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Alpha Wolf
Linda O. Johnston
When evil hunts by moonlight, desire can be fatal… When Melanie comes to rural Maryland to open a vet clinic, she has no intention of buying into the area’s absurd werewolf legends. Until she rescues an ordinary dog shot with a silver bullet and meets his sexy owner, Major Drew Connell.A powerful werewolf himself, Drew has developed an elixir that helps shape-shifters control their abilities. He’s always tried to keep his distance from the civilian population, but Melanie soon wears down his defences. With the attacks on locals mounting, can their fiery attraction withstand their toughest challenge?


“You sure you’ll be okay here alone tonight?”
“Are you offering to stay?” Her body ignited with the idea of this man staying the night.

“Do you want me to?” Drew countered.

“No.” The word erupted from what was left of her good sense.

“Fine.” But he didn’t leave. Instead, he looked down at her. His amber eyes seemed to stare through her, to her soul. Setting it on fire.

Setting her on fire.

Or was that a factor of the searching heat of his lips as he bent and touched them to hers? The kiss was hard and hot and suggestive.

She ached for his touch elsewhere. Everywhere.

Except…he suddenly pulled back.

His expression had become cool. Distant. “Good night, Dr Harding. Sleep well.”

And then he was gone.

Alpha Wolf
Linda O. Johnston



www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)

About the Author
LINDA O. JOHNSTON first made her appearance in print in Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine and went on to win the Robert L. Fish Memorial Award for Best First Mystery Short Story of the Year. Now, several published short stories and novels later, Linda is recognized for her outstanding work in the romance genre.
A practicing attorney, Linda juggles her busy schedule between mornings of writing briefs, contracts and other legalese, and afternoons of creating memorable tales of the paranormal, time travel, mystery, and contemporary and romantic suspense. Armed with an undergraduate degree in journalism with an advertising emphasis from Pennsylvania State University, Linda began her versatile writing career running a small newspaper, then working in advertising and public relations and later obtaining her J.D. degree from Duquesne University School of Law in Pittsburgh.

Linda belongs to Sisters in Crime and is actively involved with Romance Writers of America, participating in the Los Angeles, Orange County and Western Pennsylvania chapters. She lives near Universal Studios, Hollywood, with her husband, two sons and two cavalier King Charles spaniels.
Many thanks to my delightful editor, Allison Lyons—and may she enjoy editing many more Nocturnes!

Lots of love to Dr Donald Zangwill, my stepfather, and to Carol Boll, who’s there for him.

And, as always, with love to my husband, Fred.
Dear Reader,

I am an admitted animal aficionado. That’s why I’ve always wondered “what if” about werewolves. What if people really had the ability to change into animals, and vice versa? What if they decided not to make such a gift into a horror story, but to use it for good?

That was the origin of Alpha Wolf. It’s the story of a lady veterinarian (my own childhood dream) who meets a hunky military man who challenges everything she has believed about science and anatomy—and love.
I hope you enjoy it! Please come visit me at my website www.LindaOJohnston.com. Oh, and I just happen to blog about pets at www.KillerHobbies.blogspot.com. See you there!

