White Wolf 2: The Call of a Soul Read online

  THE CALL OF A SOUL

  White Wolf 2

  Jianne Carlo

  www.loose-id.com

  White Wolf 2: The Call of a Soul

  Copyright © March 2012 by Jianne Carlo

  All rights reserved. This copy is intended for the original purchaser of this e-book ONLY. No part of this e-book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without prior written permission from Loose Id LLC. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author's rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

  eISBN 978-1-61118-716-8

  Editor: Maryam Salim

  Cover Artist: Marci Gass

  Printed in the United States of America

  Published by

  Loose Id LLC

  PO Box 809

  San Francisco CA 94104-0809

  www.loose-id.com

  This e-book is a work of fiction. While reference might be made to actual historical events or existing locations, the names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Warning

  This e-book contains sexually explicit scenes and adult language and may be considered offensive to some readers. Loose Id LLC’s e-books are for sale to adults ONLY, as defined by the laws of the country in which you made your purchase. Please store your files wisely, where they cannot be accessed by under-aged readers.

  * * * *

  DISCLAIMER: Please do not try any new sexual practice, especially those that might be found in our BDSM/fetish titles without the guidance of an experienced practitioner. Neither Loose Id LLC nor its authors will be responsible for any loss, harm, injury or death resulting from use of the information contained in any of its titles.

  Dedication

  The Call of a Soul would never have been written if not for my amazing editor, Maryam Salim, and would have been considerably poorer without her input. Maryam, you have my eternal thanks. It is an absolute pleasure to work with you.

  Line editors have an unenviable job—to catch all the errors in a book, both factual and grammatical. I want to acknowledge the wonderful work of Lee Ann Schafer, the line editor for both White Wolf and The Call of a Soul. I can’t thank you enough for your diligence. Kudos.

  Chapter One

  Melanie White swabbed the almost healed two-inch cut on the kitten’s hind leg. Clooney—the nickname she’d given the stray, because the poor male cat needed a role model in the looks department—blinked and didn’t flinch or react, even though the alcohol must’ve stung.

  Right then the door to the clinic swung open. Summer came and went faster than an eyeblink in Chabegawn, Michigan, and a fierce, icy gust blasted across the tiny waiting room. Melanie didn’t look up, as Doc Glancing had left not some ten minutes before to get two cups of gas station coffee. The sweet kind loaded with caramel and whipped cream that she craved but denied herself in a futile attempt to lose the stubborn seventeen pounds clinging to her hips and thighs. When the distinctive mouthwatering aroma didn’t tickle her nose a few seconds later, she lifted her head.

  Mike Dorland—carrying a dripping, bloodied beast of unknown species—stood in front of the reception desk. There was no mistaking his distinctive profile, the profile that had star billing in her most lurid fantasies even after all these years. Melanie scooped Clooney to her chest and headed to the waiting room.

  The animal wouldn’t make it. She didn’t even have to peek at the dying creature to make that assessment. Its soul had already begun the journey to the other side and had latched on to Melanie’s maggishahwi in a bid for comfort. This aspect of being a spiritual healer tore her heart apart. But never could she deny any living being that last solace.

  Before she could voice a greeting, Mike shifted to face her.

  “Where’s Doc Glancing?” He barked the question.

  Melanie flinched, swallowed, and pointed to the open examination room. “Put him on the table. Doctor Glancing stepped out. He should be back any minute.”

  “What’s the matter with you? Do something.” Mike glared at her and strode in the direction of the gurney sitting in the middle of the room.

  She needed to get out of his sight to do her duty as a maggishahwi. Melanie cradled the speckled kitten. “I’ll just put Clooney away and be right with you.”

  Melanie hurried into the narrow hallway leading to the kennels. When she rounded the bend, she leaned against the wall and opened her senses.

  A bear cub, his soul so new to the world; all Melanie absorbed was the image of his mother’s dying eyes filled with rage and agony. She couldn’t protect her son. He had watched her die. The cub’s acute pain, anguish, and confusion crashed through her in fainter and fainter waves, like a storm ebbing and then dying on a last, futile gust.

