So how about some snippets from two upcoming works, Merrick’s Destiny (February 12th – story) and Hunter’s Prey (March 6th – category novel).

Merrick’s Destiny
Bloodhounds #1.5
http://www.moirarogers.com/merricks-destiny

She’d be safe enough there, so Merrick jabbed the tip of his thumb. It took only a few drops of blood on the markings for magic to zip through him, a low level hum that left a sick emptiness in its wake.

That wasn’t supposed to happen.

The gears inside the door turned with a squeal of complaint, but he ignored the sound and pondered the gnawing void in his gut. It grew as he focused on it, grew until he tore open the front door, dispelling the last of the magic.

Death.

He hit his knees with a choked noise, his fingers twitching. Aching, like they’d twist into claws any second. Death throbbed in his skull, the pressing weight of the undead coming from every direction.

He heard Paralee’s soft, bare footsteps behind him. “Merrick, there’s a—oh God, are you all right?” Her hand slid over his back as she knelt beside him.

“The door—” He reached for it blindly, his hand spasming around the wood. “Close it. Now.”

She complied immediately, slamming it shut with a clang. “What happened?”

The press of death remained. Only the wards had blocked it out, and Merrick struggled to his feet. He fumbled until his bleeding hand hit the right spot, and magic flared, sealing the outpost against the outside.

Paralee’s face swam into focus. He inhaled her scent, hoping to steady himself. “Vampires. More bloodsuckers than I’ve ever felt before in my life. They must be sleeping in the caves around us in every damn direction.”

Hunter’s Prey
Bloodhounds #2
http://www.moirarogers.com/hunters-prey

When Sylvie had gone, Ophelia approached the full-length mirror beside the bed. Her hair was a mess, so she pulled the pins and shook it free. For a moment, she considered undressing and slipping into one of the extra gowns from the wardrobe. But they bore Sylvie’s scent, not her own, and there was no way to know how Hunter would react.

She exhaled a curse along with her sigh. She never should have let him leave the house, not after the violent way he’d reacted to Archer speaking of her. If Hunter had hurt Sylvie, it would have been Ophelia’s fault for not pressing him to face the truth.

Like it or not, he wanted her.

She laid her hand against the bathroom door, then knocked softly. “Hunter? It’s me.”

The sound of pacing footsteps gave way to harsh breaths, each one a seeming effort. “Ophelia?”

She closed her eyes and rested her forehead against the wood. “Open the door, honey.”

Something thumped against the wall to her right. A fist, maybe, or Hunter’s body. His snarl was low and rough. “I don’t want her. I won’t take her.”

“She’s gone. It’s just us now.”

Hesitation. She could almost taste his suspicion in the heavy silence between them. Then the lock clicked and the door edged open, revealing a glimpse of his bare chest and wild hair hanging over stormy blue eyes. “Just us?”

She could give him words, gentle and reassuring. Instead, she reached through the open door and trailed her hand down the center of his chest. “Come out, Hunter.”

The door vanished, thrown open with such force it bounced against the inside wall. But he was already there, falling on her like a bird streaking from the sky. He gripped the back of her neck, his fingers digging into her hair as he forced her body over his other arm in a vulnerable arc.

For an endless moment he only stared at her, breath whistling through his teeth as the heat of him wrapped around her. “Say yes.” Not a command. A shaking plea.

It didn’t matter that she already had. All that mattered was this moment, and him knowing he wasn’t demanding something she didn’t want to give. “Yes.”

He swallowed the word with a rough kiss that laid claim to more than her body, and for more than the new moon. His teeth closed on her lip with a growl, only to be replaced by his tongue, stroking in an imperious demand for entry.

She opened her mouth with a shudder, her head spinning. It was only a kiss, full of more hunger than skill, but her body responded with a shaky need she hadn’t anticipated.

That was when she knew. Hunter had been lying to himself, but so had she.

* * *

Wheeee!  We are settling in for a lot of Bloodhound-y fun this spring and summer.  Archer’s Lady, the third Bloodhound book, will be out in July.  Growly, vampire hunting beastmen are swinging from the rafters.  (Do you know how noisy that is?)

Reviewers–if you missed Wilder’s Mate the first time around and want to give it a try, or would like a review copy of Hunter’s Prey, they’ve both been added to the Review List!

I think he looks bad-ass. 

Hunter’s Prey – Bloodhounds #2

A snippet from Hunter’s Prey (Pre-edits!)

* * *

Fifty vampires filled the canyon below, the press of their dead auras so rank Hunter wondered when fur would sprout from his skin.

Soon. Soon he’d fight. Soon they’d bleed.

“There’s an awful lot of them,” Archer rasped.

“Yes.” Wilder’s words were more eager than anything, filled with anticipation and violence. “And we’re going to kill them all.”

Fifty vampires versus three bloodhounds. At any other time, Hunter might have laughed at the absurdity. Now, in the heart of the Deadlands, with the full moon heavy above their heads—

He needed a hundred. He needed five hundred to soothe the amplified rage boiling under the human flesh he’d shed soon enough. Fang and claw, fur and anger—this was his life now.

In moments like this, he didn’t mind at all. “We’ll kill every fucking one.”

Archer was the first to begin fumbling free of his clothes. “You’d think they’d know better than to camp so close to the border during the full moon.”

Close was relative. The three of them had run leagues yesterday, leaving their horses at a brothel on the border before taking off into the Deadlands on foot. Human feet, tucked into human boots—boots Hunter had lost somewhere last night when the heavy moon had called forth the monster without warning.

His feet would have been raw by now if he weren’t a creature who healed with a speed that defied all logic, even that of the Inventors Guild, creators of fantastical flying machines and weapons that burned with the heat of the sun.

He wasn’t science. Not entirely. Whatever sort of beast he was, it was part alchemy and part magic, and he’d bust out of his unmagical pants if he didn’t get them off before the change overtook him.

“Don’t know why you even wore clothes,” Wilder growled as he finished stripping with practiced ease. “You’re going to ruin them before we get back to Iron Creek.”

Hunter fumbled with his pants and gave in to an answering snarl, wordless but satisfying. Archer had been the one to insist he include a change of clothing in his small pack of supplies, and it had been good advice, if overly optimistic. If he ripped through these pants, he’d be walking back to the brothel naked.

Archer clenched his teeth and stretched as his body began to shift, break down and reform. The process looked—and was—excruciatingly painful, but even that pain was a welcome relief compared to the urgency that thundered through them. The full-moon need to fight, to kill, was as strong and terrifying as the sexual hunger that gripped a bloodhound when the night sky went dark.

