Brightwater Blood Read online

  Dedication

  For anyone who’s ever been touched by the devastation of a bush fire—they are truly frightening.

  Chapter One

  Around Lachlan the bush was silent. Too silent. How far had he walked without hearing a single animal sound? There’d definitely been bird life when he’d stripped by his car and shifted from human to lion, but that was five kilometers ago.

  He paused with one golden paw above the dry grass. His whiskers twitched, but not even a fly disturbed him. Something was off. He stood frozen as only a wild animal can and willed his body to be silent. Between heartbeats he heard nothing. Absolutely nothing.

  Lachlan lifted his head and sniffed, his nostrils flaring as the scent of deep earth magic crawled over his body. His skin gave a quiver and the fur along his spine stood on end. Even though his body was a lion he still thought like a man, but all his senses were telling him to run. He was used to birds shutting up as he slunk past. While he wasn’t a natural predator in Australia, the wildlife recognized he was dangerous. This silence went deeper than that. Then he realized not even the trees were moving. Nature was on hold, waiting to breathe.

  He did not want to be here when it gasped and came back to life.

  Lachlan flicked his ears. Sometimes being the only were-lion tracker at Fendrake sucked. Only feline weres could sense magic, so when the Shamanic Council had asked for help locating a couple of shamans flouting the rules of nature, he got called in because as a tracker he found the un-findable.

  Today he didn’t want to find the Brightwater sisters if they’d done magic big enough and bad enough to silence the bush around their house. If they could do that, silencing one were-lion would be easy, and given the amount of magic in the air he was pretty damn sure it had to be the work of the Brightwater women.

  His lip curled, baring his teeth. He didn’t have to get involved; he could sprint back to his car, shift and call Fendrake. Fendrake could then send in their marshals and agents and everyone would be happy.

  Unless he was wrong and then all hell would break loose and he’d find himself on a much smaller paycheck, filing reports for the next twenty years. Swooping in and finding it was a case of mistaken identity would involve a major cover-up, and Fendrake preferred to slip under the radar. It was safer for non-humans to keep a low profile; so low the humans didn’t know they existed.

  He forced himself forward, knowing the fence that marked the edge of the Brightwater property wasn’t much farther. From there he should be able to see the house and then make a better decision. He moved quickly through the scrub, yet in the silence his steps were too loud. The unnatural quiet made his whiskers twitch as if searching for an unseen threat. That was the problem with magic. It couldn’t be seen, only sensed. And what he was sensing made the fur on his back crawl.

  The timber-clad house he was looking for appeared between the trees, and he paused, huffing out a breath. For a few heartbeats he watched, hoping he’d get lucky and see someone…one of the Brightwaters so he could get a positive ID. No one moved in the house. He took a step closer. All he needed was a visual on the targets.

  A bird fell out of a tree and landed on the ground in front of his paws without a flutter.

  Dead. Its eyes were glassy, like it had stopped seeing long before he came past. He lowered his head to give it a sniff and saw other birds in the long grass. All of them dead.

  This was bad.

  Lachlan’s tail swished. Sighting the house wasn’t good enough, even when coupled with the magic in the air. If he was wrong, and he called everyone in… He flexed his claws. Bloody shamans and bloody magic.

  He was going to have to ignore his better instinct, jump the fence and get close enough to the homestead for a proper look. Before he could change his mind, he ran at the fence and leaped over. He landed in the tall, dry grass and dropped to his belly next to a tiger snake. He flinched, ready to swat it away, but the snake didn’t move. Lachlan gave it a tap with his tail. Dead.

  This was one of those rare occasions where facing one of the most venomous snakes in the world would have been great. Instead, the sight of the dead snake added to the unease swelling in his gut. On his belly, he inched forward as if hunting prey, his senses straining to hear anything other than his own breathing and heartbeat.

