Total pages in book: 68
Estimated words: 64948 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 325(@200wpm)___ 260(@250wpm)___ 216(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 64948 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 325(@200wpm)___ 260(@250wpm)___ 216(@300wpm)
I call Colonel Johnson. He’s the officer who put together our Shifter Forces team. A lion himself, he literally sniffed out shifters in the service and invited them to serve on elite nightwalker teams. He put our shifter skills—night vision, strength, speed, spontaneous healing—to good use, and by putting us only with our own kind, he ensured we didn’t have to hide what we were.
Not all Shifter Forces teams are grouped by species, but we wolves were, because we already function well as a pack. We follow our alpha implicitly. Of course, it also means our pack would follow an order from Rafe over an order from the colonel, but that was a chance Colonel Johnson was willing to take.
Colonel Johnson answers on the second ring. “Corporal, I located your fly-boy.”
“Great.”
“He’s flying combat in Syria—active air strikes.”
I curse inwardly. “I’ve got a favor to ask—it’s pretty big.”
“I can’t pull that kid out of there,” Colonel Johnson says immediately.
“Not that big.”
“What do you need?”
“Any chance I could get five minutes of video conferencing with him?”
“What’s this about?” the colonel demands.
“It’s about a female, Colonel,” I snap back, my patience a frayed wire.
“I don’t follow.”
“He’s my mate’s brother. She’s worried about him. I’d just like to give her a chance to connect with him. Can you hook me up?”
Colonel Johnson lets out a low chuckle. “Fate caught up to you, did she? Lotta women gonna mourn the loss of you on the playing field.”
“Well, it’s not in the bag yet, so I’d appreciate this solid.”
“Oh. You haven’t claimed her yet? And she’s human? That doesn’t bode well.”
I bite back the fuck you that rises to my lips. “No, sir.”
“Okay, Corporal. I’ll see what I can do.”
“I owe you. Big time.”
“Don’t thank me yet. I just said I’d see.”
“I appreciate it, Colonel.”
I hang up and bring my empty plate to the kitchen, thinking of Charlie when I put it in the dishwasher. Everything makes me think of Charlie.
She’ll be out on her route right now.
Which means… that’s where I need to be, too.
I slip out the door and climb on my bike to ride it down the mountain. Once I get close to town, I hide the bike, strip off my clothes, and shift.
Charlie
I get out of the mail truck and tuck the mail into the boxes on the bank of mailboxes at the corner, then sling my bag over my shoulder to walk along the dirt road and deliver the rest.
I’m nerved up because I’ve been seeing a wolf on my mail route lately. It’s big and grey with a splash of white on its nose. And it’s fucking huge. Wolves look so cute in the Save the Planet calendars I get in the mail—the ones with beautiful wildlife photos of coral reefs and baby elephants. I'm a sucker for donating to Save the Planet type causes, so I get tons of these types of calendars free. There’s always a cute and fluffy wolf featured in one or two of the months.
In real life, wolves are not fluffy. They are not cute. They are massive, graceful, super deadly predators, and the sight of them activates the OH SHIT part of your brain. The part that tells you to Run!
Except all I do is freeze mid-step, with my mailbag heavy on my hip.
I’ve seen the wolf three times this week, which is downright weird, considering they have a huge territory.
I’m three quarters of the way down the road when I spot him. I freeze, careful not to make eye contact.
“Nice wolfie,” I call nervously. My mail person training never covered what to do when confronted with endangered wildlife. Aggressive dogs, yes. Attack squirrels, yes (don’t ask). Disgruntled people. Rain, sleet, and snow.
But not big-ass wolves with my, what big teeth you have muzzles and yellow eyes.
Fuck fuck fuck. What do I do?
Whelp, you’re gonna die, my frontal lobe offers helpfully.
I review my options:
Pee myself
Run away and hope the wolf doesn’t chase me. Too much to hope I can outrun it
Fall down and play dead
I think option number one is a certainty no matter what I choose.
I go with a fourth option. “Nice wolfie. Good wolfie.” I sidle away.
He keeps his distance, trotting along beside me, but a good fifty feet away. He doesn’t seem to be hunting me. I mean, he’d square off to me if he were, right?
“Nice wolfie,” I say again, darting another glance at him. He stops and sits with a little whine.
Huh?
Could he be someone’s domesticated wolf-dog?
But no way. I mean, this wolf is huge.
I’m so busy worrying about the wolf, I forget to worry about my feet, and trip over a loose stone.
Eek!
I go down, flat on my face, belly, and hands. The mailbag spills its contents, but that’s not the part that freaks me out. It’s the wolf sprinting for me.