Garen
~~~Free Sample~~Not Entire Book~~
Rubicon International, Book One
by
Ann Gimpel
Undercover Shifter Bad Boys = Alphas With Serious Attitude
Tumble Across the Rubicon Into the Death-Riddled World of International Espionage
Copyright Page
All rights reserved.
Copyright © February 2016, Ann Gimpel
Cover Art Copyright © February 2016, Fiona Jayde
Edited by: Angela Kelly
Names, characters, and incidents depicted in this book are products of the author's imagination, or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or people living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of the author.
No part of this book may be reproduced or shared by any electronic or mechanical means, including but not limited to printing, file sharing, e-mail, or web posting without written permission from the author.
Publishing history: Garen was originally released as Miranda's Mate by Liquid Silver Books in July 2013. It's been substantively rewritten and reedited. Re-released by Ann Gimpel and Dream Shadow Press in June 2016.
This is a sample of Garen provided for your reading pleasure.
The Birth of Rubicon International
Crossing the Rubicon is an expression that means taking an irrevocable step, casting the dice, and being willing to live with the consequences.
Boston Harbor
September, 1773
"You can come out now."
Garen pounded a fist on the cabin Lars had barricaded himself into a few hours after their ship sailed out of Marseille's harbor four weeks before. They'd run into a spate of rough weather, or they'd have made Boston a week earlier.
Garen knocked again, louder this time although as a mountain cat shifter, Lars had exceptionally keen hearing.
"Stop!" Lars' heavily accented voice growled from beyond the door. Moments later, it flew open.
Garen fell back a pace. His friend was noticeably lighter, and his face held a haggard aspect. "Christ, you look like hell. I know you didn't leave your cabin much, but didn't the crew bring you food?"
A gurgling snort rippled past Lars' lips. "What for? I would just have heaved it back up. I ate, but not much."
Garen gazed about the cabin. "Looks like you're ready to leave."
Lars didn't answer. Just moved his collection of valises, crates, and leather bags toward the door. "I have been ready to leave for weeks. I will need a day or two to recover."
Privately, Garen thought he'd need longer than that, but shifters had decent recuperative powers. Much more efficient than their human counterparts.
"Where are your things?" Lars gathered his long, white-blonde hair in both hands and tied a leather thong around it, binding it into a thick queue that hung down his back.
"I hired a lackey. He'll be around any moment for your luggage. A carriage on the docks will take us into town."
Lars squeezed his gray eyes shut for a moment. "I cannot begin to describe how anxious I am to get off this ship." He dropped into shifter mind speech. "Cats were never meant to travel over water."
Garen punched him in the arm. "Maybe not."
"Remind me why you dragged us across the Atlantic."
Garen frowned. "Why? You already know."
"Humor me, old friend."
"Simple enough. The chaotic political environment in Europe and—" Garen switched to telepathy "—that lucrative job offer spying for the newly formed American Colonies."
"Thank you for indulging me. I needed to hear the lucrative part again. It does not exactly make up for how miserable I was, but—" Lars broke off abruptly when the shaggy, smelly man Garen had hired to transport their luggage trotted into view.
"These things?" He pointed at the collection of bags and raised rheumy, brown eyes to peer at Lars. "Rough for you, eh? Some folk, they never get sea legs."
Garen cleared his throat. "Sooner you get our things moved to the carriage, sooner you'll get paid."
"Yeah, yeah. You hired my back, not my tongue." The man blew out onion-saturated breath and loaded Lars' items onto a wheeled cart he dragged behind him. Greasy, dark hair hung around his face, and his clothing had more patches than original fabric. Despite the chill weather, he was barefoot.
Once he left, whistling a tuneless song, Lars leaned closer to Garen. "Apparently the New World has not treated everyone well."
"Neither did the one we left." Garen cast an appraising glance his way. "You weren't planning to stay on this side of the Atlantic. Did the ocean crossing change your mind?"
A ghost of a smile lightened Lars' even features, but didn't quite make it to his eyes. "I came along for the adventure aspect—and got a bit more than I bargained for."
"Will you go back to Germany?" Garen led the way around the ship's deck to a rickety gangplank.
"Ja. Not for many months, though."
"Maybe by then, they'll have invented a more stable ship."
"Ha! Very funny."
Garen extended an arm. "The black carriage is ours."
"If town is not far, we should walk for many reasons. It will give us information and allow us—or me—to recover faster."
"Good idea. Annoyed I didn't think of it first." Garen trotted to the carriage. He paid the lackey and gave more money to the driver with instructions to leave their things at Newport House.
Lars had already started off at a reasonably brisk pace, considering how beaten down he'd looked in his cabin. Garen ran to catch up. He eyed thick timber on both sides of the deeply rutted dirt track leading into Boston. His wolf was close to the surface. Anxious to run free after the claustrophobic ship.
"What would you think about—?"
"Not a good idea." Lars cut in, casting a sidelong glance his way. "It is an obvious suggestion. I would love to take my other form, but for that we need night and a location farther from human habitation."
"No one looks twice at us throughout Europe," Garen pointed out.
"True enough, but until we understand the lay of things here, it pays to be careful. Our kind are hunted through the Ottoman Empire."
Breath puffed through Garen's teeth, making clouds in the chill air. Of the two of them, Lars was the cautious one, and the more levelheaded.
"We were late arriving," Lars continued. "You missed your assignation by at least three days."
"They'll find me." Garen felt confident his employers would know his ship had finally docked.
A musket ball whistled through the air, distressingly close. Cursing in German, Lars zigged and zagged a path into huge evergreens with Garen close behind. Arrows followed, along with more rifle fire and a bevy of outraged shouts.
"What the hell?" Garen ducked behind a thick tree bole, shoving thick black hair out of his eyes.
"Arrows must mean the native dwellers on this land are unhappy about something." Lars shook his head. "Perhaps sending the carriage away was a hasty decision."
Peering through tree branches, Garen noted that other foot traffic on the road hadn't cleared out. Perhaps such things were commonplace here. He twisted his face into a grimace. "It appears we overreacted."
"I came to the same conclusion." Lars flexed fingers with claws extruding from the ends. They vanished quickly, but his control over his animal form was usually better than that.
