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FALLON
By
Autumn Dawn
© copyright January 2006, Autumn Dawn
Cover art by Eliza Black, © copyright January 2006
ISBN 1-58608-806-8
New Concepts Publishing
Lake Park, GA 31636
www.newconceptspublishing.com
This is a work of fiction. All characters, events, and places are of the author's imagination and not to be confused with fact. Any resemblance to living persons or events is merely coincidence.
Chapter One
It hurt. Rain glanced over her shoulder, crouched on the gritty ally floor. The fall had skinned her palms and knees, and the wounds stung. But they were coming--she could hear them over the sounds of midnight traffic, though she didn't try to peer past the black ally into the glare of streetlights. She ran.
But then it seemed she'd been running all of her life, ever since she'd discovered who she was, what she was. The vigilantes in the cult that chased her were determined to catch her and use her to wipe out the rest of her kind. Their war had been going on for millennia, and the cult was winning. Rain knew she wouldn't be able to resist their torture if they caught her. She'd talk. They'd find out about the others, and they'd kill them. Human and Haunt could not coexist.
Breathless, trembling with adrenaline and exhaustion, she forced herself into a stumbling lope, ignoring her cold, sweat-soaked jeans and t-shirt. She would have loved to ditch her ragged black jacket and pack, but didn't dare; they comprised all of her worldly goods, and she needed them in the chill London fog.
Her father wouldn't have felt the cold. He'd simply have changed into his werewolf form. Faster and more powerful than humans, the weres were called Haunts by the humans who knew of them. If Rain had been a full blood, she might have been able to leap up onto a rooftop and escape the hunters. While she had the speed of the Haunt, on foot in the streets she was loosing the deadly race.
Scaling the chain link fence at the end of the alley was easy--evading the snarling Doberman who went for her throat was not. With no time for regret, she got in a hearty kick, sprinted across the lawn and jumped up, grabbed the top of an ornate stone fence. Barely making it over before the dog sunk teeth into her, she slipped over the top, landing in another empty ally.
Trying to catch her breath, she moved cautiously down the white-lit brick canyon, praying she'd lost them. Already she felt her strength failing, and the next time she fell, she might not make it up.
Listening, straining her preternaturally keen ears to catch any noise, she searched for sounds of pursuit. Finding none, she slowly relaxed and sank against one chilly wall, ignoring the trash at her feet. She'd made it.
Suddenly light exploded into the ally. Deafened by the shouts of men and barking dogs, blinded by the sudden glow, Rain saw death coming and despaired.
* * * *
"Wake up!"
A slap accompanied the brutal voice, jerking Rain from the comfort of darkness. Moaning, she pried open her eyes and blinked at the murky cell. She didn't remember coming there, but she did recall being jabbed with something. Cuffs bound her wrists behind her, and her rear was planted on a hard wooden chair. Did they mean to question her? The word torture flitted across her mind, and she shuddered. Please, God, no!
Her tormenter--a scarred blighter in working class clothes--took a narrow-eyed look at her, then glanced at a the other man in the cell, an older gentleman in a suit. What hair he had left was iron gray, perfectly matching the winter coldness in his faded blue eyes. He looked her over, then smiled without humor. "Rain, is it? Daughter of Rian Miller?"
She shivered. "Who are you?"
"Taught you some unusual things, didn't he? Lock picking, shooting … how to run and how to hide."
Nervous now, she felt the cold sweat start again. Her father had been dead for a year, killed by the very people she now suspected held her, but few people had really known him, known what he was. These people were not so blissfully ignorant.
By the chill satisfaction in his eyes, he was enjoying her torment. "I have a few questions for you, my dear. Rory!"
A tall, dark man entered at his command, favoring the gent with a cold look. "I'm not deaf, Trent."
"Mr. Trent," the scarred one said aggressively, stepping toward him.
Mr. Trent held up his hand, stopping his goon. To Rory he said, "Question her."
Rory sent a cold look her way. "Question is all I'll do. I'm getting bloody sick of your games, Mr. Trent."
"Strive to remember what happens when you fail me," Mr. Trent said coldly, "and remember who gets hurt."