Linda O. Johnston

Chapter One
Crack!
Dr. Melanie Harding’s hands jerked. Seated at her scuffed wooden desk, she nearly dropped the financial statement she’d been studying—the first month’s figures for her new veterinary practice.
Had that been a gunshot?
From down the hall, dogs started barking—one shrill and high, the others gruff and deep. The outside noise had clearly disturbed some of the patients kept overnight for observation. It hadn’t been her imagination.
Not that she’d really thought so.
She glanced across her compact office toward the far window. The sound had come from that direction.
She couldn’t see much outside from here. The moonlight, although bright, didn’t do much to illuminate the yard or, beyond it, the thick woods bordering the town of Mary Glen.
Sure, this wasn’t Beverly Hills, where Melanie had come from, but it was still a civilized area, despite its somewhat remote location on Maryland’s Eastern Shore. People didn’t just go around hunting here at night—did they? Too dangerous to people, let alone any defenseless animals that might be their prey.
Melanie stood, shoving her fists into the pockets of the white lab coat she still wore, resisting the urge to race out and yell at whoever was shooting. Not that she was likely to see who it was. And if the fool was still there, any movement she might make could turn her into a target.
Besides, maybe it wasn’t a hunter.
Maybe it was something else. Something more sinister—like what had happened to her predecessor vet.
Despite her uneasiness, she felt compelled to glance out there. See if she could figure out what was going on.
Without being foolish, though. It was late, after ten o’clock, and except for her hospitalized patients she was alone here. She crossed to the open office door and flicked the switch on the beige wall beside it, turning off the overhead light. That way, she wouldn’t be back-lighted as she stood by the window.
She edged toward the glass, stood cautiously sideways behind its frame, and looked out.
The area behind her clinic was fenced in, a place where dogs could be let out for exercise and evacuation. The surface was concrete—not as comfortable on tender paws as grass, but easier to keep clean.
The enclosure was empty now, illuminated by a gorgeous full moon that hung high in the black sky, its light obscuring any stars that might otherwise be visible.
Beyond the yard was the dense amalgamation of poplars, oaks, dogwoods and other trees that composed the local woodlands—beautiful in daylight, especially now, in springtime, as some of them blossomed…but darkly ominous at night. Melanie could make out the swaying of branches in the light breeze—like arms waving her away—but little else in that direction.
She stood still for a minute, scanning all she could see, but everything looked fine back there. Normal.
Peaceful. As if there had never been any gunshot.
Even the dogs down the hall had stopped barking.
Sighing, Melanie shook her head. Her long, deep brown hair was caught up in a clip at the nape of her neck, as it always was when she worked. It had been a long, tiring day. But enjoyable. She’d stayed later than usual to check over a litter of puppies that were born today at their home—sweet, tiny Yorkies that their owner had brought in with the mama dog for reassurance that all was well. Melanie had sent them back home with smiles and instructions.
Only then had she been able to get to the paperwork. She hadn’t intended to remain this late. And now she had been interrupted.
She wouldn’t convince herself that the sound hadn’t occurred, but she was unlikely to learn its source. Maybe it had been a car backfiring—did they still do that? It wasn’t necessarily as menacing as she had first imagined. No need to call the police and have them think she was some nervous newcomer, a city girl who imagined scary urbantype incidents here, in this pleasant country area.
Leaving the window, she grabbed her purse from a desk drawer and headed down the hall.
A soft light glowed in the infirmary. She stepped inside, and glanced from cage to cage to check on the occupants. The air smelled familiarly of antiseptic and the aroma of healing dogs.
“Hi, Rudy,” she crooned to the Jack Russell terrier she had been treating for a leg injury he’d gotten on a mad dash through a neighbor’s yard. “Was that you I heard barking? How are you feeling?” The small, wiry terrier stood on three legs, holding his left front paw up piteously as he wriggled for attention. A soft, flexible recovery collar was fitted over his head to prevent him from chewing at his injury. Melanie opened the front of his cage and extracted the active pup, hugging him tightly as she checked to ensure his dressing was intact.
Putting him back with more soothing words, she looked in on her other patients: a shepherd mix named Wrangler who’d had surgery for a hernia, a Great Dane named Diva from whom Melanie had extracted two tumors that fortunately looked benign—although a lab report would confirm it—and Sherman, a medium-sized dog of unknown heritage who was being boarded for a few days while his owners were out of town. She spoke cheerfully to each and gave them pats and hugs, not wanting anyone to feel slighted.
“Time for me to go home,” she finally said, hanging her lab jacket on a hook near the door. “See you all in the morning.”
She kept the light on low as she headed down the hall to the clinic’s entrance. The reception area’s mini-blinds were closed as usual at this late hour. She checked her purse to ensure she had the keys, then slowly opened the door. Not that she really expected to be shot at, but she still felt a little nervous after the earlier disruption.
The veterinary clinic was at the end of Choptank Lane, the last of several streets perpendicular to Mary Glen Road, the town’s main thoroughfare. Melanie’s house was next door. The two buildings were the only ones on this block, although there were a couple of antique shops on the next one, closer to the town’s business district. Usually, the isolation was comforting to Melanie.
Not tonight.
She made sure the clinic’s door was locked behind her and stood listening for a moment. In the light from the moon and streetlamps, her gaze darted around the quiet dead-end street.
Darn, that noise had spooked her.
Assuring herself that everything seemed fine, she started down the sidewalk toward her house, her footsteps nearly silent in her athletic shoes. The spring air felt brisk on her face.
But…was someone watching her? No, that had to be her imagination, sparked by nervousness. Still, she picked up her pace.
And stopped when she heard a soft sound behind her, like a dog’s whimper.
Nervous or not, she turned back, hunting for the sound’s source. An animal in trouble?
She spotted a furry heap in the opposite gutter, in shadows, not far from where the next block began. She hadn’t noticed the animal at first while concentrating on the direction toward her home.
She hurried toward it as she heard the whimper again. She dropped on her knees beside the barely moving dog.
“What’s wrong, fella?” she asked soothingly. The answer was obvious, thanks to the trail of dark, oozing liquid leading up to animal. Blood. As if he had dragged himself here and collapsed.
The dog lifted its head slightly. He lay on his side, panting.
“You poor thing. Hold on.” Despite the faintness of the light, she scanned the dog with professional eyes.
The loud noise…Had someone shot this dog? This grayish dog that dared to resemble a wolf.
Damn the legends around here! And damn the people who’d come seeking creatures that didn’t exist except in their own perverted imaginations.
Could she lift him? She was strong, but this poor creature would be a deadweight.
“I’ll be right back,” she promised. She extracted keys from her purse as she ran back to the clinic. She fumbled as she opened the door, then sped down the hall to the storeroom where she kept large bags of food for pets with special needs.
She grabbed a metal cart used to transfer sacks from outside delivery points to the storage area and shoved it ahead of her. It rattled and creaked as she hurried back down the hall. The dogs in the infirmary renewed their clamorous barking.
Melanie hurried across the street and maneuvered the injured animal onto the cart’s large lower shelf. Speed was important, but she didn’t want to hurt the poor thing any more than necessary. She carefully pushed the cart around her driveway, rather than over the curb, up the walkway and over the stoop into the clinic.
She hustled the cart toward the operating room.
Once there, she had difficulty lifting the hurt dog onto the table but somehow managed it, even handling him gingerly, knowing that injured canines were apt to bite. She quickly sedated the creature, but not before it looked at her—trustingly, she thought—with unusual amber eyes.
“You’ll be okay,” she promised, hoping it was so.
Soon, the dog was asleep. He had no collar, no identification. No matter. She would help him, even if he had no owner to pay her fees.
Melanie wished this were daytime, when her technicians were available to help prepare the animal for surgery. But at this hour, in this emergency situation, she was on her own.
With an antiseptic wash, she cleansed the area where she thought the injury to be. Yes, there it was—just behind his left shoulder. She used an electric razor to shave the bloody gray-black fur from around the skin to reveal a hole. A bullet hole. And no exit wound.
Quickly, carefully, she performed the required surgery. Not that she had ever removed a bullet before. But she had operated extensively on injured animals.
When she was finished, she sutured the incision and maneuvered the dog onto the sterile bedding she had placed in a stand-alone wire crate with an open top, preparing to watch him until he awakened.
She shook her head. “Lunatic,” she said aloud accusingly, as if the guilty party could hear her. “Credulous, cruel fool.”
Mary Glen was full of tourists these days, those enamored with local legends.
Werewolf legends.
Using tweezers, Melanie held up the piece of metal she had removed from her patient.
She had no doubt what it was: a silver bullet.
He still watched from the woods, wishing he could draw closer, stare inside the lighted building. See what was happening inside.
But being seen, especially now, was a bad idea.
Had he acted in time? He had done his best, under extreme circumstances. Was it good enough?
This was a time he could do no more. And now he would have to wait.
Only in the morning would he learn if he had been successful.
If his friend would live.
Melanie stirred in her chair.
Chair? She must have fallen asleep somehow in the operating room. Slept sitting up, in the vinylupholstered metal seat she had dragged in so she could rest while observing her patient. No wonder she felt so stiff.
She opened her eyes. They felt gritty until they landed on the crate on the floor between the operating table and her. And then they widened easily as she smiled.
The faint light of dawn, creeping in the window across the room, illuminated the dog she had treated last night. He was sitting up on the bleached, sterile towels she had put inside the metal crate for his comfort. As with nearly all animals she operated on, she had attached a large post-surgical recovery collar around his neck, framing his face, so he could not chew on his sutures. If he left the wound alone, she would remove it.
He watched her with bright amber eyes. Intelligent eyes. He seemed to thank her.
She gave a quick shake of her head. No way was she going to buy into the absurd legends around here. The dog might be smart—heck, she’d guess him to be a mix between a malamute and a German shepherd, both bright breeds. He was moderate sized. His multi-hued coat was mostly gray tipped in black, but was all white in some areas, others all black. He had a long, strong muzzle and erect ears. Did he resemble a wolf? Sure. But he wasn’t one.
And even if he was a conglomeration of the smartest breeds of dogs, that didn’t give him human intelligence—like a werewolf would supposedly have.
“Good morning, guy,” she said to him. He immediately stood in the cage-like enclosure, his long, fluffy tail wagging. “How do you feel?” She didn’t expect an answer, but she knelt on the clean, sunshine-yellow linoleum floor and examined the bandaged area near his left shoulder. Good thing the gun used to shoot him apparently hadn’t been very powerful. Although he’d lost a lot of blood, not much damage had been done. The bullet had barely nicked his scapula without ricocheting, then lodged there.
Not enough to kill a strong, healthy dog, thank heavens. Was even a minor wound with a silver bullet supposed to be enough to slaughter a werewolf?
Maybe she’d need to read up on the lore, to maximize her effectiveness as a vet around here. Only so she’d be prepared for situations like this, of course.
In the meantime, she had to make a phone call. Probably should have made it last night.
“No such thing as werewolves, are there, boy?” she said, giving her patient a gentle hug without putting pressure on his wound. “But I wish you were able to talk, or at least communicate your name and where you came from. You appear well taken care of—not starving, and though you look a little straggly now, I’d guess someone brushes your coat pretty often.”
He made a small whining noise, as if trying to hold up his end of the conversation. Melanie grinned as she stood. “Even if I don’t believe in werewolves, I sure do a lot of anthropomorphizing.” The dog’s head was cocked as if he tried to understand her. “Anthropomorphizing? That’s ascribing human characteristics to animals. Like now. Understand?” The dog barked, and Melanie laughed. “Maybe you do understand.” She glanced at her watch. “Know what? It’s nearly six-thirty. Some of my staff will arrive soon, which is a good thing. Patients, too, and that’s not so good when I haven’t slept much. But I’ll manage. Just need a cup of coffee to get me going.”
Her patient stood up and wriggled in the crate.
“You’re surely not suggesting you need coffee. Water, though—I’ll get you some. And you seem to be doing well enough to try a little food, too. I’ll have one of the techs bring you some as soon as they arrive—it’ll help them get some antibiotics and painkiller down you. They can take the collar off for a while and see if you lick.”
She left the operating room and went down the hall to look in on the patients in the infirmary. They all stood at eager attention at her arrival. “Good morning,” she said. “You all look chipper.” She made sure they each had water available and got a plastic bowlful for her surgery patient.
Her next stop was her office, where she called the Mary Glen Police Department. “Chief Ellenbogen, please. This is Dr. Melanie Harding.”
It took nearly five minutes before the chief got on the line. Her fingers thrumming in irritation on her desk, Melanie alternated between listening to public interest announcements blaring in her ear and speaking with underlings who apologized when she said she had something important to tell the chief. No, it wasn’t an emergency—now. She considered hanging up.
But this was important. Or at least it might be.
Eventually…“Ellenbogen here.”
“Chief, this is—”
“Yes, I was told the vet was waiting. How ya doing, Melanie?”
She had met the chief when he had brought in his own pet, a sweet, aging bloodhound named Jasper that supported the adage that people adopted dogs that resembled them. Chief Ellenbogen was as wrinkled and laid back as his pet. “I’m okay, Chief, but I found a dog late last night outside the clinic who’d been shot with a silver bullet. He’s going to be okay, but since I was told that my predecessor vet here, Dr. Worley, and his wife were killed that way, I thought you’d want to know.”
“I’ll be right there, Melanie. I want to see that dog.” He paused, then said, “Er…have you checked on him this morning?”
It was all Melanie could do to keep from chuckling. “If what you’re asking is whether he’s still a dog, or if he morphed into a human in daylight, the answer is ‘arf.’”
The chief cleared his throat. “Just jokin’.” But he sounded more embarrassed than humorous. “See you in a few.”
Melanie’s head was shaking as she hung up. Werewolves. People here obviously believed in them, as ridiculous as it sounded. Even, apparently, the chief of police.
Well, she’d kind of known that before she bought this practice from Lt. Patrick Worley, son of Dr. Martin Worley, who’d been shot and killed by a silver bullet only a few months ago. His wife was killed the same way, a year earlier. The shooter—or shooters—hadn’t been caught. And Melanie hadn’t known before how widespread the legend was of werewolves—and how widely accepted.
Ridiculous. No doubt about that. But she promised herself yet again to take a crash course in werewolf lore, so she would be better prepared to deal with this silliness.
No. More than silliness, she reminded herself as she headed for her office door. Viciousness. A man was killed because of it—even though she’d heard no rumors that anyone considered her predecessor vet, Dr. Worley, a werewolf. But the silver bullet bit—that had to be a result of the legend.
And now she’d saved the life of a dog that someone may have mistaken for a shapeshifting human.
At least she was fairly certain that the legends said that werewolves turned back into people as the moon disappeared into daylight. No way would anyone be able to mistake her patient again for a shapeshifter.
Time to go check on him again, before her staff started arriving in a few minutes. She headed back down the hall to the surgery room, thrust open the door—and stopped.
Just inside, staring at her, was a man. He was tall, dressed in jeans and a gray sweatshirt stretched taut over substantial muscles, his black hair flecked with brilliant silver.
And he regarded her with intelligent, grateful amber eyes.

