Rendezvous

By Channing Sheffield

The good, the bad, and the wicked walk hand in hand traversing the path to a rendezvous with destiny.
Louisiana Beta wolf-shifter Matthew Nicholson failed to convince his chosen mate, Raleigh Gaudet, to accept their fates and seal their souls as one. Years later, mere weeks before Matt marries his human girlfriend, Raleigh lands on his Colorado cabin doorstep at the onset of a shapeshifter war against marauding hyenas.
Caught in a capricious situation, Matt and Raleigh seek temporary refuge and begin to make up for lost time...until hyenas interrupt their reunion.
The shapeshifter war is vicious, and Matt suffers another devastating defeat—losing Raleigh again for the final count—propelling him into a pattern of unnatural changes and reckless behavior. Matt doesn’t realize an ancient curse rides his back nor does he realize that both mates acknowledging their fates triggers the unthinkable. And only a chosen mate’s love and sealing their souls as one can alter the terrifying consequences.

Notes: RENDEZVOUS, a gay paranormal romance, is intended for mature audiences. Graphic M/M, M/F, M/F/M sexual content.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Channing Sheffield
• Release date: Aug 30, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301743032

Channing Sheffield

Channing Sheffield is a voracious reader of several genres from mystery and thrillers to sweltering paranormals, romances, and erotica portraying powerful characters and engaging storylines. After penning a few paranormal novellas featuring gay and straight characters, Channing joined the self-publishing procession, introducing the Villere Shifter series with Alpha vs Alpha leading the pack.Here’s what Channing says: “Reading great stories is one of my aphrodisiacs when my workweek ends. I do enjoy a stiff, vodka martini or two or...exotic meals, playtime...to jumpstart weekends, given the opportunity. But, I’m a loner when characters—swaggering with happiness, discontent, or conflict—and dialogue redirect my attentions. It’s a mind-movie I refuse to ignore. What better way to stifle the noise than to put each scene in writing or on computer disk and build from there? Yup, I’m a true hatchling at selling books. No website or social-media logins, so far. Each day only contains 24 hours! Meanwhile, give all writers loud applauses! They work damned hard entertaining readers.”

Book preview

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RENDEZVOUS

(Villere Series, Book #2)

Channing Sheffield

Copyright © by Channing Sheffield

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be resold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase you own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

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RENDEZVOUS is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either a product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

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Dedication

To my best friends…you know who you are.

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NOT TOO FAR from Matt Nicholson’s cabin, an unusual racket terminated the night’s calm. Enjoying a roaring blaze warding off Colorado’s mid-winter chill, Matt—naked, ears tuned in—listened closely to the vicious conflict. Oftentimes, he left the only cabin window ajar for circulating fresh air, not to hear this kind of hell.

At least one wolf was on the defense by the sound of its robust snarls. Others involved…who knew?

So, why was he able to single out one voice among many?

Sighing, Matt set the stack of contracts aside and glanced at the loaded, double-barrel shotgun leaning against the doorframe.

Four spare boxes of shells waited on a small table within reach of the weapon. He’d fired on hyenas—the Purcell clan—several years back. They were attempting to commandeer the cabin he’d purchased during the time his New Orleans condo renovations bordered on completion. The scavengers were the variety of devious creature searching to retaliate—like vampires. Fortunately, and for good reason, Colorado’s Wolf Council, their coalition packs, and other indignant shifters had run the hyenas out of their territories.

Animal snarls intensified, grew louder, closer to Matt’s private haven.

Christ.

Caving in to an inherent need to protect the weak, the assaulted and, in addition, himself and all he owned, as the clash broke out near the front porch, Matt lurched off his bedding nest and lunged for the shotgun.

Screams, growls, and barks echoed throughout the valley nestled beneath the majestic Rocky Mountains.

No choice now, he grabbed a box of shells, dumped the contents onto the floor beside him, and unlocked the deadbolts.

He dragged in a stabilizing breath, held it, and swung the heavy front door open.

