Feral (Altered Shifters Universe Book 4)

Prologue

The yowling of disturbed wildcats mingling with the baying and yelping of wolves and coyotes creates such a disjointed cacophony that it startles me from a dead sleep. I fumble for my phone on the nightstand, blearily making out the numbers glowing back at me on the darkened screen.

What in the blazes is set on waking us all up at three in the morning?I slump back onto the mattress for a moment, the springs squeaking in a soothing, familiar cadence. Whatever is going on out there is still happening, as the animals are still raising heck, and I know I can’t just lie here and ignore it. Gosh darn it, it’s times like this I wish I wasn’t all on my lonesome.

I struggle to sit up on the bed, and then scoot my way to the edge. My slippers are on the floor where I left them, and despite my ungainly bulk, I manage to slip them on fairly easily. Standing, the old flannel shirt I’m using as a nightdress falls almost to my knees, and I shuffle over to the bedroom door. First stop, the bathroom. I need to pee something urgent.

I grumpily stomp into the bathroom and do my business, the relief at having an empty bladder so satisfying, it’s almost orgasmic. Hey, don’t judge me, I’m not only going through quite the dry spell, but I’m also well into my third trimester, and this baby seems to think that my bladder is a pillow, a soccer ball, and a trampoline in one. If it’s not pressing directly on it, it’s rolling around on top of it or kicking it to kingdom come.

As I quickly wash my hands, I grimace at the face reflected back at me from the mirror. My skin is pale and blotchy from crying myself to sleep yet again, my hair wishes it was as neat as a rat’s nest, and I could be forgiven for being confused with a raccoon with the dark bags and rings that seem to be permanently etched under and around my eyes.

I grab a hair tie from the medicine cabinet and struggle to pull the knotted mess of red curls back out of my face. I’ll need to use a ton of detangling serum later or drown it in conditioner before I can hope to work through all the tangles and snarls. But that’s for later. Right now, I need to see what’s causing such a ruckus outside.

I head back down the hallway, stopping at the linen cupboard just before the kitchen. Opening the door, I reach up to the shelf second-from-the-top, and fumble until my hand encloses the cool metal cylinder of the mag-lite I keep stashed there. I point it to the floor and click the button, smiling grimly as the powerful beam spears down to illuminate every scuff and scratch on the hardwood floor. I switch it off again and head to the mudroom next to the kitchen, pulling my jacket over my flannel shirt, and kicking off my slippers in favor of my rain boots.

The last thing I reach for before heading out the back door is the old twelve-gauge Mossberg 500 of Paw Paw’s he gave me when I moved out here. I pull it down from the rack and pop it open, making sure both chambers are clear before sliding two shells in. I pocket a handful of others, just in case. Normally, I’d take the .22 Henry Repeater, because I’m a pretty darn-good shot, but with the poor light and weather conditions, I feel more secure with the shotgun.

Whatever has woken me up by setting off the residents better be important, otherwise I might just pump a load of lead into its heiny. Heck, I might just do it anyway, because I’m an overtired, over-hormonal, over-it-all mess right now.

I flick on the back floodlights and walk out onto the deck, deftly snapping the shotgun closed. The animals are still going nuts inside their pens, but it doesn’t sound like there’s anything in there with them. There aren’t any yelps or screams of pain, and the illumination from the floodlights shows that their pens don’t appear damaged or disturbed. No, from the sounds of things, they’re all riled up because of something out here, with me. That’s not a discomforting thought at all. Yeah, that’s sarcasm.

I scan the area that’s lit up but can’t see any movement. I don’t like being out here by myself. I also know I’m not alone. I can feel something out here with me, watching me. Whether or not it’s afraid or injured I don’t know, I just hope it ain’t rabid. I don’t need a round of rabies shots this late in my pregnancy, no sirree.

I tighten my grip on the Mossberg and gather my courage, then slowly make my way down from the deck and head toward the closest animal pens. These ones house the smaller of the wildcats, ones that can never be released back into the wild. I’ve got a pair of ocelots who were rescued from a crazy cat lady who’d had them since they were kittens, a three-legged bobcat, and a cougar who imprinted on a cougar shifter. Yeah, that last one is a story in and of itself. I blame Paw Paw for the whole thing. No, it’s literally his fault. He’s the cougar shifter.

I pass each pen, doing my best to soothe the irritated cats, checking to make doubly sure they’re all still safely and securely locked up. They are. Just as I reach the empty pen on the other side of Deedee, the cougar, everything goes silent. No cicadas, no cats yowling, no coyotes or wolves yelping or howling… just silence.

The hairs on my arms and the back of my neck stand up straight. I close my eyes and swallow hard at the almost imperceptible sound of a large paw landing on hard-packed earth. I strain my ears and listen harder, and pick up a heavy, labored breath. I swallow again and open my eyes, pulling the Mossberg to my shoulder as I quickly spin around and face what’s likely to be my own stupid death. I can’t see anything past the edge of the floodlights, and I don’t want to move any closer. I’m still holding the mag-lite with my left hand, the flashlight sitting to one side of the barrel of the gun. I fumble slightly, not taking my eyes from the darkness, before finding and pressing the button on the flashlight.

What it illuminates almost has me peeing myself. How the ever-loving heck did one of them get loose? I haven’t heard anything on the news, and I’m pretty darned sure that they’d be broadcasting non-stop if a fully grown African lion was on the warpath. And he’s been on one; you can be sure of that. His hide is dark and matted with blood, his mane is tangled worse than my hair with large clumps clotted together, and I can smell the infection oozing out of his open wounds from where I’m standing a dozen feet away.

“Hey, there, big guy. You ain’t lookin’ so good. How’s about we make a deal, hmmm? You don’t try to kill and eat me or any of my friends here at this sanctuary and don’t start no fights, and I’ll get you cleaned up as best as I can. I’ll stitch you back together, and then give you a nice side of venison to gnaw on once you’re feeling up to eating. How’s that sound?”

The lion stares at me then lifts his massive head and inhales, deep. I don’t know what he’s smelling, but whatever it is seems to get him moving again. He walks toward me, his tread heavy and uneven, and I brace myself to shoot this magnificent, yet gravely injured beast. But before I can, he stumbles to a stop, panting and wheezing. His head droops to the ground, and he staggers toward me again, his entire posture defeated and submissive. I lower my shotgun as he walks directly up to me, only stopping once his enormous head is inches away from my swollen belly. He lifts his head, sniffs again, and then to my everlasting astonishment, nuzzles my belly. My eyes feel as though they’re about to pop out of my skull when the baby moves, kicking out toward the lion’s cheek. He nuzzles where the baby is kicking once more and then lets out an exhausted breath before collapsing at my feet.

Well, heck. This changes everything.