Chapter Two
Melanie barely stifled a gasp. Where was her patient? Surely, he hadn’t turned into this man. The Mary Glen werewolf legends were utter fiction, the creation of superstitious minds…weren’t they?
But if the dog she had treated had become human, this man had some of the features she would anticipate…
“Dr. Harding?” The man’s voice was deep, throaty. All sexy. All masculine.
Human masculine.
“Yes?” she said, hating the slight tremor in her voice. “Who are you?” Good. Her voice was stronger now. “What are you doing here?” She had to see for herself. She sidled uneasily away from the doorway, where this large, compelling man commandeered every inch of her vision, preventing her from viewing the rest of the room.
She needed to see the crate in which her patient had slept last night. Make sure it wasn’t empty. It couldn’t be empty.
“I’m Major Drew Connell. I want to thank you for saving my dog, Grunge.”
“Grunge?” As Melanie said the name, she finally reached a position where the man wasn’t blocking her view. There was the wire crate, still on the floor between the chair she had dragged in and the tall metal table where she operated. The furry dog with the recovery collar was still in it, sitting up, tail wagging furiously.
“Yeah, Grunge.”
“Interesting name.” Melanie felt almost giddy with relief. The dog was still there. Of course. How silly of her to have entertained any doubts, even for a second. Not that she’d really doubted.
But Grunge? The dog looked anything but grungy to her, at least since she had cleaned the blood off him.
“Interesting dog. You should see him after a workout. He really throws himself into it.” Major Connell knelt and put his arms around Grunge, obviously careful not to push the collar into an uncomfortable position, an oddly touching scene—the large, powerful-looking man and the injured dog. He backed off to ruffle the fur on Grunge’s head, then gently turned the dog so he could see the bandaged area. “What happened? How was he hurt? I was engaged in a training exercise on the base late last night, so I wasn’t aware till just a short while ago that he was missing.”
Melanie didn’t answer his question right away. She had too many of her own. It was one thing to keep her imagination in check. It was another to take this man’s appearance at face value. “Then how did you know to look for him here?”
“I couldn’t find him anywhere else, so I used process of elimination and decided to check out the closest vet. And here he was.” He gave the dog another rough pat, then stood again.
Did his answer make sense? Maybe. The nearest military base wasn’t next door, but there weren’t other veterinary clinics or animal shelters any nearer than this hospital.
“He’s your dog?” Melanie demanded. She had to look way up to meet the officer’s eyes. Damn, but the man was good-looking: straight, dark brows over those amber eyes, a slender nose with slightly flared nostrils, a sensuous, full mouth. All that and a hint of dark beard beneath his closely shaved skin.
“Yes and no. He belongs to the U.S. Army, but we’re assigned to work with one another. He’s a highly trained military dog. We use him, and others like him on the base, to help sniff out bombs and other weaponry, to attack on command, and—well, some of his work is classified.”
“Yeah, if you told me you’d have to kill me. I get it.” Melanie kept her tone light, but she stared at the officer. “By ‘base,’ I assume you mean Ft. Lukman, right?”
“Sure, our nearest and dearest facility.”
“Well, military or not, Grunge should be wearing a collar with an ID tag.”
“No argument there. My partner’s a bit of an escape artist, though. He slipped out of his collar and decided to take a walk on his own. I’ll try harder to keep that from happening again.”
“Don’t just try. Succeed. And you train dogs? Is an army veterinarian stationed there?” Melanie’s ears had perked up at the mention of more animals on the base. Ft. Lukman was about five miles from Mary Glen. The soldiers posted there frequented local businesses for goods and services not available at the base’s reputedly small BX. They would have excellent access to all medical needs. But would their animals?
“Not stationed there, but one visits every few weeks to check up on our dogs and facilities. Dr. Worley used to be available in emergencies. His son, Lt. Patrick Worley, is stationed at the base. I expect you’ve met him.”
“Yes, I bought this clinic from him.”
“I figured.”
“And the answer is yes, I’ll definitely be available in emergencies to help your animals. That’s what I do.”
“I’ll remember that.”
His smile was killer. Friendly. Assessing. Suggestive…of what? Hot endless nights? Mind-blowing sex?
What an imagination she was developing around here!
Forget that smile. She wouldn’t let herself get lost in it.
If he’d been an invited guest, or even the owner of a patient, she wouldn’t have kept him standing here like this. She’d have invited him to sit down—on that ugly, uncomfortable chair she’d slept in last night? She glanced toward where it sat near the metal shelves in which her surgical instruments, anesthetics and medicines were locked. No, that would have felt too…intimate. She would have invited him into her office, where she could speak professionally.
But she hadn’t invited him here at all, though she was glad to know that her patient had someone who cared about him. And presumably Uncle Sam would pay for his care.
But still…She asked the major coolly, “By the way, how did you get in here this morning?”
“The front door was unlocked. I didn’t see anyone, so I called out but I guess you didn’t hear me. Grunge did, and he barked, so I knew where to come.”
“I didn’t hear you or him,” Melanie said. Could she believe any of this? Well, she had been on the phone with Chief Ellenbogen. Maybe she had missed Grunge’s barking.
But wouldn’t the other dogs have barked, too? Plus, she had been nervous. Still was. Last night, she had been attuned to listening, after hearing the gunshot. And she was damn well certain she hadn’t left the front door unlocked. She had checked all the doors…hadn’t she?
Well, Chief Ellenbogen was on his way. Some of her staff was due any minute. She wouldn’t be alone with this man much longer. And despite how he had somehow gotten in, she didn’t think he meant her harm. While the police chief was here, she’d look at the doors and windows to see if he’d broken in. Where he’d broken in.
But this large, friendly-seeming military officer was drop-dead gorgeous. So sexy that her body was reacting to him even as they held a totally innocent, superficial conversation.
And that, as much as anything else, made her mistrust everything he said. She’d learned her lesson once and well.
She would never make that mistake again.

This was a mistake, Drew thought. Verbal sparring with this lovely lady vet might be damned fun, but it was much too dangerous.
He wasn’t fooling her. Not entirely, at least.
He inhaled slowly, discreetly, not for the first time, as he savored the rich yet soft floral scent of her.
The more he was with her, the more he thought of touching that smooth skin. Kissing her luscious, frowning mouth until she lost her perfect, and maddening, self-control.
But it was time to get down to business. The business of ensuring that his partner was well cared for. At the same time, maybe he could get Dr. Melanie Harding off her current train of thought—like, what the hell was this guy really doing here?
“Tell me how you found Grunge,” he said. “And I want to hear the extent of his injuries. He doesn’t look too bad. Can I assume he’s okay?”
She had the prettiest blue eyes—startlingly sexy, maybe because they were so unusual. They were as bright as the hyacinths that the newest recruits were assigned to tend this time of year around the lab building at the base. The fragrance of the spiky flowers was almost overwhelming at times—at least to those with a sensitive sense of smell.
This woman’s intriguing aroma was much lighter. She had full lips that glowed pink even though she wore no lipstick. A nose that was perhaps a little too long and narrow. Cheekbones that underscored those eyes.
But it was those eyes that defined her face. Expressive. Intelligent. Emphasized by narrow, arched brows a little darker than her sable-brown hair.
Projecting her obviously deep suspicions of everything he said.
And allowing him, now and then, to believe she was just a little turned on by him, too. Challenging him to stoke fires hidden deep inside.
Now, though, those eyes were bright yet cool, which caused him a pang of disappointment. “I’ll answer those questions one at a time.” She lifted her hands and began to tick answers off on fingers that were long and elegant, tipped in short nails appropriate for a woman who handled animals gently. “How did I find Grunge? I was heading for my home next door late last night and heard him whine.” He winced as she described the trail of blood that led to his dog—a trail he was much too familiar with. “He’d been shot—with a silver bullet, of all things. I take it you know of the stupid werewolf legends around here.”
“Sure do.” He forced himself to laugh and shake his head disparagingly. Oh, yes. He knew about the legends. Which was one reason exercises were always kept on or right around the base—to prevent situations like the one that occurred last night. But Grunge didn’t know about them or understand their implications. He had slipped out through a gate that had somehow been left open. So, therefore, had Drew.
“Anyway,” Melanie said, “Grunge will be fine, as long as there’s no infection. I want to keep him here till sometime later today, so I can be sure of his medications and keep an eye on him.” The look she regaled Drew with now was challenging, as if she expected him to give her a hard time about leaving Grunge.
He didn’t. “Fine,” he said. “Just let me know when I can come and get him, and I will. I expect you’ll tell me then about continued meds and follow-ups and all.” As if he wouldn’t know on his own…but, then, he was a medical doctor, not a vet—notwithstanding the highly classified experiments he was conducting at the base. And in any event, he would need to have details to ensure that he cared for Grunge properly.
“That’s right,” Melanie said.
Drew looked expectantly toward the door an instant before the knock sounded. He had heard signs of life in the reception area for the last five minutes or so, but the vet didn’t seem to notice. The sounds hadn’t been loud, so she might not have heard.
She glanced at him in puzzlement before turning toward the half open door. “Good morning, Carla,” she said to the young woman standing there.
“Good morning,” Carla repeated. “Hi, Drew,” she said in the flirtatiously melodic tone she always used with him and some of the other guys. Not that they ever encouraged her. At least he didn’t. “What are you doing here?”
“Long story,” Melanie Harding said abruptly before he could reply. “He’s just leaving, though.”
“Okay. I just got here, and I wanted you to know that Chief—”
“Hi, Dr. Harding,” said a gruff, older man’s voice from behind the receptionist. A too-familiar voice. It belonged to the local police chief, Angus Ellenbogen. “Good morning, Major Connell. And what brings you here?”
“A lot of people seem to want to know that,” he replied mildly. “My partner, Grunge, was injured last night, and Dr. Harding was kind enough to save him.”
“Really?” Carla squealed.
Ellenbogen squeezed into the room around her and edged her out, closing the door behind him. “Yeah. Seems he was shot with a silver bullet, right Dr. Harding?”
Angus Ellenbogen wore the standard gray local police uniform but his short-sleeved shirt was decorated with an assortment of bars and medals, as if he’d been a well-decorated military general. His hair was as light as his uniform. His wrinkled face gave him color, though—round and ruddy. His eyes were deep-set and worldly wise, as if he’d seen it all right here, in Mary Glen.
Drew suspected that maybe he had.
“I have the bullet in a plastic bag for you,” Melanie said. She had bent to stroke Grunge’s back. The dog looked ready to leap out of the crate, with all the new people around to check out. Melanie flipped the top of the cage closed and latched it.
Grunge didn’t look at all happy about that, and Drew knelt down as Melanie rose. He reached in to rub his dog’s uninjured side with his fingertips.
“Good deal,” Ellenbogen said.
The surgery room, with its operating table in the center and cabinets along the walls, was definitely overcrowded. “Can I move Grunge somewhere else?” Drew asked. The dog needed R&R—rest and recuperation—not excitement.
“I’ll have him taken to the infirmary and put into an enclosure there,” Melanie said, “as soon as the rest of the staff arrives.” She went over to one of the cabinets and picked up a plastic bag from a shelf. It appeared to contain something small and shiny.
The bullet.
“You should tell your junior officer Patrick about this,” Ellenbogen said.
“I will,” Drew assured him. He turned to Melanie. “Lt. Patrick Worley reports to me. His dad—”
“I’m well aware that his parents were killed at different times by someone shooting silver bullets,” Melanie said, her blue eyes stony now. “Patrick had only recently lost his father when we negotiated for me to buy this veterinary practice. I’m sure he’s still grieving, and that he wants answers.”
She darted a glance toward the chief of police, who didn’t look happy about it. Drew liked the little dig Melanie had gotten in. And that wasn’t all he liked about the feisty vet. Hell, no.
And that was starting to worry him.
“I only wish I’d seen who fired the shot,” Melanie continued, “or something else that could help identify what lunatic is out there shooting like this. Someone who believes the Mary Glen werewolf legend, undoubtedly.”
“Undoubtedly,” Drew agreed. If only everyone around here was as skeptical as she was, life would be a lot easier for him. But even so, the questions this sexy vet was asking could be damned hard for him to deal with.
“So Patrick reports to you?” Melanie said, regarding Drew with apparent interest in his answer. “What do you do at the base, Major?”
“Classified,” he said with a shrug.
“Secret stuff,” Ellenbogen said at the same time, his tone indicating his displeasure. “Maybe if they came clean about it, there wouldn’t be so many rumors. One of these days—”
A cell phone rang. The chief reached down to a case attached to his utility belt and extracted his phone. “Ellenbogen,” he said. His wizened face grew even more pinched. “Yeah? Where?” He listened for another few seconds. “I’m on my way.” But instead of dashing out the door, he turned to Melanie. “That dog—any indication of blood on him last night?”
Melanie looked puzzled. Drew, on the other hand, felt a sense of dread. He was afraid he knew what was coming. And however it had happened, it could only harm him and the work he was doing.
“There was a lot of blood on him,” the vet said. “He’d been shot.”
“No, no, I mean around his mouth. Like he bit someone.”
“No! None at all. He was the one who was injured. I didn’t see any indication he’d hurt anyone or anything else.”
“Maybe not. But I want a full report about the dogs you keep on your damned military base, Major. If there’s any sign they chewed on anything they shouldn’t have, I’m going to insist on sending a crime scene team there, security or no security, to take some samples. Got it?” The chief’s face was even redder than usual, and his stare clearly dared Drew to disagree.
“I’ll do a preliminary investigation, Chief. Believe me.” That part was true. “And if there’s anything to report, I’ll tell you.” That part wasn’t.
“Yeah, as if I trust you.”
“Sorry you feel that way,” Drew retorted. He understood why the chief of police had an attitude that wasn’t exactly favorable about what went on at Ft. Lukman.
If he only knew the truth…But that would never happen.
“What’s going on, Chief Ellenbogen?” Melanie asked. “Did something else happen besides Grunge getting shot?”
“Yeah. Something else happened. One of our tourists was mauled, and it apparently looks like she was chewed by a damned big dog—or maybe a werewolf,” he added with a snort as he rushed out the door.