Dim light from the corner fireplace hardly illuminated the eerie darkness. Near-blizzard conditions gusted frigid air out of the north, sucking oxygen from his lungs.

Legs braced apart, he fired aimlessly once, recoil hammering his shoulder, sending smoke meandering all around him. He dropped to one knee and fired the second round, the stink of gun powder battering his nostrils, concealing all other scents.

Both deafening blasts sent intruders scattering. Or survival instincts kicked in. They—he had no idea how many, what breed they were, whether shifter or not—sought refuge among the dense forest trees beyond the immediate clearing. Within seconds, the smoky residue dissipated.

Matt let out the breath he’d held in one long whoosh. He ejected the shell casings, reloaded while scanning the grounds, and zeroed in on one brave target. Seeing a pair of glowing sun-yellow eyes warily peering through the copse of tall, spruce trees raised the hair on his nape. He aimed, pulled the trigger.

Gotcha, he mumbled. The remaining bastards would surely hightail off his land if they had any damn sense.

In Louisiana, he’d tested sharpshooter with handguns and rifles. Annual hunts with human buddies, sometimes accompanied by trained dogs, brought down pesky raccoons, tender pheasant, feral hogs, and wild boar. Tonight’s trespassers were obviously larger, louder, and more ferocious than his usual quarry. Feral shifters? They were the ultimate pain in the ass.

Too dark and too damn risky, he’d check tracks and carcass during daylight. That is, if snow hadn’t covered their escape route. Or the group, if they were shifters, hadn’t carted away their deceased. Most handled their dead with care and dignity.

Tomorrow, he’d renew his domain’s scent mark.

Still alert, Matt backed into the cabin.

He started to shove the door closed and batten down the hatch when he heard sickly moans. Raising his weapon again, he sniffed…no doubt a wolf was nearby. He peeked outside to his left, followed an overpowering scent raising his awareness. And a blood trail.

Dammit. If the animal, a shifter, had been beneficiary of his shotgun blast, it would never survive a direct hit.

Hesitancy was a good thing in case his scenting ability was mistaken after living in New Orleans proper for so damned long. He inched onto the porch.

Wedged between stacked, sawn logs and lounge chair the biggest, blackest wolf he’d ever seen was stretched out on its side, pants shallow and harsh, rivulets of blood pooling beneath its body, spreading thickly across the wooden deck before halting and freezing. Maybe a clean shot through and through.

Fuck, Matt muttered.

He’d taken a vacation to Colorado for peace and quiet, solitude far away from the hustle and bustle of city life, his job, away from Fallon—southern-belle socialite, daughter to one of Louisiana’s prominent attorney-turned-state senator—and his tribe-like family for two weeks. Not for this kind of shit. The last thing he needed in life was a wounded or dying wolf on his doorstep, one he’d nailed. The Wolf Council would have Matt’s head mounted and on display after he suffered a severe punishment—a violent mauling.

At least the downed wolf was male, not female. Fallon would have a fit otherwise. Luckily, she was going toe-to-toe with some notable wedding planner her mother had hired, finalizing preliminaries to the rest of Matt’s and her life together. She didn’t expect a call from her fiancé for several more days. He would be ecstatic when their big day came and went.

What the hell are you doing on my property? he asked into the darkness, his drawl thick with agitation. I should leave you where you lay.

He knew better. Knew because, other than the usual thump-thump of his heart, which was now pounding like hell against his ribcage, something altogether different issued a call to the surface of his being. Something odd he couldn’t quite pinpoint. Something strangely memorable. Elusive for now.

Damn, he thought with disgust, scratching stubble on his chin and neck. This trip afforded time to bachelor life, no holding back any guy shit. The itch was bad, irritating. Okay, he’d shave sooner rather than later. After he got this frigging wolf inside, treated and, hopefully, back on the trail to wherever he’d come from in quick time.

And goddamn his inner wolf for howling like an idiot. Must be the distant threats making him wild and unruly. Or something about this particular shifter had his beast’s hackles bristling.

