Bite Deep

Chapter 1

Ben ‘Bulldog’ Jericho moved like liquid shadow, combat boots silent against the forest floor. His strides were fluid and his mood deadly. His right hand clutched a heavy semi-automatic, loaded with silver hollow-points and a trigger filed down for a faster pull. Moonlight laced the ground, not that he needed it. Breed saw just fine in the dark.

He paused and sniffed the air, searching for his prey, his senses expanding. It was autumn, and nature’s temperature dial was set at a ball-shrinking single digit that made his bad knee ache. Around him, King Billy pines loomed, pines rustled and the fresh night air percolated with a woody, resinous smell. His footsteps sank occasionally into the spongy moss that crept across the forest floor and nearby tawny frogmouths croaked, joined occasionally by a far-off scream of a Tasmanian devil scavenging for meat.

A faint throb of music pulsed from an apple orchard that adjoined the forest and he could just make out the trees, heavy with fruit. The pulse turned into a steady beat. Rap. His lip curled in a silent snarl. That music gave him a fucking headache.

He turned as one of his crew members, Reaper, came up beside him. The large man wore similar clothes to Jericho: ballistic vest with a steel-laced collar and tactical holsters strapped to jean-clad thighs. Reaper’s long, ragged black hair hung loose and his heavy brow was furrowed in concentration. They both paused a moment, waiting for the third member of this night’s hunting party to join them. Reaper tugged at the snug collar of his vest, then tapped the logo on the front of the vest.

‘It’s a butterfly,’ he said in a low, suspicious tone.

Jericho grunted, but didn’t answer. The crew had laughed their asses off when one of the prospects had ordered the vests from China, thinking they might need it in the event of a riot inside the compound. The vests had been heavily discounted, and when they arrived it was plain to see why. The material was a sickly green colour and the manufacturer’s oddly shaped logo was splayed on the front, resembling a Rorschach image.

Reaper looked up from the vest, squinting towards the fruit orchard. ‘Is that music coming from the farm?’

‘If you can call it music,’ Jericho replied shortly. His mood was dark and nasty, thoughts focused on the role he was supposed to play tonight. Lance Lepkowsky had been delivered to the rehabilitation centre two weeks ago, trussed up in the back of a van and guarded by his old pack. Lance was a burly retired cop whose alcoholism had triggered multiple near-reversions and he’d been pretty messed up when he’d arrived. Had even taken a few swings at those trying to help him. But Jericho was used to stunts like that, and had promptly sedated the old man for two days before he was able to assure the cop he wasn’t about to be executed for breaking pack law.

Jericho’s lips tightened. It was a promise he had to break, because Lance had begun to turn and once the process of reversion began, only the strong could pull back to regain their humanity. Now it was up to Jericho to take care of him, just as he’d been forced to take care of another pack member last month. In fact, his hand had been forced three times over since the start of the year, an unprecedented number of reversions, and each death sat like a weight on his chest.

‘How can you not like this song?’ Blades joined them, not bothering to keep his voice down. Ex-bounty hunter and good-looking bastard, Johnny ‘Blades’ Collins was blessed with a smooth tongue and baby-blues that melted women’s panties by the dozen. His sandy hair was tucked under a black cap and throwing knives were strapped across his vest. He was an expert tracker; Jericho knew if Blades didn’t see the need to whisper, their prey wasn’t near enough to hear them.

Reaper cocked his head to the side. ‘I can hear it now. I like this one.’

Blades grinned, teeth white in the gloom. ‘Goddamn, Bulldog. One day I’ll have to educate you about modern music. There’s more to life than that depressing shit you listen to.’

Jericho ran a hand over his short beard, not bothering to respond. People either got blues music or they didn’t, and considering Blades’ questionable taste in trashy women and flashy bikes, he knew he’d be wasting his breath.

Reaper turned to Blades and tapped his chest. ‘We’re wearing butterflies.’

‘It’s not a fucking butterfly,’ Jericho said wearily. Personally, he thought it was a badly stitched outline of South America, but he didn’t have much of an artistic eye. Seventeen years in the army had pretty much bulldozed any creativity out of him.

‘That’s right,’ Blades said. ‘It’s a unicorn.’

Reaper’s eyes dropped down to his chest. ‘Are you serious?’

‘Sure. And there’s a rainbow sticking out of its ass.’

Reaper looked up, eyes narrowing dangerously. ‘Are you taking the piss?’