Chapter Three
Melanie followed the chief to the clinic’s front door. She watched him drive away in his marked car in a huge hurry, lights flashing.
“What’s going on?” Carla asked, peering outside through the open slats of the mini blinds on the nearby window.
“Nothing good, I’m afraid.” Melanie glanced around the small but cheerful reception area, glad that for once there were no other people with their pets waiting to be seen by her. The six metal and red plastic chairs at one side of the compact reception desk were empty. All the balls and other toys to amuse dogs while they were waiting still sat in the large wicker basket on the floor’s indoor-outdoor carpeting.
Major Drew Connell had been right behind her. She had continually been aware of his presence. Now, he edged toward the exit, as well, his posture rigid. He didn’t look happy.
Neither was she, at the idea of his leaving…
No! Better that he get out of here so she could assimilate and assess all that had happened.
“You’re going to check to see if any of the other dogs at the base may have been involved in last night’s…incidents?” Melanie asked him neutrally, using a euphemism of sorts. Something like the attack Angus Ellenbogen had described was unlikely to be kept secret, but Melanie didn’t want to be the one to start spreading rumors.
Especially since those rumors were likely to fan the already out-of-control flames of gossip about alleged werewolves around here.
“Yeah, I said I’d do that.” Drew’s golden eyes were hard as he glared down at her, and she shivered. Was that a warning she saw in them? About what? To keep her mouth closed?
“That’s what you told Chief Ellenbogen.” Melanie knew her tone was icy. Better that than hurt at his change of attitude. “His reasons are different from mine. I was only asking because, if it turns out any of the other animals were injured, I’ll be glad to treat them.” She didn’t like being accused even tacitly of speaking out of turn—or anything else.
She loved being a veterinarian. She was crazy about her patients. But she could do without having to deal with some of their owners.
She’d initially thought that wouldn’t include Drew. She had believed they were on the same side. Both wanted Grunge to heal fast and well. Neither liked the absurdity of the werewolf rumors that may have resulted in a dog unfortunately loose at night under the full moon being shot with a damnable silver bullet.
Then there had been that amazing sexual attraction she had felt—still felt—for Drew. Not something she wanted to encourage, but the look in his eyes suggested he’d felt it, too.
“Do you know who was attacked by the werewolf?” Carla asked excitedly, stepping closer to Drew. “Were other dogs shot with silver bullets besides Grunge?” She was shorter than Melanie, and her ash blond hair was a mass of curls around an elfin face. At Melanie’s sharp look she said, “I couldn’t help hearing your conversation with Chief Ellenbogen.” She looked so soulfully up into Drew’s face that Melanie wanted to throw up. No, strangle her. She felt mortified that her employee would come on so obviously to a patient’s owner.
“Of course you could have helped it,” Melanie spat back. “The door was closed. And what you heard through it goes no further.”
“Good luck on that one,” Drew said, casting an almost amused look toward Carla. “I’ll call you later, Doctor, about when I can pick up Grunge.”
“Say hi to Patrick for me,” Carla said with a sweet and beseeching smile. Lt. Patrick Worley? The youthful receptionist apparently had a thing for military men.
“Right,” Drew said, then met Melanie’s gaze. “See you this afternoon.” And then he, too, left.
Melanie stared after him for a long moment, glad somehow for the connection that would bring him back to retrieve his injured dog. But what had he meant?
She turned to her clinic’s receptionist, whom she had inherited, like some of the furniture she might not have chosen, with the practice. “Carla, I know you’ve been here longer than I have. And I want to keep you on. But if you’re—”
“I know. Discretion and patient confidentiality and all that.” The youthful receptionist looked abashed at last. “But, Melanie, the news is already out. It’s on Nolan Smith’s Mary Glen Werewolf Web site.”
“There’s a Mary Glen werewolf Web site?” Shaking her head, Melanie crossed the room and lowered herself into a chair. Obviously Drew was aware of it, and he also knew that Carla knew of it. That had to be what his ironic wish to Melanie—good luck keeping Carla quiet—must have meant.
“Sure.” Carla joined her. Her hazel eyes were glowing with obvious excitement. “Nolan’s an expert. He was two years ahead of me in high school and was a tech whiz even then. He loved researching urban legends and started a Web site about them. And his new Web site specializing in werewolves is turning Mary Glen into a mecca for everyone who’s even a teeny bit interested in shapeshifters. Only a few people hung around in winter when you first moved here—who can blame them?—but now that it’s spring again, the tourists are back. Our motels are getting booked up, and whatever happened last night will keep ‘em that way. Nolan just hinted about it this morning, but by tomorrow he’ll have a lot more details.”
Oh, great. No wonder the rumors of werewolves around here were so rampant—much more than she’d understood when she first considered buying this practice and researched the area.
“That’s why I was a little late this morning,” Carla continued. “I had to check out Nolan’s site. There was a full moon last night, so I knew he’d put something up—and he did. Awesome! And he’s holding a meeting for everyone in Mary Glen who’s interested in the werewolves tomorrow night, at City Hall. I’m heading there right after work. You should come.”
“I don’t know,” Melanie said uneasily. She didn’t want anyone to think she believed in such nonsense.
“But you’re the town vet now,” Carla said. “You should learn all you can. Dr. Worley always used to go to the meetings and talk to everyone, calm them down and warn them not to start shooting at anything they think could be a shapeshifter, silver bullets or not. He treated quite a few animals hurt by the tourists.”
“Until one of them shot him. Unless it was someone local.”
“Do you really think someone from Mary Glen shot Dr. Worley?” Carla’s arched eyebrows, darker than her hair, soared even higher in obvious incredulity. “No way! Everyone loved him.”
Someone obviously didn’t—although the shooting could have been accidental. In any event, the shooter hadn’t been identified yet. Or at least not publicly, even if authorities had a lead.
“So you’ll come?” Carla asked as the door opened and Keeley Janes came in with her basketful of Yorkie puppies.
“We’ll see,” Melanie said. It was only when she became immersed in examining the pups that she realized she hadn’t asked Chief Ellenbogen to double-check the security of her doors. She still felt sure she hadn’t left the front door unlocked. But that was how Drew Connell said he’d gotten in. Why would he lie about it?
And why didn’t she feel more nervous about it than she did?

