Blood Born Read online

  Blood Born

  (Shadow Company – Book 4)

  By Catherine Wolffe

  Copyright 2018 Catherine Wolffe

  All Rights Reserved

  Discover other titles by Catherine Wolffe at www.catherinewolffe.com.

  1st EDITION

  License Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  ADULT CONTENT

  In order to protect minors from viewing inappropriate material, please know that this book may contain language, situations or images inappropriate for children under 18 years of age.

  Other Books by Catherine Wolffe

  Salvation’s Secrets (The Loflin Legacy Prequel)

  Comanche Haven (The Loflin Legacy Book 1)

  Casey’s Gunslinger (The Loflin Legacy Book 2)

  The Lady in the Mist (The Western Werewolf Legend #1)

  Waking Up Dead (The Western Werewolf Legend #2)

  Wolfen Secrets (The Western Werewolf Legend #3)

  A Dance in Time (J.T. Leighton, Time Traveler #1)

  Beyond the Veil (Shadow Company Book 1)

  Deliberate Intent (Shadow Company Book 2)

  Blood & Magic (Shadow Company Book 3)

  Blood Born (Shadow Company Book 4)

  Table of Contents

  Preface

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Blood Born

  (Shadow Company – Book 4)

  By Catherine Wolffe

  Preface

  Afghanistan – Three Years Before

  With three years under their belts, ex-SEALS Dorran O’Hare, J.T. Leighton and yes, the bastard, known only as the Sultan, had altered their futures during that hellish excursion through the sandbox known as Afghanistan. Without a doubt, Dorran’s had shifted one hundred eighty degrees. He remained alive but not. None of them realized the ramifications this shift in the universe would have until returning stateside. He had tried getting a grip on the fact his life was not his own but the creation of a mad man. In hindsight, he supposed everything moved forward regardless of how inconceivable living became. As an ex-SEAL, he struggled to carve out a place for himself by seeking out those who ran from judgement. The job was arduous and at times brought back the thrill he had experienced in the military. The dark clouds of the sandbox lingered.

  ***

  The black could not get any blacker. Night enveloped the SEAL team deployed to the heart of purgatory. Dorran O’Hare slid through the bars of the makeshift cage as smooth as mist. Examining the stainless-steel box with a calculating eye, the hybrid scowled into the maze of wires and lights. In his profession, training called for precise execution. Dealing with the unknown was a sure bet on getting yourself killed. The red lights winking back at him from the maze of wires was the Sultan’s doing - a sadistic monster’s idea of fun and games.

  A singular focus meant steady hands. Glancing down, Dorran bit back the curse. The tremors were back. With a deep breath, he slowed his breathing. The time spent redirecting his conscious mind toward control wasted precious moments and possibly lives.

  SEAL team members ran into pressure cookers like the ball-bearing bomb in front of him on a routine basis. Protocol dictated his movements. Funny how living in the moment resembled an out of body experience. Dorran reminded his nerves about growing up in Belfast during one of the bloodiest times in Ireland’s long and colorful history. A man’s life could be sacrificed in the blink of an eye for the cause. A cool hand always prevailed. Well, almost always.

  “Sixteen seconds.”

  The hiss from behind served to land Dorran in the moment once more. “Shut the fuck up. I got this,” he growled.

  “You better have, Irishman or we’re all toast.”

  J.T. Leighton’s low rumble from behind Dorran’s back racked the tension raw for him. Had the mission been to secure the target, he’d have already had the task completed. Bombs always slowed progress. “I’m working as fast as I can. So shut up, okay?”

  The only sound from J.T. was a grunt.

  Zeroing in on the wiring, Dorran stared hard at the crapshoot in front of him. One wrong move and he, along with probably the whole team, were dust – blown to hell and back with no mulligans. Taking another deep breath, he chose the red wire. The fucker had tricked him last time with the obvious red wire. Thank Uncle Sam, he’d been quick enough to clip the green one next. Still, what were the odds the Sultan had used the same trick this time? He despised gambling.