‘Have you got Lance’s trail?’ Jericho interrupted Blades, signalling that the jokes were over. He knew both men were just blowing off steam, both as reluctant as he was for this night to go ahead. But they also knew there was no choice in the matter. To let a reverted Breed run free was unthinkable, the damage impossible to contain.

Blades nodded towards the apple orchard. ‘Yeah. He went that way.’

‘Then let’s move,’ Jericho said. ‘I want this over with.’

All quips and jokes were gone now as they crept to the forest edge, stopping to peer into the dark tangle of apple trees. Jericho spied a thin line of smoke curling into the sky and a white van parked in the distance, down the gentle slope of the orchard. The rap music stopped and a new melody, heavy with guitar riffs, drifted across the field.

Can’t put it off.

He entered the field like a ghost, stride long and determined. He had better night vision than the others, and he knew the music would hide the occasional twig crunch from Reaper’s boots. Not that he would have considered leaving Reaper behind. While he didn’t have the hunting finesse that Blades did, Reaper was the most vicious and effective fighter Jericho had ever seen. Someone he needed to have his back tonight.

As they approached the source of the music, Jericho slowed, sniffing the air. The musky smell of weed filled his nose, chased closely by the floral scent of females, and bright laughter danced in his ears. Inching forward, he got into a position with a good view of a small clearing. A steel drum had been stuffed with wood and a fire crackled away, emitting a pleasant, smoky aroma. Two women crowded around it, giggling as they held marshmallow-topped sticks over sparking flames. Three other women danced nearby, hips swaying to the music as they passed a joint around. Jericho felt his blood rush, the beast chained inside of him clawing with sudden, violent need.

Backpackers. Lord knew the locals in town didn’t look like that.

‘Isn’t that a sight,’ Blades breathed from beside him.

‘Keep it in your pants for once,’ Reaper muttered from behind them.

Jericho searched for Lance and a movement at the far end of the clearing caught his attention: eyes deep in shadow, glinting against the firelight, watching the women.

He tensed, knowing what Lance would do, understanding the urge that was controlling the man: a single-minded pursuit to kill and eat, to rage and ravage and to change, ripping and screaming, into the beast that would devour his sanity in the blink of an eye. Jericho himself had been to that edge a few times before, and knew how difficult it was to contain the raging urge to give in and let the beast take over.

He watched and waited, muscles bunched tight, breath short. Beside him, Reaper and Blades were silent, waiting for his signal. An unspoken worry pulled tight around them, both fear for the safety of the women, and concern that they might witness too much. After all, it was the duty of the Diablo Dogs MC to protect the secrets of the Breed rehabilitation centre, affectionately nicknamed the Dog House, and its safety took priority above all else.

A howl sliced through the night, the sound ragged and torn. The women froze, staring at each other with wide eyes. Tree limbs shuddered across the clearing, then Lance burst into view, covered in blood. He was caught mid-change: all distorted muscle and a mouth pulled long, with a half snout dragging low, gore dripping from it. Long teeth jutted from his lower jaw and his fingers had curled into blackened claws; one eye was twisted by bulging flesh, the other still painfully human. Coarse hair covered his naked upper torso and the metallic stench of sickness rolled out from him.

The women shrieked, falling over themselves in a tangle of hair and legs as they scrambled to flee from the nightmare lurching towards them.

Jericho shot forward, gun snapping up, and Lance froze. Jericho tried to stare Lance down, and though it was impossible, he wanted somehow to save this man, whose only sin had been to be infected with the lycanthropy virus. His teeth ground together and a sour taste flooded his mouth at what he had to do now.

Until last year, his tenure as Rehabilitator had been flawless. He had managed to save all those who came to the centre. But as if a switch had been flipped, men had begun to lose the fight with the virus, even one man who had previously been able to go off his medication, his control reasserted through meditation and breathing exercises. Medications had been doubled, but still men had succumbed and he couldn’t understand what had changed. Worst of all, Jericho knew there would be others. He could already see telltale signs. And he knew if he failed them as well, his hand would be forced again.

Lance’s human eye flicked past Jericho, noticing Reaper and Blades flanking him, then his shoulders drooped as if he was exhausted with just the effort of standing. Jericho’s aim wavered. If he could reach Lance, get him to back down, then maybe there was still hope. Maybe this was the one he could save.

