in screams and shouts, surrounding the demonic.
Drek will not be a referee in supernatural matters between species who are meaningless to the Lanarre. He raises a palm. “Thank you, female.”
She purses her lips, nonplussed by his dismissal.
Drek feels a shrug coming on. You cannot win them all, as the humans say. He scans the faces of the Blood Singers of Region One. His scenting tells him many things.
Death clings to Region One.
A battle or massacre of epic proportions took place here in the recent past. If the demonic have been loosened in this realm, whatever is afoot will affect them all. And why an Alpha would seek his legitimate intended for two decades reeks of foul play and the breakdown of the Western.
But none of these factors are enough for Drek to concern himself with. “I am looking for my chosen. She is a Lanarre princess.”
Blank looks answer him.
Her scent is here. Someone has interacted with her; Drek is sure of it. He ignores the demonic, who seems to be searching for a handy escape route. Drek gives equal inattention to the Alpha at his feet.
Drek is keenly aware of Tahlia’s appearance. Photographs have been exchanged. “She stands this high.” He holds the edge of his hand just beneath his shoulder. “Black hair that is curled to her waist, with eyes the color of twilight meeting night.”
Silence.
Then the part-Were female says, “Listen, pal—she took off with this jerk's intended.” She makes funny little curls with her fingertips as though plucking the word out of the sky. “So she's gone. And this demon guy's side-kick? She took off with the Alpha's intended ”—she says the word with clear distaste—“so since you don't want to join the party in helping keep these guys in line, they went thataway.” She points due north.
Drek smiles. He supposes she's helpful—in her way. “Lanarre do not engage in altercations with other species. Tahlia will be in need of our protection.”
Drek sinks to his haunches beside the Alpha male from the Western, who cringes away. “If you follow my chosen, for any reason, supposed intended or not, I will tear the guts that have just healed out of your body and hang you with them.” Drek’s voice remains deadly with intent, never changing in modulation.
He stands.
The female Were crosses her arms, glaring at him with disdain. Bowen and Drek exchange a look.
The demonic's face is hard, cunning and determined. “My subordinate is with the group that accompany your chosen.”
Frowning, Drek says, “That is not a consideration of the Lanarre.”
The demonic smiles. “It is to me!” he says with a hiss. In a flash, he's blurred like a red smear to the tree line and beyond. The collective gasp of the crowd is a hushed bomb of surprise.
Drek's frown turns to a scowl. He wants nothing to do with the demonic, but he will do whatever is necessary to protect Tahlia.
If he must dance with the devil, then he shall.
The crowd parts as Drek and Bowen step over the fallen Alpha.
*
Bowen scoops the gravel from the shoulder as his nose hovers over slightly damp gravel. He sifts it between his fingers.
“She was here.”
Drek is impressed. He does not believe that Tahlia ever got out of the vehicle that was used in the quick exit they made from Region One. Bowen would have to smell her, layered underneath fossil fuel, manmade asphalt of indeterminate origin, forest, vegetation, and the indigenous wild animal population.
His head turns sharply in Bowen's direction. “Do you think Tahlia might be heading toward the den?” The thought process makes sense. She's probably frightened and unsure. Seeking Drek's pack is solid thinking.
Bowen considers, tossing the gravel away from them. “Not sure.” His wolfen snout points in a generally northwestern direction. His spinning silver eyes find Drek's. “If she does, that benefits us.”
“But not her companions.”
Bowen gives him a look of disbelief and a snort so finely
Drek will not be a referee in supernatural matters between species who are meaningless to the Lanarre. He raises a palm. “Thank you, female.”
She purses her lips, nonplussed by his dismissal.
Drek feels a shrug coming on. You cannot win them all, as the humans say. He scans the faces of the Blood Singers of Region One. His scenting tells him many things.
Death clings to Region One.
A battle or massacre of epic proportions took place here in the recent past. If the demonic have been loosened in this realm, whatever is afoot will affect them all. And why an Alpha would seek his legitimate intended for two decades reeks of foul play and the breakdown of the Western.
But none of these factors are enough for Drek to concern himself with. “I am looking for my chosen. She is a Lanarre princess.”
Blank looks answer him.
Her scent is here. Someone has interacted with her; Drek is sure of it. He ignores the demonic, who seems to be searching for a handy escape route. Drek gives equal inattention to the Alpha at his feet.
Drek is keenly aware of Tahlia’s appearance. Photographs have been exchanged. “She stands this high.” He holds the edge of his hand just beneath his shoulder. “Black hair that is curled to her waist, with eyes the color of twilight meeting night.”
Silence.
Then the part-Were female says, “Listen, pal—she took off with this jerk's intended.” She makes funny little curls with her fingertips as though plucking the word out of the sky. “So she's gone. And this demon guy's side-kick? She took off with the Alpha's intended ”—she says the word with clear distaste—“so since you don't want to join the party in helping keep these guys in line, they went thataway.” She points due north.
Drek smiles. He supposes she's helpful—in her way. “Lanarre do not engage in altercations with other species. Tahlia will be in need of our protection.”
Drek sinks to his haunches beside the Alpha male from the Western, who cringes away. “If you follow my chosen, for any reason, supposed intended or not, I will tear the guts that have just healed out of your body and hang you with them.” Drek’s voice remains deadly with intent, never changing in modulation.
He stands.
The female Were crosses her arms, glaring at him with disdain. Bowen and Drek exchange a look.
The demonic's face is hard, cunning and determined. “My subordinate is with the group that accompany your chosen.”
Frowning, Drek says, “That is not a consideration of the Lanarre.”
The demonic smiles. “It is to me!” he says with a hiss. In a flash, he's blurred like a red smear to the tree line and beyond. The collective gasp of the crowd is a hushed bomb of surprise.
Drek's frown turns to a scowl. He wants nothing to do with the demonic, but he will do whatever is necessary to protect Tahlia.
If he must dance with the devil, then he shall.
The crowd parts as Drek and Bowen step over the fallen Alpha.
*
Bowen scoops the gravel from the shoulder as his nose hovers over slightly damp gravel. He sifts it between his fingers.
“She was here.”
Drek is impressed. He does not believe that Tahlia ever got out of the vehicle that was used in the quick exit they made from Region One. Bowen would have to smell her, layered underneath fossil fuel, manmade asphalt of indeterminate origin, forest, vegetation, and the indigenous wild animal population.
His head turns sharply in Bowen's direction. “Do you think Tahlia might be heading toward the den?” The thought process makes sense. She's probably frightened and unsure. Seeking Drek's pack is solid thinking.
Bowen considers, tossing the gravel away from them. “Not sure.” His wolfen snout points in a generally northwestern direction. His spinning silver eyes find Drek's. “If she does, that benefits us.”
“But not her companions.”
Bowen gives him a look of disbelief and a snort so finely
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