Immortal Wolf - By Bonnie Vanak Page 0,65

out of the forest, all her previous anger and grief evaporated like summer rain. Inside her head, someone was screaming.

Her mate.

Terror immobilized her. She touched his mind, felt waves of burning pain as if someone had laced her skin with a hot knife. Staggering back, she slumped against a pecan tree for strength.

She had to find and save him.

But how?

Raphael was in the dark place again.

Ten years old, cocky, whistling as he walked through the Vieux Carre. The French Quarter. Purebloods mostly lived here with the human populace. The outcast Cajun Draicon like his family stuck to the bayou. Today he’d ventured into town to buy fruit for his mother. They both adored fresh peaches.

Raphael turned a corner and went into the small store. He filled the wooden basket on his arm with plump, juicy fruit, paid the shopkeeper and left. As he ambled down the street, his mouth watered at the sweet smell. Maybe just one, now.

Halfway down a deserted alley, he stopped and bit into a peach. Juice dribbled down his chin. Moaning at the delicious taste, he took another bite, the scent swimming into his nostrils.

Until another, deadlier scent drifted into his awareness.

The half-eaten peach dropped into the basket as Raphael looked up to see five Draicon ambling toward him. Five mature males, at least ten years past their first change. Purebloods. He could tell from the aura they radiated of power. Their cocky arrogance, matching his own. The same ones he’d run into last week. They would not leave him alone this time.

Scanning the area, he realized it was too late to run. He’d look foolish and cowardly, and he was no coward.

Raphael set the basket down and drew himself up to his full height. He was only ten, but he was tall already, though gangly. His father always teased him about how his change would make him widen as well as lengthen.

“Look what crossed our street. The mongrel from the bayou.”

The tallest pureblood, with hair blond as corn silk, sauntered up to him. He kicked at the basket, spilling the peaches. “You’re lost, Cajun trash. Get out of our territory.”

“Not yours. I don’t smell you, only the stink of garbage.” Raphael wrinkled his nose. “Oh, wait, I’m wrong. It is you.”

Crimson flushed their faces at the insult. The blond looked him over coolly. “I told you last time, if I caught you in town again, you’d pay. You’re not welcome, mongrel. You contaminate our air.”

Raphael snapped him a rude gesture, hiding the hurt deep inside. Why did they always treat him like this, just because his blood was less pure, and he was Cajun? He could be just as good as they were. Equal.

Better, even.

Drawing up his fists, he prepared to fight.

They rushed at him in a pack, their moves swift and coordinated. One kicked at his legs, while another jumped him from the side. He fought his best under the assault of furious blows, but they outnumbered him. Outweighed him.

He fell with a grunt, holding his hands up against his head to ward off the blows. How he wished he could shift! The wolf could hold them at bay. But he was two years away from the change.

The blows ceased. He opened an eye and saw Blondie fish something out of his pocket.

The collar was snapped around his neck. He struggled and fought, but they held him down and attached a length of chain to the dog collar. Tears of pain surged in his eyes as Blondie yanked at the leash.

“Come on, doggie, let’s go for a walk.”

If he acquiesced, they’d never leave him alone. Deep inside, he knew he had to fight, even if it were a losing battle. Raphael jumped to his feet.

“Go to hell,” he snarled, lashing out with his fists.

The punch caught Blondie by surprise, landing on his lip. Blood streamed from the cut. The male wiped his mouth, his eyes narrowing.

“I’ll teach you to behave, mongrel.”

A hiss sounded as the switchblade popped free of its casing. Terror surged through Raphael as he struggled in the arms of the two who held him.

Had they cut him, he could have borne it. Instead, they sawed at his hair, his pride. Until nothing was left but tufts. Then they took the basket of peaches he’d loved and cut them open, squishing them over the lacerations and bruises. Fresh cuts stung from the juice. The tangy scent of peaches mingled with the smell of his own blood.

Blondie kicked him in the groin, sending