  “Six seconds,” J.T. said.

  “Be ready to shift,” Dorran said as he snipped the red wire.

  “Nothing!”

  “Okay, time’s up. Evacuate,” J.T. called into his headset.

  Dorran rolled back, coming to his feet long enough to bear down on his next move. There was a click. The air thinned. A light bloomed. Sound ceased. His body lifted into the air as the world exploded.

  ***

  “Hey, dickhead. Wake up.” J.T.’s voice sounded muffled.

  Dorran listened to the sound float in and out.

  “They’re sending you home. Going stateside in twelve hours. Ain’t that a bitch?”

  Dorran forced his left eye open. His right eye wouldn’t budge. Everything blurred and burned. He shut the light out and attempted to wipe away the film. Pain sang up his arm. Sucking in air, Dorran dropped his arm back to the bed. Cool sheets and beeping monitors registered without sight. “Where am I?” he croaked.

  “You’re in Barham. Hey, lie still. You got hit in the eye. The doctors did surgery. Said they saved your eye, but you’ve gotta wear the patch for a while until the swelling goes down.

  “How long?” He swallowed. His throat, raw and scratchy, wanted to protest at words.

  “A month.” J.T.’s tone sobered. “We medevacked you as soon as possible. The target was obliterated. I wouldn’t try to move right now, dude. The blast did a pretty good number on you and me.”

  Dorran sensed J.T. lean in closer. He could smell the coffee J.T. had gulped down on his bud’s breath.

  “This is the first time I’ve had a chance to share this with you. Too many hospital types racing in and out. You’re running on good old fashion Navy drugs right now.” The hand J.T. laid a top Dorran’s arm tightened briefly. “Hell, you coded three times on them in surgery. Just hang in there, okay. I got my fix.” He huffed out a breath. “Within an hour I was as good as new. But the medevac took you first, so I didn’t get a chance to help. When you skip this joint, I figure I can give you what you need to rejuvenate in transit. I’m your fuckin’ escort. What are the odds, am I right?”

  Tension surfaced in J.T.’s words. Dorran realized he heard a lot more without his eyes. There were things J.T. wasn’t saying. He could hear the pain in his voice. “Give it to me straight. No bullshit. How many did we lo
se?”

  J.T. patted Dorran’s forearm. “My time’s almost up. But don’t worry. I’ll be back to break you out of here. You’ll be good as new when you land. Barksdale docs won’t know what kind of miracle they’re looking at. Nothing like vampire blood to get you on your feet.” His laugh was jittery.

  “You’re no good at evading, J.T. How many?” The words came out on a growl.

  Silence filled the space. J.T.’s heartbeat was erratic and threaded with tension. “Look, there’s time for all that. You need your rest. The inquiry went fine. No military charges were levied. Your record is clear. Get some rest.”

  “Damn you, J.T. I owe you my life. Tell me the truth, or I’ll make you wish you’d let me die in that field all those years ago. How many?”

  J.T. cleared his throat. “It wasn’t your fault. The Navy board’s ruling was collateral damage.” He coughed and swallowed hard. “Seven, Dorran. We lost seven. You and I are the only ones who walked away more or less alive.”

  “Get out.” Dorran didn’t recognize the voice telling his bud to leave him alone. He had to have time to come to grips with what he had done. Seven men died because he clipped the wrong wire. No, seven men were dead because he had hesitated. He fucked up, and now seven families would never see their men again.

  “Yeah, sure. I…I’m sorry, Dorran. It wasn’t your fault though, bro. Remember that.”

  “Get the hell out.” He snarled in J.T.’s direction.

  The only sounds were J.T.’s footsteps walking out and the door closing quietly. Then the pain enveloped him.

  Death came for them all. Dorran understood that fact. Responsibility for someone’s death wasn’t easy when that death was the enemy’s but how did you live with the fact you were responsible for taking the lives of seven team members away from their families?

