Unspoken

By J. A. Garland

Paranormal Bounty Hunter Myka Quinn has left her failed attempt at wolf pack life behind. She’s focused on providing for her brother and staying out of werewolf territory. When she’s framed for a witch’s murder, she must accept help from a very unlikely source, or watch the lives of those she loves rip apart.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Champagne Book Group
• Release date: Jan 5, 2015
• ISBN: 9781771551731

Book preview

This is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents and dialogues in this book are of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is completely coincidental.

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

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Champagne Books

www.champagnebooks.com

Copyright 2014 by J. A. Garland

ISBN 978-1-77155-173-1

January 2015

Cover Art by Ellie Smith

Produced in Canada

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Champagne Book Group

19-3 Avenue SE

High River, AB T1V 1G3

Canada

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

Other Books By J. A. Garland

Instinct

The Mutatio Project

Dysus Dreamer

One

If someone says the root of all evil is money, they’ve never met a witch. Hot on Tara Sobrantes heels, I hungered for a quick capture. But my past experiences with brimstone-users had taught me not to eat the candy house until Gretel heated the oven. The permanent fireball scar on my right butt cheek reinforced the lesson.

Capitalizing on a rare break in the rain, I peered through the branches and foliage I’d arranged to obscure my position in one of the Pacific Northwest’s oldest forests. Drawn to the sweet scent of exhaled carbon dioxide, a deer fly landed on my cheek. I flicked away the bloodsucker while keeping my gaze on a distant group of figures.

Three hundred feet away, the Mystic Monks began another round of tiresome morning rituals. For four lousy days I’d watched them worship their gods. Watched, waited, and shivered through one bone-chilling downpour after another. I knew Tara was hiding at the monastery. While I might not have her yet, or the large bounty she’d fetch from shirking a loan shark, I was still in the game.

A man wearing a burgundy cloak ventured away from the others, heading deeper into the woods. He glanced around, perhaps to confirm he was alone, and then crouched until he almost sat. The monk lifted the hem of his woolen robe, carefully draping the material over his knees. I scrunched my nose and started to look away when something caught and held my eye. A steady stream of yellow wet the thick carpet of pine needles between his feet. The men I’d known didn’t squat when they pissed—I got you, Tara.

I stood, careful not to make a sound. In the tight cat suit I wore, the movement caused the plastic edge of my Para Hunter identification card to poke my hip. A practiced shake released two Fae kissed, silver blades from their leather holsters and into my hands. Blades were good for close combat, not for the gap I currently faced. With well placed, gliding steps, I narrowed the opening between us.

Finished urinating, Tara rose, letting the hem of her heavy robe fall. I quickened my pace; I couldn’t afford to lose her bounty. My brother was all the inspiration I needed to complete this job.

A scream pierced my thoughts and the damp, morning air. The pressurized wail thickened then transformed into a muted gurgle. Tara’s hood fell backward, revealing a bobbing metal shaft protruding from under her jaw. Someone, not me, had launched an arrow into her throat.

Move! I lunged forward, feet slipping as my boots sought purchase on the slick ground. Razor sharp, a barb sliced through my suit and lodged into the skin and muscle of my shoulder. The force of the arrow shoved me backward and to the ground. An instantaneous, moor-like sweat coated my skin.

My nostrils flared like a wounded animal, and I scrambled to my feet. Normally, I’ll stubbornly stand my ground, but I’m not stupid. My attacker knew my position, and I didn’t know his. If I stayed put, he’d fill me full of metal like a scrap yard.

Racing away in a crazy zigzag, I heard near noiseless whispers as the air parted, making way for a barrage of arrows. Bolts lodged into the trees all around me, at head level. Terrific. Someone wasn’t trying to scare me off. Someone wanted me dead. Not here, not now. Not when my brother and his family were counting on me.

Bites of pain skewered my arms, then a leg. The cold cramp of fear tightened its hold on my lungs. Holy shit, I was going to die. Adrenaline driven, I pushed forward long after my wounds should have dropped me.

A misty fog had descended on the dense pine canopy when I finally allowed myself to stop running. I sank to the ground at the base of a tamarack pine. In unison, my muscles and lungs screamed a tortured ditty, whose tune I was hella familiar. I need a new profession or I’m not going to make it to my thirtieth birthday.

Blinking, I tried to focus eyes blurry with tears. I had officially accepted Tara’s mark. For two weeks she was supposed to be off limits to all other Para Bounty Hunters. That was the unwritten code. Someone violated that code, and that someone was here. They’d killed her and tried the same with me. Who? Why?

And how had they found Tara? Some might call it cockiness, I called it first class investigation skills. I was positive that I alone figured out the connection between brother and sister. Tara had blended in seamlessly with the monks. It took me days in that damn hidey-hole to catch her slip.

Lids closing, I slowed my breathing. Trading pain for awareness, I listened to the steady dripping that came from the pine needles above. Morning dew ran down the rough grooves in the bark. A crackle here, a chirp there, then quiet. Head bowing to my chest, the minutes spooled by. A long, low howl broke the quiet, followed by another, then another—young, excited yips joining in.

