Hunted Guardian (The Shifter Chronicles 7), page 1
Hunted Guardian
The Shifter Chronicles 7
Scrolls Book One
M.D. Grimm
Hunted Guardian
The Shifter Chronicles 7
Scrolls Book One
M.D. Grimm
Cover Art by Catt Ford
Copyright 2021 M.D. Grimm
Smashwords Edition
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Table of Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Epilogue
Want To Continue The Series?
The Serpent and the Angel excerpt
About This Book
Chronological List of Series
About M.D. Grimm
Other Titles by M.D. Grimm
Connect with M.D. Grimm
Chapter One
The quality of decision is like the well-timed swoop
of a falcon which enables it to strike and destroy
its victim.
~Sun Tzu
England countryside, 1784
He had a purpose in life. He suspected not many people in this world could say the same. He was born for a reason; his life had a reason. How many people wandered throughout the world, lost, aimless, goalless? How many were discontent, depressed, striving for something more, for something to give their life meaning?
He didn’t have that problem. While he might not be the happiest shapeshifter in the world, he was content. Comfortable.
Quincy stood on the small balcony outside his bedchamber, the doors open, letting in the night’s chilly breeze. He was fully dressed, with a rifle in his hand, and his keen green eyes scanned the woods surrounding his pack’s manor, a sanctuary from the masks and deception of the English aristocracy. The moon was full, giving plenty of light, though even if she wasn’t glowing so brightly, he would still see just fine. It was one of his coveted abilities—even in human form, he could see into the night. As a wolf, he saw even better.
But he didn’t shift into a wolf very often; there wasn’t any point. He never hunted with his pack.
Most of his pack was hunting, as they did most nights. Their howls were faint in the distance. The sound mixed with the howls of regular wolves, the last pack now remaining on the island of Britain. When they died out, only werewolves would remain. It was a sad thing to know their majestic cousins would never again run free across the green fields.
Quincy closed his eyes. The haunting sounds calmed him but also made him yearn for something he knew he could never have. Only the strongest and swiftest hunted with their alphas. His inner wolf, his primal spirit, was never too pleased with being left behind, and he could feel the beast pace, restless, rejected. He chided the wolf gently, knowing that protection of his pack’s ancestral home was just as important as running with them. Ensuring they had a home to come back to was what he did for his pack.
Gripping his rifle securely, Quincy glanced down, despite himself, at his left leg; the reason why he didn’t shift and hunt. He’d been lame since birth, and a sickly child. His own mother had wondered if he’d survive infancy. But he’d grown strong, confident. He’d trained, like one possessed, determined to prove his worth to his pack. He wouldn’t be one demoted to the rank of mere servant. No, he answered directly to his alphas, Elizabeth and her mate, Cornelius. His mother had been so proud.
Turning from the forested view, Quincy stepped back into his bedroom and closed the balcony doors. He continued across the large room, barely limping, having trained himself from an early age to hide his flaw. His family wouldn’t abide weakness. They were one of the largest packs in Europe, their territory the southern part of Great Britain. Members of the pack lived in London, in Bath, and in villages all along the coastline. A few of their members had also mated with the smaller pack in Scotland. The Scottish wolves were strong and proud, and made excellent allies. They had more allies across the mainland of Europe, and there were constant negotiations and matings to secure loyalty.
After shutting the bedroom door behind himself, he walked down a long, wide hallway, portraits of his ancestors dominating the dark walls. The manor was new, though the land was old. As the pack continued to grow, and with the intention of keeping with the current trends, the small ancestral home had been torn down and rebuilt from the foundation up. They needed to keep adapting and adjusting to the changing cultures that morphed around them. Now the pack’s sanctuary was a large country home that dominated the landscape, sitting on a hill that loomed over the small village a kilometer away. Windows were spaced evenly along the three levels and the manor stretched across the entirety of the hill, giving an air of strength and domination. Quincy approved of the changes.
However, this rebuilding forced everyone to move to their different residences around England. He and his mother had journeyed with their alphas to London, much to his dismay. He didn’t like the city—it was too noisy and busy, the scents too pungent, and he found the society tedious. It was always balls and parties, flirting and mocking, and as he was a bachelor and prominent in his influential family, he’d been constantly courted and simpered to. He’d longed for it to end. He much preferred the country and the gentle rhythms of nature. He’d been home for six months, and he never wanted to leave again.
