Guarding Kendra (Wintermoon Shorts #6)

Prologue-KOJO （ALEMAYEHU）

THREE YEARS AGO — THE ETHIOPIAN HIGHLANDS

The antelope does not see me, and that is exactly how I want it.

The stupid creature grazes forty meters downwind, its flanks twitching against the flies that swarm in the late afternoon heat.

It has no idea that death is crouching in the yellowed grass.

I keep my Sentinel Ridge flat against my spine, every spike dormant and cool, my breathing shallow enough that even the insects do not scatter.

Patience, my Bouda whispers. The Queen is watching from the ridge. Do not embarrass us with a sloppy kill.

I know she is watching. I can smell her from here, that scent of aged myrrh and iron drifting down from her observation post. The Matriarch of the last Bouda clan in Africa, one of the few shifter species who survived the Great War that scattered our kind across the continent.

She endured the thousand-year curse that froze all supernaturals in purgatory alone while we scattered, waiting for mates that would not come.

When the curse finally lifted, she gathered the remnants of our bloodline and rebuilt what the humans had tried to destroy.

I hunt for her. I kill for her. Everything I do is a prayer she never asked me to speak.

You are getting sentimental, my Bouda observes. Focus on the antelope. You can worship the Queen after we eat.

Most shifters describe their animals as instinct.

A pull in the gut. A feeling that rises when danger approaches or a mate draws near.

But for my kind, the Bouda is not a feeling.

My Bouda is a voice. He sits beside my consciousness and speaks as clearly as any living creature, offering opinions I never asked for and commentary I cannot escape.

He mocks my failures and celebrates my victories with sarcasm.

Warnings come whether I want them or not, and when I ignore them and suffer the consequences, the laughter that follows is never kind.

Most days, sharing my head with him feels like being followed by an elder who will not let a single thing go uncritiqued.

The antelope is distracted, my Bouda observes. It keeps glancing toward the watering hole instead of watching for predators. Stupid creature. This is why prey animals die young.

I shift my weight forward, muscles coiling for the strike. The sun beats against my bare shoulders, but I barely feel it. Now, my Bouda urges. Strike now, while it is looking the wrong direction. I answer with two words. Take us. And I surrender the reins.

The change rips through me like wildfire.

My bones crack and reform, my back curving, my limbs shortening and thickening with muscle that was not there a heartbeat ago.

The grass parts around us as my Bouda closes the distance in three bounding strides.

His jaw unhinges, the transformation completing in that split second between man and beast, and then his teeth find the antelope’s throat before the creature can even scream.

The crunch of cartilage fills our shared ears. Hot blood floods across my Bouda’s tongue, and I taste it too, that copper richness that means survival. The animal goes limp in his grip, legs kicking once, twice, then stilling.

Clean, my Bouda approves. The Queen will be pleased. Perhaps she will finally stop making eyes at Tafari. He releases the carcass and steps back, lowering his muzzle in a gesture that is both courtesy and invitation. Your turn, brother. I have done the killing. You can do the carrying.

I reach for control, and my Bouda yields without resistance.

The shift back is slower. Fur recedes into skin.

Claws retract into fingernails. My spine straightens, vertebrae popping as they realign into their human configuration.

The Sentinel Ridge settles against my back, the spikes softening from bone to thick, coarse hair that can pass for human.

The taste of blood lingers on my tongue even after my jaw reforms. I flex my fingers, feeling the ghost of claws that are no longer there, and crouch beside the kill.

You always take too long to shift back, my Bouda observes. One day, an enemy will catch you in the middle and gut you like a fish.

I would like to see them try. My bouda snorts.

Arrogance. I taught you better than that. Tafari is a fool. He has bigger muscles, but he tried to eat a rock last week because he thought it was a turtle egg.

The Queen has ruled our clan for centuries. She knows the difference between a warrior and a brute.

My Bouda snickers. One would hope. But politics make fools of everyone. Even queens.

I drag the carcass back toward the village, ignoring the commentary.

The children spot me first, their eyes perking up from behind the clay walls of the compound.

They start chittering and laughing, that high cackling sound that would send any human running, and within moments the women emerge from the cooking huts to inspect the kill.