His lip curled, but Rory turned to Rain. Softening a little, he asked gently, "What's your name, love?"
Rain hadn't lived twenty-two years without seeing some good-looking men. This one, however, put them all to shame. Black hair, deep green eyes and a face to make an angel weep were temptation enough, but there was something more, something she couldn't place. Did he wear cologne? That had to be it, for a scent of tempting power hung about him, though she'd never known a fragrance to addle her so. Just breathing it made her tired blood stir, and the longer he stood by her, the worse the sensation became. Sex in a bottle, her muddled brain exclaimed, trying dimly for a warning, but whatever it was trying to tell her became lost in his eyes.
The goon said something to Mr. Trent. The haze she was under dulled their words, but she thought she heard the goon say, "This one's got it bad."
Pheromones, her mind whispered, but the warning was blanketed by a rush of sensation. Dully, she remembered the warnings about rare human women who were born with pheromones so powerful to the male Haunt that they could render him powerless. The male would be so muddled that he'd give his questioners the names and locations of even his dearest family. The cult sought and used those women, but she'd never heard of a human male with the pheromone. This Rory couldn't be one, could he?
Rory smirked at her, but the scent seemed to mess with her perceptions, because her heart insisted it was an expression of sympathy. "I don't think we'll need these, will we?" he said, moving slowly around her to touch her cuffs. She felt a key slide into the cuffs, then they fell away, granting her blessed freedom. Rubbing her aching arms, she felt gratitude swell. He was so beautiful he made her feel weak. "Thank you."
Rory looked her over. "What's a sweet thing like you done to get yourself in this mess? Don't you have mates who will be looking for you?"
In the background, she could hear the goon asking Mr. Trent, "I'll bet he asks for this one when he's done. She'd be a looker if she cleaned up, and our Rory does like to have his fun before you dispose of them."
She heard, but the words meant nothing. So long as she could smell Rory, feel the thunder in her blood from breathing him in, nothing else mattered. "Friends … no, I have no friends."
Rory frowned. "How can that be? A fantasy like you must have lots of friends. What about your father's mates? Won't they help you?"
She thought, very willing to tell him everything she knew. "I … I haven't seen anyone since my father died."
He smiled comfortingly. "But you know where they are, right? Those mates of his?" He glanced at Trent, then moved closer to whisper in her ear, "I can help you. Tell me where to find your father's friends, and I can help them find you."
The touch of his mouth against her ear sent shockwaves down her spine. Longing seized her. Just let him touch her....
"Like animals for him, I hear. Scream and scratch while he's riding him, and beg for more, they say. Makes me wish I were the Sylph. Lucky bloke."
"Shut up! And make sure that recorder is working. We want to get every name."
Blocking her view of the men with his body, Rory hunched down to her level, tracing the skin of her face with one finger. "Tell me the names, sweetheart. Tell me how to find them."
It was too much. Breathless, desperate to please him, she opened her mouth. "My father's cousin used to live in--"
An enormous blast shook the cell, obliterating her words. Screaming, she threw her hands up and ducked her head, instinctively protecting her face. Dust clogged the air and Rory cursed as soldiers in black burst into the room, killing the goon and capturing Mr. Trent.
She didn't spare a thought for him, but instantly got in front of Rory, protecting him with her body. The pheromones had her convinced that he was her mate. She didn't care what happened to her, but she had to save him.
A tall man strode through the dust, and everything around them stilled. Command shadowed him, powerful as the desert sun, though impossible to see. Not all of his size was in his legs, either--those powerful shoulders of his were enough to give her pause. His long blond hair was tied back, and though it was too murky to tell the color of his eyes, the expression in them chilled her.
But those eyes were not fixed on her. "Hello, Rory." Cold menace vibrated in every word.
"Fallon. Fancy meeting you here," Rory said flippantly. "Come to shoot the breeze, or is this business?"
Fallon looked at Rain, and she quickly inched back. Rory was directly behind her, but she wasn't taking chances. "Leave him alone!" she warned the stranger.
Rory laughed. "Feisty, ain't she? What can I do, mate? Your women all love me."
"Move out of the way, Rain," Fallon ordered her calmly, looking her in the eyes.
