Savage Transformation Read online

  And you want him to be, don’t you?

  Her blood roaring in her ears, Jackie closed her eyes. God, yes. She did. More than anything. Chemistry? Primitive animal lust? Physical need? She didn’t know the reason why, she just did. She wanted Marshall Rourke. Completely.

  Opening her eyes, she turned her stare from the black landscape outside the Audi to give the Texan a steady look. “I want—”

  “I can’t.”

  The interruption came from his lips in a flat growl. He stared back at her, silver eyes reflecting the glow from the dashboard, expression unreadable, jaw square.

  Icy rejection curled around Jackie’s heart. She clamped her hands into fists, driving her nails into her palms. “How do you know what I’m going to say?”

  “Because I can smell your heat.”

  His answer stabbed into her. The ancient animal prowling in her being snarled, anger and hunger making it agitated. Edgy. Suppressing a snarl of her own, she ignored the pain slicing into her chest. It was good he’d refuted her. She needed to get her act together. Rourke’s rejection was just the slap in the face she needed. She was a cop, for Pete’s sake. She needed to behave like one. Her friend’s life was at risk. That was all that mattered.

  Straightening her shoulders, she gave him a hard glare. “Who has Del?”

  Rourke didn’t answer.

  Jackie grit her teeth harder. “I’ve had enough of the games. Who has my friend?”

  Rourke’s knuckles whitened on the steering wheel. He studied the road, every muscle in his body growing tense. Jackie could taste the irritated energy rolling from him in tangible waves.

  “Either tell me, let me out now or face the consequences.”

  “What consequences?”

  “Tasmanian tigers were known for their powerful jaws, Rourke. Do you really want to know what it’s like to feel your throat ripped open?”

  He didn’t say a word—for a short, tense second.

  “Who. Has. My. Best. Friend?”

  He let out a sharp breath that sounded more like a snarl. “A man called Daeved Einar. He is an ex-P.A.C. agent.”

  “Pac? What the hell’s that?”

  Rourke’s jaw bunched and his hands gripped the steering wheel harder. “Paranormal Anti-Crime Unit. A top-secret US federal government division that polices the actions of non-human beings.”

  A sharp and wholly surprised laugh burst from Jackie. She raised her eyebrows, her stomach twisting even as she shook her head. “Paranormal Anti-Crime? Top secret? US government? Fair dinkum, I think you’ve been watching too many movies.”

  Rourke flicked her a dark look. “You live in this world, detective. You know what’s in it, what other creatures share this planet. Who do you think protects the humans from their natural predators? The cops? The human cops?”

  “PAC-Men?” Jackie laughed again, the sound scornful and disbelieving. “You’re telling me the human race is protected from the evils of paranormal nasties by an agency named after a nineteen-eighty’s arcade game?”

  A low growl rumbled up Rourke’s chest and his nostrils flared. “In 1995, P.A.C. prevented the mass slaughter of over five hundred humans when a higher order gargoyle lost a bet to a djinn. In 1969, P.A.C. ended the bloody reign of a wendigo who had been feasting on young humans in Northern California. In 2004, P.A.C. shut down a human child-trafficking organisation run by a master vampire in Germany. One hundred and eighty children from powerful political families across the world were lost before we killed the blood-sucking bastard. Stolen from their parents and drained of their blood so undead creatures with too much money could get their rocks off on the innocent blood of supposedly untouchable children.” He gave her another quick look, this one dark. Tormented. “P.A.C. exists because it needs to. I only wish it didn’t.”

  Jackie studied him, a lump growing thick in her throat. “We killed the blood-sucking bastard? You’re an agent.”

  Another brief, tense silence followed. “Yes.”

  A cold numbness settled in Jackie’s stomach. She licked her lips, her tongue dry. “And this Daeved Einar is your ex-partner.”

  Rourke’s head snapped around, his shimmering stare locked on her face. “How do you know that?”

  Jackie gave him a level look. “Your pulse rate went up when you said Einar’s name, almost doubled when you called him an ex-P.A.C. agent. It doesn’t take a cop to draw the connection. You’re emotionally invested in this hunt. Maybe as much as I am.”