Garen snorted. "My wolf's not happy, either. Let's hurry into town. We're bound to make a mistake or two. Neither of us knows anything about the American Colonies."
"We must learn, and damned fast," Lars muttered.
"You're better?" Garen eyed him closely.
"Having your feet on ground that's not pitching, heaving, and rolling would make anyone better." Still grumbling, Lars plodded back toward the road.
Garen trailed after him, alert for whoever had fired shells and arrows into the center of a busy roadway. Maybe coming here had been a mistake. Regardless, the journey wasn't off to a particularly auspicious beginning. His normally optimistic side rose to the fore in spite of everything.
Things can only get better from here.
Lars shot a sour look his way. "I helped myself to your thoughts. While I hope you are correct, we must exercise caution."
Garen clapped him on the back. "Concentrate on finding our lodgings. Whiskey and women should improve both our outlooks."
Lars laughed. "My cock is in as bad a shape as my stomach. Did you find any likely wenches aboard the ship? At least you were out and about."
"No women. Nary a one. Obviously not on the crew, but not among the passengers, either."
"And here I was imagining you enjoying the hell out of yourself in your berth."
Garen waved his right hand in the air. "Madame Five Fingers got a workout."
"Our kind do not fall prey to human diseases. I am certain Boston hosts ladies for hire. Perhaps we can locate some who still retain vestiges of youth and enthusiasm."
"Speak for yourself." Garen jutted his chin skyward. "I'm so unutterably charming, women fall into my lap."
"I have noticed," Lars murmured in a wry undertone. "In that case, lure two and send the one you do not want my way."
Garen scanned the streets and turned right when he saw a sign for their hotel. It was far more modest than he expected, but so long as the rooms were clean and hot water plentiful for baths, it should be fine.
"Not exactly London or Paris or Heidelberg," Lars murmured, mirroring Garen's thoughts.
He shrugged. "It was where my employer suggested I stay. If we don't like it, we can look for something more commodious tomorrow."
Lars gripped Garen's arm, forcing him to halt. "Two possibilities, old friend. Either this is the best Boston has to offer, or your employer does not hold you in much esteem."
Garen started to bluster a reply, but thought better of it and clamped his jaws shut. Lars was correct. They went back too far for him to argue the point. If this whole American Colonies idea turned out to be a bust, they could always book return passage to Europe.
* * * *
Lars woke to light streaming through his room's single, dirt-crusted window, pleased to be almost completely recovered from his weeks at sea. The woman who'd pleasured him the previous night was long gone. She'd been competent—and not overly chatty. Two plusses in his book. He and Garen had shared a passable meal in the establishment's rather run down dining room. At least the spirits were decent. A bit young and raw for his taste, but he'd had worse.
He rolled to a sit and reached for yesterday's clothes, then changed his mind. He rummaged through a valise for something clean. Surely the hotel had a laundry service of some kind. He'd ask over breakfast. Because he had time, he sent his cat senses spiraling wide. He found humans, dogs, cats, and a variety of wild animals in the surrounding woods. There was even a hint of a different type of magic. When he homed in on it, he sensed a perversion of witch energy. Were shifters here as well?
Surely his kind had found their way across the Atlantic. Perhaps not large cat shifters, but wolves like Garen or bears or coyotes or birds. He muffled a snort. Like as not, other cat shifters had made his same error, only realizing they made pathetically poor sailors once it was too late.
"It did not kill me," he mumbled. "I can cross the ocean again." Bending to secure his bootlaces, he added, "Next time, I will be better prepared. I fear this New World will not be all Garen hopes."
As if his thoughts drew his friend, a muted knock sounded on his door. Lars stood, walked to it, and turned the deadbolt.
"Ready for tea and breakfast?" Garen asked, smiling broadly.
Of a height with Lars, Garen stood several inches over six feet with a well-muscled build. Blue eyes augured into Lars, twinkling with merriment.
Lars nodded. "Breakfast would be welcome. Do you suppose they have the ability to wash our clothing?"
"Yes. I already asked. Bring what you want cleaned." Garen winked. "I made friends with some of the servants."
Lars elbowed him. "One of the things I have always admired about you is your cheerful attitude."
"Girl flesh helps that along."
Before Lars could mine for details about Garen's night, heavy footsteps clumped toward them. Garen spun to face the open doorway. Power shimmered about him, but only another magic wielder would've sensed it.
A tall, raw-boned man with unevenly trimmed red hair came into view. Leather garments clung to his frame. He narrowed shrewd green eyes at them. "Which of you is Mister LeRochefort?"
"That would be me." Garen squared his shoulders. "And you are?"
"Tom Smith."
The lie pinged off Lars' shifter senses. For whatever reason, the man wanted to hide his true name, but why?
Garen frowned. Obviously, he'd picked up on the falsehood too. "My associate and I—" he gestured at Lars "—were about to have breakfast. Would you care to join us?"
The man drew his brows into a thick line that met over the bridge of his nose. "Not quite my plan for the day."
Lars readied power of his own. Whoever this Tom Smith was, it appeared he wasn't on their side. "What exactly did you have in mind?" Lars cut in.
The man's gaze whipped to Lars. "Who the fuck are you?" he grated out.
"Mister LeRochefort's associate. He already told you that." Lars moved a step closer. The man was large, but he could take him—if it came to that.
"You didn't give me a name."
"Well, the one you gave us is false." Garen spoke up. "The way I measure things, we're about even. You hunted me down for a reason. What is it?"
"Don't matter what my name is. My people hired you." He sneered, displaying a mouthful of missing and decaying teeth. "You're coming with me."
Garen shook his head. "I'm a free agent. I don't have to do anything I don't choose to." He motioned to Lars before turning his attention back to the stranger. "Tell you what, Mister Smith, my associate and I are going to eat something. I know I suggested you join us, but I've changed my mind."
Lars understood. He tucked his money pouch into his jacket and shouldered past the man, keeping him at bay while Garen locked his room and pocketed the skeleton key. Though he was ready for the man to start throwing punches or draw the knife that hung from a waist sheath, neither happened. Anger streamed from him in waves, though. Clearly, he'd been given orders and attacking them outright wasn't on the menu—at least not yet.