A chill wind dipped into the clearing, ruffling Lance’s blood-matted hair and cooling Jericho’s heated skin. Lance blinked sluggishly, distorted chest heaving, and the clearing became still, the night sounds muted around them, the moment compressed.

From the corner of his eye Jericho saw Reaper shift his position, one boot stepping on a large twig, and the snap filled the silence like the crack of bones. Lance blinked, then the madness flooded back into his eyes and he sprung forward with a roar, clawed hands outstretched. Jericho fired twice, missing once. The second hit Lance’s shoulder, but it didn’t slow him down any.

Reaper and Blades both rushed forward, but Lance’s reflexes moved double-time and he was nothing but a blur of rage, hair and teeth. Blades copped a faceful of claws and Reaper was sliced across the chest, his vest taking most of the damage. Jericho fired again but missed, and Lance whirled, smashing Jericho’s hand to one side, gun sent flying. Jericho recovered quick, ducking a second swipe and then answering with a hammer-fist, scoring a solid hit against Lance’s disfigured jaw, sending him stumbling back.

Jericho threw back his head and howled, the sound a heady vibration in the sweet night air, rattling the leaves around them with the sound of an alpha who demanded obedience. It was a last, desperate effort to pull Lance back.

Beside him, Reaper and Blades backed off, waiting. They were the soldiers in this fight, not the executioner. Lance glared at them, then zeroed in on Jericho, eyes full of a wild madness.

Jericho shifted a boot heel, getting his footing just right. Lance was gone, he knew this. A savage wildness echoed through Lance’s face, all his humanity consumed.

The women were long gone now, their faint screams heading east and toward town, and Jericho knew it was a small blessing. They couldn’t have seen much, and who would believe a group of stoned backpackers?

Lance’s lips peeled back to bare a row of razor canine teeth, slick loops of saliva swinging from his jaw. Jericho steadied himself, knowing it was too dangerous to put it off any longer. He knew his duty and would always fulfil it, knowing that for Lance death was a mercy.

* * *

Lydia Gault rubbed her eyes against the rosy sunrise, mind parched for coffee. She’d even take it without milk and sugar if she had to. Anything to help prop her up after yet another sleepless night.

Her eyes dropped to the corpse stretched out before her in the long grass and fear knotted her stomach. Tucking a stray curl of scarlet hair back under the baseball-style police cap, she looked over to the bristling pine forest that edged the field. The Pembly Forest Reserve was just a ten-minute walk from town, sitting at the foothold of the surrounding mountains. Filled with acres of ancient pines, deep river gorges and sweeping fern glades, it was a popular place for tourists, crisscrossed by walking tracks and information boards that detailed the wildlife to be seen.

The body had been discovered by early-morning hikers in a small clearing of green moss, bracken and a scattering of bright fungi. Around her, Lydia caught glimpses of volunteers in bright yellow coats who’d begun searching the woods.

Bringing her attention back to the body with a sigh, she snapped on a pair of latex gloves and tried to compose herself, tried to ignore the queasy sensation rolling her stomach. She never used to be squeamish about bodies. For chrissake, she’d joined the Force when she was nineteen. Four years on general duties, then blazing her way to detective. The things she’d seen in that time had given her a cast-iron stomach. Of course, that was before, when she had been whole. In the shocked months of after, when she’d realised her old life was no longer an option, she’d fled here to her hometown of Camden, for a quiet country cop’s job.

And now, this.

‘What do you think?’ Senior Sergeant Derek Bowden appeared beside her, expression grim as he tilted back his wide-brimmed hat. ‘Hunting season doesn’t kick off until February, but there’s always folk who’ll ignore the rules. Maybe she got in the line of fire of some drunk idiot.’

Lydia shifted her bulky duty belt under her coat and crouched down beside the body. The woman lay face down, arms splayed out, and Lydia’s eyes traced over the details: bare feet, jeans, casual shirt. Skin was pale under a tan and the woman’s feet were grass-stained. She’d been running, hard and fast, before she’d been killed. A splotch of blood marked where the bullet had entered her back, ending her life.

‘Do we have a name?’ she asked Bowden.

‘I think I’ve seen her around town now and then,’ he said. ‘Might be one of the girls who lives in that women-only hippie retreat just out of town.’

Lydia nodded absently and looked around her. The discovery of a body was big news for this small community and a crowd of people with sombre faces had gathered some distance away. Someone had even called the fire department. Her eyes moved over the volunteer firefighters lounging against the town’s fire truck, some sipping from a Thermos, and while they were wearing their all-purpose reflective coats, she spied a few pyjama pants and Ugg boots underneath.