  Clooney meowed when the cub’s spirit faded into nothingness. She closed her eyes and recited the ancient blessing passed from one maggishahwi to another, the prayer for his spirit to merge with the earth and multiply. Both mother and cub had been murdered today. Within moments of each other. Melanie willed back the tears and buried her face in the kitten’s soft fur. On autopilot, she kissed Clooney between the ears, tucked him into a temporary crate, and went through the staff entrance to the examination room.

  Mike Dorland—from the decided right side of the tracks, a gifted athlete who’d parlayed a knack for the cards into a reputed multimillion dollar empire—had been her first and foremost crush. She’d been in love with him forever and doubted he even knew her first name, though he certainly knew her last name: White. After all, her father had indirectly killed his. The Joker from Batman couldn’t have arranged a more cruel fate, ending all her mistletoe hopes and sleigh-ride dreams of him becoming her Prince Charming. He looked about to combust, hands fisted, nostrils flaring, and those full lips, which had the female population of Mackinac County drooling, flattened into a grim line.

  “The mother’s dead. There wasn’t enough of her left to bring in.”

  “Where did you find him?” Only then did Melanie notice the stench emanating from the cub. It had been partially disemboweled, but even that wouldn’t cause such a vile, virulent stink. She held her breath.

  “Him? How can you tell?” Those piercing silver eyes missed nothing. “You haven’t even glanced at the bear, much less checked the sex. Is it even possible to tell the gender of such a young cub?”

  Melanie could’ve ignited on the spot and knew she’d colored all over. Staring at the steel table’s corner, she shrugged, sucked in her cheeks, and hunted for an answer.

  A mini wind tunnel blew in a flurry of dried leaves, a stunned dragonfly, and a half-torn paper napkin over the welcome mat. It had rained earlier in the day, and the metallic smell of water evaporating from asphalt preceded Doc G.’s entrance. He strode in their direction carrying a cardboard tray loaded with two covered coffee cups, and gripping a white paper bag at his side.

  “Mel, where are you?” Doc Glancing’s engaging voice mirrored his personality: optimistic to the core, convinced he could make a difference in the world, and a sucker for babies of any kind and every female on the planet.

  “I bought you one of those jelly doughnuts.” Season Glancing, known to the eight thousand five hundred and forty-nine citizens of Chabegawn as Doc G., shuffled his way inside.

  “Mike. Didn’t know you were in town.” Doc G. flashed Mike a wide smile and then frowned when his gaze lit upon the gurney.

  “Came in yesterday. I brought you a patient.”

  “He found anot
her cub.” Melanie took the tray from Doc G. and set it on the counter across from the table.

  Doc G. had already forgotten the two of them. Absently he dropped the bag on the counter, did a quick change of coats, and gave the dead cub a thorough once-over.

  Melanie gritted her teeth and tried to concentrate on Doc G.’s movements, but Mike’s presence had her discombobulated. She linked her hands behind her back so he wouldn’t notice her trembling fingers.

  When Doc G. removed his gloves and dropped them in the trash, Melanie pulled a wax sheet from the roll attached to the overhead supply cabinet and covered what was left of the cub. “I’ll wheel him into the autopsy room.”

  Doc G. grimaced and shook his head. “Same condition as the others.”

  “Yes.”

  “What the—” Mike jammed large, thick fingers onto hips leaner than Melanie’s by half, or so it seemed. He narrowed his eyes and stared right at her. Watched pots did boil, because Mike “the Machine” Dorland, famed for his ability to show no emotion even when betting the highest stakes, looked about to hiss and bubble over. “There’ve been others like him? Didn’t you think to mention that?”

  “You didn’t give me a chance.” She might be from the rusted-out wrong side of the tracks, but that didn’t give him the right to raise his voice to her. “I’ll get him prepped, Doc G.”