“It’s started again, damn it, sir,” Major Drew Connell said to General Greg Yarrow, the commanding officer of Ft. Lukman. He stood at attention in the general’s office, holding his salute.
“You waiting for an At ease, Drew?” Greg said with a grin. “You got it.” Because of the nature of their very special ops work here, they tended toward informality among themselves, returning to military protocol mostly when others were around. The general was dressed, like Drew, in his usual on-duty army combat uniform, consisting of pale green and beige camouflage fatigues. “Sit down and tell me about it.”
Drew did as he was told. The general’s office was sumptuous for a military command, especially a base as small and informal as this one, mostly because Greg subsidized it himself. The wooden desk was mahogany, and the U.S. flag behind it hung from a gleaming brass pole. Bookshelves lined the walls, some filled with standard volumes of military regulations and history, and others containing first editions of, arguably, some of the world’s most imaginative fiction: Jules Verne’s 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea, Robert Louis Stevenson’s The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, Bram Stoker’s Dracula and, of course, an original script from the movie The Wolf Man starring Lon Chaney, Jr.
He had another office at the Pentagon, which wasn’t far from Maryland’s Eastern Shore but seemed a world away. That office was standard issue and looked like everyone else’s. Drew had been there often, especially before he was selected to head up the Alpha Force here at Ft. Lukman.
“I want to hear first about Grunge and what happened last night,” the general said. He was in his early sixties but his short hair was still coal-black, receding considerably at his temples. His features were solemn, his face long and wrinkled from scowling as much as from advancing age.
“Despite all standard precautions, considering the timing, someone apparently left the gate open, and he got out. Made it quite a distance. I saw him get shot, sir, and couldn’t do a damned thing about it. Not last night. Not with the full moon.”
“I understand.” The general leaned forward, clasping his work-hardened hands on the desk. “What about Captain Truro? Was he observing you, as ordered, while you were vulnerable?”
“Yes, sir. After the shot was fired, Jonas drew his own weapon and went after the source. Unfortunately, the shooter got away. In the meantime, I couldn’t let Grunge stay there. He was wounded. Bleeding. I was able to drag him to where he would receive assistance.”
“While in wolf form yourself?”
Drew nodded. “It was a full moon,” he said again, almost angrily—not at the general, but at himself. For being helpless. “None of the medications that allow shapeshifting at will work during a full moon, on me or on any of the others. Not yet. I’m still working on that, but I’ve had no success, and I’m damned frustrated about—”
“I’m aware of all of that, Drew. I was just about to comment on how difficult that must have been, dragging a being of approximately your own size and shape—how far was it?”
“Maybe a mile, sir.”
“Through the woods? And I take it you got him there fast, since you obviously saved his life.”
“Yes, sir. That’s when Jonas caught up with me and got me back here—after I’d watched to be sure that the new vet found Grunge. No one saw anything so far from base, damn it all. None of the others even knew what happened. And if it hadn’t been for me and this whole damned situation—”
“Grunge wouldn’t have gotten shot? We can’t know that for sure.”
“Sure we can,” Drew stormed. “Whoever did it was probably one of the crazies who’re returning to Mary Glen in droves, now that winter’s over and the snow is gone. He—or she, of course—undoubtedly wanted to bag a werewolf and shot at the first thing that looked like one.”
“Or someone may have wanted it to look that way,” the general contradicted. “Maybe an ordinary dog like Grunge was the intended target, and we were supposed to learn something from it.”
“Like what, sir?”
“That’s what we’ll have to find out. That, and the other angle: the civilian who was allegedly mauled. Do any of our group know anything about that?”
“No, sir. But we’ll get the answers. Soon. You can count on it.”
“I do, Drew. Because if we don’t, our entire, extremely critical operation is screwed.”

But Drew was no closer to finding any answers a few hours later, when he headed his military-issue dark sedan to the vet’s office to pick up Grunge.
He had spent a lot of the time with Capt. Jonas Truro, who had been his ostensible nursemaid last night. Each special operative in Alpha was assigned both a canine—or other pertinent animal—as a partner, and an officer or enlisted man, depending on the operative’s rank, as an aide.
Which meant observer and, when needed, nursemaid and caretaker on nights with full moons.
By now, everyone on base was fully briefed on what had happened last night.
But despite what Drew had promised General Yarrow, no one had any answers, or any real clues that could lead to them. Not even Lt. Patrick Worley, who had grown up here. Whose father had been a veterinarian who had attempted to find some of the answers his unit now sought.
Who, like Drew, was a medical doctor and very much ensconced in the program.
Very ensconced. As in shapeshifter extraordinaire, too.
Drew put on his signal and made a sharp right turn.
Ft. Lukman had been aptly named for retired General Maxwell Lukman, a vocal advocate of the idea of using all resources to reach a goal—even the extraordinary and incredible. It was only about five miles by road from downtown Mary Glen but could have been a universe away. Most of those roads were two-lane and obscure, surrounded by the woodlands that made this area so ideal for the covert operations being performed at the facility. And the fact that werewolf rumors had abounded around here for years helped them maintain their cover.
Only, right now, those rumors were getting too much publicity. Too many nut cases were flocking here to check them out. Animals—and people—were getting hurt.
That had to stop.
Before leaving the base, Drew had called Melanie Harding to check on Grunge’s progress. His dog was ready to go home, the vet had said. He smiled ruefully at himself now. He’d kept asking her questions—out of concern for his pet, he’d told himself. Only he realized even then that he simply wanted to hear her talk. Her husky, soft voice had ignited his desire almost as if she were there, stroking him.
And now he was going to see her in person.
He accelerated more—as much as he could on this awful road.
Soon, he was on what passed for a highway in this area—straighter, better paved, four lanes, and peppered by traffic lights. Also surrounded by woods. Actually a very appealing part of the world, was Maryland’s Eastern Shore—especially for the likes of him. He had the radio on a station out of Baltimore that played mostly current rock music. Kept it on low. He had too much thinking to do to waste even this time.
His plans were already underway for investigating Grunge’s shooting. The tourist’s mauling, too, even though the army had no jurisdiction over a crime that didn’t occur on federal property.
But that mauling was surely related to Grunge’s injury. It was only logical that he would investigate them jointly. Not even the bright, and territorial, Chief Angus Ellenbogen could argue with that, as long as Drew cooperated with him—or at least appeared to—and didn’t step on his toes.
He finally reached the turnoff for Mary Glen, drove down the main street past the civic center—such as it was—and shopping district, and turned onto Choptank Lane, his heart starting to race as he got nearer to the vet who had so affected him earlier.
He slowed, and stopped suddenly. The street was lined with large vans with satellite dishes sticking out the top.
No big surprise. The media had learned about the lurid goings-on here last night.
Damn it.
He parked on the first block and strode angrily and purposefully toward the veterinary clinic.
The media vultures crowded around the front door. The farthest rows were filled with denimclad people with hefty cameras aimed at the door. The nearest to the building, better dressed, thrust microphones toward the entry.
Where Dr. Melanie Harding stood.
Had she called a press conference to talk about the Mary Glen werewolf stories, complete with her brave rescue of a poor dog and removal of a silver bullet from its shoulder?
Why the hell did he feel so deflated? Because he’d been attracted to the pretty vet? Imagined she was above snatching at her moment of fame? She wouldn’t know it was potentially at his expense. Hell, why would she care?
When he had sneaked inside that morning, it hadn’t been through the front door. He had found a more vulnerable entry in the back, through a window into a room where pet food and medical supplies were stored.
He could head there now but didn’t want to attempt to spirit Grunge away surreptitiously. He needed everything to happen aboveboard. He’d sign out his partner, get the prescribed meds and instructions on how to administer them, then scram.
But now he would have to wait until the crowd dissipated.
In the meantime, he could listen to the woman make a fool out of herself on camera, patting herself on the back. Fomenting the local werewolf legend.
Squelching any desire he may have had for her.
He edged closer.
One of the reporters was talking, a female in a tight top and short skirt, eye-candy who was trying to sound flippant and sophisticated at the same time. “So you saved the life of a werewolf on your doorstep last night, Dr. Harding? Tell us all about it.”
“What I’d really like to do is get back inside and help my patients, but even though I’m sure your viewers are smart enough to have understood the first time—” she rolled her eyes from the interrogator back toward the camera, which Drew took to imply that the audience was a lot brighter than the reporter “—yes, I discovered a poor dog outside the clinic last night. A very intelligent dog, to have come here, by the way, so I could help him. He’d been shot by a lowlife who apparently wanted to encourage the local werewolf legend.”
“Then he was shot with a—”
“Yes, as I told the reporters who interviewed me before—but I would imagine you were primping for the camera instead of listening, right? Oh, excuse me. I didn’t mean to insult you.”
Which was exactly what she was doing. Drew smiled a little in admiration.
“In any event, you’ve got part of this right: my poor patient was shot with a silver bullet. But was he a werewolf? Well, I’ve started to bone up on the legends so I could be sure, and they say that werewolves change back to human form when touched by daylight. I was with my patient at dawn and he didn’t metamorphose into a person. Too bad.” Her smile was mocking. “I’m a scientist, you know. I didn’t move to Mary Glen because it was reputed to be overrun with werewolves. A good thing, too, since I haven’t run across any.”
She looked indulgent. She looked exasperated. She looked completely in control.
And then her eyes met Drew’s. And as soon as she saw him, even at this distance, that sensuous energy that had pulsed between them before was back. Her face flushed, and she looked away.
Heat surged through him that had nothing to do with the warmth of the spring afternoon. Damn, but Dr. Melanie Harding was one incredible—and hot—female.
“You haven’t met any werewolves yet,” contradicted the reporter, mugging for the camera. Apparently being insulted before her audience hadn’t fazed her.
“Yet,” Melanie agreed, her attention back on the microphone. “But as a veterinarian, I’m a scientist. I’m open to learning new things. If Mary Glen really has any werewolves, bring ‘em on.”
Drew snorted silently. The sexy vet might have had the drooling media leeches in the palm of her hand right now, but she didn’t know what she was saying, not really.
Bring on the werewolves?
If she weren’t careful, Dr. Melanie Harding just might get a whole lot more than she had bargained for.