Rather than going into the dining room, Garen moved on out the front door. "Let's see if we can find another option."
"How about over there?" Lars pointed across the street at a saloon that was clearly open despite the early hour. They'd have some type of food.
Garen nodded and pushed through swinging doors into a dark space that smelled like moldy beer. Sawdust was scattered across the floor. They found a corner table, ordered bread and cheese, and waited to see if their visitor would show up—with reinforcements.
Lars began eating as soon as a young girl brought their food. If he was any judge, they'd be on the run soon. Who knew when they'd have the luxury of eating again. Unless they switched to their animal forms and hunted.
"There's other magic here," Garen spoke into his mind.
"Yes. I sensed it too, but our friend back in the hotel was merely human."
"I can't believe Mister Smith—or whatever the fuck his name is—works for the people I corresponded with. It doesn't feel right."
"For once we are in agreement." Lars drained a tankard of terrible tasting ale.
"Have you had enough?"
Lars glanced at the empty plate. "Nothing more to eat. What do you have in mind?"
Garen got to his feet, leaving a few coins on the table. "There's a stable to the south. I can smell the horses."
"These places always have back doors off the kitchens. I say we locate it. It may buy us a few minutes grace."
Garen favored him with a toothy grin and switched to spoken words. "Funny, but I was about to suggest the same thing." He headed in the opposite direction from the front door.
Lars followed him. They'd discovered quite by accident that their animals' ability to converse telepathically extended to their human forms. Blood cemented that particular bond. Regardless, it was a handy skill.
After a terse exchange with a very annoyed cook after they invaded his small, filthy cooking area, they followed an alley until they hit the rear of a large stable. "I'll procure two horses," Garen told him.
"What about a wagon for our things?"
Garen twisted to face him. "Any idea how we can return to the hotel without tipping our hand?"
"I am certain someone is watching for us. If we do not emerge from the saloon soon, they will look more closely. If I were them, I would have a man posted near the stable." He pressed his lips into a thin line. "Our resources are far from infinite. We will need what we brought if we are to survive here."
"We'll play it your way." Garen nodded tersely. "I'd rather stand and fight than hide."
"This is Boston, not the western frontier. I do not believe anyone will take us on in broad daylight. Not until we have cleared this town's boundaries. Then all bets are off."
"Let's hope you're right."
Lars hoped he was too. While Garen dickered for horses and a wagon with a canvas cover to protect their things, he considered their next move. It made sense to remain near Boston. They needed work, and Boston was the primary staging area for the rebellion he suspected was imminent. It was only a matter of time before the Colonies waged out and out war to rid themselves of the yoke of British sovereignty.
The question of the hour was which side to align themselves with. Garen had already picked the Colonies. It made sense, but Lars wasn't totally convinced—yet. He rounded the corner of the stables and met Garen in front. He was still talking with the stableman, so Lars took a good, hard look at the two horses.
Both appeared sturdy, and neither flinched when he approached. Many horses were sensitive to shifters. Fortunately, not this pair. The wagon had seen better days, but the beaten metal around the wooden wheels wasn't too pitted.
Garen jumped onto the box and clucked to the horses. Lars swung up next to him as they began to move slowly up the street toward Newport House. It only took half an hour to transfer their belongings. Lars worked on that, while Garen settled up with the innkeeper.
Lars felt edgy, ready for anything, but they were the only ones moving about the hotel. He joined Garen in time to hear the innkeeper ask, "Where might you two gentlemen be heading next?"
"Not certain," Garen mumbled and turned away.
"Surely you know which direction," the innkeeper inserted smoothly. "North? South?"
"We'll figure it out as we go," Garen called over a shoulder. He glanced at Lars once they were outside. "Do we have everything?"
Lars nodded. "It is one of the benefits of not being here long enough to unpack. How is our gold coin holding out?" He climbed onto the high box, waiting for Garen to join him.
"The horses and wagon set us back a bit." Garen checked the ropes securing the canvas before springing onto the wagon's seat. He chirruped to the horses, and they headed out of town at a trot. "Innkeeper seemed a little too interested in our destination."
"I thought the same. I have been considering what it means."
"Did you come up with anything?" Garen scowled.
"Ja, but you will not like it."
"Try me."
"We are very good at what we do, you and me," Lars began. "Much of the behind the scenes maneuvering around the American Colonies is taking place in England. Someone likely wanted to get you out of the way. Make certain you were not available to spy for the other side."
Garen laughed uncomfortably. "I'm not that competent for them to go to all this trouble."
"All what trouble?" Lars furled his brows. "We paid for our own passage. Likely once we were here, without our usual complement of comrades, whoever has it in for you figured they could pick you off easily." He paused. "What they did not bargain for was that you would bring me along."
"I'm having trouble seeing either of us as that important."
Lars shrugged. "Fine. You come up with an explanation then."
"I don't have one, but I do have an idea for what comes next."
"Oddly enough, so do I." Lars gestured. "You first."
"There's opportunity here, but I'm sick of answering to anyone."
Lars stifled a grin. Maybe, just maybe, Garen was going to suggest exactly what he'd been thinking. "Go on."
"I say we form our own troupe of spies. We certainly have enough experience. I'd prefer to limit our new enterprise to shifters, though."
Lars sucked in a startled breath. He hadn't considered that aspect, but it made sense. From many angles. Shifters were intensely loyal to one another, stronger than humans, healed far more quickly, and lived hundreds of years. Sometimes over a thousand.
"You're not saying anything," Garen observed.
"Because I had not considered the shifter angle."
"Does that mean you came to the same conclusion about creating our own organization?"
"It does, but I see one small problem."
"What's that?" Garen asked.
"I am far from certain there are any shifters on this side of the Atlantic—beyond you and me, that is."
"Easy enough." Garen glanced his way. "We import them from the Old Country."
"Ja, and we will not tell the cats about how difficult ocean crossings are." Lars smiled broadly just before his nostrils flared. Something didn't smell right.
He opened his mouth to tell Garen to move the team off the road when Garen said, "I sense it too. Shit! That didn't take long."
"Why would it?" Lars asked pragmatically. "The longer head start we had, the harder it would have been to find us." He leapt from the box before the wagon quit rolling. "Move the fight away from the horses," he shouted.
