Also by Kate Douglas:
Wolf Tales
“Chanku Rising” in Sexy Beast
Wolf Tales II
“Camille’s Dawn” in Wild Nights
Wolf Tales III
“Chanku Fallen” in Sexy Beast II
Wolf Tales IV
“Chanku Journey” in Sexy Beast III
Wolf Tales V
KATE DOUGLAS
KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP.
http://www.kensingtonbooks.com
Contents
Acknowledgments
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Epilogue
The new Kensington imprint, Aphrodisia, and the very first Wolf Tales debuted exactly two years ago, and my life has not been the same since. This has been a most amazing time in my career, and I have to thank two of the people who made it possible: my agent, Jessica Faust of Book-Ends LLC, who refused to give up on me, and Kensington editor Audrey LaFehr, who saw something in my stories that made her willing to take a chance on a relatively unknown author. Ladies, you have given me an amazing opportunity, and I will be forever grateful to both of you.
I also want to thank my readers, those adventurous souls who took a chance on my Chanku. Your wonderful notes and encouraging comments make it so much more fun when I sit down at my computer every day, wondering where the story will take me next. This one is for all of you.
Acknowledgments
My thanks, as always, to my amazing critique partners who take time from their own very busy schedules to read my manuscripts. Their comments and suggestions always make my stories better, and I am more than grateful for their help. Cassie Walder, Devyn Quinn, Sheri Fogarty, and Ann Jacobs, talented wordsmiths all, are part of a most amazing village I call on for help, and they always come through for me. Thanks also to my husband, who, in the thirty-five years we’ve been married, may have thought of murder but has never followed through. Honey, I couldn’t do this without you—nor would I want to!
Chapter 1
Manda stood motionless beside the window but she didn’t dare part the shades. Not even for a peek. No, that was much too risky, but she listened. Listened and flinched at the double backfire that always reminded her of gunshots, listened to the slow, steady tread of heavy boots climbing the twelve steps to her front door.
Still, when the loud knock broke the silence, she jumped. Then she caught her breath and moved away from the window and shuffled closer to the door. Leaned the side of her head against the solid wood. “Is that you, Harry?”
Damn. She so wished her voice sounded normal. The scratchy, rasping growl wrapped around her words only added to the rumors.
“Yes, Ms. Smith. I have your order. Do you want me to bring it in?”
Bring it in. It would be so simple to show herself and be done with it. Manda sighed. “No, that’s okay, Harry. The check for the groceries is under the mat. Your tip, too. Thank you.”
She listened for the scrape of the rubber mat as it was pulled aside. Heard the crinkle of paper and knew he’d probably shoved the check into a pocket, and one of the last of her crisp five dollar bills into his wallet.
“Thank you, ma’am. I’ll be going now.”
“Thank you, Harry.” Manda leaned her back against the door and listened for the solid clump of Harry’s boots as he walked down the stairs. She sensed the long pause he made at the bottom and imagined him looking up toward her closed door.
Pictured him standing there, scratching his bald head and wondering what kind of freak she was. Manda waited until the unmistakable double retort of backfire told her Harry’s truck was truly gone. Still, she waited a full ten minutes longer, her senses open to any disturbance, any suggestion Harry, or even someone else, might yet linger on the stoop.
Finally, stomach rumbling in hungry protest at the long but necessary delay, she cracked open the door and peered down the empty staircase. Then, hooking her long, black nails into the sides of the cardboard box, Manda slowly dragged the goods inside and closed the door.
The aroma of fresh, raw meat brought a rush of saliva to her mouth and made her throat convulse. She tried to stay in control, but the blood scent found a deeper level. She caved to her needs, the visceral reaction to fresh blood, to meat. Snarling deep in her throat, Manda ripped open the box with teeth and claws and used her sharp canines to tear into the first package on top. Raw sirloin steak. Almost two pounds of bloody meat.
She shoved the plastic covering aside with one curved nail, then fell on the steak, tearing at it as if it were prey, alive and struggling to escape. Growling, snapping at the bloody flesh, she devoured the slab of meat in seconds.
Hunger assuaged, Manda sat back on her haunches, breathing heavily. She glanced at the torn wrapping, the bloodstains on the floor, then at her hands. At least, what had once been hands. They were paws. Okay, so she had rudimentary opposing thumbs, but still, they were nothing but paws and she was cursed. Cursed for whatever sin she might have committed, cursed to live as a beast. She stared at the fur-covered paws, the extended black claws, the bits of meat caught on the sharp nails. Stared at them until the form wavered and her eyes watered, though no tears fell.
Damn Papa B and damn the people who followed him. Damn Mother and Father, the rebels and their guns, the hill people and God and His ugly curse. Damn them all.
Then she bowed her head, whimpering like a lost puppy, and curled into a shivering, shaking ball of fur and bone and flesh.
Baylor Quinn stepped out of the elevator and stood patiently in the doorway to San Francisco’s elegant Top of the Mark restaurant. He tucked his motorcycle gloves inside his helmet and stuck the helmet under his arm, trying to look as inconspicuous as possible in his full-body black leather riding suit and heavy black motorcycle boots. While he waited for the maitre d’ to seat him, Bay studied the large, laughing group sitting together on the far side of the restaurant and wondered once again why he should presume to feel a part of such an illustrious assembly of individuals.
Each one of them, perfect in every way possible.
All of them mated to someone…loved by someone. Even his sisters had found mates. Sisters from the same dysfunctional beginnings as his own, yet they laughed and loved as if they had every right to so much happiness.
The maitre d’ grabbed a menu and gestured for Bay to follow. Baylor looked beyond the small, neatly attired man and glanced through the large windows. The skyline of San Francisco was almost lost in the low-lying fog below the top floor of the hotel, but the misty view out the windows created a perfect backdrop for such a gathering of the obviously rich and beautiful.
If only the other patrons seated nearby had a clue. Bay bit the inside of his cheek to