Curran's fingers trailed along my arm, up to my shoulder, and over to my side. Mmm.
"A render went off the reservation," he said.
Renders were specialized warriors. All Pack members were trained to fight as soon as they could walk, but rank-and-file shapeshifters had other jobs: they were bakers, tailors, teachers. Warriors had no other job. In battle, they specialized according to their beast. Bears functioned as tanks--they took a lot of damage before they went down and cleared paths when they charged. Wolves and jackals were jacks of all trades, while cats and boudas were renders. Drop a render in the middle of a fight and thirty seconds later they would be panting in a ring of corpses.
"What sort of render?"
"A female lynx. Name's Leslie Wren."
My memory served up a fit woman with honey-brown hair and a sprinkling of freckles on her nose, followed by a six-foot-tall, muscled shapeshifter in a warrior form. I knew Leslie Wren. A few months ago, when we battled a demonic horde during the flare, she fought beside me. She had killed dozens and enjoyed the hell out of it. But I had seen her again, and recently, too ... "What happened?"
Curran grimaced. "She failed to report in. We cleared her house--all her weapons are gone. Boyfriend is shocked; he thinks she must be in trouble." "What do you think?"
Curran's frown deepened. "Jim's people tracked her scent down to the Honeycomb. They got a hundred feet in and hit wolfsbane."
The Honeycomb was a screwed-up place, full of wild magic and riddled with paths that went nowhere. It changed all the time, like some mutated cancerous growth, and it stank to high heaven. Add wolfsbane to it, which guaranteed an instant severe allergy attack for the weretrackers, and you had a clean getaway.
"No other scent trails with her?"
Curran shook his head. So nobody had held a gun to her head. She went into the Honeycomb on her own and used wolfsbane, because she didn't want to be found. Leslie Wren had gone rogue. Shapeshifters went rogue for any number of reasons. Best-case scenario, she had a problem with someone in the Pack, couldn't resolve it, and decided to cut and run. Worst-case scenario, she went loup. A regular shapeshifter going loup meant a killing spree. A render going loup meant a massacre.
"I have to go hunting tomorrow," Curran said.
Hunting Leslie Wren before anyone got hurt. I finally remembered where I'd seen her last--she let Julie and Maddie come with her to hunt a deer in the woods near the Keep. It made perfect sense for Curran to go. A render would wipe the floor with an average shapeshifter. Curran would be able to take her down with minimal damage. I understood it, but I didn't like it.
"Need help?" I asked.
"No. Is your knee still hurting?"
"No, why?"
"Just wondering if you need any distraction from the pain."
Mmm. "What sort of distraction did you have in mind?"
Curran leaned down, his eyes dark and full of golden sparks. His lips closed on mine. The shock of his tongue against mine was electrifying. I slid my arms around his neck, molding myself against him. My nipples pressed against his chest. The hard muscle of his back bunched under my fingers, and I kissed him, his lips, the corner of his mouth, the sensitive point under his jaw, tasting his sweat and the sharp touch of stubble on my lips. He made a quiet masculine noise, halfway between a deep growling rumble and a purr.
Oh my God.
His hands slid over my back and down, caressing, shifting me closer, until I felt the hard length of his erection press against me. Oh yes. "We should move out of the tub." I nipped his lower lip.
He kissed my neck. "Why?"
"Because I want you to be on top and I don't have gills."
Curran rose, lifting me out of the water, and carried me to the living room.
WE LAY ON THE COUCH, TANGLED IN A BLANKET. "SO what are you going to do about Ascanio?" I asked him.
Curran sighed. "Most young guys have somebody to imitate: their father, their alpha, me. When I was younger, I had my father and then Mahon. Ascanio has nobody. His father is dead, his alpha is female, and he can't relate to me. He obeys me and he acknowledges that I have the right to punish him, but he doesn't feel the need to be like me."
"You mean he doesn't instantly hero-worship you? Perish the thought."
He scowled at me. "I think I'll make mouthing off to the Beast Lord a punishable offense."
"Punishable by what?
"Oh, I'll think of something. Anyway, I decided to give him to Raphael."
Raphael was handsome, he earned a good living, women fell over themselves to line his path, and he was vicious in a fight. I could see how a young male bouda might think that nobody on Earth was cooler.
"I'll ask Raphael to mentor him," Curran said. "As a personal favor. Before he steps in, I'll make that spoiled brat's life pure hell, so when Raphael takes him off our hands, Ascanio will think he walks on water."
That made total sense, except Curran and Raphael weren't on good terms. In fact, Curran had once referred to Raphael as B's precious peacock. "You're going to ask Raphael for a favor?" I stopped and made a big show of staring into Curran's eyes. "Pupils aren't dilated. You aren't high or drunk ..."
"He helped set up your business," Curran said. "And we have some things in common."
"Like what?"
"I know what he's going through. I've been there. Raphael is too much in his own head right now. The boy would be good for him. It will force him to think of something else."
I was pretty sure that nothing short of Andrea would get Raphael out of his head. "That would be great, except he is neck deep in his funk. Aunt B probably asked him already and he must've said no."
"I'm not Aunt B," Curran said. "I noticed."
He stroked my shoulder. "Your tattoo faded. I can barely see it."
I turned my head, trying to get a look at the raven. The black lines of the design had faded to pale gray; the sword, and the words , Raven's Gift, were almost gone.
"Doolittle says it's because of all the medmagic he's been subjecting me to over the last weeks. A lot of my scars faded, too. It's probably for the best. It was a cheesy tattoo anyway. Every time someone saw it, they'd ask what it said and why did I have Cyrillic letters on my shoulder ..." I clamped my mouth shut.
"What?"
The Cyrillic alphabet was created by two Greek monks around AD 900. Before the Cyrillic alphabet, the Slavs used Glagolitic script, which took root in strokes-and-incisions writing--Slavic runes.
The inventor's last name was Kamen. Kamen meant "stone" in Russian. Usually Russian names ended on "-ov" or "-ev," but it was possible his family had changed their last name to make it easier for an English speaker.