"I'll be there as soon as I tie them up," Garen shouted back. "No point in them running all the way back to the stable."
"I'm more worried about them getting shot," Lars countered and took off at a dead run, shifting as he went.
* * * *
Garen shifted, heedless of his clothes ripping. He could collect his boots afterward. The rest didn't matter. Fighting in his animal form was logical. The wolf was stronger and faster. Bullets were an impediment, but muskets were notoriously difficult to aim, and his wolf could dodge most rifle fire.
Lars' mountain cat was a sleek, silvery color with charcoal eyes. Garen ran hard toward where he stood in an aspen thicket atop a small rise. It was a good location because it afforded them a three-hundred-sixty-degree view and some cover.
He scented the air, grateful for his wolf's augmented sensitivity. That odd magic tang he'd noted earlier was back in spades. Good he'd chosen his shifted form. Magic against magic made sense. He drew alongside Lars and stared at four black-robed men running toward them. Still a quarter mile away, they were closing fast.
"Are they priests?" Garen asked.
"Not from any religion I know about. They are not carting rifles, so they must feel confident their magic will prevail." He nudged Garen with his snout. "This employer of yours. Did you tell them you were a shifter?"
"Of course not." Garen smothered irritation. "Give me credit for a little sense." He tossed his power in a wide net and blew out a surprised breath. "Son of a bitch. They're witches."
"Same scent I caught back at the hotel. It took me a while to recognize it because it's odd. More smoke and cedar than normal."
"Agreed, but that's what they are. Maybe there're different varieties here. We burned most of the ones in Europe."
"They hung them here, but that is not important. At least so far, they believe they are tracking our wagon. While we have the element of surprise on our side, you circle from the right. I will take the left."
"Two each?"
"Ja. Zwei. Leave at least one alive so we can interrogate him."
"Let's wait to see what they have in mind." Garen paused. "I'm not averse to killing them, but let's wait until they declare war on us."
"They already have. While we are waiting for them to proclaim themselves, we should get into position."
Garen melted from the clearing, sticking to tree cover and scattering power to hide himself. His wolf loved the prospect of a good fight even more than he did in his human form, but he recognized the wisdom of not killing humans for sport.
The man in the lead halted precipitously and kicked his head back, snuffling. He raised both hands, and the other three halted next to him, fanned out in a row. Garen felt the zing of power and figured they were communicating with one another. He didn't know much about witchcraft. Magic wielders were notoriously insular, unwilling to join forces outside their particular brand of power.
He scanned the men, assessing his two targets. One was tall and thin, the other more muscular. All had beards and shaved heads. The air took on an electric quality, almost as if it danced to the witches' orders. Two turned toward Garen, the other two toward where Lars hid in dense undergrowth. Power flowed from their raised hands. It held compulsion that made Garen's skin crawl. Bright, sharp heat broke over him, and he understood he had to move now, while he still could. If he hesitated, the witches' magic would snare him.
Shaking off the urge to surrender to the witches—run right into their trap—he moved closer, preparing to spring. The first two men would be easy. The others much harder since they'd scarcely sit back while their companions were murdered.
A streak of silver landed atop one of the men. Lars and the witch crashed to the ground in a swirl of power, grunts, and shouts. Garen switched objectives fast. One of the men drew a lethal looking knife. Before he could shove it into Lars, Garen arced through the air and landed on him, driving him to his knees.
He snarled and snapped, sinking his teeth into the man's neck. Blood, hot and coppery, jetted from torn vessels, drenching his pelt with gore. Something landed on his back, and liquid fire raced up one side.
Goddammit. Obviously his victim wasn't the only one with a knife.
Lars punched into his human body and leapt on the man who'd stabbed Garen. Wrenching the knife from his hand, he plunged it into his chest, driving it deep.
The fourth man turned and ran for all he was worth. Garen gave chase, catching him easily. He threw himself over the man's back, paws on his shoulders, and held him on the ground with the weight of his body. The man writhed and cursed, but Garen held fast. It would've been easy to kill him, but they needed information and the other three were well past speech.
Lars raced to his side. "I have this one."
Garen wasn't so certain. He held his position until Lars hooked the man's arms behind his back and bound them with a leather thong. He straddled the man's ass and held a blade to the side of his throat.
Satisfied their prey wouldn't escape, Garen drew on his magic and shifted, still breathing hard. "Who sent you?" he rasped. His side burned, and he threaded healing power toward where the knife had sliced through skin and muscles.
The man remained silent.
"If you tell us, we may allow you to leave alive," Lars said.
Garen heard coercion beneath his words.
The other man laughed. "Not very fucking likely, mate."
A snort blew past Lars' lips. "Your courage is misplaced." Lars pressured the knife against the man's neck until a thin line of crimson formed, weeping droplets of blood. Magic hovered around him, urging the man beneath to give up his secrets.
"Your power's wasted on me," the man gritted. "Save your time and kill me. I'll never talk."
"Braver men than you have eaten those words." Lars switched to mind speech and added, "Take your wolf form and start with his feet." He'd meant the words for Garen, but a low whine of fear escaped his victim, and he bucked against Lars' hold.
Garen pulled the man's boots off before reaching for his wolf. "What do you think?" he asked Lars. "One toe at a time? Or should I just bite the foot off at the ankle?"
The man writhed beneath Lars. Fear rose from him in choking waves that smelled like carrion.
"It appears he can hear us," Lars observed.
"I noticed the same thing."
As soon as his wolf solidified, Garen struck fast, closing his powerful jaws over the man's big toe. Bone snapped, and more blood splattered him. He spat the digit into the dirt to the accompaniment of bellows of pain. Ever methodical, he went for the next toe in line. It joined its brother in the dirt.
The man's bellows shifted to howls. The acrid stench of urine burned Garen's sensitive nose, and he understood the man's bladder had released. In spite of everything, he remained stubbornly silent beyond his cries of pain.
"Keep going," Lars urged. "We do not have all day."
Garen bent his head. Before he could snap off a third toe, the man screamed. "Stop. No more. I'll tell you what you want. Just stop."
Garen sent his shifter magic auguring into the man, seeking truth. He found it and pushed back into his human body. "I asked you once," he snarled. "Who sent you?"