Easier dealt with, though. Kicking free of his pants, Hunter ripped at his shirt, dragging the fabric most of the way over his head before that familiar agony tore through him.

Bones snapped, crackling like twigs crushed by an angry child. His skin ripped, and Hunter dug his teeth into his lip to hold back a scream of agony. There could be no warning, not until the hounds were close enough for the vampires to smell their death as it rushed toward them on monstrous claws.

Wilder was the last to change and the first to charge down the sharply sloped canyon wall, rocks and dirt skittering under giant clawed feet.

Only three of them, but now that they were approaching, Hunter could see that it hardly mattered. The vampires in the canyon below were outlaws, pale and half-starved, and if he’d had more than a scrap or two of mind left to think with, he’d have wondered what twisted vampire politics left these creatures homeless and wary, no doubt gathered together in an uneasy truce meant to prevent what was about to happen.

Right now, he only cared about their deaths, and the wisps of nothing they’d leave behind. Sad bones in the endless dust of the untamed frontier.

Archer reached the first vampire, tearing through him as he stood, shocked and still. The creature’s dying shriek reverberated through the quiet of the night and then exploded as the vampires swarmed, surrounding them with unnatural speed.

The last shreds of thought fled with Hunter’s first kill. Claws, sinking deep, tearing a snarling vampire in two, and satisfaction roared up from the darkest depths of his being.

Hands grasped at him. Blades glinted in the moonlight, sharp edges that cut sharp paths through the air and sometimes his flesh and fur.

Blood didn’t matter. Pain didn’t matter. He was a monster. He was death.

He was a bloodhound.

* * *

Hunter’s Prey comes out at the start of March, and will be followed in July by Archer’s Lady.

Oh, what the hell. I can’t resist.

…wow, that whole sentence was vaguely suggestive. I was suggestively discussing being suggestive. Win!

Snippet from Hunter’s Prey, Bloodhounds #2

When she reached the balcony, she rapped on the French doors leading inside. They opened a heartbeat later, revealing a disheveled Sylvie wrapped in an expensive dressing gown. “You lied to me, love. I’m very cross with you.”

“I did not lie, but I admit I suspect he did.” Ophelia stepped in and pushed up each ruffled sleeve of her friend’s robe in turn, looking for bruises. “Did he hurt you?”

Sylvie jerked her hands away with an impatient noise. “Of course not. I know my work. But he’s locked himself in my bathroom, and I paid a fortune for one of those fancy New York inventors to fix it up with plumbing and electricity. If he rips the pipes off the wall, I’ll be furious.”

The flippant words masked real anxiety, though not for herself. Ophelia squared her shoulders. “I can handle him, I know I can. If you can do me a favor.”

“If your next words are lend me your bedroom, I do hope you’re going to follow them up with, and I’ll buy you new bedding.” Sylvie arched both eyebrows. “Italian silk.”

If nothing else, they could bill it to the Guild. “Done. Now get out so I can save your washroom.”

Sylvie raised a hand to cup Ophelia’s cheek. “Be careful. I won’t say I’ve never seen bloodhounds acting this wild. I have, and I’ve handled them. But I’ve never seen one worse off. Not one who could come back.”

The words would chill her if she let them, so she shook her head. “He’s still there. Wilder and Archer got him through the full moon, and I’ll get him through the new.”

“If you’re sure.” Sylvie turned to her desk and swept up a small stack of leather-bound books. “I’ve cleared the other two suites in this wing. I’ll be in the one closest to the main stairs. Do you know how to operate the speaker? It connects directly to the kitchen, and they’ll send up anything you need.”

It hadn’t been so terribly long since she’d been in a place like this. “I’ll manage.”

When Sylvie had gone, Ophelia approached the full-length mirror beside the bed. Her hair was a mess, so she pulled the pins and shook it free. For a moment, she considered undressing and slipping into one of the extra gowns from the wardrobe. But they bore Sylvie’s scent, not her own, and there was no way to know how Hunter would react.

She exhaled a curse along with her sigh. She never should have let him leave the house, not after the violent way he’d reacted to Archer speaking of her. If Hunter had hurt Sylvie, it would have been Ophelia’s fault for not pressing him to face the truth.

Like it or not, he wanted her.

She laid her hand against the bathroom door, then knocked softly. “Hunter? It’s me.”

The sound of pacing footsteps gave way to harsh breaths, each one a seeming effort. “Ophelia?”

She closed her eyes and rested her forehead against the wood. “Open the door, honey.”

Something thumped against the wall to her right. A fist, maybe, or Hunter’s body. His snarl was low and rough. “I don’t want her. I won’t take her.”

“She’s gone. It’s just us now.”

Hesitation. She could almost taste his suspicion in the heavy silence between them. Then the lock clicked and the door edged open, revealing a glimpse of his bare chest and wild hair hanging over stormy blue eyes. “Just us?”

She could give him words, gentle and reassuring. Instead, she reached through the open door and trailed her hand down the center of his chest. “Come out, Hunter.”

The door vanished, thrown open with such force it bounced against the inside wall. But he was already there, falling on her like a bird streaking from the sky. He gripped the back of her neck, his fingers digging into her hair as he forced her body back over his other arm in a vulnerable arc.

For an endless moment he only stared at her, breath whistling through his teeth as his heat of him wrapped around her. “Say yes.” Not a command. A shaking plea.

It didn’t matter that she already had. All that mattered was this moment, and him knowing he wasn’t demanding something she didn’t want to give. “Yes.”

But today I thought I’d throw this little excerpt up here, for anyone who’d like a little taste of Cipher. Because it’s less than five weeks now! Wheeeeee!

Fourteen months ago, Kat Gabriel’s life changed forever when she used her empathy as a weapon. Now she can’t escape the weight of those deaths–or the loss of the easy friendship she and Andrew once shared. Obsessed with her mother’s violent past, Kat is determined to learn the truth of her inner-darkness by understanding her legacy.

Since the attack that turned him into a wolf, Andrew Callaghan has done everything possible to make himself stronger. More capable of protecting Kat–both from the supernatural world that forced her to kill, and from their own volatile connection. Pushing her away hurt them both, but he’s finally made himself into the protector she needs.

As Kat’s quest leads her into the darkest underbelly of the psychic world, Andrew is determined to be at her side. But every step forward reopens old emotional wounds and shakes their control. For a dangerous alpha and a deadly psychic, distraction could be fatal–especially when the greatest threat they pose is to each other.