Chapter Four
Despite the cacophony of noise from the media scum and their eager audience, Drew heard the quiet sound of familiar footsteps behind him. He turned.
“What are you doing here, Truro?” he asked even before his gaze landed on his longtime friend and colleague, Captain Jonas Truro.
“Same as you, Major.” Jonas lifted his right arm and gave a mock salute. “Even though you said he’d be okay, I was still worried about the spoiled old mutt.”
“Grunge isn’t old,” Drew countered.
“Just a spoiled mutt.”
“That’s a highly trained, well-cared-for army issue K-9 to you.”
“Yes, sir.” Jonas grinned. He was about thirty years old, nearly as tall as Drew but with a heavier build, mostly muscle. His skin was the shade of the chocolate kisses he popped in his mouth almost as often as he drank water. Drew sometimes goaded him about how he was turning into one of the sweets. In turn, Jonas always kidded him about his jealousy. Drew and chocolate didn’t go well together.
Like Drew, Jonas was ostensibly on duty, but they weren’t on base so neither was in uniform. Jonas wore jeans, too, but Drew’s wine-colored T-shirt was plain compared with Jonas’s, which proclaimed the University of Maryland around a black, gold, red and white depiction of the Maryland state flag.
“That the vet?” Jonas jerked his nearly clean-shaven head toward Melanie.
“Yeah,” Drew said. She was chatting vivaciously with her receptionist, Carla, while using her body as a blockade against the media horde and the tourists who might rush the clinic to check out the supposed werewolf. She combined tact and determination, both admirable qualities.
“She seems to think the werewolf legends are really crap, doesn’t she?” Jonas asked. “I’ve been here long enough to hear her give it to those reporters.”
“Sounds that way to me, too.”
“Some interesting lady, isn’t she?”
“Yeah, interesting.” Drew had intended to make the word sound a lot more scornful than it came out. Ignoring Jonas’s smirk, he continued, “Come on. I’ll introduce you.”
He led the way through the dissipating crowd to the clinic’s front door. As the now-ignored reporters finally turned away, the vet met Drew’s eye. There was a challenge in her expression, as if she expected him to try to barge past her, too.
Instead, he stopped several feet away.
“Hi, Major,” said Carla, giving him a big wink.
Drew was used to her flirtatiousness and didn’t take it seriously. He nodded at her, then turned to Melanie. “Dr. Harding, this is Captain Jonas Truro. We’re here for Grunge.”
Jonas stepped around him. “Major Connell told me about all you did for Grunge last night, Dr. Harding. I work with him, too, and really appreciate it. And I watched you handle those media types. Great job.”
“All in a day’s work in werewolf country,” the vet said with a rueful smile. She shook hands with Jonas—and Drew found himself envying the small contact.
Which irritated him.
“I’d never have expected so many reporters here in Mary Glen.” Melanie’s tone sounded both baffled and disgusted.
“Yeah, the tourists like to get word out there if any hint of shapeshifter stuff happens around here,” Jonas said. “They’ve lots of contacts at the D.C. and Baltimore newspapers and TV and radio stations.”
“So I figured.” Melanie shook her head.
“How’s Grunge doing now?” Drew interrupted, more abruptly than he’d intended. “You’re sure it’s okay to take him home?”
He ignored the annoyance and curiosity in the vet’s bright blue eyes. She seemed to be scoping him out, trying to read why he’d snapped at her. Damned if he knew. But that conversation with Jonas had gone on long enough.
“He’s doing well,” she finally said. “And, yes, he can leave.” She led them into the building, closing the door behind Carla, who followed them. She locked it.
The place smelled like a hospital—clean and medicinal—even with the overlay of multiple animal scents.
“It’s after six o’clock, at least,” Melanie said. “No more appointments today, right, Carla?”
The receptionist nodded. “Right. I checked the voice-mail at my phone extension just in case, but no one’s called, so our next appointment’s tomorrow morning at nine.”
“Good. This way, gentlemen. Oh, that’s right, Major Connell. You know the way.” Melanie shot him a look full of irony, then turned and preceded them down the hall. Her hips swayed gently, causing her white lab coat to swing in an enticing manner. They passed a guy wearing a turquoise medical top. “All the dogs okay, Brendan?” Melanie asked.
“Sure are, Doc. I’m outta here now, okay?”
“As long as you’ve fed everyone and made sure their crates are clean.”
“Always.” The young man grinned and hurried past them.
Melanie’s dark hair, clipped at the nape of her neck, flicked around as she stopped and looked back at Drew and Jonas. “You’ll need to keep Grunge on antibiotics for the next ten days. I’ll give you pills for him to be taken with food. A painkiller, too, if he needs it, poor dog. I’m sure silver bullets are just as painful as lead or whatever they’re made from these days.”
“Join me for dinner and you can tell me more about how you saved him,” Drew said. “And your suggestions for his continued care.”
He had decided that this vet could be a useful resource. But only if he could learn what she knew.
They’d had access to her predecessor, of course, but Dr. Worley had known the truth about what was going on. Although he had always passed along anything he heard, he had lived here all his life. No one would have attempted to update him with anything supposedly new, sway his opinion.
Could be very different with Dr. Melanie Harding, fresh to the area. What had she heard about the alleged Mary Glen shapeshifters? This wasn’t likely to be the new vet’s only encounter with the legends, maybe not even the first. And his unit’s gathering of knowledge, even of rumors, could make the difference between life and death.
More important, she might hear something about whoever shot Grunge. And how the tourist was attacked. Drew wanted answers to both—fast.
“Well, I don’t—” she began.
“I’ll take Grunge back to the base,” Jonas said.
“Good,” Drew said. “Let’s see Jonas off with Grunge, and then we’ll eat.”