"I work for the British Colonial government." The man's voice was muffled since Lars still held him face down in the dirt.
"Let him up," Garen said.
Lars shrugged. "Why not? It is not as if he can run from us." He swung off the man's body and stood by Garen's side.
The man dragged himself to a sit and covered his mutilated foot with a hand. A jolt of magic turned the air iridescent.
"No matter how much power you summon, you'll never get those toes back," Garen muttered.
The man trained dark eyes on him. "All I want is to stop the bleeding. I'll never walk right again."
"I wouldn't complain. You're still alive." Garen jerked his chin downward. "Why do your masters want me dead?"
The man's eyes turned to slits. "I have no master beyond Gaia, goddess of the earth. Witches retain independence."
"Fine. Fine." Lars clamped his jaw into a terse line. "Why were you after us?"
"Two reasons. You're shifters, and you were hired by the rebels. We can't allow them to add magic to their bag of tricks."
Garen frowned. "We called on our animal forms today, but how else would you have known something like that?"
Despite a face glazed with pain, the man managed a supercilious half smile. "It's why the Brits use witches. We sense other magic wielders."
"Not in Europe, you do not," Lars put in.
"Right." The man nodded once, sharply. "We're stronger here."
"How?" Lars pressed.
"Native magic strengthened ours. The shamans like us. They shared their power."
"Is that how you intercepted our mind speech?" Garen asked.
"Yes." The man opened his mouth but shut it before anything else came out.
"Fascinating," Lars muttered. "How many others will come after us?"
The question seemed to stymie the man. He hesitated and finally said, "Not certain. The group I worked with is all dead but me. Mostly they don't tell us anything beyond our assignments."
Garen understood. It was the same way he ran operations. "Did you tell those you report to that we're shifters?"
The man shook his head. "Didn't get the chance. We weren't certain until we got close enough to scent your power."
With a muffled grunt of pain, the man pushed to his feet. "I don't know anything else." Truth pinged off his words.
"One last question," Lars said.
"Yeah?" the man eyed him warily and rolled his weight back from the balls of his feet.
"Are there others like us here?"
For a moment the man looked confused. "Other shifters?" At Lars' nod, he went on. "Not many, but they're here. It's part of Native magic. They become one with an animal's spirit and take on its form."
Garen digested the information while the man walked slowly toward the dirt track. A cacophony of howls told him coyotes had already found the three corpses and were feasting merrily. The man had been cooperative, but they couldn't let him live. Garen caught Lars' eye. They'd worked together long enough, words weren't necessary.
In a flurry of glistening light, Lars' mountain cat streaked toward the man. A single paw swipe knocked him to the ground before Lars severed the vessels in his neck. It was a clean death. As close to painless as possible. Another flash of light, and Lars was human again, trotting toward Garen's side.
He grimaced, shaking blood off himself. "The witch dealt fairly with us, but we had no choice. He would have told his masters—the ones he claimed not to have—what we are."
"No, we didn't have a choice," Garen agreed. "Not so sure about dealing fairly. He only ponied up the truth because we cornered him."
Lars laughed wryly. "When you get down to brass tacks, it is sometimes the only reason anyone lets go of the truth."
Since their ripped clothing wasn't worth collecting, Garen crooked two fingers at Lars, and they headed for where they'd left the wagon and team.
"You are quiet," Lars observed. "Does your side hurt?"
"You too," Garen countered. "Where we come from, we're born shifters. It appears there's more than one route to joining with an animal bondmate."
"Your injury," Lars pressed.
"I'll live. I'm not bleeding anymore. Another few hours, and my wound should be healed."
The horses whickered nervously, put off by the stench of blood, and Garen cursed softly. He should've thought to wash it off. The countryside hosted myriad small creeks. His wolf would've licked himself off, but he wasn't inclined to do the same in his human form.
He glanced at Lars. "We need water, so we don't totally spook the horses."
Lars detoured to a stream and stepped into it, squatting to sluice muddy water over himself. Garen joined him. "You missed a spot."
Lars made a huffing noise, not unlike his cat. "I probably missed many spots, but it will have to do. Even though we left no witnesses, we should be gone from here before much longer."
A few more handfuls of water later, Garen slipped and slid over moss-covered rocks. By the time he reached the wagon, Lars was partially dressed. He handed a muddy towel to Garen.
"Thanks." He dried off and dug clothes out of one of his valises, dragging trousers over his legs and a shirt over his head. "We can find our boots between here and the dead witches."
"Mine are in the wagon." Lars cast a knowing look his way. "I removed them before I left."
"Well aren't you Mister Think Ahead," Garen sniped.
"Finish dressing. I will retrieve your boots." Lars took off at a lope. He was back so quickly, Garen hadn't finished untying the team.
* * * *
Once they were underway, Garen said, "At least this clarifies it was truly the revolutionaries who hired me. I'd begun to wonder. The British have resorted to counter-espionage more than once."
"It also appears they were not aware they hired one with power."
Garen grinned. "Yeah, leave it to the Brits to ferret that out."
Lars snapped the reins lightly, and the horses picked up their pace. "They are world-renowned spy-masters. Beyond that, today's encounter sheds light on something for me."
"What might that be?"
"I feared you might have chosen the wrong side in the battle that is sure to sweep through the Colonies soon."
Garen laughed. "Same thing occurred to me—until we figured out the witches worked for the Brits. I'd rather die than work for those bastards. Not keen on working for the revolutionaries either, though. They did a deucedly poor job of guarding information regarding my arrival." He straightened his shoulders. "Didn't we decide we weren't going to work for anyone but ourselves?"
"We did, but we have yet to flesh out the finer points. Where to?"
"Back to Boston, but not right away."
"Say more, old friend."
"Boston is fairly large. We were only easy to find since they knew what ship we'd be on, and I was dumb enough to stay where they told me to." Garen shook his head hard. "What the hell was I thinking?"
Lars tossed one hand in a typically Teutonic gesture. "Had I not been so racked with seasickness, I might have—"
Garen waved him to silence. "It doesn't matter. I believe we can enter Boston quietly enough, no one will bother us. After a few days elapse, that is."
"How will we spend that time?" Lars furled his blond brows.