 Excerpt from Cipher

Andrew was going to walk away from her again, and the tense parts of her that had started to unwind over the last few days would shatter. The only way to save anything was to let him go before he came up with a polite, stilted reason. “I understand.”

“No. No, you really don’t.”

He bent his head and kissed her.

The world stopped.

His lips were warm. Firm. As firm as the fingers locked around her wrists, holding her hands to his face. She’d played out this moment in a thousand girlish daydreams and more than one guilty adult fantasy, and imagination hadn’t provided the little details. The heat of his body, the strength of his grip, the way she melted, like chocolate left in the July sun, and from nothing but that innocent contact.

His lips, on hers. Parting, and oh God, he knew how to kiss, like he was hungry, like he loved the taste of her, and Kat became mortally certain that her knees were going to give out if he got his tongue in on the action. Her body throbbed with the rhythm of his mouth moving on hers, until she was one exposed nerve, and she would have begged him to touch her anywhere—everywhere—if she wouldn’t have had to stop kissing him.

When he released her wrists, it was only to grip her hips and lift her, mold her to his body, and she moaned her gratitude. He was harder than he looked, an unforgiving wall of muscle and smooth skin, so distracting and arousing that she didn’t realize they were moving until he stepped over the threshold.

Into the bedroom.

“Open,” he rasped, and lowered her to the bed.

Her back touched the mattress—gentle, so damn gentle—and Andrew stretched out over her, shirtless and beautiful, and her brain fritzed out like a fried circuit board as she obeyed and parted her lips.

He touched them with his tongue, a soft sweep of one lip and then the other, and kissed her again, deeper, one hand winding in her hair. That stirred old memories, brought to life every unacceptable fantasy she’d had of their anger and hurt and longing all coalescing into a dark passion that would satisfy her body even as it cut her heart to pieces.

But there was no darkness in the grip of his hand, just a gentle control, a sweet hint of dominance that barely deserved the description, but thrilled her anyway. The throbbing was back, magnified into an ache that pulsed in time with the stroke of his tongue. Every time she tried to catch a breath it escaped in tiny, helpless noises that would have embarrassed her if she hadn’t been burning alive.

He dragged his mouth to her chin and then her throat, nipping lightly when she tilted back her head. The scrape of his teeth curled her toes, and the sheer insanity of the way her body reacted splintered fear through her.

She fisted both hands in his hair and dragged his head back, panting for breath. “What are we doing? Are we—”

He panted too, his eyes glazed with pleasure and need. “Are we what?”

If she let him keep touching her, she’d fly apart before she got her pants off. “We can’t do this without talking about it. Sex with an empath as strong as I am—it’s not that simple. I could hurt you. Hurt both of us.”

Andrew’s chest rumbled, as if a growl formed that he didn’t quite voice. Then he rolled away. “I didn’t think.”

Disappointment made her voice shake. “You shouldn’t have to. It wouldn’t be that bad if you were anyone else…but with you I’m—I’ve got—” She covered her face with her hands, and now she was disappointed and embarrassed. “My empathy might as well be hardwired into my sexual responses. Is there a girl version of premature ejaculation?”

He choked on a snort. “I don’t think anyone minds it, usually.”

Maybe her violent reactions had nothing to do with magic and everything to do with chemistry. Maybe wanting Andrew so long had built a tension that would make even innocent touches feel fantastic. Maybe she was in denial.

Maybe she didn’t care.

The room seemed too warm as she rolled to her knees. Andrew had his hand over his face, which made asking the question a lot easier. “If it gets too overwhelming…can we stop?”

He rolled to his side, propped on one elbow, and studied her, his expression intense. “We can stop whenever you want. Whenever you need to.”

Christ, she was a teenager, making rules about where her prom date could touch her while they groped in the back of his car. Except she’d never gone to prom. She’d been sixteen her senior year, struggling with the violent surges in power that made puberty a worse nightmare for a psychic than for the average hormone-riddled teen.

And Andrew—Andrew was not a teenage boy. He was six-foot-something of shapeshifter alpha bastard who had to have his share of instinctive needs. “That’s not going to drive you crazy?”

“I have two hands, Kat,” he reminded her. “I can take care of things myself.”

It was not remotely okay to pause and savor that image, but she couldn’t stop herself. Andrew, stretched out, his face slack with pleasure, the muscles in his arm flexing as he curled his fingers around—

She slapped her hands over her face and actually whimpered. “That was mean.”

“Was it?”

Anything else she said would reveal her newly formed and overwhelming need to watch him and his two hands take care of things. So she leaned down and kissed him again.

* * *

Cipher is the 4th book in the Southern Arcana series and is on sale on September 6th!
Available to pre-order now at: Amazon, Barnes & Noble, Samhain Publishing (30% off!)

I know just about everyone has an opinion on prologues. Sometimes we have them, mostly we don’t. But this book has one, because something super, super important happened to Kat & Andrew in Crossroads, and even those of you who read the book never really got to see it.  That was how we wanted it–that book was about Nick & Derek dealing with it, and everything surrounding it.

This book is about Kat & Andrew, though, so we wrote that event from their POV and, after some consideration, decided it needed to be the prologue. (Oh prologue haters, don’t throw holy water on us!)

So here is that behind-the-scenes moment of what really happened to Kat & Andrew during Crossroads.

Prologue to Cipher

Fourteen months earlier

Kat tried to open the office door three times before she realized she was using the wrong key.

Her cheeks heated as she lifted the ring until the silver keys caught the faint glint from the streetlight. “Don’t say a damn word.”

Next to her, Andrew chuckled. “Hey, my lips are zipped.”

“Better be.” God, she loved his laugh. And his smile. And his eyes. She was supposed to be mad at him, but her lips tugged up in a smile of her own as she found the right key. “This’ll just take a few minutes, and then we can head back.”

“I’m in no hurry.” He rested his hand on the door and waited for her to unlock it. “With Derek MIA right now, work’s a little weird.”

The reminder brought a stab of worry. Derek was hip-deep in the latest shapeshifter mess, one that came with danger and execution orders and an instinctive need to bundle his baby cousin off into protective custody.

It was annoying. It was condescending. And it was hard to stay mad when protective custody meant spending time with Andrew–even if he had gone over to the dark side by joining the ranks of the overprotective assholes.

She could fume at Derek. She’d never been good at staying angry at Andrew.

Kat unlocked the door, and it swung open without a squeak. Inside the office was dark, so dark that her mind jumped straight to all the things she and Andrew could do in the dark. Theoretical knowledge only, more was the pity, but sometimes she caught Andrew watching her in a way that made her think he’d make it worth the wait.