Get up. There’s a good fire burning. You can patch yourself up then make tracks home. It was best to let the animal know not to get comfortable.

Several sputtering heartbeats and a few heated puffs of breath later, he said, Hey! I said get inside or you’ll freeze your ass off out here.

Snow was piling up quickly into drifts. When the wind died down eerie quiet filtered through his valley. Matt glanced toward the forest, squinting, his heightened senses picking up on movement. On intruders.

Son of a— He took aim at an imaginary target, fired once. Maybe this time, they’d know not to fuck with him or risk another killing.

Thirty seconds ticked by without a living peep or crunch of snow.

Matt wasn’t a big guy—five ten, one-eighty, bulkier than rangy from working out twice per week—and far from he-man material. Caution was always best. The shifter bleeding out on his porch was enormous, yet, quiet.

Sighing, he emptied the shotgun shells and reloaded, then cleared a path through leftover ammunition with the butt and set the weapon against the doorframe. He marched over to the lounge chair, shoved it noisily aside.

Moving the animal would be messy, likely quite painful, and not easy. He needed help.

Back inside, he found an old Indian rug left behind by the original cabin owners, dragged it to his unwanted visitor’s side. The wolf’s fur was wet from snowmelt. Too bad. The scent of his attackers was undetectable.

Indelicately, Matt rolled the wolf onto the blanket. He jumped back when the animal snarled and snapped, ginormous fangs barely missing his throat.

"Son of a bitch. Would you rather I leave you out here for your buddies’ next meal?"

Startling golden eyes stared back into Matt’s slate-gray gaze. They would stay gold until he shifted, if he ever shifted to human again. The dying always passed to the other side in wolf skin.

Can you shift?

The animal blinked. They weren’t members of the same pack. No telepathy.

If you bite me, you won’t have to worry about shifting, Matt scoffed. I’ll shoot you and bury your ass so damn deep in the forest nobody’ll find hide or hair of you.

His body overheated before the words finished leaving his mouth, even in cold, mountain air, causing sweat, itching again, scratching.

All right. Let’s get this shit done because I’m not used to this weather. I’ll drag you on this blanket. Brace yourself for pain. No biting. Got it?

When the wolf closed his eyes, Matt shook his head. So much blood. Survival looked mighty grim.

The porch wasn’t exactly flat or smooth. He tried his damndest to be gentle, although, the move was traumatic for the wolf. Few seconds passed without a painful moan. Matt grimaced at the gut-wrenching sound of each one.

Once inside, he settled the wolf then set all three dead bolts: top, bottom, and middle. Solid steel reinforced the doorframe. Thick logs backed by cinderblocks, followed by rebar and cement encompassed the entire cabin. A virtual fortress.

He dragged the rug and wolf to a resting spot near the fireplace.

Dancing flames lit the room nicely, carving shadowy impressions across the floor and walls. Electricity and gas were non-existent without a generator in this neck of the woods. Neither was a survival requirement for his kind. He’d bought a small one to warm underground spring water for showers during winter months. What else did he need? Food? The forest provided plenty of game.

Matt gathered supplies—gauze, tape, shaver, and alcohol. The latter was risky business if used on wounded carnivores. Antiseptics were rarely necessary as he checked the wolf’s injuries. He found them torn, jagged, and one was bone deep. Not from a bullet, from an ass whipping.

Weakness from blood loss was common for all animals. Infections occasionally invaded shifters after bites by diseased creatures. Matt dug through his duffel bag, found needle and thread to stitch the largest shoulder gash. Shifter rejuvenation process worked more quickly when wounds were closed and covered with gauze.

Whatever animal that had chomped down on the wolf had massive incisors and, from the looks of the tear, it had viciously shaken him. Alphas typically dished out cruel discipline when the crime warranted one, ordering a mauling, joining the frenzy. He wondered what grave faux pas this spectacular creature had committed.

The shifter, Matt decided to call Black for its shiny ebony coat, slept deeply through the minor surgery.