Why had she agreed to this? Or at least not given Drew an unequivocal no?
They stood outside the Mary Glen Diner. “Would you like to eat out here, on the sidewalk?” he asked.
Although half a dozen tables sat there, only a couple were occupied. It was still early enough in spring that the air was brisk. She had traded her lab jacket for a navy cardigan, but Melanie shivered anyway at the idea of staying outside.
Or maybe it was the idea of staying longer in Drew Connell’s company that made her tremble—in suppressed irritation at his continued arrogance. Yet there was something about him that chiseled away at her decision to swear off men. And it wasn’t his sparkling personality.
“Let’s go inside,” she said, as much to take control of the situation as anything.
They were met at the door by Angie Fishbach, who owned the diner. She was a short, slightly chubby woman with laugh lines crinkling the edges of her small eyes. Only she wasn’t smiling now. And deep lines were gouged into her forehead by her frown.
She wore thick-soled athletic shoes that made her yellow uniform-like shirtwaist look even dowdier. “Two?” she grumbled, then turned her back, leading them down the aisle between the rows of booths.
Odd. Angie had always been cordial to Melanie before.
The diner was one of only a couple eating establishments in town that weren’t a pizza parlor or fast food joint. Melanie dined here now and then, mostly at breakfast before the clinic opened. Alone, with her copy of the Baltimore Sun, delivered each morning to her door.
Angie often stopped at her table and chatted, unless the place was too crowded or the staff too thin.
This evening, competing aromas of grilling meat and baking pastries also filled the air. Most booths and tables were occupied, and the acoustics turned the atmosphere into a loud hum of conversation. Melanie recognized a lot of people, some from prior visits here and many who brought their pets to the clinic.
Angie showed them to a booth near the windows. “Here.” She slammed the laminated menus down on the stone-look Formica table. “Crystal will be with you soon.”
Melanie shot a glance toward Drew. He slid into the booth and opened the menu, without seeming to notice Angie’s abruptness. Maybe he hadn’t been here often enough to expect anything else. Melanie sat down, too.
“Hope you’re hungry.” He lowered the menu and looked at her. “They charbroil a mean steak here.”
“I know,” she said. “But not for me.”
“Are you a vegetarian, Doc?”
“No,” Melanie said. “I believe in the natural order of things, and of course animals devour each other to survive. We’re theoretically more advanced, but as much as I love the taste of red meat it’s not healthy for humans to eat a lot of it.”
“Could be. But it’s okay to live dangerously now and then, don’t you think?”
One corner of his full lips quirked up in an almost-smile. Melanie’s insides ignited. Was that last sentence intended to be a double entendre?
Well, sure, she found the guy hot. Who wouldn’t? And here they were, out for dinner, on the first date she’d had since arriving in Mary Glen. The idea of sex with this man had crossed her mind more than once since she’d caught him in the clinic. In fact, it had flowed down from her brain and now sizzled in her body as if her blood had turned into lava.
It had been ages since she had thought about sex, longer still since she had indulged.
Which was, of course, the problem, she realized as she pretended to study the menu without responding to his provocative question. Not only was she rusty at the whole dating thing, but she was also horny. She would read innuendo into the most innocent of statements.
He was simply teasing her, right? Only, he didn’t seem to be the teasing type. Her deprived, conservative nature was undoubtedly obvious to this man who had to live dangerously more than the now and then he’d suggested. He was in the military, wasn’t he?
The most daring thing she had done in her life was to leave everything and everyone she knew in her hometown of Los Angeles and buy the veterinary practice here.
But she’d had to make a change, a drastic one, after all she had gone through at the time. Her parents were dead, and her sister lived with her husband and kids in Seattle. There had been much more reason to leave than to stay, once she had learned what her former fiancé had been pulling.
Well, she could take care of herself. And that meant flirting. Why not? It wouldn’t hurt to practice, even if she had no intention of anything more.
“You convinced me,” she said to Drew. “I’ll go for the small sirloin. And a salad on the side. Need to have something that’s arguably good for me.”
“T-bone for me,” he said. “Large. If I have any leftovers, Grunge will be willing to take them on. Without the bone, in case it’s the kind that’ll splinter. Right, Doc?”
“Sure.” Rusty or not, this was a date. She wasn’t here to be super vet, lecture the guy against feeding his injured friend table scraps instead of sticking to dog food. Drew’s raised eyebrows suggested he was prepared for her to give him an earful. Instead, she shrugged and smiled. The extra treat would be good for Grunge’s recovery.
Their waitress, Crystal, soon came over bearing glasses of water, and a notepad to take their order. “Decided what you want?” She was an older lady with a bored expression. She had served Melanie before. They gave their orders and Crystal moseyed off.
“Where are you from, Melanie?” Drew took a sip of water, and his unusual amber eyes regarded her steadily, as if he gave a damn about her answer.
“L.A. And you?”
“A huge place like that, and you wind up in pintsized Mary Glen? Why?”
“Why not?” she countered, slightly miffed that he had ignored her question. He’d asked, and she had responded. It was his turn. But she decided not to make an issue of it. “It’s a great area,” she finally said. “Lots of people with pets. And obviously a vet’s services are needed. And you? Where are you from? And why are you—”
Before he could answer—assuming he would—Angie appeared at their table. “Why would you do such a thing, Melanie?” Although her voice wasn’t raised, her words pelted Melanie as if hurled at her. “How could you save the life of a…a murdering creature like that? Didn’t you know what he was?”
Melanie blinked as she stared up at the obviously upset woman. “Would you like to sit down, Angie?”
“No,” Angie snapped. “Everyone in town knows about that supposed dog you found last night, Melanie. I heard that a bunch of reporters came to ask you about it, and you didn’t even have the courtesy to tell them the truth.”
Melanie swallowed the retort that sprang to her lips.
“Dr. Harding told the truth, Angie,” Drew said, his voice low. “She saved my dog’s life.”
“Why didn’t you just let that creature die?” Angie didn’t look at Drew as tears flowed from her puffy eyes.
Melanie felt herself stiffen. She hadn’t sought answers about who had harmed Grunge. That was Angus Ellenbogen’s job. But now she had to know. “Did you shoot that poor dog, Angie? Or do you know who did?”
“Someone smart,” the woman shot back. “And brave. Oh, yes, I’d have done it if I’d been there and seen that damned wolf, believe me. I knew it was a full moon last night. Everyone talked about it. I thought about hunting, but…but…I was afraid. And now one of our tourists is suffering because I was a coward.” Her last words came out in a wail.
Swallowing her anger, Melanie put a comforting arm around Angie’s back as the woman began to sob.
“I don’t understand,” Melanie said, puzzled. What was wrong with the woman? How could she—
“You saved the life of a fiend,” Angie screeched. “A shapeshifter. A werewolf, the one who must have chewed up poor Sheila Graves. And he, or a creature just like him, killed my husband.”

Chapter Five
“I don’t know what hurt that tourist,” Drew said, his voice low as he leaned over the table, “but the way I heard it, Angie killed her own husband.”
Melanie had watched a waitress she didn’t know lead Angie from the table. She turned back to face her dinner companion, expecting to see a joking smile on his face. Instead, it remained somber. Serious.
And damned sexy.
How could those eyes of his be so excruciatingly intense?
He leaned back, lifting his glass of the house Merlot and taking a healthy sip. He continued to watch, as if awaiting her response. Was she supposed to laugh?
“I…I don’t know how to react to that,” Melanie said truthfully. “Care to elaborate?”
Crystal approached, carrying plates heaped with steak, fries, and small green salads. Mostly comfort food. And right then, Melanie needed all the comfort she could get.
This was all too much. Too incredible. A sweet, severely injured dog—her patient—accused of being a wild, mythical creature. A visitor to Mary Glen attacked, purportedly by just such a non-existent beast. And now, their hostess had claimed that one of the area’s legendary creatures had actually killed someone.
“T-bone?” Crystal looked from one of them to the other.
“Here,” Drew said, and the waitress thumped a plate down in front of him.
When Melanie’s sirloin dinner, too, was set down noisily, Crystal rounded on Melanie. “I don’t know what you said to upset Angie, but I know what you did. Oh, sure, the werewolves bring in tourist money and are good for this town in some ways. But when they hurt people—well, killing them cleanly with silver bullets is too good for them. And for people who help them.”
Drew suddenly stood over Crystal. His smile held no humor. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were threatening Dr. Harding,” he said. “Not a good idea, Crystal, to scare off your restaurant’s guests. I think an apology is in order.”
“No need.” Melanie kept her tone light to try to defuse the uncomfortable situation, though she appreciated Drew’s attempt to defend her. “But I’d like to eat before our dinners get cold.”
“Angie’s husband, Bill, was a good man,” Crystal muttered and stalked away.
Melanie felt every eye in the diner focused on them. But damn if she’d let herself feel embarrassed and slink out. She’d done nothing wrong.
As Drew remained standing, muscles clearly tense beneath his T-shirt, Melanie pasted a challenging smile on her face and shot it toward some of those who stared—until they were uncomfortable enough to turn away.
When Drew sat back down, his anger had apparently dissipated. Turned into something else, maybe. The way he studied her so intensely, his gaze hinting of wry humor and appreciation, shot little sparks through her veins, simmering her blood.
Okay, knock it off, she told herself. So what if this gorgeous, sexy guy looked at her as if she was a woman, not just a veterinarian? He was a military man. Weren’t they all full of uncontrolled testosterone? She, on the other hand, was completely under control.
“You’ve got guts, Doc.” His tone sounded approving. She liked the feeling it elicited from her. Not that she’d show it.
She shrugged a shoulder nonchalantly. “Obviously, this werewolf legend has a lot of believers around here, not just the tourists. Angie certainly takes it seriously. Crystal, too, I guess.” She carved off a bite of steak and tasted it. “This is good. Maybe it’s even worth all this aggravation.”
“Maybe.” Drew bit into a healthy chunk of his meat.
“But maybe not,” Melanie continued. “Now would be an excellent time for you to elaborate on what you said before. Angie obviously blames werewolves for killing her husband. You said she did it herself. What happened?”
She glanced around. Not a single patron seemed to be paying attention to them. If anything, they were making a studious effort to ignore them.
A good thing.
Drew took another bite. “Okay, here’s what I heard. It was the night of a full moon, which was handy for the story Angie later told. She was driving, and her husband was her passenger. They’d both been drinking. Maybe they were arguing, but only she would know that. I gathered that they had a roller coaster of a relationship. The way Angie tells it, they were on a twisty road surrounded by woods when they rounded a bend. There, in the middle of the pavement, stood what looked like a wolf. She swerved to miss it, but its eyes glowed, and not just like something reflecting headlights but throwing off some kind of internal, hypnotic light.”
“Is that part of the werewolf legend?” The little bit of research into the mythic creatures that Melanie had begun on the Internet hadn’t disclosed that detail.
“Not that I’ve ever heard of. Although I don’t claim to know all the nonsensical parts of werewolf tales. Anyway, she claims the thing stood up on two legs and launched itself at her car, and was strong enough to shove it toward the trees. There was a crash. She survived. Her husband didn’t.”
Melanie twisted her fork in her salad. “That’s why you said she killed her own husband. So maybe her werewolf story is a rationalization, to keep her from feeling guilty.”
“Assuming she even believes it herself. Could be that they were fighting and she crashed the car on purpose to get rid of the guy. Or not,” Drew added as Melanie glared at him.
“One way or another, the poor woman was driving, and she lost her husband. If it was an accident because she thought she saw something, or even if it was due to an angry impulse, she’s probably still grieving.”
He nodded. “I’ve never heard anyone mention the wolf, or, more likely, a dog, that she might have hit on the road that night. Maybe it had a grieving family, too.”
Melanie’s fork stalled halfway to her mouth. That sounded like something she would say. “Guess you’re really an animal lover, too,” she said.
Angie again appeared in the diner. She walked toward them in the crowded room. Melanie’s appetite wavered once more. She’d had enough confrontations that day.
Angie stopped at their table, a sad, sheepish expression on her round face. “Sorry, Doc,” she said. “I know you were just doing your job when you saved that animal. But when I hear certain things…Well, I shouldn’t have gone off like that. I hope you won’t hold it against me. Tell you what. Dessert’s on the house tonight, for both of you. We have some great peach pie. Okay?”
Before Melanie could respond, she saw Angie stiffen and look over her shoulder. Melanie turned.
A tall, thin man had walked into the diner. Melanie saw nearly everyone turn to look at him.
“Who’s that?” she asked.
“Nolan Smith,” Angie said. “He’s been on vigil at the hospital with that injured tourist.” She rushed toward the man.
“I’ve heard of him.” Melanie remembered Carla mentioning him. He was the one who maintained Web sites on urban legends…and the Mary Glen werewolves.
Before she could tell Drew, Smith called out, “Hey, everyone.” The room had started to hush when he appeared, and his voice projected easily over the few continued conversations. “Good news. I’ve just come from Sheila Graves’s hospital room. Looks like she’ll be okay.”