Someday.

“What were you looking for, again?”

“My binder with the research notes for this stupid OS class.” The door clicked shut behind her, and she pivoted only to find herself staring up at Andrew, his handsome face turned darkly mysterious in the uncertain light.

For one perfect moment, the world went soft-focus. Awareness and potential filled the air–not the magical kind fueled by her empathic gifts, but plain, old-fashioned excitement.

Their friendship had danced along this line for months, no longer just friends but not yet something else. The enormity of what they could be trembled inside her, whispering of epic love, humbling and intimidating. She still felt young and untried, too inexperienced for grown-up relationships with high stakes and ever afters.

She wasn’t ready. Not yet…but soon, and it would be worth it.

He would be worth it.

Andrew’s thumb brushed her cheek. “You’re making big eyes at me.”

She wrinkled her nose and considered sticking out her tongue. “I wouldn’t be if you’d let me come to the office by myself. This is revenge.”

“Nowhere by yourself, those are my orders.”

The soft click to their left was out of place, and it took Kat a moment too long to figure out why.

Triumph spiked through the room in a painful lash of emotion so strong she staggered. Andrew reached out, but rough hands had already closed on her shoulders, dragging her back so fast her heels skittered across the carpet as she belatedly started to struggle.

“Kat!” Andrew’s voice shook with terror–and anger. “Kat!”

A dark figure loomed behind him, and Kat’s lips parted on a warning that came too late. “Andrew–”

Brutal fingers slammed over her mouth, muffling her enraged scream as a huge body crashed into Andrew. Her brain flitted in too many directions, and instinct took over. She crashed her heel down, aiming for her attacker’s toes, but pain splintered up her leg as her floppy sandal smashed against a steel-toed boot.

The man holding her laughed. “You’re feisty for a human. Or are you the little psychic secretary?”

They weren’t humans, not if they knew who she was. What she was. Dread froze her in place as Andrew struggled.

One of the dark-clad men punched him, a hard right across the jaw, but he continued to fight. He kicked a second intruder in the ribs, and the man stumbled back, gasping for breath.

Hot breath spilled across Kat’s ear, and terror cracked her shields, letting in a sick twist of Andrew’s pain and the exhilaration of his opponents. Feral, primal–Andrew was an unanticipated but welcome game, a hunt in which they could indulge themselves.

Shapeshifters.

The second the thought formed, her attacker tightened his grip. “We’re not here to hurt you, but if your friend doesn’t stop fighting, we’ll kill him.”

With his emotions sliding over her skin like slime, she knew the words for truth. As soon as the hand eased from her mouth, her begging plea tumbled out. “Andrew, stop.” God, she sounded scared. She was scared. Andrew was strong for a human, but shapeshifters would rip him to pieces. “Please, Andrew!”

The shifters stepped back, forming a half-circle as their prey rose and faced them. The man behind her growled. “Tell us where Jacobson’s safe houses are. I don’t want to torture you into talking, but I will.”

For a moment, she thought Andrew might back down. Then one of the men made a low noise of anticipation, and Andrew swung.

He was going to die, trying to protect her.

She was going to watch it happen.

Fear shattered into a thousand pieces and took her self-control with it, the breakdown so complete that she didn’t realize she’d lost her grip on her empathic projection until everyone in the office froze.

The hands on her shoulders clenched until she thought they might crush bone. One of the men shuddered, a queer-sounding whimper ripping free from his throat. Low, terrified–barely human, and so afraid.

“You goddamned little bitch–” Rough fingers twisted in her hair, but it was too late. Someone jerked her head back hard enough to bring tears to her eyes, and the pain intensified the fear flooding the room.

A low curse ended on a snarl as one of the men began to shift. Andrew yelled something, but the words disappeared in a cacophony of angry yips and howls as a second man shifted, tearing free of his clothing.

So fast. It happened so fast. One second she was staggering under the weight of her attacker’s anger, the next she was on her knees and Andrew–

Andrew lay on the floor, his clothes rent and dark with blood. Bleeding, and so pale, clutching at his stomach with one hand and his throat with the other–

Dying.

Fear vanished. Pain followed, leaving sweet, icy numbness behind. Cold, cold, cold, she was so cold she should be shivering. So cold they should all be shivering.

She’d make them shiver.

She’d make them crawl.

The power had always been there, a burden and a nuisance. Shields kept it contained, but nothing could contain the protective rage gathering just under the surface.

She took Andrew’s pain. There was so much it should have split her in two, but she took it. Her nails scratched against the rough carpet as she took his anger too, his anger at himself for not being able to protect her. She took the shapeshifters’ rage and their fear and their determination to see her dead, she took her own breaking heart and the ice that would never melt.

She took it all, then took Andrew himself and imagined him safe in her arms, safe in the numbness making the world a distant dream. With him wrapped in her shields, she stripped her soul bare and let everything go in a terrifying thrust of power that hollowed her out and left her trembling.

Her pulse pounded in her ears. Throbbed in her temples. Everything was silent, so silent she was sure she’d failed–

And then the screaming started.

* * *

Chapters 1 – 3 are up on our website now. So go read…if you can handle waiting until September for the rest!

Anyway, we’re 3 1/2 weeks out to Sabine‘s release, so I thought I’d make sure the pages are updated and everything’s ready to go. Which is about when I realized I’d forgotten to upload the first chapter of the second And the Beast book. Whoops!

Before I post links, though, I’m going to post those covers again. Just because I can. O-M-G I love them so much!

A few early reviews for Sabine have already begun to pop up, which makes me so excited! Check out Long and Short Reviews, Reading the Paranormal & The Romance Reviews to find out what people have to say so far.

And as mentioned, the first chapter of Kisri is now up on the book page, for the curious. 

I loved writing these stories, and am so excited that it’s almost time to share them with readers.  And though we don’t have any official contracts yet, which means nothing is written in stone, our hope is to finish the 3rd and 4th stories this fall so they can come out next summer.

So. There’s that. Hurruh! Perhaps tomorrow I will have a State of the Moira Rogers update in me, since we have so many exciting things going on and coming up soon. 

Freeze Line is on sale today.  It’s not a holiday story, exactly. When invited to contribute a story to a holiday or winter collection, we went long on winter…so long we ended up in an ice age.  We’ve wanted to write a story in this world for a long time, and I’m so glad this gave us the chance to visit the world of earth magic, frozen wastelands and people fighting to make a life after the end of the world.