I’d forgotten others beside the monks called the Pacific Northwest home. Wolves hunted in secluded places like this, and the blood trail I left behind was ideal for tracking.

Two

There’s a precarious phase between awake and asleep, when the slightest interruption can jostle open your eyelids. My return to consciousness came thanks to heavy breathing. I blinked, then squinted. I was still under the tree and still leaking fluids like a rusty water can shot full of .22 rounds. But I was no longer alone; an immense white wolf stood at my feet.

He’s an Alpha. His rank revealed itself not because of his confident stance, or his daunting size, but in the way he judged me. In the gleam of his eyes I swore he assessed a million factors all at once, as easily as tossing back a shot of tequila.

Less than twenty feet away, the Alpha’s wolves had set up a perimeter ring. Their youth came through in a chorus of impatient, eager whines. Running into a bleeding, wounded woman wouldn’t bode well for their self-control. I’d become their prey, plain and simple. The metaphorical hole I’d dug by accepting the witch’s bounty deepened a few feet.

"Calm yourself."

I heard the words in my head as surely as if the white wolf spoke them aloud. He warned me. Like hurrying with an armful of dirty laundry to the washroom, in my flight I’d left behind a scented trail of tempting distress.

A wiry, black-haired male with a spot of white on his left front paw, rocked back and forth. His muzzle parted while he panted in my acrid scent of fear and worry. I pulled my legs tight to my body.

As if flicking a feather in front of a cat, the juvenile wolf couldn’t resist the movement. Claws digging into the soil, the black wolf leapt off the small hillside and raced at me.

My inner wolf came in the ‘fun-sized’ timber wolf variety, but she knew crazy. Scrabbling and scratching to the surface, my beast thrust toward freedom, and I let her. It’s been a long time. Agony surged within my rapidly morphing limbs. I hope you choke on an arrow when you eat me, asshole.

I braced for impact, but the instant before the black wolf hit me, something big and furry knocked him away.

The black wolf bounced off his Alpha and immediately rolled onto his back, legs extended and head turned to expose his belly and throat. The Alpha towered over him, eyes forceful and threatening. The black wolf whimpered in what sounded like muted apology.

The Alpha turned a glistening shoulder to the black wolf and faced me. Seconds ticked away as angry yellow eyes faded into a no-less authoritative amber. Color change was a dead giveaway. The brighter yellow in a wolf’s eyes, the more the beast dominated.

The Alpha’s ability to talk in my head was a one-way communication route. So I shifted back into my human shape to speak. The Alpha also shifted, furiously shaking his white fur to rid it of magic. Morphing on the drop of a dime expended a great deal of power. All werewolves had a limited amount of magic; those in a Pack were invariably stronger since they could borrow from their brothers and sisters.

Who in hell are you, and why are you in my territory? the Alpha gruffed, as if his voice hadn’t completed with the change, the sound a strange cross between human and animal.

Our kind was used to seeing each other in the buff, but thankfully, he used magic, the same as me, to clothe himself. I wore a tunic, the easiest outfit to conjure, while he chose a midnight blue pair of jeans—and nothing else. I appraised his bare feet, my inspection moving upward to a tanned, muscular torso, which led to a strikingly handsome face. He was definitely a winner in the genetic lottery.

Who are you? he repeated, carving the question in half, as if suddenly concerned I might be an idiot.

Myka Quinn. Deploying a personal restraint I’m not known for, I bit back, Who are you?

Why are you in my territory? he asked, proceeding with his agenda.

Be vewwy vewwy quiet...I’m hunting a witch, I said in my best Elmer Fudd.

His face remained expressionless, a trick I’d never mastered, while his wide shoulders flared even wider.

Not my best work, but I didn’t think the impression was that bad. I’m hunting a witch.

His gaze trailed over my messy hair, down to my scratched shins, surely taking in the barbs sticking from my body. Looks like you forgot which way to aim your bow, he said blandly.

As I struggled to my feet, sweat broke out on my upper lip from the effort. It got complicated. I chanced a glance at his wolves. Two more flanked me bringing ‘Visitor’ to one and ‘Home Team’ to eight.

These are Pack lands.

I apologize for crossing into your area without Pack permission, but time constraints didn’t allow for the proper notifications. Technically, I was good to go. I could pass through other wolves’ territory without making my presence known. It was the extended visit that required Pack permission. I wasn’t about to point that out.

Where is your witch now? he asked.

She’s about a mile that way, I inclined my head, dead as the Wicked Witch of the East.

He frowned. Then why are you here? He scanned the tree line, as if concerned he had overlooked scenting others. His eyes tracked back, holding on mine. And since when do witches prefer arrows over magic?

Like I said, things got complicated. I was a late bloomer in the Pack world, but I’d learned the dynamics quickly. I wouldn’t babble foolishly because of a stern look—Alpha or not.