Page 18

Little Fox

“I’M TAKING OVER,” I inform Billie right before I force her body—which is frozen in shock with her mouth hanging open, ready for some aggressive flies, again—to shift. We shift like every other shifter in the building, with the exception of Dawson.

The red smoke from the metal canisters begins to cloud the room. The howls, cries, and barking exploding from all directions become background to the sounds of cloth tearing, bodies transforming, and furniture breaking. The pack house descends into chaos. X-Wolf uses the sensory overload to his advantage, quickly linking up with all of those under him, giving orders and infusing us with the calm focus of a seasoned general.

He can stay calm. He can be in charge. He can keep a level head. But that’s not what I want. HELL NO! For years, I was only able to exist in the most simplistic sense of the word, merely a quiet voice in Billie’s head, a voice that couldn’t even be labeled as mine. Then to finally break free, to run and live, to have a physical form all my own, to be acknowledged as more than an inner voice, not just as a part of her but as myself, Little Fox—it’s made these last months the most freeing, and most frustrating. I’m alive more than I’ve ever been, and yet I’ve had to hold back, to learn, to lie in wait, and to be cautious.

To be so powerful, because I am— oh, I so am —and yet, to not hold the power... I love Wilhelmina. We are part of each other, we exist together, are inseparable—but the balance of control has been skewed for some time, as it is with most shifters choosing to live in this world as we do. The human side needs to be the face, the body we most often inhabit, the voice that speaks. But I have a face, a body, and a voice that are all my own. And because of our lack of connection and her lack of knowledge growing up, she’s developed a mental strength that few have—an ability to cut me off, to shut the door on our connection. So strong. My girl is so strong.

Obviously, I can break through whatever barriers she puts up, but it takes time. Not that it’s mattered as of late because I’ve been a busy little fox since we connected with Alessandro and Biscotti (my nickname for his fox). Whatever happened between us didn’t unlock boxes—more like rooms of power within me. And being the curious creature that I am, I’ve been poking around, pulling the sheets off what had laid dormant, circling what was revealed, touching, poking, prodding, and investigating. It’s been fascinating! I mean, it’s me. How could it be anything but fascinating?

Then to take the back seat, allowing Wilhelmina the opportunity to manage the bitches trying to step to our mates. The fights, the attack at Castle Island, and then Amber... A warm pride filled my heart seeing the warrior within Wilhelmina. But now with our mate as alpha, we cannot be seen as weak, as a way to control or harm him. And with him as alpha, I need to be seen. I need to show what I am capable of, because it is my form that is being questioned.

Be a leader, a luna? No. Billie and I are in agreement on that. Those titles hold far too much responsibility and are not much fun. I’d rather just be a badass, rogue duchessa , run things as I see fit, answer to no one, and control the board from behind the scenes. But the key word is badass . A hood queen. And we’ve got a reputation to solidify. I want graffiti art of me laughing, my diamond-studded grill sparkling, and a lopsided crown set around one ear. I want the image of me spray-painted in alleyways and on billboards and on boulders along highways. Ah, I can see it now: The Reign of Little Fox. A modern-day Robin Hood. A mythic figure of justice and mayhem, whispered about around campfires, a name that causes authorities and corrupt politicians to cry out in agitation while their assholes pinch in fear.

And tonight will be just one of the tales that will be told. Like minstrels of old, rappers will be bustin’ out rhymes about my savage self, a royal gangsta.

Shifting, I expertly use my size to my advantage, scurrying under the pews and zigzagging my way toward the front of the building. Floating up the stairs to the balcony, my red fur only helping me stay hidden in the camouflage they so helpfully supplied with the smoke. I keep the mental link with my mates open just enough for all of us to know the location of each other, to know we are safe and able to focus on our own tasks, on what needs to be done.

And it is marvelous! We’re all in our shifter forms. All those human emotions and concerns are nothing to us. We’re able to be the shifters, the animals, and the fighters we need to be, trusting in each other’s abilities, knowing that if we need help, we’ll reach out.

I ascend the top of the stairs to the balcony that holds the large organ against the exterior wall behind two rows of pews. Two wolf-shifters, Mike and Madison, are in human form, looking out over the solid-wood guard railing at the scene below, with shocked expressions. My paws are silent on the old wood-plank flooring as I approach them, seeking out their shifters through my royal waves. I find their wolves ready to fight, while their human sides are hesitant, unsure—frightened.

Feeling my energy, they turn to me. I cant my head to the side in expectation. The male, Mike, appears to be in his thirties and is long and lean like a distance runner. His face is mostly obscured by a neatly trimmed reddish-brown beard, a few shades darker than his short, spikey hair. His hazel eyes seem more brown than green and are currently showing more white than anything else as he stares at me. I know, I’m stunning.

The woman, Madison, appears to be in her mid-twenties and is also tall and trim, with long caramel-colored hair pulled back into a low ponytail. Her wide green eyes are separated by a button nose, the speckling of freckles standing out against her color-drained, pale skin. Linking up with their shifters’ frequencies, I ask, Will you be listening to the urging of your wolves to shift and join the fight, or no?