"Thinking through our new business. Fleshing out the details. How else?"
Nodding thoughtfully, Lars said, "We need a name."
"Aren't most spy operations incognito?"
"We are breaking with tradition. Developing a solid framework. I say we need a name."
Garen mulled it over as the horses' hooves clopped through packed dirt and mud. Birds cawed overhead, and a light rain began to fall.
"Since we are not returning to Boston immediately, we should shelter beneath some trees. Soon it will rain harder, and I would welcome a meal. Killing is hungry work."
Clucking to the horses, Garen urged them away from the track and into the woods bordering both sides of it. "How about Rubicon?" he asked.
"Huh?" Lars turned his gray gaze on Garen as if he'd lost his mind. "You mean the river in Northern Italy?"
"The same."
"What about it? We are far from there."
"We'll name our venture Rubicon."
A slow smile warmed Lars' eyes until they smoldered like coals. "Perfect. Ancient Roman law forbade anyone crossing the Rubicon with a standing army and entering Italy. Julius Caesar thumbed his nose at the rule and marched his troops across—"
"—Against all hope and expectation, the Roman legions offered him fealty," Garen finished the tale.
"Nothing wrong with your history."
"Maybe the name will work as well for us as it did for him." Garen drew the horses to a halt and swung down, sheltering under a tree to get out of the worst of the rain.
Lars joined him. "A sound thing to hope for."
"Maybe so." Garen smiled crookedly. "What about the Native shamans who befriended the witches? Do we want to explore their power too—if they'll accept us?"
"The prudent path is to leave them alone," Lars said thoughtfully. "Even though they also bond to animals, there will likely be no love lost between our two varieties of shifter magic."
Garen nodded slowly. "You're probably right. We should start with our own kind—and stick with them."
"Agreed. There is money in the spy game. Opportunity. It will take time for us to send for our associates in Europe, but Rubicon will be stronger if we build it slowly."
"I have another idea," Garen cut in. "Once we're more or less established here, I can run things on this side of the Atlantic—"
"And I can operate Rubicon in Europe. I like it." Lars made a sour face. "So long as I survive the next ocean crossing."
"I'll come along to make certain you do. And to help establish our presence in Europe." Garen paused, thinking. "Neither of us will be leaving for a few months. Winter's nearly here."
"True enough, and if my shifter senses see true, the Colonies will be embroiled in a full-scale rebellion sooner rather than later. We can make ourselves useful—to the revolutionaries. If we are astute, we will earn enough to give ourselves a foundation for future years." Lars moved deeper beneath a stout evergreen. "Heidelberg would make a most excellent European location for Rubicon. Centrally located. Easy to slip into other countries and back again."
"And you just happen to have a manor house there." Before Lars could offer more arguments, Garen added. "It's a solid choice. Much better than Paris or London or Berlin."
"I am moving off the topic, but I am hungry. We do not have any food, so—"
"Feel like a hunt?"
"Want to get the taste of toes out of your mouth, do you?"
Garen laughed and removed his clothes. Even if they only scared up field mice, they were a decent meal, so long as he caught several of them. "We can hammer out the fine points once our bellies are full."
"Good enough for me." Lars stuffed his folded clothing beneath the wagon's canvas covering.
"Ready?" At Lars' nod, Garen summoned power and let his wolf form take over. America was shaping up to be a grand adventure. He and Lars would create the toughest, most ingenuous spy company the world had ever known. It would be a success because they'd only train and hire shifters. Before things were done, they'd both be rich men. He knew it down to his bones.
Garen
Roll the clock forward a couple of centuries. Weapons have changed. Technology entered the scene, but espionage never fell out of fashion. Neither did the people who put their lives on the line keeping evil at bay.
As an agent for an international espionage firm, Miranda has her hands more than full. Between secretly lusting after her boss, Garen, and making sure the dirty little secret about her double life as a wolf shifter remains hidden, she's still a virgin at nearly thirty.
Sent to eliminate the head of a human trafficking organization in Amsterdam, she barely escapes with her life. Injured, frightened, and under attack the second her private jet lands in the U.S., she's not certain where to turn.
Garen's watched Miranda just as surreptitiously as she's been eyeing him. Unfortunately, the fact that she works for him is a showstopper. Plus, he has a few secrets of his own that have kept him single. When Miranda insists on heading up a covert operation, he can't come up with a plausible reason to stop her. Watching her sprint headlong into danger damn near kills him. He wants to hold her, love her, protect her.
Miranda's life is on the line. Will Garen risk exposure to save her?
Chapter One
The Gulfstream G280 shuddered as it banked hard right. Miranda Miller pushed one of the window blinds out of the way. Damn. Black as pitch outside the aircraft. She felt like warmed-over crap. Her mouth tasted sour, and her eyes were hot and gritty. She rubbed them and tallied how long it had been since she'd slept. At least two days. She reached for a Styrofoam cup in its no-spill metal holder, sloshed cold coffee around her mouth, and swallowed.
Her headset hummed. "Wakey, wakey, fraulein," a heavily accented German voice rumbled. "We land at JFK as soon as the tower clears us."
"What?" Fear sliced through her fatigue. "I told you we needed a smaller airport."
"Sorry, fraulein. This one was closest. We are below recommended minimums on fuel."
She considered asking the pilot why he hadn't planned better but decided not to antagonize him. It was bad enough they were flying without a copilot—probably against FAA regulations. She had a dummied-up commercial pilot's license tucked in her wallet under one of her many assumed names. Hopefully it matched the one on her phony passport. She hadn't had time to check. If it came down to it, she'd been instructed to tell the tower she copiloted the flight.
As if he'd read her thoughts, the pilot's next words were, "I need you to move into the cockpit, fraulein."
"Alrighty. Give me a minute."
"You do not have much more than that. I do not wish further difficulties with the U.S. authorities."
Miranda wondered just what other problems the pilot might be referring to. She almost asked him, and then decided she didn't really care. Her international security company engaged professionals. Most of them came from either the military or law enforcement and had checkered pasts. She unbuckled her seat belt and stumbled to her feet. Her crumpled, black pantsuit stank, but maybe only to her lycan senses. She hoped humans wouldn't be able to smell stale blood.