Length: Novella | Rating: Hot | Publisher: Carina Press
Themes: Werewolves, Post-Apocalyptic, Broody Alphas, Witches & Wizards

#

Read The First Chapter

Winter hit hard above the freeze line, and it lasted forever. Most of the time, Shane liked it that way. Fewer opportunities for visitors, fewer supply runs into Hamilton.

Fewer reasons to be sociable.

He throttled down, but the trail had already been packed hard with snow. Braking was tricky, and the snowmobile lurched sideways a few inches before he managed to carefully correct the slide. He had to remember to make his runs in the morning, before Bobby Settles ran through with his massive truck and a load of greenhouse produce.

You’re cranky, Sullivan. Odd. Usually the colder weather lifted his spirits. Sure, he was stuck indoors most of the time, but at least the fevers faded, sapped away by the frozen earth along with the rest of the magic. He was free from them for months–no sleepless nights shredded by fitful dreams of running under the moon, howling with the others of his kind.

In the winter, the magic slept, and the glittering, barren world was a relief to him in a way his human neighbors would never understand.

He crested a hill, the last before the straight shot across Gilroy Lake and the border of his property, and spotted a dark figure ahead, beside the trail.

He’d gone to town in the first place because an ugly sky and a biting wind from the north heralded a storm, the kind that could shut him in his house for weeks. None of his neighbors were foolish enough to wander around in such weather alone unless they had no choice.

Shane slowed as he neared the figure, but a frown drew his brows together. A slight figure, in gear too light for the weather. Lost.

He stopped the snowmobile. “You need some help?”

The figure turned. Slow and unsteady, boots slipping on the packed snow. A pale feminine face peered from beneath the hood of a too-big parka. Her words came out breathless and choppy as she shivered so hard her teeth chattered. “I was looking for shelter?”

“Not from around here, I guess.” He jerked one thumb over his shoulder. “Nearest town’s that way.”

She blinked as if she was having trouble parsing the words, and her gaze shifted too slowly to follow the path of his hand. “Oh. You’re not going in that direction?”

She was already disoriented. If he left her walking, she’d become even more confused, would probably sit down and freeze to death. “Where’s your ride?”

“I don’t have one.” She wrapped her arms around her body, looking tired and lost. “I’m…I’m not from around here.”

No shit. “Why don’t you climb on? My place is just across the lake. You can warm up, maybe make some calls.”

She didn’t move at once. Wariness stirred in her eyes, the first real emotion she’d displayed, and even with his senses dulled, he heard the too-fast pounding of her heart. Fear.

Finally, she looked away. “I’m a witch.”

He hadn’t felt the pull of her magic, but that didn’t surprise him. This far north, she might as well be human. “Dead of winter above the freeze line, lady. I’m not scared of you. Are you scared of me?”

At least she didn’t lie. “Yes. Right now, I’m scared of everyone.”

It didn’t matter what–or who–she was afraid of. Fear spelled trouble. “You coming or not?”

Her foot slipped once as she stepped forward. She caught her balance, then picked a cautious, uncertain path to his side. She dropped one gloved hand to his shoulder and swung her leg awkwardly over the snowmobile, then huddled close against his back. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. Now hold on.”

Once he’d navigated the sloping bank and driven onto the ice, Shane urged the snowmobile to a faster speed. Most of his bulk would shield the woman behind him from the biting wind, but past a certain point, cold was cold. And she needed to warm up.

Soon his house came into view, and he closed the remaining distance quickly. When he killed the engine and slid off the snowmobile, the woman almost fell over into the snow. “You still with me?”

Her lips were turning an alarming shade of blue. She braced both hands on the seat of the snowmobile and nodded jerkily. “I need a moment.”

She wouldn’t make it into the house on her own. “Come on.” He lifted her in his arms, careful not to jar her, and trudged to the door.

He sat her on the couch, stripped off her ill-fitting parka and wrapped two thick blankets over her shoulders. “Coffee or tea?” he asked as he stalked to the thermostat to crank it higher.

“Tea, please.” Her sleepy gaze followed him as she pulled the blankets more snugly around her. “If you have any food to spare–my body is consuming itself.”

He’d just as soon that didn’t happen in his living room. “Graham crackers?” She would need the extra sugar to help get warm.

“Anything. Thank you…” She frowned. “I don’t know your name.”

“Shane Sullivan.” He set the kettle on the stove and peeled off his cold-weather wear. “Are your clothes damp?”

“Yes, a little. I wasn’t here of my–” Her teeth snapped together. “I did not have the opportunity to plan for travel.”

There wasn’t much to say to that. “You have to take them off.”

“All right.” No embarrassment or self-consciousness, though she might well be far past both. She let the blankets slip from her shoulders. The clothes seemed as ill fitting as the parka had been. A man’s rough cotton shirt hung around her like a tent, but the pants were tight across her hips.

She struggled with the boots first, her clumsy fingers fumbling with laces still caked with ice. Conscience pricked him. It had been too long since he’d had to deal with other people in this capacity, and he was horrible at it.

So Shane put the crackers on the coffee table and knelt by her feet. “Let me.”

“I’m sorry.” Her voice sounded hoarse. “I’m worse than helpless. It’s so cold, and the earth is completely asleep. I’ve never felt anything like it.”

The utter lack of magic–and her resulting weakness–must have terrified her. “It doesn’t really wake up around here, not even in the summer.”

Huge brown eyes studied him for a moment, and he had the curious sensation she was weighing something about him. She tilted her head to one side. “Are you a werewolf?”

The only logical deduction. “Yeah.”

“Oh.” Silence reigned as he slipped off her boots, leaving her scrunching her toes in oversize cotton socks. Finally, she sighed. “I’m not sure if I’m being hunted or not.”

He was in it now, no matter what. “Don’t worry about it.” He peeled off the socks too and stood, gesturing to her. “If you can handle the rest, I’ll be in the kitchen.”

A nod. “I believe so, yes.”

He retreated to check on the kettle–and take a moment to peer out the kitchen window at the path to the house. If she’d been followed… Shane shook himself. He’d seen no one else, not even a hint of a search, and he forced himself to relax.

When he returned, her clothes lay in a pile beside her boots. The witch had curled up with the blankets tangled around her body, her legs tucked under her, her cheek resting on the arm of the couch. Almost asleep.

“Hey–” He hadn’t even caught her name. “Hey, lady, sit up. You can’t sleep yet. You need to eat and drink something.” And warm up.

She moaned, but she sat up anyway. The blanket slipped from one shoulder, revealing milky skin and the winding pattern of a tattoo curled around her upper right arm. “Nadia. I’m Nadia.”