Both of their wolves howl inside their heads, their tails thumping and thrashing in earnest. “You,” Mike rasps and licks his lips. “Was that you?” He asks the question out loud since the royal broadcast I’m using is one-way.

I continue my way over and situate myself in the far corner, facing the top of stairs, and affirm, Yes, yes, it was me. Your alpha’s mate. Your wolves are thirsty for a battle. Will you not satisfy them? To bolster the point, I send a little growl through the broadcast, a growl to comrades, to shifters in arms. Their wolves respond with enthusiasm, howling and jumping while their humans’ eyes glow with their presence. Oh yes, I like these wolves, and I tell them so.

“Oh my goodness,” Madison whispers, coming to her knees in front of me, her green eyes shining brightly with her wolf. “You are...” She swallows. “I feel you, you are... divine.”

Compliments later , I assert with a little wink, because she is not wrong. Battle now. I’ll have all of your backs, as will your alpha. Show him. Show him what wolves you both are.

“Yes , Duchessa ,” Mike replies, his face hardening. “We will be as we’re meant to be.” They both turn and shift. One wolf light brown, the other reddish brown, both graceful as they silently descend the stairs to enter into the fray below. I run my tongue over my teeth, licking my chomps in appreciation, and notice my teeth seem a little cramped. Poking my tongue around, I find a secondary set of canines that was not there before. And oh... a sly smile slinks across my cute snout. The second bonding with Blondie—what a gift he has given me. I wonder if he likes mine.

The splintering of furniture, the thrashing and cracking of bodies being thrown—those sounds are quickly accompanied by the high-pitched cries and yelps of pain from below. My heart clenches, and any thoughts on my new canines are pushed aside with a need to be the royal I am, the mate to the alpha and betas that I’ve chosen. I must protect not only my mates but my alpha’s pack—the wolves who have stood at his side, who have taken care of him and supported him, and who have embraced me even when it would have seemed safer for them not to.

No harm will come to the shifters under us.

Wolf-E

Red smoke fills the large space, as do the battle cries from the wolves who have dared come here tonight with violence and death on their minds. Little Fox has quickly taken to herself, assessed the situation, and determined where she needs to be, what she needs to do, and how best to serve us in this fight. Xander’s wolf has already sent out orders with our roles defined and clear. Colin’s large blond wolf quickly escorts the elder’s wolves up the stage, and in back where Dawson is currently on the radio with White, apprising him of the situation, Luna Ophelia’s white wolf joins them.

Jasper’s black wolf and I nod once to each other and then take to the sides of the pack house, dodging broken glass and keeping to the shadows as much as possible on our way to the front entrance. The red smoke is already shrouding much of the center hall, allowing for only glimpses of fur, limbs, teeth, and claws as Blondie, Xander’s, Bruce’s, Shelly’s, and Sutherland’s wolves all engage with the wolves who came with Merrick. We’re almost to the front when a large gray wolf barges through the unlatched double doors. Behind him, a few more wolves enter, slamming both doors wide open and charging toward the main hall, toward the fight.

I recognize one or two of them: Wolves who had guided me and several other newly shifted wolves through the woods, showing and teaching us about the lands that are ours. Wolves that are willing to die, to kill, all because they refuse to connect with Xander’s wolf—because they fear our mate. If only they’d allowed themselves to feel her, to connect with Little Fox. Then they’d know. They’d know what it means feel the presence of a royal, the presence of the Divine. But their fear is keeping them ignorant, letting unsubstantiated lies blind them to the truth. The other wolves are much older than us, and none are ones I can recognize with any type of surety.

None of it matters ,

Ethan wisely states. Who they were is irrelevant. It is who they are now that matters. His voice is even, almost void of all emotion, but I feel the effort of will it takes for him to reach that level of stoicism. That he is speaking at all just reaffirms my assessment. He feels—hidden under an exoskeleton of indifference that he’s grown from the ashes of his childhood loss, my boy feels more deeply than most.

And who they are now is our enemies , I assert with a growl. I don’t wait to see what they’ve got planned. There’s no point. Their fates were sealed once they entered the building, their bloodthirsty muzzles dripping with saliva, and frantic eyes crazed with their desire to attack.

I fly over the remaining distance, floating through the air, sucking down the cool night wind, breezing in from the opened doors, the scent of the woods and mountains, of my lands filling my lungs, fueling my purpose, right before I collide with the second-to-last wolf to enter. My open mouth quickly closes around the loose skin and fur at his withers. I snap my jaw shut as my body swings around, absorbing the momentum from the change in direction, paws landing on the thin green carpet laid out over the stone floor in the entryway hall. I follow through, using the force generated to help me sling the wolf toward the reinforced wall to the side of the entrance. His claws scratch through the thin carpet, fighting to hold position while his hungry maw bites and snaps at my front legs. Slicing my teeth through his flesh, I rip my mouth away from him as his teeth cut into the fur and skin at the top of my foreleg, not deep enough to do any real damage but too close for my liking.