Beyond the point of wondering why he knew her name, why he was here, she tensed to fight. "No! You won't touch him! He was trying to help me." She saw one of the soldiers inching to her left, but was too distracted by the menace in front of her to do anything.
Slowly, Fallon's eyes lifted to Rory. "How many women has it been now, Rory? How many of us have you helped to kill?"
"He's a liar," Rory told her soothingly, when she shot a quick look at him. "Don't worry over it, love."
She relaxed and glared at Fallon. "I won't listen to you." There was a game afoot, though she was oblivious to its rules. Somehow she was the center, though why was elusive. Caring was elusive. In this close proximity, with Rory's scent teasing her nose, it just didn't matter. The pheromones were her drug, and their source her only god. She would die for him.
But Rory's distraction had proved fatal. With a sudden roar, the soldier who'd shifted to their left charged, taking Rain down in a flying tackle. Shots were fired, but she was so tangled up she couldn't see. Twisting, the soldier managed to land on the bottom, taking the brunt of their fall, and as they landed, she saw Rory jerk. His gun discharged, the bullet striking stone, and he toppled to the floor on his back.
Rain began to scream.
* * * *
Fallon's jaw clenched as he watched two of his men trying to subdue the wild woman. Taking Rory down had taken precious time, and they couldn't allow this. Pity she hadn't seen the gun at her head, threatening her life, but he wasn't surprised at her fury. The Sylph's pheromone was a dangerous thing, and she'd already been in his power when they'd arrived. A nap would do her a lot of good.
Striding to her side, he evaded her kicking foot and applied pressure to her carotid artery. In seconds she collapsed like a doll.
"Bring her," he ordered them. They had to extract to the choppers in a hurry, before the cult figured out their bird had flown and sent reinforcements. They wouldn't like losing an informant; though to his knowledge the cult had already killed most of her friends and family, thanks to her cousin's unwilling help. Fallon was determined that the Cult of the Black Sylphs wouldn't get another shot at her, even if he had to shift her off-world himself.
His fellow Haunts, as humans had labeled them long ago, closed in around him and their precious cargo. Females of their species were well protected, and not a man there approved of what had almost happened to her. Rory was Trent's truant son, and he'd had a bargain with his father. He'd used his sexual pheromones and suggestive abilities--effective only on female Haunt--to question the women. The names of other Haunt were coaxed from her, his father went on a killing spree, and Rory used the women until he tired of them. The bodies were disposed of when he'd finished.
It was reason enough to take a man's life, and Fallon had enjoyed doing it.
They made it to the choppers, thankful that the blast had taken out the portion of Trent's estate that had housed his troops. The snipers that remained were picked off by Fallon's own men. They needed no night goggles to pierce the inky night, and all of them were expert marksman.
Fallon glanced at Trent and the girl. Trent would be questioned and disposed of like the carrion he was, and Fallon had to find a safe place for the girl. Off world was best, but he didn't know how much she knew, or even if she'd be willing to use the gate. It was going to take time to settle her, and there was only one place he would have leisure to do that.
DARKLANDS:
HOMECOMING
By
Autumn Dawn
© copyright May 2006, Autumn Dawn
Cover art by Dan Skinner, © copyright May 2006
ISBN 1-58608-870-x
New Concepts Publishing
Lake Park, GA 31636
www.newconceptspublishing.com
This is a work of fiction. All characters, events, and places are of the author's imagination and not to be confused with fact. Any resemblance to living persons or events is merely coincidence.
Authors Note:
This story is a side note to Teasing Danger, meant for those of you who wanted to know Wiley's story. It's not meant to stand alone, so if you don't already know how her story ends, you'll have to read TD. ~Autumn Dawn
Chapter 1
She hated parties.
Parties were full of happy, smiling people, and Wiley James had never fit into that crowd. So she ditched her boss's birthday bash and ran off to the hills.
Literally. Sometimes a girl just had to go AWOL.
It started out like any other adventure, with her dashing off a note and leaving coordinates for her roommate and best friend, Jasmine. Nearly as crazy as Wiley herself, Jas would roll her eyes, grumble, then load up her Jeep and track Wiley down. Helping her would be Lemming, Wiley's search and rescue dog. It was good training for the dog, and a much needed vacation for Wiley.