‘Well?’

Bowden’s voice broke into her thoughts and she held back a frown, wishing he’d keep quiet and let her concentrate. She didn’t answer, still scanning the crowd and looking for someone who might be a little too interested in what she was doing. Someone who might have something invested in the body, or be holding onto some guilt. Her eyes caught one of the firefighters: a young man with blond hair and broad shoulders. He gave her a sad smile and she frowned, breaking eye contact quickly. She didn’t need anyone’s sympathy; she had no use for it.

‘I’m not so sure it was a hunting accident.’ She pointed at the woman’s bare feet. ‘Bit cold to be walking with no shoes.’

‘Yeah, but hippies don’t wear shoes, do they?’ Bowden asked.

She ignored the comment, not sure if he was being serious or trying to make some sort of grim joke. She drew her attention back to the body. In her darkest hours, she’d imagined returning to the sanctuary of Camden, wanting more than anything to put the trauma of last year behind her. But staring at the body of an unidentified murdered woman, she couldn’t help wondering if violence was a part of who she was, slinking after her like a dark shadow.

Footsteps approached from behind her, making soft squelching sounds against the damp moss. She straightened and glanced back, seeing a thin man with a pencil moustache and a large bag grasped in one hand. His sharp eyes pinned Lydia.

‘I trust you’ve had the good sense not to disturb anything,’ he said.

Her eyebrows snapped down. ‘Of course not.’

‘Jacob, this is Constable Lydia Gault.’ Bowden blew on his hands, breath puffing steam around his knuckles. He nodded at the thin man. ‘Constable, this is Jacob Anglo. He’s a medical examiner.’

‘Only here on sabbatical.’ Anglo pursed his lips, staring at the body on the ground.

‘He’s writing a memoir.’ Bowden winked at her. ‘We’re pretty damned lucky he’s around.’

‘Lucky for who,’ Lydia muttered under her breath.

‘I’d like your officer away from my body,’ Anglo instructed Bowden. ‘I don’t want her contaminating the scene.’

‘Easy on there.’ Bowden raised his hands in mock surrender. ‘Lydia here worked on the force on the mainland. I just asked her for some impressions.’

‘It’s fine.’ Lydia peeled off her gloves. ‘I’ll get out of the way.’

She stalked off, back stiff and jaw tight. She’d met posturing men with big egos before and they didn’t scare her, but Anglo was still a self-righteous prick, acting like she was kicking shit over the body. She reached the mud-splattered police Ford Ranger and took deep breaths. Easy Lydia, she told herself. You came here to take it easy, remember? Maybe it was exactly what Bowden said, a hunting accident. Sure. And maybe she’d win lotto.

‘You okay?’

She turned to see the blond firefighter, still wearing that annoying sad look on his face, like he understood something of what she was going through. She doubted he would have been wearing that expression if she were a man. Her eyes flicked behind him. His mates by the fire truck were watching and nudging each other with wide grins.

So. She was fresh meat, was she? She fixed him with a scorching glare. ‘Why wouldn’t I be okay?’

‘I dunno.’ His high cheekbones flushed rosy and his feet shifted awkwardly. He stuck a hand out. ‘My name’s Jamie. Jamie McCormick.’

She ignored the hand and stared pointedly behind him. ‘I think your friends want your attention.’

He glanced back and swore, then gave her a sheepish expression. ‘They think I’m going to ask you on a date.’

‘Which would hardly be appropriate.’ Her look flipped from inferno hot to glacial cold.

He muttered something she didn’t catch, then slunk back to the fire truck, where his fellow volunteers chuckled and patted him on the back. Lydia ignored them, rubbing her arms, the stiff material of her jacket rustling under her palms, and watched Anglo take photographs of the dead woman. Bowden stood to one side, one hand repeatedly rubbing the back of his neck and wearing a puzzled expression, as if he couldn’t figure how such a thing could happen in this quiet northeastern town. Camden was a quaint little town with apple orchards on its edge and rolling hills wherever you turned. Just a two-hour drive from Launceston on the Tasman Highway, it was a region known for fresh fruit, dark ales and creamy cheese. Not cold-blooded killing.

But Lydia knew from firsthand experience that anyone was capable of becoming a monster and killing. She’d just hoped it wouldn’t happen here.