I’m about to lunge for him again when hot pain burns my hip. Glancing over my shoulder, I see a smaller wolf with red fur and yellow eyes has latched onto my rump. Her lips pull back, showing my blood turning her white teeth red as she growls and yanks at my flesh. Ignoring the desire to snap at her, which would keep me boxed in between two of my enemies, I turn toward her partner, swinging my back end around and her with it. Her teeth tear through my flesh with the movement, ensuring I won’t have just a few puncture wounds from this but a deep gash with skin and fur missing. But when she collides with the other wolf, it jolts her enough to loosen her hold, and I quickly bend in on myself, my teeth piercing the soft flesh of her neck. Her yips of pain are muffled by the flesh she’s managed to rip from my body before letting go of her hold on me.

A shadow dims the lights from above as Jasper’s wolf silently soars over me and the smaller wolf, slamming the older wolf into the aged wooden wall, causing dust and dirt to puff out from the seams. Jasper’s wolf remains silent. No growls. No snarls. Nothing but the sound of slackened flesh giving way to the chomping and gnashing of his teeth.

It’s been more than five years since I’ve seen Jasper’s wolf, hunted with him. Back then, I was just a pup, and he was a wolf who preferred to be on his own, to cut his own path through the woods and hunt on his own terms, wanting to grow and know himself without the influence of others. He was younger then, too, no more than eighteen, yet even his human side was pensive and thoughtful—a quiet, solid presence who existed on the outskirts, making his own decisions, coming to his own conclusions. He stayed in the background even though his skills in both wolf and human form often put a spotlight on him. His quiet, observational approach to the pack, to life, mirrored mine and Ethan’s, though our past was darkened by the loss of our parents and the silent guilt that weighed us down for years.

He’s grown in size as well as in his methods of battle. Silent, deadly, and efficient, he’s a wolf I can see myself fighting alongside. Our eyes connect, and as if of one mind understanding the dangers our pack is in, we move to each other until we are at each other’s back. Then with our enemies’ flesh in our maws, we allow our beta canines to descend and begin pumping toxin into our victims, leaving ourselves vulnerable, knowing our jaws will remain locked in place, sunken into the flesh of the wolves between our teeth, until the process is complete.

My eyes focus on the opening of the arched doorway that leads to the great hall, framing the brutality of the fight happening in a slowly dissipating mist of red. The open doors allowing the wind from outside to blow through the room, clearing away the camouflage showing the savagery that has been happening under the mask of smoke. A large blond wolf rises from under a pile of at least three other wolves. Seeing blood streaming from several lacerations over his brawny body, sends a helpless growl gurgling up my throat.

As if in submission, the red smoke parts, and a black wolf with blazing blue-and-white eyes pops up from between the middle rows, a pile of flesh and fur laying on the stone floor beneath him. He climbs over the rounded back of a pew and vaults into the battle, energy pulsing into the air around him, the red smoke undulating with his power.

The ripples of power seem to meld, building until one massive wave is formed—and I feel it. I feel it crash down on those wolves that are not his. I see them release their hold on Blondie, falling to the ground, panting, growling, and biting at the invisible wall of energy Xander’s wolf just deployed. He lands on them, mouth open, blood dripping from his teeth, his glowing eyes slit and dilated. The focus and the pleasure of the fight—he’s fully embracing the darker side of himself, of us all. It’s the thrill of the hunt, the satisfaction of the kill.

His teeth bite down on the thick neck of one of the round blond wolves, and with one hard jerk, he tears the throat clear out. Blood sprays across his face, but it doesn’t deter him from going in for another taste, slicing and ripping as more and more blood pours from the wolf on the floor, no longer able to fight or cry. Xander’s wolf continues until white shines brightly among the red flesh. His spine. He’s torn out the throat until the spine has become fully visible. With ribs heaving against his black fur, his panted breath bubbling blood in his mouth, he looks down at his victim. A guttural roar erupts from him, one that quakes my insides. And then he goes in one last time. Taking the spine in his mouth, he shakes and whips his head side to side until the wolf’s head is barely attached to the body—a wound no shifter could heal from. He releases his hold, and through all the noise, all the carnage, all the howls and cries, I hear the thud of the dead wolf’s head dropping onto the stone floor.

Not letting himself get distracted by the dead, he turns and moves on to the next wolf. Decisive. Thorough. Alpha. The pulsing in my gums lessens, and my jaw relaxes. I let go of the wolf in my mouth, and she drops, immobile, paralyzed, and helpless on the floor, her yellow eyes wide and empty. I’m about to head into the main hall when numerous howls and barks funnel in through the open door from outside—too many wolves to be just those we were to visit tonight . Shut and barricade the door ,

Little Fox orders through the mind link. I’ll handle them .

I obey.