Hellcat (Age of Night Book 6) Read online

  Hellcat

  Age of Night Book Six

  May Sage

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Untitled

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Epilogue

  Have you read Infernal Three?

  Chapter 1

  Ian often requested to patrol late. At first it had been because he was one of the only single shifters in his pride, and his acute hearing had enough of hearing everyone else boning for half the night, but now he lived outside the main house, it was mostly because he was used to being a night owl. Starting at six o'clock in the morning would have been a nightmare for him.

  After they'd renovated the cabins belonging to their alpha female in the woods of Lakesides, Ian claimed the furthest one from the town. It was quiet up there, he could rarely hear a car, even in the middle of the afternoon.

  At the end of his shift, Ian headed to the pride house to give a report to his alpha and catch up with whoever was awake at the crack of dawn.

  "I can't stand dogs!" were the first words he heard.

  Jas. He followed her voice to the lounge, and smiled at the familiar picture. She was glaring at a white and brown bulldog, shamelessly spread out on his back on one of their sofas, tongue hanging.

  The object of the female enforcer's contempt had once been an underfed, pungent fleabag. Now, the beast was spoiled, fat, and considerably less stinky, when they could keep him away from fox shit. Which admittedly wasn't often.

  Ian had gotten used to the stray. Rescue. Foster dog. Wait, were they still pretending that they were only keeping him while waiting for an adoptive family to fall in love with him?

  The nine kids in the Wyvern pride would riot if anyone attempted to take him away. They'd called him Cutie and all of them loved playing with him, particularly Zackary, the alphas' two-year-old toddler. No one wanted to incur the wrath of Zack. Two-year-olds were monsters.

  "No way am I spending fifteen minutes in a closed compartment with it. It smells. Find someone else to take him to the vet."

  "Cutie doesn't smell," Lola protested, pouting.

  She was four, and just as monstrous as Zack, particularly when she flashed her dimples and looked up with her big round eyes.

  Just then, Lola spotted him and scurried over to him, and wrapped her little arms around both of his legs. "Uncle Ian!" she batted her eyelashes.

  "Hey, pudding. You're up early."

  She bobbed her little head. "I wanted to talk to you!"

  Ian narrowed his eyes.

  "Yeah?"

  "Do you love me, Uncle Ian?"

  Hell no. What was she up to now?

  "You know I do, little monster."

  "Do you love me a lot?"

  "Enough to slay a dragon for you."

  The little girl tilted her head. "Why would you slay a dragon? It's better to cuddle them, you know."

  Of course she'd think so.

  It was no wonder that the kid understood words like slay already. She lived around a bunch of people who didn't spend a week without killing something—their animals needed it. Generally, they stuck to deer, mostly because they were starting to overpopulate their woods. Sometimes, they got to fight with the occasional idiotic shifter trying their defenses. That was always fun.

  "Good point. Now, spill. What do you want?"

  She beamed.

  "Lasagna."

  Ian sighed. He couldn't say he was surprised. It had been a couple of weeks since they'd roped him into slaving away in the kitchen. Most enforcers had to cook once a month, max, as they were contributing to the pride's welfare another way, but his pridemates always wanted him to cook.

  "Who made you tell me that?" he asked suspiciously.

  "My tummy!" she replied with her best smile.

  Ah, fuck.

  "All right. If you're good, I'll cook tonight."

  "Yay!" the little girl let go of his legs and rushed to their alpha male's side, holding her hand up. Rygan Wayland high fived her.

  Ian glared. He'd been played like a goddamn newbie. Again.

  "Getting a baby to do your dirty work?" he asked the alpha. "You could ask me yourself if you want me to cook, Rye."

  The alpha shrugged unapologetically. "Girl always gets results."

  He had a point.

  Of course, as the head of their pride, Rye could have ordered him to cook, every day, all day—but that just wasn't the kind of alpha he was. Hence why Ian had followed him from the very beginning.

  "I need to go shopping," he said. "Do we need to take Cutie to Valley Vets? I can do it while I’m out.”

  His offer was very casual. Rye didn't read anything into it. He could have, if they'd been in their feline forms; as alpha, Rye could brush their minds and catch their superficial thoughts. Again, Rye wasn't the type to do it. They only communicated mentally when they wanted to.

  "Yeah?" Rye asked, surprised. "That'd be a great help, thanks. He has an appointment for his second set of shots at five. Does that leave you enough time to get some sleep?"

  Ian checked the black clock hung on the living room wall. Six twenty.

  "Should do, if I go now," he replied. "Say hi to everyone for me."

  On that note, he turned around, and headed outdoors, jogging home.

  Ian was smiling, his mind traveling to the very enticing veterinarian he'd seen the last time he'd gone to Valley Vets.

  It was unlikely that he'd see her again; there were a number of vets in the practice. But if he caught even a glance, it'd certainly be a nice bonus.

  Chapter 2

  The weather was kind in California through the winter, but Ian could do without the rain. His cat basically wanted to hibernate on rainy days. He grunted when his alarm rang at four, and dragging his heels to the shower took considerable effort.