  For twenty meters around the house the grass had been tamed and was cut short and neat in the European style Aussies loved so much. Too bad the grass didn’t like the climate and had turned brown. If he’d been human, he’d have frowned. The shamans’ lawn was dead from the summer heat. Shamans usually had green thumbs. They didn’t just get on well with Nature, they were a conduit for Her power. Something was not right with Nature today. There were too many dead things on the ground and too much magic in the air.

  Lachlan’s dark mane spiked to make him appear bigger and more menacing. He might think like a man, but his body reacted like a lion responding to a threat.

  Beneath his paws the ground was dry. The long grass he was hiding in crumbled as he slunk past, edging towards the dead lawn and the house. Tracking any shaman was better done at a distance, but the Brightwaters especially. The Brightwater sisters came from a very dark bloodline. He’d trawled through piles of history and waded through the crime reports of several generations. Brightwater shamans were bad from way back and they were only interested in one thing: power.

  Dayna and Clarissa were following in their mother’s murderous footsteps and using the lives of others to feed that craving. What they did with all that magic was anyone’s guess, but their predecessors had caused all kinds of trouble, including creating sentient tornados that took out their enemies, sinking ships to secure trade routes and using magic to alter gambling results. None of which the Shamanic Council looked fondly upon. Over the last couple of centuries the Brightwaters had been responsible for more deaths than the average vampire. This time the Council had finally grown a set and decided to act—without getting their hands dirty, of course.

  His movements slowed as he made every step with caution, half expecting a magical trap to close around him. Shamans drew their power from Nature, but they could also use the earth and plants to their benefit. Yet the ground he was treading on felt like it had been sucked dry of everything.

  It was weird and unnatural.

  He tasted the magic, again. Stronger this time. Acrid and dark and ancient. This place was creeping him out, and he didn’t get creeped out. He usually creeped other people out, as if humans knew he wasn’t quite the same as them. He gave himself a shake that rippled from ears to tail, but it didn’t dislodge the prickly tension in his skin. If he saw no one in the next few minutes, he was going to make a strategic withdrawal and report the place for further investigation, regardless of the possible consequences.

  His eyes narrowed as he lifted his head above the long grass and scanned the expanse of neat, brown lawn that surrounded the house and the bush that stretched out to the next fence line. Having a property this size would be nice. He could shift and his neighbors would never know. His mouth opened in a lionish grin. Privacy—it was probably the same reason the Brightwaters had bought the place. The grin vanished. Despite the long grass hiding him, he felt very conspicuous. He couldn’t pass himself off as part of the local wildlife.

  To one side, where the lawn met the bush, there were two old gum trees and a dark patch on the ground. Something white lay in the center of the black. Lachlan moved quickly through the tall grass. He wasn’t game enough to sprint over the lawn even though the long grass didn’t give him much cover. If someone was watching from the house, they’d see a ripple caused by an unfelt breeze as he moved through the grass. Even the air was too still. As he neared the trees, the ground grew warmer, the heat soaking throu
gh his paws.

  He paused when he reached the trees. The dark patch was a sooty circle, and the white shape, a woman. Her long, dark hair was spread over the ground where she’d fallen. Brightwater, or victim?

  He broke cover and paced the edge of the perfect, burned circle. Shamans loved a magic circle, especially one between two trees. Not that these were really trees anymore. They were more like skeletons, their leaves curled and brown on the ground. He flicked the edge of the circle with his tail, expecting to get a shock.

  He didn’t get one. The circle was down.

  A car swung up the driveway, crunching on gravel and breaking the total silence that had been coating the area. He glanced over to the house as a sharp stab of panic slipped between his ribs and lodged in his heart. He ignored it as best he could along with common sense and caution as he crossed the circle’s threshold. The circle was down, but the tingling sensation of magic still lingered within, ruffling his fur and making his skin itch. His breath huffed over the woman’s skin as he nudged her. He needed to see her face and ID her as one of the Brightwaters, or if she wasn’t, help her. The woman’s arm flopped to the side and he saw her face.

  She was one of the twins. Clarissa or Dayna?

  He leaned over her face, waiting to feel her breath against his nose. It never came. She was dead.