She climbed into the car and pulled out a notebook from her jacket, scribbling down notes about the body she’d observed. Anglo didn’t want her help, but she didn’t care. While she knew nothing about her absent father, her mother had been part Polish, part German and a whole lot of stubborn, something Lydia had inherited.

Camden might be a small town surrounded by mountains and pine plantations, but procedures were the same, no matter where you lived. Bowden was going to get a report from her, whether he wanted it or not.

Chapter 2

‘Freshen that drink for you, Bulldog?’

Jericho looked down at the whiskey glass in his hand, surprised to see it was empty. Behind the bar of Dusty Roads, one of the Diablo Dogs prospects, Winger, waited with an expectant look. Jericho shook his head, though his mouth was dry enough for another. But he couldn’t drink much, couldn’t afford to lose the control he needed at all times.

Sunrise had begun streaming through the grimy windows of the bar and he blinked against the glow, eyes gritty as the past night stretched long behind him, full of nightmares and murder. When he’d returned from digging Lance’s grave, he’d showered the blood and dirt off in the staff bathroom in the back of the bar, and though he’d rubbed his skin raw with soap in the shower, he still felt dirty. The only good thing to come from the night was the realisation the blood on Lance had been animal, most likely a cow from a nearby dairy farm.

Still holding his glass, Jericho leaned against the bar to survey the mixed crowd inside the Dusty Roads Saloon: messy leftovers from the night before and truckers looking for a greasy breakfast special before taking off on their Monday-morning trips. According to Winger, last night had been profitable, complete with a rowdy hen’s party making an appearance at midnight.

‘Trying to blend in with the locals?’ Winger quipped from behind him. Jericho knew the prospect was just wondering why he wasn’t wearing his cut, and while the question was innocent enough, it drove a spike of fresh regret through him. He almost reconsidered that second drink.

‘Something like that,’ he murmured, not turning around. The blood-drenched fight had been brutal. Lance had gotten close enough to tear through Jericho’s vest, his claws shredding his clothes and leaving deep gouges on his chest. Turk, the vice-president of the Diablo Dogs, had assured him he’d organise a replacement, but Jericho knew it wouldn’t be the same. The loss of his cut added to the sense of failure, along with the fresh blisters on his hands from digging Lance’s forest grave, a task he performed alone, every time. He knew the men at the Dog House would be even more unsettled now, and while everyone knew the consequences of losing themselves to the madness that dogged the virus, Lance’s fall had driven the hard message home. Control. At all times, or suffer the ultimate consequence.

A rowdy bark of laughter drew his attention to a handful of out-of-town bikers who had had roared in twenty minutes ago. They’d ordered a round of fried eggs and bacon from the kitchen and had settled back with breakfast beers. Jericho recognised their cuts; an outlaw club called the Slayers. They came from the north, and occasionally got the bright idea of forming an allegiance with the Dogs. A powerful club, the Slayers had many chapters around the world, operating a gauntlet of trades: from chop shops to illegal brothels, with a brisk business in the production and trade of methamphetamine.

Jericho had turned down their offer of joining forces twice last year. The second refusal had been done with enough force to knock one of the biker’s front teeth out after he’d been stupid enough to make threats. After all, the purpose of the Diablo Dogs MC was only to act as a massive ‘fuck off’ to anyone who got too interested in the compound nestled deep in the thick pine forest that hemmed the bar. The club was a necessary cover, set up twenty years ago by the previous Head Rehabilitator, and as time passed, the club had become an important part of the members’ identities, and a symbol of strength to those they helped.

Jericho sighed. He’d hoped the brawl last time would be the end of the matter, but it seemed the Slayers wanted to poke the hornet’s nest one more time and that was a shitstorm he didn’t need. He watched the Slayers make eyes at Reaper and Frost playing pool at the back of the bar and knew from the way they carried themselves that a fight was inevitable.

Jericho tapped a couple of fingers against his empty glass, thick platinum rings clinking, blisters stinging. The Dusty Roads Saloon had a reputation for being a rough bar, but he had strict rules about fighting. The rehab centre was mostly funded by charity donated by wealthy Breed families, those with pure lines who saw themselves as a class higher than the unfortunate souls who got infected with the virus through a bite. Mutts was the term the full-blooded families used. Jericho knew this because he’d been called it often enough in the royal court when he’d served as an Enforcer. But the King he’d served had not allowed this bigotry to cloud his judgement, and he’d seen something special in Jericho when he’d applied for the role of Enforcer.