  When he patrolled, Ian wore dark greens, browns, and grays, so those colors bored him; he grabbed a pair of jeans and a white sweater, did his hair, and put some cologne on. Once he was done with the routine, he laughed in the mirror. Cologne, really? What the fuck. And who bothered calculatingly messing up their hair when it was raining? He was acting like he had a date or something. And he didn't even know the chick's name. He remembered her name tag, though. T. Martin. Dr. T. Martin.

  She had big brown eyes, endless lashes, and the ass of a damn goddess. He'd noticed it even though she'd been wearing scrubs. Scrubs, for Christ's sake.

  The lady was probably taken, but it didn't hurt to look good, just in case she wasn't.

  He picked up Cutie at the main house and got him in a crate at the back of his truck. The dog was way too excitable to let him roam free in the cab.

  Cutie howled like someone was pulling his claws out with pincers, as he always did when they crated him.

  "I know, I know. Poor you. Fifteen minutes and we're there. Promise."

  The vet clinic was one town over, close to Hawthorne. Ian stiffened on the highway. While their alpha female had lived in a city for years before settling in Lakesides, most shifters couldn't stand cities, and for good reasons. Too much noise, pollution, and too many packs, prides, and other supernaturals. Cities were battlefields. They also tended to be full of anti-shifters, anti-vampires, anti-paranormals; one of the reasons why Rye had had trouble finding a volunteer to head to Valley Vets.

  "We're here, boy," he announced, snapping a leash onto Cutie's collar.

  Something else the spoiled pup didn't approve of. They rarely needed to put him on a leash in Lakesides—the dog was very well-behaved, and supervised by lots of shifters. But there would be other animals at the vet's and it was common courtesy.

  "I know, I know," he said in reply to the pup's moans. "It'll be over soon."

  Cutie whined all the way to the door. The moment they passed it, the bulldog beamed and rushed forward, yapping happily as he looked to the couple of people behind the counter.

  The pup had yet to meet anyone he disliked, but he'd truly taken a liking to the staff here. Two women and a man started to coo, coax, and throw treats his way.

  "You're here for your shot, right?" the guy asked. "You're with me. I just need to finish typing up the info about my last appointment."

  "No rush. We're early, anyway."

  He went to sit in the clean waiting area, staying a careful distance away from a woman holding a box of kittens and a man with a fox on his lap.

  "Nice," Ian said, pointing to the fox.

  The dude smiled. "Found him during the last fire. He's free to leave, but as he doesn't, I figured I'd get him all checked up."

  "Pretty sure there's a Disney movie about that."

  The woman with her cats grimaced. "That movie was traumatic." She glared at the poor guy. "If you take him to the woods and leave him, you have no soul."

  Ian laughed, then a scent caught his attention. His head snapped back to the counter, right before she appeared. T. Martin.

  Fuck me.

  He'd remembered her all wrong. He couldn't see her ass at all from this side of the
counter and she was still striking. That mouth. The things he'd do to that mouth!

  "Doesn't look like the Hewetts are turning up. Want me to take your next appointment?" she asked the guy who was still typing away behind his computer.

  He lifted his head and smiled. "That'd be great, Tania, thank you."

  Tania. Sexy and feminine with some kick-ass around the edges. It suited her.

  "Mr. Wayland with Cutie?"

  Ian got up and followed her as she waved him forward.

  "Ah! I remember this baby," she said, bending down to greet the pup who wagged his tail like there was no tomorrow. "How has he been doing, Mr. Wayland?"

  "It's Summers, actually. Ian Summers. Wayland is the name of our alpha."

  She didn't so much as blink, entirely indifferent to the fact that he'd just told her he was a shifter.

  "And Cutie's great. He doesn't show signs of trauma or fear, but he eats everything we give him, very quickly, as you told us he would."

  She nodded. "Yes, he mostly suffered from malnutrition; no outward sign of abuse. And I'm glad to see that he seems a lot better now." She looked up at him, beaming. "You've fed him well."

  Ian snorted. "Too well, no doubt."

  She got up and led the way to her examination room, saying, "Well, he isn't overweight yet, but you want to keep an eye on how much he eats, especially after we get him fixed. You still want him castrated?"

  Ian winced on the poor pup's behalf. "If the boss said so, then yes."

  Tania must have caught his disapproval, because she said, "It's best for him; less risk of cancer and a lot of other issues, medical and behavioral."

  Ian laughed. "Oh, I get it. I just have some sympathy for the boy is all."

  She smiled. Shit. That was a nice smile. "Understandable."

  Her focus returned to the dog; she examined him, all the while scratching and cuddling him, so Cutie allowed it all without fuss, even when she gave him his shot.

  "Dude, you have some serious skills!"

  Tania laughed. "It took a bunch of student loans to acquire those skills."

  He didn't doubt it.

  Ian wondered how long she'd been a vet, how old she was. He would have said mid-twenties if he hadn't known her profession, but it took a while to become a vet, so that placed her in her late twenties, at least.