  Rourke shook his head, an expression of awed unease flitting across his face. “Damn, you’re good.”

  Something like triumph sheared into Jackie’s cold agitation. She narrowed her eyes, keeping her fingers balled into tight fists. “You told me before Del was being used as bait. What does Einar want with me? As far as paranormal creatures go, I’m pretty sedate.”

  Rourke twisted his hands on the steering wheel, turning his attention back to the road. “I don’t want to tell you that.”

  “I don’t want to break your nose with my fist, but I will if you don’t answer me.”

  The Texan bit back a low mutter, shaking his head. “Okay, darlin’. Daeved Einar was P.A.C.’s poster boy for many, many years. An agent of the highest rank, with more accolades and commendations than could be pinned to his chest. When he was assigned a job, it was done. Quickly. The trouble with P.A.C. agents, we tend to be a little emotionally unstable. Imagine a homicide detective’s mind after years of hunting killers. Sick killers. Now, imagine that mind when the killers really are monsters. Imagine decades, and in Einar’s case, almost four of ’em hunting said monsters, getting in their head and existing there. Imagine what that does to a psyche.”

  Jackie suppressed a shiver. She knew all too well the mind of creatures not of the human world. She was one. When she was lost to her thylacine existence, she existed purely on instinct. Hunt. Feed. Mate. Kill. She had little doubt the instinct of a creature born in hell—or whatever place the real monsters of the world came from—would make her dark place seem like a kid’s playground. But that still didn’t answer her question. Why was Einar after her?

  “Two years ago, Einar was retired from the P.A.C.,” Rourke went on, as if he sensed Jackie was going to ask the question he’d been skirting from the very moment he’d popped up in her life. “Since that retirement, he’s taken up a new hobby.” Silver-glowing eyes turned to her for a split second before Rourke returned his stare to the night outside the car. “I need to stop him.”

  The numb tension in Jackie’s stomach intensified. She didn’t like the way Rourke said the word hobby. Even less than she liked the way he said retired. “Why was he retired? What kind of hobby?”

  Again, Rourke held his answer for a long moment. Again, he bit back a low mutter that sounded a lot like “fuck”. He lifted one hand from the steering wheel and dragged it through his hair, turning it into a choppy mess. “He was retired due to excessive force on the job. He tortured an innocent succubus to death. It wasn’t the first time he’d done such a thing.”

  “And his hobby?” Jackie prompted, her gut churning. She didn’t like where this was going, but she couldn’t stop it now. She wouldn’t stop it. The bastard had her best friend. “What does Einar like to do with all his new free time?”

  A ragged sigh tore from Rourke, and he shook his head. “Jesus, darlin’, you have no idea how much I don’t want to tell you this.”

  Jackie swallowed, anger turning the lump in her throat into a hot ball. “Too bad.”

  Knuckles bleaching whiter still, Rourke stared fixedly at the road. “His new hobby is hunting paranormal creatures. Hunting them and killing them. For the challenge. For the sport.”

  Jackie lifted one eyebrow. “Don’t you need a license for that?”

  Her flippant comment made Rourke frown. “Do you understand what I’m saying? You’re his next target. He’s hunting you.”

  Jackie turned to her window, watching the blur of gum trees go by. “I’m a shape-shifting Tasmanian
tiger, Pacman. I’ve been hunted my entire life. My kind have been hunted into extinction. One lone hunter with a screw loose isn’t going to send me screaming into the hills.”

  “It should,” Rourke shot back, his broad Texan accent thick with what Jackie could only assume was anger. “You don’t know what Einar is capable of.”

  “Abducting an innocent woman is the first thing that comes to mind,” she said, giving Rourke a level look. “Skinning her and gutting her the second.”

  “You remember what I said?”

  “I don’t forget anything, Pacman. Comes with the thylacine genes.”

  He shifted in his seat, an uncomfortable grimace pulling at his lips. “I may have exaggerated a little when I said that.”

  A cold itch began in Jackie’s stomach. She twisted about until she faced Rourke completely, fixing him with an unwavering, unblinking stare. “Why?”

