until he puked. “You know the blood sport has been outlawed.”

“Yeah, yeah. Every decade or so the Council sends out a new list of stupid rules. We’re wolves, man. Don’t you want to live like one?”

“We don’t need to kill to survive. And we certainly don’t need to celebrate the deaths of others. That kind of gang mentality makes all the rest of us look bad. Why don’t you think for yourself?”

“I do, and I take great joy watching vampires tear out each other’s veins to get to the blood they crave.”