  She was definitely taken. No way she wasn't. If a woman like that was single, every regular male around her was an idiot.

  Ian found himself sniffing her scent, inhaling it and paying attention to the subtleties he caught. Yeah, there was a guy there, but his scent was too well blended with hers. Family. A brother or a father. Alcohol. Not drunk by her, but it lingered in the air. Something else...

  "Are you into pottery?"

  She lifted a brow, then laughed.

  "Do I have clay on my face?"

  "Fingernails," he replied, because it was true, and marginally less creepy than saying he'd smelled it.

  She looked at her nails and found them unmarred.

  "Really? I wash my hands a billion times a day or so.“

  Ian shrugged. "I smell residues. I grew up with a cousin who took up like, a dozen hobbies. She did pottery for years. I remember the smell."

  "Fair enough. Yeah, I don't really get to do it often these days, but I had a day off yesterday, so I made some plates."

  "Do you sell them?" he asked. "I remember Roxanne had like, a hundred plates and vases and stuff. My dad told her to get rid of them or he'd break them, so she sold them and took up knitting instead."

  "Your dad sounds like an ass." She winced. "Sorry."

  Ian laughed. "No problem. He's a complete ass. I moved to a new place six months ago, and I literally have two mugs, four plates and one bowl. If you have an Etsy store or something, let me know."

  Tania shook her head. "Sorry, I never had the time to set up anything like that. I just drop them off at a local store. She sells them and gives me a cut. I donate it. God knows I don't need to add more stuff to my tax return."

  "Fair enough."

  The next moment was awkward; it was the end of the conversation and she was done with Cutie. They should have shaken hands and said goodbye, but instead they both lingered wordlessly.

  "But hey, I could—I guess I could bring some, for when you're coming back for Cutie's op? It's next week, right?"

  He lifted a brow. "Sure. Great. Let me know how much they are."

  She chuckled, waving her hand. "Don't worry about it. You haven't even seen them. And I'm a little like Roxanne—there are loads all over my place. You'd be doing me a favor."

  "No way. It's money you could donate for a good cause."

  "But I am! I'm donating them to a hopeless bachelor in desperate need of tableware."

  She was nice. And cute, too.

  Dammit. Ian had hoped for a nice easy lay, a hit it and quit it. Whatever this woman was, she wasn't that. And he didn't have time for anything else.

  Chapter 3

  Tania was fucking exhausted.

  She shouldn't complain. She was doing exactly what she'd always dreamed about: taking care of animals. Her uncle, Donald, had been a vet, and watching him save a sick mare when she was six years old had set her course. Fast forward two decades, she had a shiny new degree, and she was taking care of well-trimmed poodles and chihuahuas in an LA practice. It hadn't paid much, but she'd always loved the vibrant coast, full of distractions.

  That had been until six months ago, when Donald called her after a car accident. His practice, a few miles outside Hawthorne, was busy and successful, serving various towns in the area. He had a staff of three vets and five nurses. But one of his main vets was on maternity leave, and with him out of commission for a few months because of a broken wrist and a bad back, the practice was severely understaffed.

  Tania didn't even consider an alternative: she'd packed up her bag, sublet her apartment, and headed home. Donald deserved it. Her childhood wouldn't have been the same without the kind, patient, supportive man who'd never minded her crashing at his place when things were rough at home.

  She'd never planned to go back to her hometown after school, for various reasons. One of them was the building in front of her. A small two-story house that needed a fresh coat of paint, pebbles on the driveway, and a new roof.

  She parked her work truck in front of the house where she’d grown up, between a beat-up Jeep and her blue beetle.

  She took a moment to breathe, in and out. It was cold out, and dark, too. The Valley Vets truck's heating system needed replacing, but she hadn't had the time to take it to the shop yet. She should head home before she froze.

  Tania winced at the prospect. Eventually, her icy fingers demanded she move her ass.

  She did so reluctantly.

  Since she'd started at Valley Vets two months ago, Tania had practically spent every single day at work, on her feet—and her feet were protesting loudly against that treatment. That wasn't why she was tired, though. The problem was that after every long day, she returned home to a mess she didn't know how to deal with.

  The door had four locks. She had to unlock all of them before pushing it and walking in. At least it was warm inside.

  The first thing she heard was the TV.

  “After the events at the PIA in Boston last year, there has been much speculation and—”

  “Speculation, my ass,” someone rudely interrupted.

  Tania recognized the voice: it was her father’s hero, Nigel Martin, an activist who was very vocal against the very existence of paranormal creatures.

  “The Paranormal Investigation Agency was in place to protect us—the human beings—from the freaks of nature you call sups. They didn’t like it, so they blew it up—and most of the city center with it. The end.”

  Her father was watching an anti-sup interview. Again.

  “There is no conclusive proof, and you know it.”

  Tania also knew that voice: slightly bored, very well enunciated, with an English accent. It belonged to the face of sups, a clever, well-spoken businessman named Fen Knox.