  Chapter 1

  A lone howl erupted in the distance. The sound stretched across the distance slicing the inky blackness of a late winter sky. Meagan Christiana searched the thick green of the pines for the owner of the mournful sound. It was as if the wolf longed for a lost love or at the very least, his pack. Staring narrow-eyed out across the low-slung valley below, she scanned, careful not to miss a movement. Nothing stirred.

  As observation points went, hers was excellent. The back deck of Meagan’s friends - the Latimars’ house overlooked a steep drop-off they affectionately called their valley. The change in elevation was only about two hundred and eighty feet, but in north Louisiana, the difference constituted a valley in their eyes. She glanced back at the frame house with all its roughhewn bat and board siding. So many events of the last several years of her life had occurred right here within the walls and on the deck of this dwelling. Her friends’ home was where she had learned to fight for her freedom. Where the plans for battle after battle against evil were crafted. Where fledgling skills were honed to razor sharp abilities. Her life had gone through a laundry list of changes during her time with Aubrie, Logan and the other members of Shadow Company, an elite group of gifted warriors standing solidly against evil – the majority of it supernatural.

  Meagan tugged the shawl closer. The crisp early morning twilight proved a perfect spot to group for the day. The sun would be up soon, and she would accept the challenge of another venture in volunteering at the local animal shelter. Since she was house sitting for the Latimars while they were away on a much-needed vacation, she wanted to take advantage of the opportunity to enjoy the moments. Inhaling deeply, she revealed in the fresh, cool air of a new day. The back deck proved a glorious place in the early morning hours. As she relished in the beginning of a new day, she liked to dream. And in her dream, she mapped out her idea of a glorious wedding. One where the groom, handsome and brave, stood at the end of the deck which had been transformed into a sea of ferns and flowers. Candles hung in mason jars boardering a path formed in the middle of the structure. Soft music would play in the background as she stood poised to make her way down the aisle to him. Meagan couldn’t put a name to the face, an angular, rugged one whose most inviting feature was his eyes. They were unique and wonderfully entertaining as they seemed to alternate between green and blue. Probably a factor of his mood, she mused.

  Meagan smiled into her coffee cup as she thought of her dream that someday, the man with those magnificent eyes in a face chiseled from stone would sweep into her world and carry her away. Such was the musings of a soon to be twenty-one-year-old with only visions of war, rescue, and regret to call her own. Her past, a patchwork of trials and sorrow wasn’t one she enjoyed dwelling on very much. Thus, the reason for the dreams. And, yes, since the idea was her secret, she smiled.

  Tucking it away she shifted to thoughts of the day’s work ahead. A light mist hung in the pines. Squirrels and rabbits silently scavenged for nuts buried months earlier. A long sigh escaped her lips as Meagan stood and stretched the stiffness out of her shoulders. Putting off getting the day started would ruin her good mood, she decided. There was work to be done. Glancing out, she gave the valley one more scrutiny. “Until tomorrow. I’ll be here then,” she whispered to the unseen wolf as she turned for the door.

  At the bathroom mirror, as she studied her reflection, Meagan realized something. Each morning it was the same. While she sat on the back deck with its magnificent view enjoying her coffee, the wolf would howl. It was such that she waited for the sound with a keen ear. The wolf or wolfdog had not disappointed her in sixteen mornings so far. His howl was like none she had ever heard before, and she was positive it was the same animal. Meagan closed her eyes and recalled the deep, melancholy reverberation of the wild creature. Starting as a low growl in the throat, the animal’s natural call grew in volume and intensity until Meagan could feel the hairs rise up on her arms. A long, heart-wrenching sound which spoke of pain and sorrow continued without accompaniment or challenge. This morning’s offering had resounded through the valley and up the side of Latimar’s mountain for a full four minutes before the animal quieted and the other animals resumed their morning chatter. She supposed their silence was out of respect or perhaps fear or both. Yet, the forest grew soundless during the wolf’s cry. Even the air stilled.