“Nadia.” He snatched another throw from the back of a chair and laid it over her shoulders. “Tea’s almost ready.”

“Thank you…Shane?”

“That’s right.” The kettle began to whistle, so he went to prepare her tea and added several spoonfuls of sugar. When he carried it back, he found her more alert, and some of his tension eased. “Here you go.”

With the warm mug clutched between her hands, she perked up. “Do you live alone?”

“Just me.”

“So far from everyone else?”

She already knew the truth, so what did a little more matter? “It’s safer that way, especially when things warm up.”

“Ah.” Understanding sparked in her eyes as she took a careful sip of her tea. “You seem more at peace than the werewolves I’ve encountered before.”

Which meant she hadn’t spent much time north of the line–and she didn’t know jack shit about him. “Living up here dulls the feral stuff just like it does your magic.”

“Yes.” She closed her eyes. “The people who brought me here counted on it.”

She’d been hurt. Shane choked back the instinctive anger that rose, and pressed the crackers into her hand. “Eat.”

After one bite, she made a quiet sound of pleasure, as if she hadn’t tasted anything better in days–which was entirely possible, judging by her enthusiasm. She drank half the tea and ate three crackers in silence as her shivering eased. “You saved my life.”

Something about the declaration left him uneasy. “Maybe.”

“You did.” She sipped her tea. Studied him. “I have nothing with which to repay you.”

He bristled. “I don’t need to be repaid for decency.”

The words made her flinch. “I mean no insult. It is my people’s custom.”

“What, insinuating that I must have dragged you back here for a reason, or that you’ve got to make it worth my while? That custom sucks.”

Her lips tugged down into a frown. “It is not about your expectations. It is about my gratitude.”

“You can keep it.”

“Then I will.” At least the anger flashing in her eyes proved there was some life in her.

Not to mention the fact that her ire bothered him less than the helpless, almost hopeless way she’d tallied what she supposedly owed him. “Look–you don’t owe me anything. Jackasses aside, anyone around here would have done the same thing. People help each other.”

The words startled a laugh out of her. “Are we people?”

Maybe not, but he’d spent so long pretending that he didn’t like the question. “Sure, why not?”

She lifted one shoulder, though the gesture was all but obscured by the heavy tangle of blankets. “I am what I am. And what I am is very tired. Do you think it’s safe for me to sleep?”

She seemed alert enough now, exhaustion aside. “Do you hurt anywhere?”

“There’s one place.” Nadia hesitated. “It’s not related to the cold. It’s the back of my neck. I think there may be burns.”

The anger he’d choked down threatened to boil up and spill over. “Let me see.”

One slender hand slid from beneath the blankets. She turned, reached up and dragged the disheveled strands of her long, dark hair forward over one shoulder.

Angry red marks stood out on the back of her neck, and up close he could see faint bruises circling her throat. “It was a collar,” she whispered. “It shocked me.”

Shane breathed in, one long inhalation, and out. “I have an antibiotic cream, if you think it’ll help.”

“I don’t think it can hurt. My body might not have the energy to fight off infection. Not with the earth dragging at me.”

“I’ll get it.” He made his way to the bathroom and braced his hands on the sink as he fought for control. Even the dormant earth couldn’t erase every trace of the wolf from his body or mind, and the sick, injured woman in his living room brought the beast rushing to the surface.

Blankets and bandages couldn’t appease instinct. She was weak, she’d been hurt and the wolf wanted to make someone pay.

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So, I thought I’d pop on over and share a little (still-not-entirely-edited) snippet from our fun, wacky adventure.  Enjoy!    (Really. Because I’m about to enter the Southern Arcana zone where you will hear about that series until you want to whimper for relief!)

Unedited Snippet from Wilder’s Mate
on sale March 1st at Samhain Publishing

They rode into the edges of the border settlement just after noon, and Wilder led them straight to a whorehouse.

Not that it was advertised as such. No, the building looked boring enough on the outside, like a ramshackle hotel that had taken to selling liquor to fill its common room every evening. The clues were in the small things, like the way the damage and poor repair were merely cosmetic, and a closer look revealed that underneath the weathered boards were sturdy walls that would keep out the heat and cold. There was a knack to hiding wealth with squalor, a skill the madams of the border had taken to the heights of artistry. Old paint, crooked signs, tables with one wobbly leg—understandable, since it wasn’t wise for women to appear too prosperous in these times.

Most people wouldn’t notice the subtle signs that a brothel was doing well. Then again, most people hadn’t grown up in one.

Satira dismounted, struggling to hide a wince as she got her feet on solid ground. The discomfort was better and worse today—better because at least she could move a little, but moving certainly hurt more than sitting still. She surreptitiously stretched her legs and almost smiled to think of what Levi would say to her now, his gruff voice exasperated beyond measure. If you can’t walk it off, don’t stand up to begin with.

Wilder, of course, seemed perfectly fine. She pushed down an irrational surge of envy as she tied her horse next to his. “Does one of your contacts work here?” It wasn’t inconceivable, she supposed. Her own mother hadn’t spoken of such things but, if Ophelia was to be believed, whores heard more secrets than any preacher.

He gave her a maddening half-smile she already recognized. “You could say that.”

The front door crashed open, and Satira flinched at the noise as it rebounded against the board wall. A voluptuous woman stepped out, boots creaking on the porch as she shouldered her shotgun and eyed the pair of them.

She was wild. Untamed. Corkscrew curls sat high on her head, held in place by who-knew-what sort of alchemy. She looked old enough to be Satira’s mother, but the body on fine display in her low-cut corset had curves, the sort men never seemed able to tear their eyes away from.

Her shrewd, assessing gaze lingered on Satira, too long for comfort. Then she shifted her attention to Wilder with a throaty laugh. “Wilder, honey, where you been hiding yourself? The girls have been crying into their pillows every night, they surely have, thinking you’d forgotten all about us.”

“Juliet, the day I forget about you will be the day they lay me in the sod.” He removed his hat and offered the woman a playful bow. “I’ve come to ask a favor.”

An unmistakably fond smile curved the woman’s painted lips, and Satira felt the first stirrings of an odd, nearly foreign emotion.

Jealousy.

She fought to keep her expression politely blank, but Juliet’s too-sharp eyes narrowed. Fortunately, she didn’t remark on anything she might have gleaned, just nodded. “Why don’t you round up that poor girl and bring her inside. She looks like she might like to sit a spell on something that isn’t moving.”

Juliet turned and retreated inside, and Satira glanced at Wilder. “Is it safe to leave our things here?”