  She ducked her chin, gave Mike her back, and wheeled the table into the hallway. One of the cub’s small paws peeked out from under the sheet, the black claws somehow an obscene contrast to the stark whiteness of the coarse paper. Smoothing a finger over the hard nail, she bowed and recited the prayer for an easy journey to the spirit world.

  The three rituals completed, accepting the last call, the blessing, and the prayer, she set about the practical tasks at hand, grateful that the activities required concentration. It didn’t take long to move the remains to a body bag and zip it closed. She opened the clinic’s small morgue, located adjacent to the autopsy room, and rolled the gurney inside. Working quickly because the morgue was refrigerated and freezing, she put the body bag into one of the drawer units, returned the gurney, and then headed to the back room that served as a lunch and storage area. Melanie removed the gloves she’d donned earlier, toed the garbage open, and tossed them in. The lid clanked shut, and a deep, sudden exhaustion weighted her bones.

  Would Dodge Pincer, the county sheriff, even bother to investigate?

  Melanie shuddered. She couldn’t stand Dodge Pincer. She knew it was irrational. The whole town loved the sheriff. He had restored the peace and tranquility of small-town living to Chabegawn after the terrible, unsolved murder of the town’s biggest employer that had happened during his predecessor’s watch. Pincer’s good looks and charm had endeared him to everyone. Even Susie, her sister, liked him. But she associated sheriffs with bail money and Papa being drunk, even though Pincer hadn’t been the sheriff involved, and they hadn’t lived in Chabegawn during that time.

  “I apologize. I was totally out of line.”

  Mike.

  Her heartbeat went into overdrive. Melanie clutched her chest. Anger came to the rescue. She spun around. “Apology not accepted. You were plain mean and nasty. Just because you’re worth a fortune doesn’t give you the right to treat people like that.”

  “I only ever apologize once, Melanie. And I never say anything I don’t mean.” Mike folded his arms and raised an eyebrow.

  He knew her first name? Doc G. must’ve told him. She fought the fluttery belly quivers that always assailed her in his presence. Jutted the jaw Mama said was too square for any female. “Fine. Apology accepted. Now if you don’t mind, I have work to do.”

  “Doc G.’s closing up. He says he’ll do the autopsy tomorrow. I’ll be here for it.”

  Nooo. What in heck is wrong with Doc G.? Melanie gritted her teeth. Why did Mike want to see the autopsy?

  “Do you want to wash up?” Mike angled his head toward the sink to the right. “I’ll drop you home. Doc got a call from Jim Balden. He thinks his mare’s dropping the foal tonight.”

  So not what she needed. Or wanted. Mike Dorland driving her to the reservation and seeing the broken-down three-bedroom shack the White family occupied. Poor and proud and shunned, even by the rest of the tribe. Melanie straightened her shoulders. Tough titties. She was what she was and wasn’t nothin’ nohow going to change that.

  “I’ll call a cab.” She made to move around him, and he caught her hand and drew close.

  Too close.

  He smelled like paradise. Like a warm sea so blue and clear and sparkling it hurt to breathe and see when you stared at the glinting waters. Like equatorial sun baking her skin and raising a hot sweat. Like a tropical breeze whipping exotic aphrodisiacs every which way and creaming her sex.

  “Little idiot. I bet you intend to walk the fifteen miles. You always did act as if I stunk up your air.”

  Had the floor turned liquid? No, her knees had. She grabbed the counter and tried to shake off the thick fingers circling her wrist in a steely but somehow gentle grip. “Stunk up my air?”

  “Half-breed not good enough for a full-blooded Cwaatchii? For the daughter of a Ska Awhi? For the granddaughter of Ixota Migziwa?” His nose was so close she had to blink to get his features in focus.

  Her mouth opened. Nothing came out. She licked her suddenly dry lips.

  “That’s it.” He picked her up and jammed her against the wall. Her face was level with his. Then he kissed her, and the world turned upside down and inside out. He tasted of all her pumpkin-coach dreams, of all her tortured teenaged visions of knights, rescue, and happy every after, of every single, furtive pleasuring of herself with his image in her head. Smoky, citrusy, and stomach-clenching delicious.