It was past 7:00 p.m. by the time they left the diner. Since it was early spring, the illumination outside, along the sidewalk of Mary Glen Road, came from streetlights. The rest came from the moon, which, despite its healthy glow, was no longer full.
Melanie was glad. No one should imagine seeing a werewolf tonight, thank heavens. Less chance of another poor dog getting shot when not even the credulous could believe werewolves were on the prowl.
“Nope, no supposed werewolves for you to heal this evening,” Drew said.
Startled, Melanie turned to him. Surely, he hadn’t read her thoughts.
He laughed, a low, deep and somehow seductive sound. “I saw you staring at the moon. Not much of a jump to imagine you had shapeshifting creatures on your mind.”
“I guess not.” She forced a smile. Okay, so her musings were predictable. Even so, with all the talk of things supposedly supernatural around here, she was feeling spooked.
Not to mention turned on by this strangely compelling man.
Shivering slightly in the cool evening air, Melanie picked up her pace. She needed to get back to her clinic and check on her overnight charges.
She couldn’t ignore Drew’s presence as he kept up with her. If he was chilly in just his musclehugging T-shirt and jeans, he didn’t show it.
“So…where are you parked?” she asked.
“Near your place.”
Okay. They were heading the same direction. No need to inflate this friendly dinner into something it wasn’t.
Still, it had been a pleasant evening. Mostly. But also uncomfortable at times, and not just because of the werewolf lunacy. Partly—largely—because of Drew.
The guy made her think—constantly—of passionate nights. She, who had sworn off men. Who’d had no trouble at all swearing off sex, too.
Till now. She was fully aware of his tall, stimulating presence. Only, she had no intention of following through, even if Drew had similar ideas.
Although if she were so inclined, she suspected that hard, muscular body of his would be worth falling off the wagon for once or twice.
The silence between them grew, broken only by an occasional car driving by, and the whisper of a breeze disturbing the trees along the street and behind the buildings. Not a lot of traffic in little Mary Glen, not even along the main street.
The stores they passed were dark. Shadows ruled, despite the moonlight and artificial street lamps.
Presumably, the nuts around here wouldn’t shoot at something they chose to perceive as a werewolf tonight. Still, she’d been reminded that she had saved the creature that the credulous believed to be a shapeshifter.
Was she in danger of being stopped—permanently—from doing it again?
Maybe it was a good thing to have a military man walk her home. Even if his presence did churn her insides into steamy liquid.
“So what do you do on the base, Major?” she asked to break the silence.
He walked close enough that she thought she felt his body heat radiating in the cool air of the spring evening—even though they weren’t touching, and he wasn’t dressed warmly enough. Her imagination, of course. Her over-libidinous imagination.
“Classified stuff, mostly related to the units training K-9s at the base,” he said.
That didn’t tell her much. And classified stuff? Of course. He had a professional reason to keep secrets. And he obviously excelled at it.
Maybe that was a good thing. She despised secretive men…as her fiancé had been. He’d owned the veterinary clinic where she worked. Gave her lots of experience running the place.
And, while supposedly working on a hush-hush veterinary research project for a local university, took the lady professor in charge of the project as his lover.
That should keep her from wanting to see more of closed-mouthed Drew.
Instead, she focused on what was really important to her. “So how many K-9s are there on the base?”
“A dozen or so.”
“Without a resident vet?”
“Their handlers are trained in animal first aid. And despite what happened to Grunge, the dogs rarely get ill or hurt.”
“So they’re taken care of better than the people?”
“Absolutely.” But he’d spoken a little too quickly. Was he holding something back?
Something about the animals’ welfare?
“Why don’t you let me schedule a check-up for each animal on the base?” she asked. “A baseline, so to speak, in case there’s a problem in the future.”
“They’re checked out by military vets before being put into service and have official veterinary visits now and then,” he said. “But I appreciate your offer. May take you up on it, but first I’ll have to clear it with my commanding officer. I’ll let you know.”
Don’t call us, we’ll call you. That was the underlying message, Melanie was sure. She suspected that Drew wouldn’t allow a little thing like military protocol stop something he really wanted. He’d figure out a way around it.
Which meant he was humoring her. “Fine.” Squaring her shoulders, she increased her pace, and he kept up.
They soon turned the corner onto Choptank Lane and passed the antique stores nearest the main street. Of course they were dark at this hour.
Melanie slowed. Looked around uneasily. This was near where she had found Grunge last night.
Was he shot right here? And was his assailant still around?
Her state of mind lightened considerably when they arrived safely at her clinic. She pulled her key from her purse. “I have a few dogs to check on. No need to wait.” But she somehow hoped he wouldn’t rush off—not when she still felt a little nervous.
“I’ll come in. Make sure everything’s okay.”
“Not necessary.” But she didn’t stop him. Not with the relief she felt.
The idea of remaining in his company a little longer didn’t hurt, either.
“Your irritating some of the locals and tourists for being nice to Grunge last night might not be good for your health,” he said, accompanying her inside.
“I figured.” Melanie nearly exploded with frustration. “Why on earth do so many people around here believe in such absurd stuff? Werewolves. Shapeshifters. The value of silver bullets.”
“Keeps them from getting bored, I’d imagine.” In the light from the fixtures beside the clinic doors, Melanie could see his shadowed smile.
“That stuff seems pretty boring to me,” she grumbled.
“Really? I thought you enjoyed it.”
“What!”
Holding the door open for her, he grinned, sending awareness skittering up her spine and down to her most intimate areas. Again.
She couldn’t help smiling back.
He followed her inside. Nothing seemed out of order. Thank heavens.
The dogs in her infirmary greeted her eagerly.
She gave them small treats after allowing them out in the dog run to deal with nature’s call. Did they remember Drew being there with Grunge? They all greeted him eagerly, tails wagging, heads down as if they recognized him as a military man, used to giving orders. An officer, and therefore alpha in attitude.
Despite herself, Melanie appreciated that Drew stayed with her. And when she was done at the clinic, he accompanied her next door, to her home.
Again, he held a door open. An officer and a gentleman. So what if she felt sexually attracted to him? There was nothing personal in what he was doing. He was just…well, being gentlemanly.
She watched as he checked out her house. Everything looked fine.
She walked him to the front door.
“Thanks again for helping Grunge.” He looked down at her. She shivered slightly at the expression in his eyes. Their heat seemed to char her.
She wasn’t surprised when he pulled her into his arms. His body was as hard against hers as she had anticipated. All of it—especially where his hardness signified he was turned on, too.
She wasn’t the only one thinking about sex.
And that was both gratifying and a little scary.
When he lowered his mouth to hers, she participated willingly, concentrating on that kiss. His lips. The suggestive strokes of his tongue.
He tasted of steak—of course. And more, although she couldn’t define it. Something wild. And exotic, somehow. And much too addictive.
His hands roamed up her back, and every place he touched seemed to come alive with sensation. He made a low, rumbling noise in his throat that only made her shudder with the added aural stimulation.
She, too, stroked him—his back only, and what she could reach of his shoulders, and the taut, ropy muscles of his arms. As he had done, she moaned softly. Wanted more.
But she had just met this strangely seductive, secretive man. He had appeared in her clinic with no doors opened to him.
Slowly, as if withdrawing from a powerful magnetic force, she pulled away.
“Thanks again for dinner, Drew,” she said, out of breath and fighting the urge to kiss him again.
How could a mere first kiss be so erotic?
“Any time,” Drew said, his voice hoarse. “Goodnight, Melanie.” He looked down at her one more time, and the intensity of his gaze ignited additional flames everywhere inside her.
And then he walked into the darkness, toward the street, where his car was parked.
She stood watching him until she heard a car engine start. She closed the door.
Only then did she castigate herself for that kiss. It had been wonderful.
It had been meaningless. It had to be meaningless.
Time to return to the routine of being home alone at night.
She checked her locks, then went into her garage to retrieve her mail from the box beneath its slot. Bills, a couple of veterinary magazines. Nothing much.
She went into the living room to turn on the TV news and saw the blinking light on her telephone answering machine. She pushed the button to retrieve the message.
And froze, as a voice, obviously mechanically altered, said, “Werewolves exist. Other shapeshifters exist. Believe it, Dr. Harding. And if you help them, you will not exist. Remember the vet you replaced, Dr. Worley. Dead Dr. Worley.” There was a click, and no more.

Chapter Six
“I’m ready to try it,” Patrick Worley said.
“I figured, Lieutenant,” Drew said dryly. “You’re always first to volunteer when we come up with a new formulation. But this time I’ll play guinea pig.”
“You just like the alcohol in that elixir of yours.”
“Of ours, now,” Drew countered. “All of us.” It was Sunday morning, nearly eleven hundred hours, and they were in the clean room. It was part of the lab tucked below the building in a corner of the base that housed kennels for the K-9s used as decoys for what really went on at Ft. Lukman.
Drew considered the location ironic. Dogs weren’t exactly known for their sanitary habits, but these pups helped to obfuscate the most sanitary conditions imaginable from the few military personnel and civilians employed on the base who didn’t know its real purpose.

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