for
her. In Louisiana it might not matter, a place where secret creatures and
legends of all kinds lurked. Especially in the bayous and swamps around New
Orleans and Acadiana. The rougarou—half man, half wolf—was a legend told and
retold. The generations of his family, tracing all the way back to when the
English had chased the French out of Acadia in Canada, had wrapped themselves
in the legend, using it to conceal their particular heritage. The Beaudines
were shifters, a condition Clint had grown up with and learned from his parents
how to manage and control.
But when a bunch of drunks had burned down their fish camp
and most of his family with it he’d set out to get as far away from the people
who constantly tormented the swamp dwellers as he could. His thumb had taken
him all the way to Maine, close enough to where his family had come from to
give him a feeling of connection.
But outside Presque Isle he’d run into trouble hanging out
at the back door of The Crown. Frenchy had caught him trying to lift someone’s
wallet and for whatever reason taken him inside, fed him and taken him home to
sleep. Steeped himself in the legend of the rougarou, Frenchy hadn’t been the
least dismayed to discover Clint’s true nature. Instead he’d homeschooled him,
taught him how to survive in the wilderness, and when the time came helped him
enroll in the Army.
Frenchy’d also looked up what herbs Clint would need to keep
the wolf under control since he couldn’t necessarily rip off his uniform when
the urge hit him and go racing around in wolf form. Clint had handled it for
four tours of duty but at the age of thirty-six decided he wanted something
else out of life. He just didn’t know what, except maybe a place to belong once
and for all.
He had a sense he could find that with Sophia but after only
two nights he wasn’t nearly ready to broach the subject. No, he couldn’t chance
it. Not yet. And he also wanted to find out more about this killing she and her
partner had stuck their noses into. A lot of the detectives from CID ate at The
Crown and he’d heard enough gossip to know they hadn’t exactly been invited in.
What he really needed to do right now was go for a run and
clear his head. Leaving his clothes folded on a chair in the kitchen, he opened
the back door and stepped out onto the porch, closing his eyes as he allowed
the change to come over him. Dropping to all fours, his thick pelt covering his
skin and shielding it from the chill air, he leaped from the porch and headed
for the trees.
These woods blended into the forest that ran all the way to
the rear of Skye Motel. Clint liked to make the circle, hidden by the woods but
still close enough to Frenchy to scent trouble if there was any. He was partway
through the circle when his nostrils caught a different scent and he stopped
dead still.
Wolf!
But not quite. Different, just like the night before.
He waited, and finally through the trees he saw a
magnificent gray wolf racing along with smooth, even strides. He knew gray
wolves showed up now and then in the area, but this one was bigger than the
others he’d seen, and there was something different about it. Something he
couldn’t quite assess.
Surely not a shifter. He liked to think if there were any
others in the area he’d have connected with them by now. Still…
For a moment the animal stopped and turned in Clint’s
direction, as if seeking him out. Clint moved behind two thick trees, carefully
concealing himself.
And then it was gone, almost as if it had never been there.
Well, shit. He’d have to find a way to dig into this and get
some answers. He didn’t like mysteries like this. Not when they might affect
him and Frenchy. Abruptly he turned and headed for home. Time to get some
sleep.
* * * * *
Logan found his clothes where he’d left them in a waterproof
sack up in the crotch of two limbs in a tree. Not that he expected anyone to be
out wandering in the woods at this time of
her. In Louisiana it might not matter, a place where secret creatures and
legends of all kinds lurked. Especially in the bayous and swamps around New
Orleans and Acadiana. The rougarou—half man, half wolf—was a legend told and
retold. The generations of his family, tracing all the way back to when the
English had chased the French out of Acadia in Canada, had wrapped themselves
in the legend, using it to conceal their particular heritage. The Beaudines
were shifters, a condition Clint had grown up with and learned from his parents
how to manage and control.
But when a bunch of drunks had burned down their fish camp
and most of his family with it he’d set out to get as far away from the people
who constantly tormented the swamp dwellers as he could. His thumb had taken
him all the way to Maine, close enough to where his family had come from to
give him a feeling of connection.
But outside Presque Isle he’d run into trouble hanging out
at the back door of The Crown. Frenchy had caught him trying to lift someone’s
wallet and for whatever reason taken him inside, fed him and taken him home to
sleep. Steeped himself in the legend of the rougarou, Frenchy hadn’t been the
least dismayed to discover Clint’s true nature. Instead he’d homeschooled him,
taught him how to survive in the wilderness, and when the time came helped him
enroll in the Army.
Frenchy’d also looked up what herbs Clint would need to keep
the wolf under control since he couldn’t necessarily rip off his uniform when
the urge hit him and go racing around in wolf form. Clint had handled it for
four tours of duty but at the age of thirty-six decided he wanted something
else out of life. He just didn’t know what, except maybe a place to belong once
and for all.
He had a sense he could find that with Sophia but after only
two nights he wasn’t nearly ready to broach the subject. No, he couldn’t chance
it. Not yet. And he also wanted to find out more about this killing she and her
partner had stuck their noses into. A lot of the detectives from CID ate at The
Crown and he’d heard enough gossip to know they hadn’t exactly been invited in.
What he really needed to do right now was go for a run and
clear his head. Leaving his clothes folded on a chair in the kitchen, he opened
the back door and stepped out onto the porch, closing his eyes as he allowed
the change to come over him. Dropping to all fours, his thick pelt covering his
skin and shielding it from the chill air, he leaped from the porch and headed
for the trees.
These woods blended into the forest that ran all the way to
the rear of Skye Motel. Clint liked to make the circle, hidden by the woods but
still close enough to Frenchy to scent trouble if there was any. He was partway
through the circle when his nostrils caught a different scent and he stopped
dead still.
Wolf!
But not quite. Different, just like the night before.
He waited, and finally through the trees he saw a
magnificent gray wolf racing along with smooth, even strides. He knew gray
wolves showed up now and then in the area, but this one was bigger than the
others he’d seen, and there was something different about it. Something he
couldn’t quite assess.
Surely not a shifter. He liked to think if there were any
others in the area he’d have connected with them by now. Still…
For a moment the animal stopped and turned in Clint’s
direction, as if seeking him out. Clint moved behind two thick trees, carefully
concealing himself.
And then it was gone, almost as if it had never been there.
Well, shit. He’d have to find a way to dig into this and get
some answers. He didn’t like mysteries like this. Not when they might affect
him and Frenchy. Abruptly he turned and headed for home. Time to get some
sleep.
* * * * *
Logan found his clothes where he’d left them in a waterproof
sack up in the crotch of two limbs in a tree. Not that he expected anyone to be
out wandering in the woods at this time of
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