He shrugged. “Safe enough. If you’re worried, I can fetch your bags.”

Combined incorrectly, some of the contents of her bag could set off a violent explosion that could level a good part of this settlement. After a moment’s thought, she flipped open one pack and dug through the contents until she found her kit, wrapped in one of her shifts. Each chemical was sealed safely in a nearly unbreakable container, but it wouldn’t stop a curious human from twisting off the tops and setting off a catastrophe. “This should stay with me.”

Wilder arched one dark eyebrow. “What the hell is it?”

She slipped the narrow leather strap of the small padded bag over her head. “You might be able to fight your way through a horde of vampires, but I planned to kill them a little more indirectly, if possible.”

“You’re not going to blow up Juliet’s place, are you?”

As if she’d be foolish—or suicidal—enough to ride with the bag behind her if it were liable to explode at any moment. “Not unless someone takes the bag from me, opens up everything inside and starts combining chemicals at random.”

“I meant on purpose.” Again, that wicked smile. “You haven’t seen what I’ve got planned for you.”

The pieces fell into place a moment too late. A whorehouse. A favor.

A disguise.

Juliet’s voice roared from inside the brothel. “Wilder, I told you to bring that girl inside.”

Satira flinched. “I think I might hate you a little.”

“No you don’t, sweetheart. You just wish you did.”

Length: Novella | Rating: Hot | Publisher: Carina Press
Themes: Werewolves, Post-Apocalyptic, Broody Alphas, Witches & Wizards

Huzzuh! Look what is on sale now in the UK!  The Mammoth Book of Paranormal Romance 2 has a ton of awesome authors in it.  I got to read Ava Gray’s story early (a wickedly beautiful tale of fallen angels) and I found out yesterday that Nathalie Gray also has a story in it!  You may know her better as Kanaxa, the creator of almost every random cover I post on our blog when I peruse the Samhain coming soon pages, because her cover art has magical mind control abilities that makes me click on stories.  (True fact. Scientific study forthcoming.)

The book is only out in the UK for now, and I believe will be available on my side of the pond in October.  Our contribution is Zola’s Pride, a short story set between Crossroads and Deadlock, featuring the badass lady lion who’s carved out a piece of New Orleans for her own and isn’t ready to share it with a man from her past. (Duhm duhm DUUUUHM!)

So here’s a little taste, the first little bit of Zola’s Pride!

Excerpt from Zola’s Pride
Southern Arcana #2.5

He was going to get the cops called on him if he wasn’t careful.

Walker Gravois dropped his second cigarette, crushed it under his boot and turned his attention back to the wide window across the way. Fluorescent light streamed through the glass, doing more to illuminate the narrow street than the lamp over his head. Inside the dojo, a woman with chocolate skin blocked a punch, then paused to correct her assailant’s form.

She didn’t have to be facing him for Walker to recognize her. Zola. Every line of her body tugged at memories he thought he’d banished years ago, and he couldn’t help but compare the woman before him with the one he remembered.

She’d been thinner then, just as strong but not as curvy. The wicked flare of her hips drew his gaze, and he licked his lower lip to ease the tingle of curiosity.

Walker checked his watch with a quiet curse—half past ten. He’d been standing there for close to an hour. In this part of the Quarter, it wouldn’t take long for someone to phone the police about the pervert loitering outside the dojo, watching the students kick and lunge in their tiny T-shirts and Lycra sports bras. Unfortunately, the neat letters etched into the glass window that listed closing time as nine o’clock seemed like more of a guideline than a rule.

And he desperately needed to talk to her.

He’d just begun to entertain the notion of simply walking in when Zola stepped to the front of the room and turned to address her gathered students. Clearly, she was preparing to dismiss them, so he shoved his unlit third cigarette back into the pack and crossed the street.

Man up, Gravois, he told himself. She’ll either hear what you have to say…or she’ll kick your ass clear across the river. The hell of it was that he had no idea which she’d choose. Normally, he wouldn’t worry—he could handle whatever fury Zola unleashed on him—but he had more to think about now than himself.

So he’d let her scream at him, get out whatever lingering old hurts plagued her, and then he’d make sure she heard him.

He could do this.

He had to.

#

The evening class had run long again.

Zola never minded. Friday night was reserved for her private class, the class made up of girls and women who walked among the supernatural denizens of New Orleans as daughters, sisters and wives. Some had powers of their own, like Sheila, a gangly, sweet-faced wolf on the cusp of womanhood, all arms and legs and uncertain strength. Some were psychics and some were spell casters, witches and priestesses who twisted magic and read minds.

Some were human, and they were the most vulnerable of all.

The soft murmur of feminine voices drifted through the dojo as the last few students lingered in the warmth of the building, catching up on the latest gossip or making plans to meet later in the week. February had brought an unseasonable cold snap, the kind of chill that settled in Zola’s bones and made her long for the unforgiving deserts of her childhood.

The floor creaked behind her, and Zola looked up from rearranging a stack of punching targets to catch sight of Sheila’s reflection. The teenager had a jacket zipped up to her chin and a knit hat pulled low over wild corkscrew curls, leaving just her pale face uncovered. “Zola?”

She looked worried, and Zola tensed. “Yes, Sheila? There is a problem?” Even after all these years, English didn’t come naturally. The words tumbled out in an order that always made others laugh, but she’d spoken too many languages in too many countries to worry now.

Sheila was so accustomed to Zola’s linguistic oddities that she didn’t blink. She did, however, speak in her own nearly indecipherable dialect. “There’s a guy lurking outside. I mean, he’s hot and all, but the lurking is pretty creeptastic and a little pervy.”

Zola didn’t need to understand the words to decipher their meaning. She turned and squinted through the broad windows, her vision hampered by the darkness outside and the glare of the dojo’s lights. Even a shapeshifter’s enhanced senses had their limits.

“Stay,” she murmured, already crossing the room. The hardwood floor was cool beneath her bare feet, but she ignored it, just as she ignored the bite of freezing air against her uncovered arms as she pushed open the door.

The scent of the French Quarter hit her in a rush, a hundred smells that would take hours to untangle. Strongest was the coffee from the shop next door, rich and bitter, undercut with the sweetness of freshly baked cookies.

Then the wind shifted, and she smelled him.

Shock held her frozen in place, a statue of ice that might shatter at any moment. Cigarettes. Leather. Lion. Male. His musky cologne should have changed in ten years. The way it heated the blood in her frozen heart should have changed.