  His shoulders hunched in a shrug he couldn’t quite pull off in this body. One less Brightwater to worry about. All he had to do was get the word back to Fendrake that he’d located the shaman and had found evidence of powerful magic.

  The back door slammed open. Lachlan’s head snapped up. The other twin was on the porch, rifle in hand.

  “Get away from my sister.” Metal clicked as she took off the safety.

  But he was already moving…towards the woman.

  Most people would run if they saw a lion charging towards them, even a slightly smaller and darker European lion. Lachlan was confident the shaman would dart inside and he’d sprint off into the bush and get back to his car and call Fendrake.

  She didn’t run. She raised the rifle. And fired. Dust puffed at his feet as she missed.

  Shit. Lachlan darted to his right, hoping to make it around the corner to the relative safety of the side of the house.

  The rifle barked again and pain burst in his thigh. His leg went out from under him. He had to get away or he’d be the next life this shaman took. He limped on, dragging his leg, but he wasn’t fast enough. The passion fruit vine on the side of the house whipped out and wrapped around his paws. It was the only plant that wasn’t dead, and it was attacking. Tendrils reached out and grabbed him. The more he struggled, the tighter the plant gripped.

  Shifting might give him an advantage—for a second. But then he’d be a naked, unarmed man. At least this way he had claws and teeth. He roared in fury and snapped at the green vine, but it dodged his jaws and wrapped around him like a muzzle.

  The woman walked up to him. Her face was scrunched, as if she were torn between anger and grief, then she lifted the rifle as if to shoot him at point-blank range.

  Lachlan growled and bared his teeth. He wasn’t going to die like this, but he had no speech and no time to shift and beg for his life. The woman turned the rifle and slammed the stock of the gun into the side of his head. White-hot pain flared in his temple, then the light was swallowed by black.

  Dayna raised the rifle to club him again, but the lion didn’t move. Her hands shook in time with her rapid breathing. There were no lions in Margaret River, so he was either a zoo escapee that had traveled a couple of hundred kilometers without being noticed, or he was the local big-cat myth come to life. She didn’t know which was worse.

  It didn’t matter. She tore her eyes from the improbable creature lying in her yard and ran over to her sister, her feet scuffing over the dead grass. She’d seen the lion standing over Clarissa, but she wasn’t too late. She couldn’t be too late. Her knees hit the black dirt as she laid the rifle on the ground.

  Her sister didn’t move.

  “Wake up.” Dayna rolled her sister onto her back. She searched for a pulse and found none. Clary lay still, unbreathing.

  She glanced over her shoulder at the lion—he was unconscious.

  Her cell phone was in her bag in the house. She had to get Clary breathing before she rang an ambulance. How did resuscitation go? One breath and five compressions or the other way around? Dammit. Anything was better than nothing. She wished she’d paid more attention to all the medical shows on TV.

  What had the lion done to Clary? Scared her to death? There was no blood that she could see on her sister’s body. Seeing him leaning over her sister had frozen her for precious seconds. Seconds that might have saved Clary’s life if she’d been faster to get the gun and scare him off. Tears blurred her vision. She’d never expected a lion attack.

  A lion. She’d shot a lion in her yard. She risked a glance over her shoulder while her hands repeated the compressions on Clary’s chest. The lion lay in the dirt, bound by the vine, blood seeping into his dull gold fur. Panic rose back up and threatened to lock her muscles again. She turned her gaze back to her sister. She had to get Clary breathing, then call for help… And if the lion woke up?

  The rifle lay next to her leg. She’d shoot it again. Yes. She wouldn’t hesitate next time.

  “Come on. Please, Clary, we have to go inside.” They would be safe inside if the lion got up. “I’m sorry I wasn’t here.”

  If she’d been here, she could’ve protected Clary. Clary didn’t like going outside. Why was she outside?

  It didn’t matter. Dayna’s breathing hiccupped as she tried to be calm. Tears burned her eyes. She didn’t have time to cry. Besides, she could still save Clary.