  “Because I needed—”

  He stopped, his lips turning white as he compressed them into a tight line, his gaze locked firmly on the road. Jackie balled her fists before her fingers could wiggle. For some reason, he’d come close to letting something slip. Something he didn’t want her to know. But what? And why?

  Because he can smell your heat?

  Shutting down the insidiously enticing thought, she narrowed her eyes, studying Rourke’s brooding profile. “Why are you helping me get Delanie back instead of tracking down your ex-partner? Why are you here with me?”

  He ignored her, tilting his head to the left a little, his eyes narrowing. “I can’t detect Delanie’s scent anymore.”

  Rourke’s abrupt, disconnected announcement made Jackie blink. “Excuse me?”

  Without a word, the Texan yanked the steering wheel to the left and slammed his foot on the brake. The Audi screeched to the side of the road, stones and dirt and gravel peppering its underbody like bullets. He released his seatbelt and threw open his door, climbing from the cabin to stand beside the car in the space of a heartbeat.

  “What the bloody hell are you doing?” Jackie flung open her own door and shot to her feet, glaring at him over the Audi’s low roof.

  He lifted his head, silent, his hand raised in a shhh gesture.

  A low growl echoed through Jackie’s head and she drove her nails into her palms. Irritation shot through her, a living spark of energy so close to the surface she could almost taste the ozone on her tongue. Damn the man. She was getting sick of this. It had to stop.

  “I no longer have Delanie’s scent.” Rourke swung his head toward her, silvery-tinted eyes reflecting the thin moon. “Can you smell it?”

  His statement sent a cold shard into Jackie’s chest. She lifted her head, putting her nose into the slight breeze and pulling in a long breath.

  Wild, native jasmine rushed over her olfactory nerve, threaded through with melaleuca, acacia and eucalypt oil. Rich, night-dampened soil and wallaby dung followed, an animalistic undertone that went straight to Jackie’s thylacine. The creature surged through her, the sweet taste of Tasmania, the birthplace of its magick, giving it strength. Making her skin prickle and her muscles burn.

  With a low groan, Jackie shoved the transformation down. Not yet. Not unless she really needed to.

  For fuck’s sake! And when’s that? When Del’s dead? Wouldn’t that be a touch too late?

  “Can you detect her?” Rourke’s voice danced around the edges of her awareness, worry and impatience cutting the words. She tuned him to a lesser frequency, narrowing her senses on the taste and sounds of the night.

  The road they traveled, the road Rourke had taken them on, lead away from St. Helens, following the Bay of Fires southeast toward the coastline. A briny hint of sea spray flittered over the earthy bushland scents, salty in Jackie’s nose. It tickled a memory, like a lone strand of hair brushing against the back of her bare arm. She frowned, ignoring it. It wasn’t important.

  “Jackie?”

  She closed her eyes, loosened her hold on her animal. She needed the heightened senses of the ancient creature. She needed its primordial force entwined with the land around her. Parting her lips, she pulled another breath into her body—past tongue and olfactory bulb at the same time. An oily taste smeared the surface of the sweet air. Petrol. Rubber. A car had driven the same road she and Rourke now stood beside. Three hours ago? Maybe less.

  She lifted her head, relaxing her hold on the thylacine within further still.

  A ghost teased her. Fragile flowers brushed with terror. A minute particle of aroma almost lost in the loud cacophony of odors and tastes. Teasing her. Taunting her. Just beyond detection.

  Beyond detection of your human senses, don’t you mean?

  Jackie opened her eyes, a cold finger of dread drawing hideous patterns in her belly. She couldn’t change. Not with Rourke so close. Not with the heat in her blood and sex and core. She didn’t want to be lost to her animal again. She wanted to be her. Detective Jackie Huddart—human, not an animal more connected to the land than possible.

  And every second you hesitate is a second Del is still in danger.

  She fixed her gaze on the dark road stretching before her, her heart thumping so hard she could barely form rational thought. A car had driven along the road’s bitumen length but three hours ago. An old car, its engine highly tuned but with a failing catalytic converter. A car with its windows down? Letting the wind suck into its cabin? Whipping through the long, red head of one of its passengers? A car that may have carried her best friend in its belly?