  His hold on her firmed. His arm went around her waist, and when he nudged her legs apart, she surrendered. Worked her fingers into the silk of his hair and kissed him back, touching her tongue to his.

  “Melanie? Mike?

  “Melanie?

  “Mike?”

  The raised voice boomeranged around her brain insistently.

  A door banged.

  The loud crack pierced her carnal haze.

  Doc G.? Oh no.

  She tore away from Mike. “Put me down.”

  When he didn’t react, she shoved at him and hissed. “Now.”

  The minute her feet touched the ground, she took off, doing a frantic roadrunner imitation down the hallway, and rasped out words as they formed in her head. “Coming, Doc G. Mike said Jim’s Whisper might drop her foal tonight. You promised I’d get to assist you. I’m holding you to that.”

  She screeched to a halt seconds before bumping into the vet, her sneakers making that blackboard-chalk sound that grated already raw nerves to shreds. Praying the burn in her cheeks didn’t mean she wore a fierce blush, Melanie gave Doc G. the pleading look he never could resist. “You did promise, Doc G., and more than once.”

  “Young lady, you have a day job.” Doc G. wagged a finger at her. “What time’s your shift tomorrow?”

  No way was she going to be stuck in a car with Mike for fifteen agonizing miles. Not after she’d thrown herself at him. Melanie bared her teeth in what she hoped passed for a smile and lied like a shaggy rug. “I’m on the evening shift tomorrow. Don’t start till four. What do you need me to get ready?”

  Doc G. spun around, and Melanie followed in his wake, their footsteps echoing on the tiled floor. He halted in the middle of the waiting room. His tall, solid form dwarfed the five single chairs tucked around the far corner. Melanie folded her arms and waited.

  “Everything’s in the pickup. Whisper’s been looking like she’s about to drop for the last few days, and I stocked up midweek.” Doc G. winked at her. “How can any man say no to such a pretty little thing, huh, Mike?”

  She hadn’t even realized Mike had followed them back to the reception area.

  “Beyond me.” Mike had a deep, scratchy voice that did strange things to her inside
s. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw him lean one shoulder on the door frame. The man epitomized the phrase wicked sexy with those silver eyes, ridged cheekbones, and the inky curls that brushed wide shoulders. “The last thing I’d ever do is say no to Melanie.”

  “Is that right?” Doc’s hazel gaze fixed on Mel and then focused above her head on Mike. “You two’d make great babies.”

  Suck me to the earth’s molten core and cinder me to a crisp.

  The phone jangled like a rescue instrument made in bell-ringing paradise. Melanie lunged for it. “Glancing Animal Clinic. How can I help you?”

  If she hadn’t had the acute hearing of a maggishahwi, Melanie wouldn’t have caught Mike’s whispered, “Saved by the bell. This time.”

  A shiver did a snake creep up her spine, and her ears burned.

  This time? What the heck did he mean, this time? Hen’s feathers. Mike Dorland had kissed her, pudgy, mousy Melanie White. Why?

  All at once, a chill chased the fuzzy hairs at the nape of her neck. How did Mike know about her being a full-blooded Cwaatchii? That her father’d once been a Ska Awhi or that her grandfather had the gift of Ixota Migziwa? The language wasn’t spoken by any but the white wolves, the words handed down verbally from one generation to another.

  He’d understood what he’d said, that she knew instinctively. Mike knew her father had once been one of the revered elders, that he once had a seat in the circle. And that her grandfather had the vision of foresight and was the man all called He Who Sees With Eagle Eyes? How?

  Melanie shook her head and held the phone at arms’ length as the person on the other end bellowed something her ears refused to translate. She squeezed her eyes shut in a futile attempt at reining in her galloping fear.

  Breathe. In. Out.

  “How long you back in town for, Mike?” Doc G.’s half-hooded eyes had a glint too familiar to half the town’s population. The middle-aged bachelor figured himself a matchmaker of sorts and had embarrassed Melanie to no end before she’d stood firm a few months back.