Zola turned to face the women who had fallen silent and watched her now, wary and uncertain. She opened her mouth to reassure them and French came to her tongue, so easily she almost bit the tip to keep the words from rolling out.

He’d whispered his words of love in French, under a full moon and ten thousand stars.

She fought for English and it came out choppy and abrupt. “Time for leaving. To leave. Time to leave. Next week, I will be seeing you all?”

They flashed her confused looks but left, filing out into the dark night. Zola watched little Sheila until she met her older brother, who lifted a hand in silent greeting. Zola acknowledged him with a nod, then turned abruptly and strode back inside.

Her visitor would follow.

Follow he did, but not so quickly or so brashly as he would have in her youth. Zola had time to slip her feet into her soft house shoes and don a sweatshirt over her tight tank before Walker Gravois walked back into her life.

His scent hadn’t changed, but he had. Hazy memory had declared him beautiful, with full lips and cheekbones sharp enough to cut, a youthful warrior painted with all the colors of a clear day on the savanna, golden skin and eyes like the sky. But time had left its mark, put sorrow in his eyes and lines on his face.

Jeans and a leather jacket couldn’t hide the strength of him, and instinct twisted inside her, turned a visit from an old acquaintance into something darker. Lion shapeshifters were rare in the States, so rare that she’d carved out her own territory that spanned most of Louisiana. Walker Gravois was an interloper—and maybe lethal enough to drive her from her home.

Sometimes history did repeat itself.

He didn’t greet her, just dropped his bag and leaned against the small counter near the door where she took care of the trappings of business. “You look good, Zola.”

English. She’d rarely heard English from him, though it was his native tongue. Responding in kind would reveal her difficulty with the language, a weakness she felt too unsteady to reveal. So she replied in French, short and to the point. “Why are you here?”

He followed her lead. “I came to see you. I have some news.”

She’d been so recklessly distracted by his presence that she hadn’t considered what it must mean. Walker had been the youngest of her mother’s bodyguards, sworn to her inner-circle with more than the bonds of loyalty holding him. If he was here, alone… “She is dead.”

Walker shoved his hands into his pockets. “She was killed last week. I’m very sorry.”

Maybe she truly was a woman of ice, with a heart long since frozen beyond melting, for the words stirred nothing but gentle regret and guilty relief. Perhaps surprise that it had taken so long—the madness that claimed most Seers had started its work on Tatienne’s mind a decade earlier, when she’d looked on her only daughter and had seen nothing but a rival.

Walker’s face mirrored her guilt, but there was nothing relieved about it. “That’s not the only reason I came.”

Of course not. Seers were the most powerful creatures to walk the earth—when had the death of one ever come without pain and trouble for those left in the rubble of their broken lives? “Tell me.”

He shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “Is there someplace we can talk?”

She could take him next door, to the coffee shop, but she imagined nothing he had to say could be said in the presence of humans. Bringing him to her home was too trusting, too intimate—but denying him felt like cowardice.

Pride had always been her folly. “Come upstairs. I’ll make you some coffee.”

#

Walker had thought that nothing about Zola’s present life could shock him. She’d always been a free spirit, and he’d had to acknowledge at the outset of his search that he had no idea where or how he’d find her, which was predictable in its own way. But the one thing he hadn’t seen coming was that she might have run back to New Orleans. “I didn’t expect you to be in Louisiana.”

No one who didn’t know her would have noticed the tiny flinch, the way her shoulders tensed up and squared, a telling defensive gesture. “New Orleans is a good place for a cat. The wolves ignore me.”

“I know.” He’d grown up in the bayou, south of the city. “I guess all the stories about my old stomping ground made it sound irresistible.”

The coffee cup she’d pulled from the cupboard smashed into the counter hard enough to fracture, and she hissed her frustration. “I didn’t come here because of you,” she said stiffly as she shoved the cup aside and reached for another. “And why I am here is irrelevant. Why are you here?”

Easy enough to answer, and it still might get him kicked out of her apartment. “I need your help.”

Zola didn’t seem surprised. “Yes, Seers rarely die quiet deaths. I suppose she left a mess behind?”

That was one way to put it. “Tatienne ran into some trouble with a mercenary group in Portugal. It was bad.”

“How bad?”

“Bad enough for them to follow us.” Bad enough for them to kill most of the pride.

She turned slowly, eyes narrowed, face tight. “Why me? Why throw yourself on my mercy when not one of you had a sliver of compassion in your hearts when she drove me out? I am not a martyr, not for any man. Not even for you.”

Yes, she would assume no one had cared, because the truth was an unthinkable horror, one he would never reveal to her if he could help it. “I cared, Zola. You have to know I did.”

“Maybe.” She turned again, gave him her back—this time in a clear show of disrespect. “Maybe not enough.”

There was nothing to say, no soothing words to offer. “The pride is mine—what’s left of it, anyway—and all I want to do is keep them alive. Keep them safe.”

“You want to move them here?” Disbelief painted the words. She spun to face him, and her fingers twitched toward her palm, a warning sign that her temper burned hot. Ten years ago she would have followed through, formed a fist and struck him. Her passions had always ridden close to the surface, but maturity had clearly tempered them with restraint.

“New Orleans is the safest place,” he told her calmly. “Surely a half-dozen lions who only want to keep to themselves won’t get in your way.”

“Oh, are we civilized now? Are we human?” She abandoned the coffee she’d poured for him and stalked across the hardwood floor to slam a hand to the table next to him. Then she leaned into his space, filling the air with the angry sizzle of a shapeshifter challenge. “I will not be forced from my home again.”

Keeping a leash on his own reaction cost him dearly. There were few ways to react to such a challenge, and they all ended in violence or sex—neither of which was an option, not if they both wanted to keep their heads on straight. “I’m the only one left, Zola. The only one who stood by while Tatienne drove you out. And I’ll—I’ll leave as soon as the rest of the pride is settled.”

She recoiled, leaving only the lingering scent of her skin. “You’re asking me to lead.”

A frisson of irritation made him grit his teeth. “Those are your options, Zola. Lead or follow. You can’t stay alone in your territory forever.”

“I don’t—” She bit off the words and paced away from him, leashed energy vibrating with every step. “You haven’t told me enough. Why do you need to come here? Why are there only a half-dozen of you left? My mother had more followers than all of the lions in this country combined.”

The truth was uncomfortable because, willing or not, he’d been a party to it. “She did, and now they’re all dead.”

She reached the far wall and pivoted, meeting his gaze across the space that separated them. “Are you still being hunted?”

“Yes.” Walker waved to the other end of the sofa. “Sit down, and I’ll explain everything.”