“Alemayehu brings meat!” one of the cubs shrieks.

I drop the antelope at the butchering stone and step back, lowering my gaze as the Matriarch descends from the ridge.

She is old, but she moves without sound.

Her Sentinel Ridge stands fully extended.

The other males drop to one knee as she passes, and I follow, my forehead nearly touching the red earth.

“You hunt well, sister-son.” Her voice is low and rough. “The clan will eat tonight because of you.”

“I serve the Queen,” I respond, and the words are both ritual and truth. Suck up, my Bouda mutters, but there is warmth beneath the mockery.

She touches the crown of my head. The other hunters rise after she passes, but I stay kneeling a moment longer. She is considering me for First Guard, the highest honor a male can achieve in a Matriarchal clan.

You have earned it, my Bouda says, and the mockery drops from his voice. You are the strongest male. The fastest. The cleverest. Tafari may have size, but size means nothing against enemies who hunt our people now.

The Queen’s personal shield. Her shadow in battle and her voice in council. I would stand at her right hand until death claimed one of us. But that honor does not mean the one thing I want most.

Your fated mate, my Bouda says quietly. You still wait for her.

Mother Fate has not delivered her to me.

I have watched other males in the clan find their mates over the past years, watched them transform from restless hunters into devoted guardians, and I have waited.

I am a virgin because no other female will ever quiet the hollow behind my ribs, carry my cubs, warm my bed, complete the bond that Fate has promised but not yet delivered.

She will come, my Bouda says. Or we will find her. Fate does not make promises she cannot keep. I want to believe that. Some days, I do.

Your sister approaches, my Bouda warns, cutting through my thoughts. She smells like she wants to lecture you about something. Brace yourself.

The Matriarch nods her approval and turns away, lifting her hand.

An unspoken command to supply me with coverings.

One of my clan brothers tosses me a pair, and I rise to catch them as they hit my chest, sliding into them before my feet fully settle on the ground.

A familiar scent reaches me before I can take another breath.

Petrichor and wild grass. I turn to find Zaki approaching, her silver-ringed eyes narrowed with that permanent irritation she wears on her face.

Her Ridge is longer than mine, the spikes sharper and more symmetrical, marking the royal bloodline that runs through her veins.

“You show off too much.” She stops beside me, arms crossed over her chest. “The young males are starting to resent you.”

“Let them.” I roll my shoulders. “If they want the Queen’s favor, they can earn it.”

“You sound like Father.” Zaki snorts at my response, but the name hits a nerve. Our father died during the Great War, and I still remember the sound of Zaki’s cackle that night. I killed the stragglers. The ones who thought they could hide in the dark.

Good times, my Bouda sighs, almost nostalgic. Your sister’s cackle is truly impressive. If you ever make her angry enough to use it on you, do not try to reason with her. Just run.

“I will take that as a compliment,” I say finally, and Zaki’s face softens for just a moment.

She reaches out and grips my forearm, her claws extending just enough to dimple my skin.

I return the pressure, and for a moment we stand together in the fading light, two hunters who have already lost too much.

“The Matriarch is considering you for First Guard.” Zaki lowers her voice. “She told me this morning.”

“I thought she would choose Tafari.” The words come out rough with surprise.

“Tafari is strong, but he is not clever.” Zaki releases my arm and steps back. “You think three moves ahead. The Queen needs a strategist, not a brute.”

I like your sister, my Bouda announces. She has a good head on her shoulders. Unlike some males I could name.

Before I can respond to either voice, the evening horn sounds from the watchtower. Three short blasts, the signal for gathering. The children scatter toward their mothers, and the elders begin the slow procession toward the central fire pit where the Matriarch holds court each night.

Zaki and I fall into step together, our shoulders nearly brushing as we walk.

The sun bleeds red across the horizon, painting the clay walls of our village in shades of rust and gold.

I breathe deep, filling my lungs with the scent of cooking fires and family and the frankincense that burns perpetually at the Matriarch’s altar.

Remember this, my Bouda whispers, and the voice sounds different. Remember exactly how this smells.

What does that mean? He pulls back. Nothing. I am being paranoid. Ignore me.

I try to shake off the unease, but it stays with me as I follow my sister toward the fire.