  Deep in her heart, Meagan knew something troubled the poor soul who bore out his sorrows in such a profound way. Drawn to his plight, she found a need to help him. Another fantasy, she mused, as he was, as yet, an unseen subject. Glancing at the clock on the wall, she sighed. She was going to be late. “Crap,” she grumbled. Tucking away concern for the fellow, Meagan shoved back from the sink. Pulling on her jeans and a t-shirt, she dropped to a bench to put on her tennis shoes. She had a pair of rubber boots at the shelter, but these would do for driving. With an apple and her protein bar, she headed for the door. The Curs met her wagging their tails. She scratched Copper and Gracie behind the ears and addressed them as if they could response which any sensible person knew they couldn’t. “I’ll see you two later. Hold the fort down, okay?” With a wave, she turned for the steps. An out-of-the-blue thought had her blinking. What would she do if they ever answered her? “Silly girl.” Climbing into her old truck, Meagan prayed it would start and gave it a try. The Ford rolled over the first time. Meagan grinned. It was going to be a good day.

  Chapter 2

  The music of dogs howling brought a smile to Meagan’s lips. She yearned for the sound to continue. The thought of snatching up her phone and recording a video evaporated about the time the animals quieted. Meagan glanced at the cages holding the tired, terrified creatures who had no humans to call their own. The need to hear the happy voices of the dogs located at the Ouachita Parish Animal Shelter was a desire no words could express. Meagan loved volunteering at the shelter. Each one of the dogs was special to her. Volunteering became an obsession. She’d been reminded of that several times by members of Shadow Company, her adopted family.

  Though Meagan had resolved to make her mark, she had times when she considered she should edge back from the need to help as many as she could. There wer
e days, even weeks when she wallowed in the fact that no matter how hard she tried, there would always be more. The feelings of despair warred with hope for a brighter future for the residents of the shelter. In an ocean as big as neglected, abandoned dogs were, she hoped she made some small ripple. So many lives came through the hugely inadequate facility housed under the parish’s seventy-year-old shelter roof. The state of Louisiana housed their abandoned animals in sad conditions. Still, if she could make the difference in one life, it kept Meagan going.

  Volunteers were scarce – a fact of life in the world of animal rescue. The dogs behind the fences and in the cages at the Ouachita Parish Animal Control facility had few willing to give of their time and compassion. Meagan could count on her fingers the number of people willing and or able to help the cast-offs and neglected four-legged lives temporarily residing there in her hometown of Cheniere Station.

  “Got another one coming in.” The flat tone coated in jaded indifference came from Sue Blankenship, the one employee the parish provided to record and house the dogs and cats surrendered each day glanced at Meagan with an unspoken directive.

  Meagan acknowledged the news and nodded. “I’ll check for a place. Dog or cat?”

  “Dog, big, so put him outside near the court-holds until we can vet their behavior. I’ll get the immunization shot ready.”

  “Okay,” Meagan called over her shoulder as she headed for the one open pen she remembered they had left. “So many intakes,” she murmured under her breath. “I don’t know what we’ll do if another one comes in today before closing.” Shaking her head, she grabbed up a fresh blanket, food bowl and water container before turning into the yard housing most of the dogs. No need to think too hard about the situation. She knew in her heart what the next move would be for the ones who had resided there the longest. New intakes meant the ones who had been there the longest would be euthanized. The sad truth for most came at the expense of owner neglect or apathy.

  She wiggled the heat lamp clamped to the cyclone fencing of the 10 x 6 pen concreted into the ground at the end of row two. During the colder months, the lamp was the only means of warmth an outside occupant had. Inside the pen, a fiberglass dog house and some blankets provided cover from rain and wind. The door of the pen stood open, so Meagan went in armed with a parasite disinfectant and a mop. The spray bottle of disinfectant in one hand and a rag in the other, she bent to wipe down the house provided by a concerned donor. One of a hundred such houses, the snarled sides were a testament to the many four-legged creatures who had passed through the shelter before. Like notches on a prison wall, the chewed edges proved the existence of so many lost souls.