  Breathe. She pushed the thought into her sister with the next breath, hoping Clary would hear how desperate she was and obey. Wasn’t she supposed to gasp for air and wake up? Dayna gave Clary another puff of air. Maybe she was doing this wrong? Her arms ached from trying to force her sister’s heart to beat.

  Wake up.

  Beneath her hands, her sister’s body remained limp. When she placed her mouth on her sister’s, Clary’s lips were cool. They should be warm. Her rhythm faltered. She touched her sister’s neck, searching for a pulse, more carefully this time. Her skin had lost all warmth…and color. Clary was cold and pale.

  Clary was gone.

  “No!” She kept going, hoping that Clary would blink and cough. She pressed harder on her sister’s chest as if she could force Clary back to life. “You can’t leave me too.” Clary was all the family she had.

  The tears broke free and trickled down her face.

  “Clarissa Rose, you get up!” Her words came out choked. She wanted Clary to argue back, to do anything.

  Yet her twin was already gone. Dayna smoothed her fingers over her sister’s face, identical to her own. But Dayna cried for both of them. The silent tears streaked Dayna’s cheeks and splashed on her sister. Clary’s blue eyes stared at the sky, unable to cry anymore. Dayna closed them, then wrapped her arms around her sister. Grief made her throat tight; every breath was torn from her lungs.

  She was too late. If she’d left the shop ten minutes earlier. If she hadn’t stopped to ask Belinda how her baby was, or if she hadn’t grabbed the gun. She’d had to get the gun, how else was she supposed to face a lion? Her heart lurched as if it wanted to stop. There was a freaking lion in her yard! A lion had killed her sister.

  What had happened in the few short hours she’d been at the store filling out stock order forms? How had everything changed in such a short space of time?

  Around them, the grass was burned in a circle and beyond that the grass was dead. She was sure it had been greener this morning. What had Clary done? Had she tried to defend herself against the lion only to have her magic fail?

  After their mother’s death, she and Clary had sworn not to use magic—especially not strong magic. The plants around the house were imbued with power to defend the hou
se—that kind of magic was easy, like breathing, because the plants wanted to help. Talking to plants was a gift that ran in the family.

  She glanced back to where the lion was bound by the vine, and blinked. The lion was gone and in its place was a man. A naked man. His body was slumped and bound the way the lion’s had been, the vine tangling his limbs while blood coated his thigh.

  Fear iced her skin. The bastard who had attacked and killed her sister was a shape-shifter. Her mother’s warning echoed in her ears. She’d always warned Dayna and Clarissa that people would hate them because magic was in their blood. That they had to stick together and be smart and safe. She’d told them to be careful of big animals because they weren’t always just animals. Her mother had particularly hated cats because they could sense magic, and anything that could sense magic put the family in danger.

  The lion had killed her sister with magic. And when he woke up, she would be next.

  Dayna snatched up the gun and stood, then she leveled the gun at the unconscious man. Her finger rested on the trigger as the hurt crushing her mutated into anger. Who was he to come and kill her sister? To come to their house and destroy their lives?

  For a heartbeat she allowed herself to imagine shooting him again. The rifle wobbled in her hands, and her vision blurred with tears. She blinked but couldn’t focus well enough to take aim. She lowered the rifle and sat back down with her sister, the rifle resting in her lap in case the shape-shifter woke up and attacked.

  What was she going to do?

  She picked up Clary’s hand. Clary would know what to do. She always knew what to do. Dayna bit her lip, but the tears started again. Suffocating until she couldn’t think beyond gasping for her next breath. Then there were no more tears to fall, and she was hollow and alone. Except for the shape-shifter tangled in the vine.

  Her gaze rested on him. Was he alive?

  From where she sat, she couldn’t tell. She should call the police and let them take care of him, but she knew they wouldn’t. The police didn’t believe in magic, much less shape-shifters. They’d called her mother’s death suicide. It hadn’t been. She’d been attacked by magic and forced to defend herself. Clary and Dayna had been lucky they’d been out celebrating the end of high school, or they’d be dead too.