It wouldn't be the first time she'd left a note for her good-natured friend to find after work. When Wiley had the itch to move, she waited for no one. Sometimes she thought she might explode if she didn't run into the woods. They were her solace, her grounding place.
Some people relaxed by flying to the Bahamas. Wiley preferred to tackle the Alaskan hills, the USA's last frontier.
She grinned to herself as the cab dropped her off on a deserted highway. She shouldered her pack and wondered how anyone could have dubbed her state, "Seward's Icebox," but she smiled every time she talked to someone who hated it here.
More wide open spaces for her to play in. Less people to notice how odd she was. There weren't many women who liked to explore wolf-infested woods alone, in late September, with winter closing in. Even fewer who would call it ripping great fun to see no one but squirrels and wildlife for days on end.
Jasmine liked to blame her friend's oddities on growing up an orphan, but Wiley knew better. There was something wild inside her, something that needed to be free.
Something more than human.
Oh, she hid it well, she thought, inhaling a breath of crisp, cold air. No one could tell by looking at her that she could smell scent traces of the game that had crossed her path. No one could tell how well she saw in the dark. And nobody, not even Jasmine, whom she loved like a sister, knew what she could turn into in the darkness of the night.
But no one needed to know. That's why she was out there, stomping through the woods. As long as she burned off her emotions with constant work and rigorous exercise, no one would ever know what she was. The darkness inside, the monster that lurked just behind her eyes, that was a secret that only the night could tell.
Rusty red brush crunched under her feet, mixed with golden birch leaves. Though she could move silently when she wished to, she relished the snap of twigs underfoot. Today was a day for noise, for release. She playfully kicked a loose rock ahead of her, and felt herself relax for the first time in days. Coming out there had been a really great idea.
She walked for a long time, until even the long daylight of the Alaskan day failed and she was using night vision alone. Satisfied that she was isolated enough to remain undisturbed, she set up a two man tent and started a fire.
Ringed with birches, the hillside clearing had a lovely view of the night. A half moon rose in the clear sky. Stars, long hidden by the midnight sun, twinkled in the cool black expanse. Somewhere in the valley, a wolf howled.
She shivered and threw another stick on the fire. Closing her ears to the sad wail, she heated some water. Dinner tonight was hot cocoa and Meal Ready to Eat, or MRE. At 1250 calories each, the freeze dried packet of chicken a la king held enough food substance to keep a hungry soldier on the march...or to seriously constipate a couch potato. All she had to do was rip open the packet, add boiling water, close it, and wait six minutes. She'd heard of other kinds that came with their own heating element and were ready to heat without adding water, but they didn't sell that kind at her local five and dime. They did sell trail mix and protein bars, which she'd stocked up on for breakfast. One experience of eating reconstituted egg powder had been enough. Even the dog had put her nose under her paws and whined when Wiley had offered it to her.
While she waited for the water to boil, she pulled out her one-man tent and assembled it. Toss in a sleeping bag and voila! All the comforts of home.
She'd just turned back to the fire to check the water when she saw them. Eyes. Dozens of them, glowing just outside the firelight.
Drawing a slow breath, she reached for her sidearm, a .357 Redhawk revolver, grateful she always carried it in the woods. Maybe the fire would be enough to scare the wolves off, but if not, a few bullets should do the trick.
"Get!" she yelled, feeling like a fool. Contrary to the tree hugger's expectations, these were no fat, mellow zoo buddies. Alaskan wolves could and would take down a lone human if they were hungry enough.
"You'll have to do better than that," a man's voice said from the shadows. Suddenly, not one, but three men melted out of the night into the fire's glow.
Sweat made her hands slippery on the gun. The odds weren't looking good in her favor.
"What do you want?" she demanded, trying to look tough. They were downwind, so it was no surprise she couldn't smell them, but why hadn't she heard them coming?
"You're trespassing on private property," the man spoke again. He and his blond companion were both tall, and the third man only slightly less so. All three had long hair and muscles, though his dark hair was tied back. A quick glance showed them all to be armed with sheathed pistols and wicked-looking knives. Hunters? She didn't think so, not running around in their shirtsleeves. They ought to be freezing.