The small village down the hill had charming shops and pubs, and an inn. It was a village that owed its prosperity to his pack. While the villagers knew that, however, they still delighted in scaring themselves by telling stories about Spenser Manor and the strange gentry living there. They spoke about the pack in whispers with frequent prayers to God. He visited the village often, as part of his patrol. It gave him the advantage of becoming a familiar face, and the villagers trusted him a little more than the rest of the pack. If nothing else, his periodic visits gave them some comfort that he wasn’t going to cause them any trouble. But there were still some who never met his eyes, some would even go pale with fear. The village was full of merchants, cobblers, and bakers that traded with his pack and their tenant farmers. Quincy found their fear privately amusing since he knew they would never openly attack the manor or even want it attacked. Quincy suspected they thought of themselves as special, since they had such unusual patrons.
The tenant farmers knew better than to offend their masters. They kept their heads down, never spread gossip, and farmed the lands with great skill. Quincy often checked on them, and was always met with courtesy and good humor. The difference between the villagers and the farmers was striking.
As Quincy turned a corner, he stopped, his musings interrupted. He smiled. A toddler was making an escape, crawling quickly down the hallway toward him. Her little body was in a white gown, her fine, blonde hair shining under the fire from the braziers on the walls.
Quincy waited, slinging the rifle over his shoulder, as the toddler came to his feet. She stopped and slapped his boot once with one tiny hand before plopping down on her bottom. She gurgled and looked up at him, smiling widely, looking oh, so innocent. But he knew her game. She was an escape artist.
Bending down, he swooped her up high, and she let out a high-pitched squeal.
“Where is it you think you’re going, Angelica?”
Tickling her, holding her with the ease of a man used to children, he strode back to the large nursery, realizing the door was cracked open. Sneaky girl, she’d managed to squeeze through. Shouldering the door open, he entered before shutting the door with his foot.
He pinned the nurse with a hard stare as she turned from where she’d been tucking a young pup into bed. She was pack, as all their servants were, but of inferior status. While he was never rude or cruel to them, he knew how the pack expected him to treat them: with cool reserve.
She paled when she spotted the child in his arms.
“Mrs. Locke, I do believe you’re missing a child. I suggest a sharper eye on this one.”
“Yes sir, of course. I beg your forgiveness.” Mrs. Locke took the child from his arms, and the little girl cooed with pleasure. Angelica was such a happy child.
“Do
Quincy rolled his eyes toward the young woman, full with child. She sat in a rocking chair in the corner, holding a dark-haired lad in her arms.
“Juliet.” Quincy inclined his heard toward her. She was right, of course; he didn’t like to be severe, and couldn’t stop the smile from gracing his face. He knew his features to be brooding even though his manners were gentle. Those outside his pack often mistook him for a brawler.
“And how are you this night?” he asked.
“Well enough to be sure. The pups allow me to remain calm.” She sighed, looking out the window. “How I long for a run.”
Quincy smiled fully at that. Juliet was his matriarch’s youngest daughter, and truly the apple of her mother’s eye. It wasn’t a surprise, therefore, that her mother had given approval when she’d requested to mate with a lone male werewolf staying in the village months ago. To keep the bloodline strong, such matings were encouraged but needed to be approved. As they lived in a human world, dominated by human culture, society, and morality, it would be sheer scandal to have a young woman become intimate with a man without marriage, especially as the woman was one of the gentry. But the pack had long since become adept at secrecy and cunning, and they’d held onto their respectful reputations for generations, and would, he was sure, continue to do so.
Quincy eyed the crib, an heirloom of the pack, which sat by the door. “How ever did she climb out?”
Juliet shrugged. “She certainly is my sister’s daughter. Camille could escape from any prison the elders concocted.”
Mrs. Locke set Angelica back in the crib, but the child didn’t look at all tired. Her eyes were bright and, in Quincy’s opinion, full of scheming.
“Go to sleep, little girl. You understand?”
She cooed.
Juliet rose, setting the small lad in his bed, where he turned on his side, murmuring something about candy. Then Juliet came to Quincy and rose on her toes to kiss his cheek. “I thank you for bringing her back, Quincy. Now go, Guardian, back to your duties. Shut the door, would you?”
He flicked her chin lightly. “Anything for you.”
She rolled her eyes, which were warm with affection, and waddled back to her chair as he stepped out, shutting the door quietly.
Quincy proceeded down the large, sweeping staircase, his boot steps muffled by the thick carpet. As he reached the bottom, a small greyhound trotted up to him, the runt of her litter. Intelligent eyes stared at him as her tongue lolled out. Quincy affectionately scratched the top of her head. His pack bred greyhounds, among other pursuits, and it was their practice to drown the runts and defects. While he understood the practicality of that, he’d refused to let them drown Freya. He’d claimed her as his own.