  “Detective Huddart?”

  The deep male voice singed Jackie’s nerves—a distant heat she had to deny. She needed to find Delanie. She needed to—shift, shift, hunt, hunt, track, mate—transform.

  Scalding fire poured through her body, turned her blood to mercury and her muscles to liquid. A million pinpricks of heat rained over her flesh. She threw back her head, mouth wide, letting the power of the ancient land stream past her lips, over her tongue and teeth, into her body. Letting it fill her, incinerate her from within, release her even as she released her control over the animal she was and surrendered to its existence.

  A soft tearing sound, delicate fabric rent asunder, whispered to Jackie as her clothes were destroyed, but she barely noticed. Didn’t care. Clothes? Why would she need clothes?

  Affinity flooded through her. Timeless connection to the timeless land around her. She threw back her head and howled, the last of the transformation taking her—bones tearing apart and reknitting, muscles reforming, skin stretching, agony beyond comprehension.

  And then the cool gravel pressed against the pads of her paws, the night wind rippled through her fur and Tasmania flooded into her being. Her homeland. Her territory. She lifted her muzzle, tasting the air and the floral/fear texture of Delanie McKenzie’s scent flooded into her being.

  As did the virile scent of a male wolf.

  The craving, urgent heat in the pit of her belly erupted into demanding want. She swung her head, her ears catching every little sound, the vibrations of the earth running up her legs, along her spine, down her tail. A wolf stood behind her, his true form hidden by the awkwardness of human form. She bared her teeth, letting him see her tongue before turning back to the road.

  She had to do something. Something her human deemed important. Something the creature within her desperately longed for. She had to…find Delanie.

  Track.

  The night flowed over her as she ran, caressing her coat with cool fingers. It felt wonderful. Intoxicating. Thylacines were not by nature fast runners, but then she was not a typical thylacine. As a Tasmanian tiger, she ran to hunt. As a human, she ran for fitness. When she did, she ran fast. Very fast. The fluid strength of her muscles powered her forward with unerring agility and she brought that human characteristic to her animal form. And it felt good.

  The heat in her core grew thicker. She drew the sweet air into her body, its taste like ambrosia in her nose. Colours and sounds thrummed about her. Earth, soil, animals, birds,
trees, moss, stones, insects—the scents of them all flooded through her. Fed her. Nourished her.

  Lifting her muzzle, she drank in the scents, hunting for one. Human. Female. Flowers and fear.

  An image of a tall human female flittered through her head, her hair long and red like the dying sun.

  Yes. That’s her. Find her.

  She burst forward, tail wagging, the frisky fire burning in her sex telling her to play, to return to the wolf behind her and mate even as her human told her to track.

  Find her. Please, stay focused. Find Delanie.

  Another image of the human female flashed through Jackie’s head, the woman’s distinct scent singeing over her nerves. Her human’s fear was growing. She was scared. Very scared.

  And very angry.

  The emotion tasted hot in Jackie’s nose and a growl rumbled in her chest. She increased her speed, Delanie’s scent consuming her. Her paws pounded the road, the hard surface biting into her pads. It had been too long since she’d run this way. Too long since she’d been released to do so. When she found the female, she would run some more. Run and play with the wolf. Bite his ear, his tail, his neck. Roll with him. Lick his balls. Let him mount her and—

  Focus!

  Jackie flicked her ear at her human’s roar. She surged forward, fear/flowers in her nose. The wind blew into her face, tickled her whiskers, sang ancient songs of ancient beings. The spirits of the land whispered timeless words of the dreaming. The magick of the country called her. Welcomed her home. Beautiful, compelling songs in perfect harmony with the wolf now running behind her, free of his human form. His strong heartbeat reached her ears, echoing hers, his pounding lope kissing the ground, sending messages of his strength, his power through the earth, up into her body through her legs. He was behind her, but she could still taste his musk, his hunger and the wanting fire in her belly—

  Focus!

  Fear laced the silent command. Her human was worried.