A muffled chortle made its way past her lips. Maybe once anyone got a whiff of days old sweat, they'd give her a wide berth. Her body ached, especially her ribs where her target had slammed a lead pipe into her. She fingered her side and wondered if anything was broken. Not much you could do for ribs. They had to mend on their own.
A few steps took her to the tiny head in the rear of the aircraft. She splashed cold water on her face and winced when she took a good look at her scraped knuckles. Her target in Amsterdam—head of a worldwide human trafficking organization—had been much harder to eliminate than she'd expected. She'd needed her supernatural speed and strength—and her wolf form. One more face-dunking in cold water and she grabbed a towel to dry herself.
"Now, fraulein." The jet shuddered again as its landing gear clicked into place.
The pilot sounded so exasperated, she rushed down the aisle and hurtled through the already-open cockpit door. He grabbed her arm and threw her into the empty seat.
"Watch it!" she snapped. Her upper lip pulled into a snarl. Claws pressed against the ends of her fingertips. Miranda struggled for control. Her wolf wanted to kill the human who'd manhandled her.
"Sorry." The pilot's voice was mild. She recognized compulsion beneath his words and wondered what the hell he was. "I do not wish to draw anyone's attention," he went on smoothly. "The rules regarding business-class jets are in constant flux." He glanced at her with gray eyes that didn't miss much. "Are you hurt?"
She nodded. "My assignment ran into unexpected snags."
"Will you require medical attention before you proceed to the West Coast?"
She snorted. What a subtle way of asking if she'd been shot or stabbed. Lars Kinsvogel—or whatever his name really was—had obviously dealt with people like her before. Something he said caught her attention. "Won't you be my pilot?"
He shook his head. "Someone fresh will relieve me."
"Will I be able to stay aboard?"
He shot her an odd look. "Of course not. You must go through customs."
She rolled her eyes and pressed her lips into a thin line. "That's why I wanted to land somewhere inland."
His gray eyes narrowed to slits. "All flights from foreign destinations are subject to customs, no matter what the airport. Is this your first international assignment?"
Heat rose to her face. "No." She was damned if she'd say anything else. She didn't know him from Adam.
The radio crackled. The pilot responded in pilotese and banked the plane. "Flights from Europe are cleared to land at certain airports. With the fuel we have left, we could have landed in Philadelphia or Newark, but I have a feeling those two destinations would not meet your needs, either. What are you afraid of?"
Miranda wasn't certain what she could tell him. Company policy was clear. Talk to no one. "Never mind."
She thought about Garen, her boss and chairman for Rubicon International. She'd been half in love with his razor-sharp mind, lithe build, salt-and-pepper hair, and sky-blue eyes for years, but he didn't see her as anything but a junior-grade agent. Rumor had it he scarcely acknowledged employees until they became full-fledged operatives. If her fellows were any indication, she had a way to go. At least a few more assignments. And then there was the problem of her being a lycan.
She sighed, and fantasies of Garen went up in smoke like they always did. It was nice to dream, but Miranda steered clear of men. Between her wolf side and her somewhat unorthodox career, intimate relationships carried too much risk of discovery. She relied on her fingers, a vibrator, and the occasional one-night stand to take the edge off her needs.
The jet banked yet again and dropped lower. Its wheels made contact, and the pilot hit the brakes. Because she wasn't belted in, Miranda nearly plunged into the instrument cluster. Lars made an aggravated clucking sound, but he didn't say anything. They taxied off the runway.
"Since I have to get off, I need to get my things together."
"Wait until the aircraft comes to a complete stop, fraulein."
He sounded so much like a bot, she stifled a laugh. The plane moved smoothly into an enclosed hangar. Once it rolled to a halt, she pushed out of her seat, returned to the passenger compartment, and unhooked her small duffel from the wall. Lars' breath hissed against her ear. "Where are your weapons?"
"On me and in my bag."
"Put everything in your bag. Clips separate."
"I'm not that stupid." She pulled a 9mm semiautomatic from its shoulder holster and punched the button to discharge its clip. She drew back the slide, extracted the chambered bullet, and stuffed it into the clip. Next came a snub-nosed .38 revolver and two knives. She spun the chamber to make certain all the bullets were out and then placed everything in locked gun cases in her carry-on.
Lars still stood practically on top of her. She met his gaze, noticing he was a few inches taller than her five feet eleven. "Yes?" She quirked a tired brow.
"Has anyone ever told you how beautiful you are?" He settled his hands on her shoulders. She smelled his arousal and knew he had a hard-on without even looking.
"Christ! Not now." She spun from beneath his grip. "Let's just get through customs and allow whoever's knocking to search the plane."
"We will have some downtime in the terminal. At least an hour." He sounded hopeful.
Miranda looked at him. Really looked at him. Lars was attractive in a Teutonic sort of way, with ice-blond hair and gray eyes. His trim body suggested he worked out. Interest flickered but then died. She shook her head. "I haven't slept for forty-eight hours. I'm dead on my feet."
"Why did you not sleep during the flight? The air was smooth."
Good question. She'd wondered the same thing. "I have no idea. Too keyed up, I guess."
He shouted something in German to whoever was pounding on the side of the jet and took her arm. "I will watch over you until you are safely back in the plane."
She opened her mouth to tell him it wasn't necessary, but something in his face stopped her. In that moment, she understood he was a trained operative just like her. His role this time around happened to be pilot, but she was certain he'd stood in her shoes before. "Which branch of the military trained you?"
He shook his head and let go of her arm. "It does not matter. Follow me, fraulein."
She shouldered her duffel and walked to the rear cabin door. Lars had just sprung the locks. He spoke soothingly in German to an obviously agitated customs officer standing at the top of the stairs. The agent's beady, black eyes settled on her. "Do you speak English?"
"Yes. Is there a problem, sir? It's been a long flight, and both of us are tired. It took me a while to get my bag together."
Nostrils flared, the agent looked intently at her and then stepped into the aircraft, waving them down the jet's steps. "Customs is the last door at the north end of the hangar," he barked. "Don't even think of running. This hangar is locked and fully alarmed."
Lars placed a hand beneath her elbow and guided her across a concrete floor. "It is best if we do not deviate from a straight line," he muttered.