Another wolf’s saliva typically escalated healing. He licked the wounds. The tanginess of blood on his tongue raised his bodily temperature, sent vibrations through his system. Infection? He licked again, tasted. No, no contagion or virus. What then? Why was his body reacting so strongly?

He went to the kitchen, thinking, wondering while filling a bowl with water. He tossed in a small towel to soak then set the bowl near the wolf’s snout in case he woke thirsty. In case he woke at all. Doubtful. The injuries were critical even for a shifter.

On second thought, Matt hauled out a deer roast and put it near Black’s nostrils. Raw meat and blood usually roused wolves. On the other hand, he dug out a knife and carved away bite-sized chunks. Big chunks, except force-feeding didn’t work either.

Dribbling water into the corner of Black’s mouth helped, but helped more when he rubbed the animal’s soft coat about the throat. The wolf swallowed twice.

That’s better, just not good enough. Need fluids, big guy.

He couldn’t imagine what the wolf looked like once he shifted, besides big. Huge, in fact, in this small cabin built for Matt only. Efficiency-size, tiny kitchen, tinier bathroom, and no furniture. Beneath the structure, a crawlspace for added protection.

Vacationing alone in the forest, the Purcell clan had toughened his resolve to stay vigilant, to remain alive. Besides, he had a fiancée back home, a woman he’d fallen in love with after years engaging in salacious escapades.

Every hour on the hour for the next four, Matt worked hard to hydrate Black. He managed to stuff a smallish chunk of meat down the wolf’s throat minus a nasty bite, got a rough lick on the hand instead.

Does this mean we’re friends now?

Black’s muzzle furrowed, showing a gang of sharp teeth in reply, and his ears laid flat against his skull.

In the thickest drawl he’d left behind years ago, Matt mumbled, Fickle goddamn canine. Bad as friggin’ cat. I oughta put your tired ass—

Another slow lick cooled his anger. Maybe the gleaming teeth thing was actually a smile. Vicious-looking, though.

Shortly after midnight, since the wolf slept, Matt moved his bedding closer to the dying fire, keeping Black between him and the blaze. He added two logs that sparked and sizzled then caught, bringing the blaze to a lively dance.

Living in the south had thinned his blood. He welcomed the added warmth, settled on his nest, and drifted off to an exhausted, restless sleep.

At some ungodly hour, Matt woke from fevered dreams, startled, sweating with a wicked woodie needing relief. He wasn’t spooning Fallon after a long stretch of torrent passion, and he wasn’t spooning her now! He’d snuggled against the back of a shivering wolf.

What the—

Clearing his mind of the universal male titillations, he refocused. Hey, big guy, you okay?

Black’s pants told a different story: nose dry as bone, heart rate elevated. Crap.

Dying embers filled the base of the fireplace. The room’s temperature was below the freezing point. He added kindling, tossed two more logs onboard, poked and prodded until the desired blaze flared to life, then closed the window.

He went back to Black’s side.

You have to drink. He squeezed fresh water from the towel into the side of the wolf’s mouth then stroked his throat. C’mon, dammit. Drink!

It took several attempts of enticement to get Black’s affirmative reaction. Matt would not let this animal die, not on his watch.

Again.

Twenty minutes crept by, only getting at most a half cup of liquid down Black’s throat.

Antsy, Matt rolled up to his feet. He stalked about the room, fidgety, unable to relax. This entire predicament had put him on edge, testing his nerves while on a volatile precipice, instinctively drawn to his guest when the full moon was due to rise tomorrow night. Surely, he could handle the situation without stepping over the line, without dishonoring the promise he’d made to his fiancée.

Problem now was Black’s shivering. A sign of chills or latent trauma?