"I didn't see any signs posted," she said warily.
"Maybe you missed them in the dark," the dark haired one on his left said. "Are you alone here?"
"I'm camping. I expect company at any time," she said coldly. "My roommate is coming with my dog." No need to mention that Jasmine was a petite asthmatic, or that Lemming would rather crawl up her leg than take on a wolf.
"What's your name?" The middle man asked again. His steady gaze was unnerving. She couldn't see the color of his eyes, but they were set in a strong, austerely handsome face. His voice was deep, and rang with authority. This was a man who was used to getting answers.
She couldn't think why lying would help. "Wiley James."
He jerked as if she'd slapped him. It was hard to tell through the smoke, but she thought he paled.
"It couldn't be her, Jayems," the blond said quickly. "It's just a coincidence." He glanced her way. "That girl couldn't be more than …" He frowned. "How old are you?"
"Twenty-four," she answered cautiously. It was only a few days until her birthday, but she wasn't going to age herself unnecessarily.
The men stared at her. Unnerved, she stared back. "What's going on?"
"You …" The one called Jayems swallowed with difficulty. "You're the same age as our cousin, who we lost many years ago. Her nickname was Wiley."
A sickening slide of premonition made her shiver, and she started to lower the gun. Her arm ached. "I don't know you," she said with ruthless common sense, trying to shake some sense back into her numb brain. "I'm sorry for your loss and sorry I trespassed. If you don't mind, I'll pack up and leave right now."
The Cherokee look-alike stepped toward her. "Wait." He looked at her stocking hat, noted the brown hair peeking out in wisps around her ears. "You have dark hair, but many people do."
"Yes, they do," she said edgily, keeping her arm loose and ready. One more step and he was in her sights again.
"What was your mother's name?" the blond demanded.
Sweat trickled down her back. The subject stank, and the situation did not feel good. "Don't know; I was an orphan. Stay back!" She pointed her gun at the Cherokee, who'd gotten too close.
"Keilor," Jayems said in warning, halting him.
Keilor stopped, canting his head in acknowledgment.
"Do you know where you were born?" Jayems asked carefully, as if he held himself in check. He almost sounded polite.
"No," she automatically.
"What age were you orphaned at?" Keilor asked, staring hard at her.
"Young. I'm not the one you're looking for," she repeated, willing him to back off.
There was silence for several seconds. Then Jayems said, "We can't take that chance."
In a split second Keilor had leapt the fire, snatched her gun and tossed it to Fallon. Screaming, she struggled, trying to throw him off. Wiley was far stronger than she looked, but he had a surprising strength. He grunted when she stomped his foot, but he wasn't going anywhere.
So she did the only thing she could, an act of ultimate desperation. She changed.
Wiley slowly backed up in a cold sweat. She saw her hand, covered in long, silky black hair. Her thick, strong nails had blackened; her hearing, intensified. Her breath came in scared huffs as her sharpened night vision pierced the shadows, counting wolves.
Only they weren't wolves. The faces were all wrong, and they had ridges on their backs like wild dogs.
"Oof!" he grunted as she broke loose and threw him. Barely avoiding the fire, he tucked into a roll and jumped back to his feet in a crouch.
"It is you," Jayems breathed, and his eyes were glowing. He stepped forward, his hand out. "Don't be afraid. See, we're just like you." In a blink, he changed, growing dark hair all over, lengthening his nails. His face became the flattened face of a wolf, and his eyes gleamed golden in the firelight.
She screamed, or tried to. She had no voice to shout when she changed. She spun and ran, ignoring the animals around her, desperate to escape the nightmare behind her. She was so scared, she shifted back to human as she ran, somehow thinking the dream would end if she changed, if she woke up.
Strong arms grabbed her from behind, lifted her off her feet. Those arms were human.
"Easy," Jayems said, subduing her effortlessly. "Easy, Rihlia."
"L-let me go!" she shouted, freaking out. That name triggered something in her, and she knew that she was dead. The monsters that had haunted her dreams for so long had finally caught her.
Then there was a burst of light, and she knew nothing at all.
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