She followed him as he crossed the front entryway and proceeded outside. He walked around the perimeter, as he was the only warrior to stay behind at the manor. There was no war on English soil, nor was there any threat of that. It was tradition that one of the pack stay behind during a hunt, and when he’d reached adulthood, it became his sole purpose. He completed a full circuit around the manor and stopped at the front doors just as the sun began to rise. He watched it with Freya, absently stroking her head. The howls of his pack came closer, their hunt finished. There were also howls and barks from the greyhounds, who sometimes accompanied the pack on their hunts. He took a deep breath of fresh morning air and smiled a little.
He crossed through the manor, past the large, intimidating vestibule, the fine, luxurious parlors, down a neatly carved corridor, and out the back door. Large, long-legged wolves loped out of the forest, their pelts shimmering under the rising sun’s light. Quincy stood at attention, his rifle slung over his shoulder. Freya, trained by him personally, sat at his left side, silent and watchful. She wasn’t allowed to hunt with the pack, either.
The leader, a dark, slender-legged, slim she-wolf, shifted before his eyes. The air shimmered around her, her graceful lupine form shifting into a graceful, mature human. Her hair was long and black with only streaks of silver. It barely brushed the top of her firm buttocks. She was naked, muscles carved into her gleaming, pale skin.
Elizabeth. His alpha. The daughter of an earl and a formidable countess. Their pack was one of the few that was ruled primarily by the female of the alpha mating pair. She was mated to Baron Cornelius Buchanan, a strong Scottish werewolf. To the English society, she was known as Lady Buchanan. But to the other wolf packs, she was Lady Spenser. To keep the ruling bloodline pure, she only mated with Cornelius. They had four children together, two males and two females. Camille, the eldest daughter, was next in line to become alpha.
Lady Elizabeth stood, unashamed of her nakedness. She was in her late fifties, and her body was still firm and agile. She was aging gracefully and would be a fine and elegant matron. She pushed her hair back, leaving her breasts uncovered. Quincy bowed his head, his wolf instantly contrite and awaiting orders.
“My lady.”
Though her dark eyes were guarded, her smile was genuine. She walked over gracefully, her movements lupine, as the rest of the pack arrived and shimmered into their human forms. She was shorter than he was, but her presence rendered her height meaningless, and he always considered her similar to a force of nature.
“Was there any trouble this night?” Her voice was smooth, slightly husky, and deeper than a woman’s should be. But it was a beautiful voice.
“No, my lady. I’m glad to see you are well. I trust the hunt was successful?”
“It always is, Guardian.” Her smile was smug and arrogant, her dark eyes sparking happily. She moved past him with a light brush on his arm, and into the manor. Next came Cornelius, a rugged, sturdy man a few years older than Elizabeth. He clapped Quincy on the shoulder with a grin before following his mate. The others filed past him, some greeting, some patting his shoulders. Quincy smiled and greeted them in turn. They promised to tell him about the hunt, but Quincy almost hoped they wouldn’t. It only made him long for something he could never have. His wolf felt resentment and growled low. Quincy scowled inwardly.
His mother, Lady Sofia von Wildgrube, was the last to greet him, on purpose. The only thing he’d inherited from his mother was her eyes, their color and shape. He resembled his father, a lord from a Germanic pack. Quincy had dark brown hair and brooding features, his body broad and slightly stocky. In contrast, his mother had hair the color of gilded sunlight and was slender, petite, her features putting him in mind of a porcelain doll. It was so strange that as she was the twin sister of Elizabeth, that they should be so like the night and day, in appearance as well as temperament. His mother was pretty where his aunt was handsome.
“Good morning, Quincy,” she crooned before rising on her toes and kissing his cheek.
“Good morning, Mother.” Quincy took off his own coat and draped it over her shoulders. She smiled, her eyes showing nothing but warm affection, and let him guide her into the mansion. Freya followed, tail wagging.
The pack was loud, laughing, gathering in the large parlor, a few grabbing blankets, others simply sitting, naked, on chairs and the floor. If anyone from the outside world caught the ease with which the sexes sat, unclothed, with each other, scandal would destroy them. The nobility would shun them and brand them barbaric; just another reason why their pack’s sanctuary was far from London and other big cities. The large acres of land they owned kept them comfortably separate from English human society. It was only in the country that they could be free, while in the cities they were restricted to the pleasures approved of by the human societies. Time spent in their sanctuary was alternated between all in the pack, so every member was given a chance to run free as their wolf.
Sofia stayed by his side, her arms wrapped around one of his, leaning into him fondly. He was the only one of her five children to survive past the age of ten. And he was the last one she would ever have. It was little wonder why she clung to him so hard.
His father, Fenris rest him, had died before his birth, and he knew his mother never fully recovered from it. She’d lived in Germany with him and after his death made the arduous journey back to England. She never spoke about his father much; Quincy suspected it was too painful. All she would tell him was for him to look in the mirror and he would know his father. Apparently, he was much like the wolf in appearance and mannerisms.