With no other choice available, Matt dropped to the floor beside the wolf. He yanked his heavy blanket over the two of them and shifted to fur. Snuggled together they’d stay warm, cozy, and alive as long as he woke to stoke the fire and force water into his temporary roommate.

~~~~~

Morning came with dawn’s early light shimmering through the small, side window.

Eyes closed, Matt yawned, fangs protruding. He rolled onto his back, twisted and squirmed, his hind legs kicking out, stretching and scratching a nonexistent itch. The joy of wolf skin. He growled quietly.

At home in New Orleans, his fiancée constantly bitched about him shifting. Fully human and cast in the limelight often, Fallon demanded Matt hide his wolf. Her family had no clue about his legacy. She’d promised to enlighten them after the honeymoon. Whatever. They were bound to learn the truth someday.

The hell if he’d hide his proud heritage all the damn time.

Contrary to Fallon’s insistence, she didn’t mind when he fucked her from behind, urging him on, or when his cockhead swelled. He’d yet to lock with her, promised not to permanently mark her until after their nuptials. She was fearful of the process, though he’d guaranteed a painless experience. She said she loved feeling his fullness caressing her womb. But, she refused to let him plug her ass. The sexy blond didn’t know the sensuality she was missing. One day he’d change her mind.

Fallon had no idea he’d partially shift sometimes. He’d nip her neck and taste her blood, a phenomenon that never incited his inner wolf as a mate’s blood should, usually during the full moon when his canine howled for release, when his wolf became dominant ruler over his human half. Sporting a constant hard-on until dawn, he’d raid her pussy for hours and mark her porcelain skin with his claws or fangs, warning off other shifters. However, the last two full moons, she made a point of leaving the city, spending time with girlfriends. All-nighters pacifying wolf males’ sexual hungers were hard on women, feminine shifters as well.

Rather than commit the sin of all sins, trolling for females into a fuckfest, he’d routinely—monthly—connect with a male-only orgy, which included a few pack members and littermates, for three or four nights depending on needs and moods. The location was typically at Couturie Forest. Sneaking into the park after sundown was easy. Pain in the ass that Hurricane Katrina had ruined its plant life. Now, newly planted vegetation had taken root.

Fallon knew of his escapades, understood. Wished him good fun. During the last three years of their relationship, he’d been open and honest with her. She was intrigued by the fact male wolves fucked other males to relieve the chronic itch for sex every four weeks.

He had arrived at the cabin two days before the upcoming full moon because, as usual, horniness sent him on an early rampage. He’d promised Fallon he’d not fuck anyone besides her before their wedding night. He would keep his promise, no matter what. Matt was full of promises.

So, here was, growing hornier by the hour, stuck in a cabin far away from his fiancée and his Louisiana fuck buddies, with a wounded wolf when he’d planned on isolation, planned to keep his right hand active. Planned to stay inside except to hunt. He’d not planned on marauding criminals stalking his cabin. Or a lone wolf shifter.

Why were they after Black anyway?

Stretched out on his back, staring at the small window facing east, Matt shifted, sighing. He gave his hard cock a few harsh jerks to relieve the pressure then massaged the stiffness, spiking his hormones and his blood.

Last night, he’d left Black’s side because he had to, because deep down there was something unnerving happening between them. The wolf’s scent was so damned potent and overwhelming during its waking moments it heightened a rousing awareness Matt fought against when he found him on his porch.

Now what the hell am I supposed to do with you? he whispered, his pants growing louder from the hand-job, blood rushing to all extremities.

He rolled over, found Black wide awake, staring through bright hazel eyes. And lo and behold! Hard, the wolf’s cock was reared up on display, tapping the floor. Holy… Not only was the wolf big, Jesus, Black’s cock was huge, the helmet head a dark, purplish-red, drops of pre-cum leaking and staining the old Indian rug.

Mouth automatically watering, Matt sputtered. Busted. Caught beating his meat, teetering precariously on the edge of bliss cliff, so close to tumbling. U-Um…Are y-you hungry? Shaky, he rolled to his feet, his legs weak and unsteady. Rubbery. He grabbed the roast, brought it back, and squatted beside Black. Freshly downed yesterday.

No reply. Well, duh. The wolf was staring between Matt’s legs, staring at the swollen entity Matt had enticed to harden, skin taut, fat veins threading the length, the head throbbing for release.

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