"Holy crap," she said. "Why are they so uptight?"
He shrugged. "As you Americans say, it goes with the territory." He grinned, displaying very white, very even teeth. "Everything we do and say between here and the customs area is filmed and recorded."
* * * *
Despite interested glances and furrowed foreheads, her munitions-heavy duffle passed inspection since her fake identification pegged her as an undercover agent for the Chicago Police Department. Miranda breathed a sigh of relief once they'd scanned her passport and released her. Even though Garen assured his operatives that each of their alternate credentials were fully covered at all ends, she'd never exactly believed Jayne Powers existed on the Chicago PD payroll.
They settled in a private lounge specifically for business-class jet crews and their passengers. At least an hour passed. Lars handed her a cup of coffee. He pulled a silver flask from an inner jacket pocket and waved it at her. Miranda shrugged. "Sure. I've never made a habit of drinking in the morning, but what the hell. What time is it, anyway?"
"Around five-thirty. It will be light soon."
She sipped the coffee, delighted to find he'd poured Irish whiskey into it. The liquor burned a path to her empty stomach. "Do I have time to grab some food?"
He frowned. "Probably. I do not understand why the relief pilot has not met us." He pulled a cell phone from his jacket and powered it on.
Miranda snapped upright from her slump against soft cushions. Deviations almost always meant trouble. She took one more slug of coffee and set her cup down. As tired as she was, she couldn't risk any more whiskey—not until she found out if something was truly amiss.
Lars punched in numbers, waited a few moments, and disconnected. He stood and held a hand to her. "We must go, fraulein." She opened her mouth to frame a question, but he shook his head. "We have stayed here too long, I fear."
She cocked her head at a restroom door near the rear of the private lounge. He nodded, obviously understanding her intent. If trouble was afoot, she needed to be armed. She went inside, ducked into a stall, and dug what she needed from her bag. The ammo clip slid into her 9mm with a satisfying thunk. She checked in a mirror to make certain her underarm holster was hidden. Her reflection shocked her. Gray circles etched beneath bloodshot blue eyes. Her dark hair hung halfway to her waist in greasy strands. She wound it into a queue and arranged it behind her shoulders.
Lars met her right outside the ladies' room. Miranda's practiced eyes noted the swell of a gun beneath his woolen jacket. She blinked hard to clear her head. Were they going to have a full-on shootout in the middle of JFK Airport? He shook his head almost imperceptibly, gripped her elbow, and propelled her into the corridor. At least this wing of the airport wasn't busy at this time of day. Only a few others strode meaningfully toward destinations.
He jerked his head sideways. A half-open door sat about fifty yards away. He bent so his mouth was right against her ear and whispered as they walked. "You will take the stairs all the way to the bottom. There is a door there. It opens into the main terminal. I will meet you if I can. If I do not, take a taxi. Put some miles between yourself and this airport." He made a sound somewhere between a snarl and a grunt. "Hell, if you can get the cabbie to drive you to the next state, do it."
She wanted to ask about finding a substitute route back to Seattle, but there wasn't time. He gave her a push, and the door snicked shut behind her. She heard it lock and understood he must've jimmied it somehow to get it open. She padded down a spiral metal staircase, grateful for her flat-soled, practical boots. Lights flashed whenever she passed a landing. She worried what to do if the door at the bottom was locked. She wasn't bad at picking locks, but she didn't have her pick set with her. She'd pretty much stopped carting it around because nearly every lock she'd run into in the last few years was electronic.
Don't borrow trouble. I'll find out soon enough.
Adrenaline twisted her stomach into a sour knot. Her wolf wanted out. It took precious energy to keep it contained. The stairs ended, and she stared at a metal door. The same blinking light flashed overhead. Wary of alarms, she twisted the handle. It didn't budge. Shit! She blew out a tense breath. Lars had managed to unlock the top one, so it couldn't be impossible.
She bent to examine the lock. The easiest thing would be to screw the silencer onto her gun and blow it to bits.
Yeah, right. Every cop in the joint will come on a dead run.
The lock had a card hole, which meant it was electronic. Maybe her lycan magic could tease it into compliance. She hummed a note, and then another. Something whirred at the edges of her sensitive hearing. The lock didn't give, not quite, but hope slammed into her. This could work if she was patient.
Miranda let a hand hover over the mechanism and felt its resonance. She tried a couple of three-note combinations. Her fourth try worked. She tamped down elation as the door popped open. She hurried through and tried to look casual as she tugged it closed behind her. Anxious to put as much distance as she could between her and the door—in case opening it triggered a silent alarm—she ran headlong into someone and muttered apologies before she realized it was Lars.
He pointed toward a glass revolving door. She stumbled after him. Questions bubbled around her tired brain, but she knew better than to talk on the cab ride. They got out in a neighborhood of stately old brownstones. Lars motioned her up several flights of steps and into an apartment furnished in Motel Six modern. He locked a series of deadbolts and turned to face her.
"Are we safe here?"
He nodded. "As safe as anywhere, fraulein, until I can get us out of the city tomorrow. I have made arrangements for a plane in Boston. We will fly to Seattle from there. Take the bedroom at the end of the hall. There is another bedroom, but I will sleep on the couch."
She raised a questioning eyebrow, but before she could formulate her question, he continued, "Normally, I would want to sleep much closer to such an attractive woman, but the couch is near the door in case we have...unexpected company."
Miranda was almost certain she knew the answer to her next question, but she asked anyway. "What happened to the other pilot?"
Lars curved his lips into a sneer. "Dead. The bastard who killed him will be too, once I get my hands on him."
Miranda walked down the hall and into the bedroom. She shut the door behind her, grateful Lars hadn't probed for details about her Amsterdam assignment. Human trafficking was global, but it still shocked her that the group she'd targeted had launched such an instantaneous retaliation. The relief pilot was dead because of her.
Stop! I can't think like that. He knew the risks when he signed on.
She shut her tired eyes, rubbing them. Yeah, and so do I, but that doesn't mean I expect death will happen to me.
Miranda recognized a dead end thought pattern and shuttered her mind. From long habit, she checked the adjoining bath and closet. A shower would be welcome, but it could wait. She pitched face down on the bed and was asleep in seconds.