Hour of the Lion

Cherise Sinclair Hour of the Lion

The Wild Hunt Legacy series, 1

Warning

This book contains sexually explicit scenes and adult language and may be considered offensive to some readers. This book is for sale to adults only, as defined by the laws of the country in which you made your purchase.

Chapter One

That was a really bad dream, Vic thought, though it had started well enough. Looking up at her father, trying not to fidget, she’d recited the marketplace gossip, and she’d remembered every detail too. He’d actually smiled and said he couldn’t do without her. But somehow twenty years had passed, her boss stood over her hospital bed and was saying a disabled soldier wasn’t any good to him. He’d walked away, leaving her there. Alone.

Even now, wide awake, she felt the aching loss in her chest.

Only…the ache was real. Her ribs really did hurt. This was more than a nightmare residue. Her sniper-damaged knee ached like a pulled tooth, and her skull throbbed like hell. Couldn’t be a hangover. She hadn’t tied one on since Wells recruited her into his estrogen-heavy, covert ops unit.

When she opened her eyes, light blasted through them like a frag grenade, and she barely managed to muffle the moan. Just the thought of turning her head had bile flooding her mouth. Then don’t move, Sergeant. Just assess. She was curled up with her cheek resting on cold cement. An ugly feeling crept up her spine when she realized her hands were tied in front of her. Narrowing her eyes to slits, she took stock of the room. Exposed beams, cinder-block walls, and tiny rectangular windows near the ceiling. The stench of feces and sickness mingled with a musty smell like mildewing socks. Basement.

A gray-haired woman lay nearby, her back to Vic. Familiar-looking. That was it. Her memory engaged.

Rescuing a woman who was trying to escape from a man. Check.

Didn’t win. Check.

Now, tied up in a basement. Check.

Probably concussed, too, considering the speed of her thinking. Her day had definitely gone to hell. I might as well be working. Why the hell had she risked her life when a phone call to the police would have worked?

The answer to that really sucked. She’d acted all macho-and stupid-to prove she still had it. That she wasn’t irreparably damaged. But she was. In the hospital, Mr. Show-no-emotions Spymaster had looked at her with pity; he didn’t think she’d heal enough to return to duty. So she’d jumped right into the first fight she could find. Act any dumber and I might as well be a guy.

Well, with luck, her inept rescue could be salvaged. The idiots hadn’t tied her legs.

Hearing footsteps, Vic froze, watching through dark eyelashes as the guy she’d fought appeared. Shaved head, built like a linebacker, all muscle. Ripped off sleeves showed tattoos: eagle, globe, and anchor; bulldog; skull and crossed rifles.

“Hey, BeastieBoy.” The man walked to a metal kennel near the stairs. A naked teenager with shaggy blond hair huddled in the far corner of the cage. Shivering. Scared half to death. Eyes sunken, he was skinny, as if he hadn’t eaten in weeks. Bruises and abrasions-even burns-marred his fair skin.

Vic’s breath hitched. Tortured?

Baldy slapped the top of the cage with his fist, making the kid jump. “You ready for another session, pussy cat? Just tell me how to make new beasts, and I won’t hurt you anymore.”

“I won’t tell you anything.” The boy’s voice cracked on the last word.

Brave kid. Vic cheered silently even as her stomach tightened in fear for him. And what did the asshole mean by making new beasts?

“Dumb fuck.” Baldy raised a long rod-a cattle prod. The kid was as far back as he could get, but it wasn’t far enough. He jerked at the shock of the prod, and the bastard didn’t stop, kept jamming with the prod until the boy screamed.

Teeth grinding together, Vic yanked at her ropes.

And then the kid…blurred.

A huge tawny cougar stood where the boy had been. A chilling snarl ripped through the room, echoing off the concrete walls. The hair on Vic’s arms rose.

What the hell? Kid one moment, the next, a…a mountain lion. She sucked in a hard breath, tried blinking her eyes. The big cat still paced the cage. Am I drugged? Like when Private Renner had a bad reaction to morphine and spent hours screaming about ghouls eating his heart. Or maybe she had a concussion. Yeah, this wasn’t happening. She didn’t believe in ghosts, ghouls, or people changing into mountain lions. Woo-woo stuff was for flakes and druggies.

“Cut the crap, Swane.” A man said from the stairs. White, average height, heavy build. Older, in his sixties. Wearing a suit. Scarred knuckles matched his battered face, nose busted in the past, thin lips and dead-cold eyes. Might be in nice clothes, but the body inside said thug. “He can’t talk in cat form.”

“Not my fucking fault. I only tapped it,” Swane said. When the cat swiped at the cattle-prod with three-inch claws, he used the prod until the cat shrieked in pain. “It’s not gonna talk anyway.” Swane tossed the device onto a table. “Fucking thing would rather starve. Look at it-it’s dying.”

“Dammit.” The suit crossed the room to the cage where the cat paced back and forth. “It’s amazing he’s still alive. He should have died the first week with what you did to him. The creatures are fucking strong.”

“An’ you really want to turn into that?” Swane spit on the floor.

Vic stared. The suit wanted to become an animal? Was he insane?

His face turned ugly. Brutal enough that Swane took a step back. “I’m not paying you to think. Just to get answers.” He glanced over his shoulder. “What happened with the old bitch?”

Swane walked over and, with his foot, he shoved the woman onto her back. Hands and feet tied, she blinked blankly as froth trickled from her toothless mouth. “Another goner.” Swane nudged her with his boot.

“Get rid of her.”

“Will do.” Swane’s mouth pulled into a twisted smile as he set his boot on the woman’s throat.

Before Vic could move, she heard the crunch of breaking cartilage, and then it was too late. Sucking air through her teeth, she tried to stay motionless against the fury rising inside.

Expressionless, Swane watched the old woman’s strangling efforts to breathe, her death spasms. When her body finally stilled, pleasure shone in his eyes, and his filthy jeans showed his erection.

Sick bastard. Vic clenched her jaw. She should have done something, created a diversion. I didn’t save a helpless woman. Her war-torn past stretched out behind her, littered with bodies-testaments to the times she hadn’t moved fast enough, discovered enough information, or pushed herself hard enough. The ones she’d failed.

“You were clever to test this first, boss.” Swane glanced at the body. “You could have ended up like her.”

“Why are they dying, dammit? Why the fuck don’t they change?” The suit hit the table with his fist, then stared