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Chapter One
Lightning slashed the night sky, illuminating the lone wolf on the hillside. A wild howl ripped through the air. Rain wept from the heavens, washing the blood from his pure-white fur.
It was done. The rogue was dead.
Devlin Moore trotted into the woods without a backward glance. There was a time he would’ve felt something—remorse, sadness. Almost a hundred years of killing had frozen his heart into a chunk of ice. This target had tried to hide in a remote corner of Maine. They never learned. There was no way to hide from him. The ultimate hunter, once locked onto his prey, there was no stopping him. The compulsion to see the job done was as much a part of the curse as the tattoo emblazoned on his chest.
The sun was starting to peek above the horizon by the time he reached his truck. He stood and watched the sky bleed orange tinged with red before the yellow broke free. Embracing his human form, he ran his fingers through his damp hair. After retrieving his keys from a metal box attached beneath the frame of the vehicle, he unlocked his truck. With the warming air wicking away the last of the moisture from his skin, he pulled on jeans, steel-toed work boots, and a long-sleeved Henley.
A blue jay darted through the pines, a splash of color against the darker green. A crow cawed. The world was waking up. He was ready for bed. As he drove away, he had no destination in mind; he never did. There was no home waiting for him, no one to care if he lived or died. His curse was a force that would not be denied. God knows he’d tried. It was either hunt or succumb to madness.
He hunted.
For the first time in werewolf history, there were three lone wolves—him, a gray, and a black wolf. He knew the names of both men but didn’t use them. It made no sense to get attached, not when he might have to kill them someday. So far, they’d managed to stay out of each other’s way, drawn to different parts of the world, their paths never crossing. But he kept track of any gossip and suspected sightings of them, as they did him.
He pulled up his favorite playlist on his phone and tapped his fingers on the steering wheel as Five Finger Death Punch belted out a song. With each passing mile between him and the scene of his latest execution, the muscles in his shoulders unknotted. When he pulled to a stop at an intersection, he rolled his neck, groaning when the bones cracked. Closing his eyes, he listened for the impulse. North into Canada or down to northeastern USA? When none came, he began to smile. He was due for a break.
Canada it was. He wouldn’t mind fishing in Northern Ontario, maybe heading to the east coast. He hadn’t been there in decades.
His fingers tightened on the wheel. Sweat beaded his forehead. “Damn it.” He turned in the opposite direction. Seemed fate wasn’t quite done with him. The urge to hunt wasn’t quite there, not yet. It was more a tingle in the back of his brain. “More like a goddamn itch.”
He muted the music, his joy in it gone. When would it end? In the beginning, he would sometimes go weeks, even months, without working. These days, he barely got a break.
“Alphas aren’t doing their damn jobs.” Since there were more wolves in the world, it was logical there’d be more rogues, but it seemed never-ending.
New York.
The words popped into his head. He had no idea where they came from—his wolf or some source outside him. Wherever it originated, it always pointed him to where he needed to be. It was as much a part of him as the sickle-shaped blade etched over his heart. Both had appeared the first time he’d shifted into a wolf.
“Guess I’m going to New York.” That’s where he’d find whatever was waiting for him.
…
Zoe Galvani sat back in her desk chair and grinned. “I’m brilliant.” Unless the client was a raving idiot, he was going to be pleased with the redesign of the company logo and promotional materials.
Making sure everything was saved, she sent it off and then stood, groaning when her back complained.
“Damn it, I set an alarm.” It was part of her newest promise to herself to get up and move around every hour. Working for long stretches of time at a computer wasn’t the healthiest, no matter how much she loved her job as a freelance graphic artist.
She stared at her phone. Yup, the alarm had gone off. Once again, she’d been so into her work she’d ignored it. Come to think of it, she had a vague memory of turning it off.
“I’ll grab some lunch.” The walk and fresh air would do her good. She checked the time. “Make that an early supper.” She’d missed lunch…again. There never seemed to be enough hours in the day.
After a quick trip to the bathroom, she pulled on a pair of purple Converse sneakers, grabbed her colorful hobo-style purse, and hurried down the four flights of stairs to the street, stepping out onto a bustling sidewalk. With a grin, she turned left toward her favorite deli.
Even after ten years, the sights and sounds of New York enthralled her as much as they had when she’d first arrived, scared and alone. She was still alone but was never lonely. She had plenty of acquaintances, but only one person she’d call a friend.
“So what if I don’t make friends easily. It’s not a crime,” she muttered, shaking off the dark cloud that threatened to rain on her excellent mood. It was a gorgeous June day, sunny without being blisteringly hot, perfect for a picnic in Central Park.
She ducked into Bernie’s Deli and got in the lineup. It moved quickly and in less than five minutes it was her turn. “What are you having today?” Bernie himself was behind the counter. He was the second Bernie, his father, Bernie senior, having started the business some sixty years ago. Bernie Junior also worked here. She couldn’t begin to imagine such a family legacy.
“Pastrami and Swiss on rye.” Her mouth watered in anticipation.
“You want a cookie with that?” He assembled and wrapped her sandwich.
“Why not?” She’d finished a big job today. That was as good an excuse as any to celebrate. She perused the display case and made her choice. “Give me a brownie.”
“Going all out today.” He added the treat to her bag.
