Predator and Prey (The Shifter Chronicles 9)

Predator and Prey

The Shifter Chronicles 9

Scrolls Book Three

M.D. Grimm

Predator and Prey

The Shifter Chronicles 9

Scrolls Book Three

M.D. Grimm

Cover Art by Catt Ford

Copyright 2021 M.D. Grimm

Smashwords Edition

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Table of Contents

Dedication

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Epilogue

Want To Continue The Series?

Shifting Moon excerpt

About This Book

Chronological List of Series

About M.D. Grimm

Other Titles by M.D. Grimm

Connect with M.D. Grimm

Dedication

To the men and women who serve in and out of uniform.

May all of you find your happy ending.

Prologue

Where are your monuments, your battles,

martyrs?

Where is your tribal memory? Sirs,

in that grey vault. The sea. The sea

has locked them up. The sea is History.

~Derek Walcott, The Sea is History

United States of America East Coast, 1814

The falcon shapeshifter stood on the beach, gazing at the ocean with weary eyes. He was tired. He was very, very tired. Not one month before, his mate, Quincy, had passed beyond the veil of this world. Old age had claimed Quincy, but he’d had a good, long life. Con hoped to join his beloved wolf soon. He had many years ahead of him, but he couldn’t bear to live them alone. So he planned to live the rest of his days as a falcon. It lessened the pain of his loss when he was in his other form. It was the only type of relief left to him.

Now he stood upon the beach where, many years ago, his fate had changed. He’d been a scroll guardian for only a short time, but he’d taken that duty to heart and had devoted his life to protecting two ancient scrolls that contained the means of destroying the world. But because of a storm that had capsized their ship to the New World, he’d lost them to the wide blue ocean.

Con wrapped his arms around himself as he relived those terrifying moments. He remembered thinking he would die as he sank deeper into the water. But he hadn’t. Neither he nor Quincy had died that day because of a master shapeshifter named Imelda and her pack.

But the scrolls were still down there, somewhere. They’d sunk along with the ship, and though Con had turned his back and left them behind, he’d never stopped thinking about them. At least once a day he’d remember them and wonder.

Something caught his eye, and Con turned his attention to what he at first thought was a ghostly apparition. But as he stared harder, he realized the pale woman walking along the beach was just as flesh and blood as he was. The wind ruffled her silver hair and caused her dress to twine around slender legs. The moon shone down, full and bright, giving him enough light to realize that this woman wasn’t ordinary. In fact, even from this distance, he sensed her strength and dominance. It was very similar to the aura exuded by Imelda.

Before he knew what he intended to do, Con strode toward her. As he approached, she stopped and turned her head, watching him. It was then that he realized her eyes were completely black. He swallowed hard but couldn’t stop walking. As he stepped in front of her, Con inclined his head respectfully. A small smile, perhaps of amusement, graced her lips, and she inclined her head to him.

Her presence held a vicious, cold quality, an aloof brutality that stared out at him through eyes like twin voids.

Pardon my boldness, my lady, Con said, heart pounding. But would you be, perhaps, a master shapeshifter?

That smile of hers grew, the moon reflected in those black eyes, and reminded Con of a ruthless, merciless predator. He repressed a shudder. His falcon fluttered anxiously, determined to shift in a heartbeat if needed.

Indeed, I am, young changer of the skin. What is your need?

What is your other form, my lady?

She tilted her head. You are bold for one so young. Even as Con flushed, she added, I like bold.

She looked at the sea. I am the ghostly predator that stalks in the darkest waters, that has no equal, and whose visage crumbles the courage of the bravest man.

Con stared at her, his eyes widening. He whispered, Shark.

Young, bold, and clever. I like you. She turned back to Con. I am Creusa. What is your name?

Con.

She nodded slightly. There is a reason for your boldness in approaching me, Con. What is it?

Con took a deep breath before telling her about the scrolls. Secrecy about them had been deeply ingrained, but now he knew he needed to speak. Traditionally, all scroll guardians had been birds of one type or another, but that wasn’t an option this time. And to his mind, what better guardians than sharks?

When he finished his tale, he couldn’t read Creusa’s expression. She stared at him with those blank, black eyes, no longer smiling.

I have sensed them, she said softly. I have sensed something within my oceans, not far from this beach, in fact. It is a pulsing, like that of a heartbeat, and it throbs inside.

Con knew about the pulse but not how she could have sensed it unless she had actually touched them. By the quietness of her tone, he knew she’d never known the source of the pulse before his telling.

You ask much of me, Con. She focused on him again. You ask much of my children. Protecting those scrolls makes us targets.

I know, he said. But still I ask, my lady.

Yes, she said. Still you must ask. You have a right to ask. Though I bear little love and loyalty for other changers of the skin, I know the price if even one family perishes. We resonate with each other, connected by a single thread of life. When one is in peril, the rest are as well.

While Con didn’t completely follow her words, he understood her answer to be yes.

He bowed his upper body. You have my profound thanks, my lady. I shall never be able to repay your kindness.

No, you will not.

But when Con raised his head, he noted that her small smile had returned.

Go, young skin changer. Go and be at peace. Those scrolls shall not leave my protection, or that of my children.

Con nodded again as she stepped away toward the waves lapping at the beach. He couldn’t resist watching her as she walked, without hesitation, into the cold water before diving in. Only a heartbeat passed before a large pale fin rose out of the water. While Con knew little of sharks, he suspected none grew so large as Creusa, the master shifter. As the fin descended below the waves, Con turned away. With a lighter heart, he stripped off his clothes and called to his falcon. The air shimmered and pulsed, and soon a peregrine falcon flew into the night sky, sending out a piercing cry of farewell.

Chapter One

United States of America East Coast, 1977

Digger loved the open ocean; the salt breeze, the rocking of his ship, the sound of the motor, and his crew laughing or cursing each other. The freedom. He’d always been in love with the sea despite her being an often cruel mistress. She was capricious and reveled in violence, but he couldn’t hate her for that—he admired her for it. She was who she was and proud of it. No shame, no hiding, no chains. Nothing to control her.

She gave that freedom to him.

Digger rubbed his hand over the stubble on his chin, vaguely thinking he should shave, but also not caring if he forgot again. After spending his early adult years in war, with its rigid order, commands, and brutality, he welcomed a bit of rebellion. He kept his hair short because he liked it that way, and he still worked out every day to stay toned, but otherwise, he wore scruffy clothing, sometimes shaved, and took orders from no one. He was captain of his ship, the Sea Hag, and was determined not to spend more time than he had to on shore.

Narrowing his eyes at the sea, Digger couldn’t stop a few memories from bubbling to the surface. He’d been one of the first to enlist—to his major regret—at nineteen. Somehow, someway, through the grace of God or the devil, he didn’t know which, he’d survived the entire damn war in Vietnam. He’d been relocated to different units, hopping from one jungle to the next, losing track of time, the days, then suddenly the war was over… and they’d lost. Damn waste. Then he’d returned home to find that everyone detested him. The blood he’d shed, the friends he’d lost, and those who had never known the heat and desperation of war decided they had the right to judge him. He’d spent one full month—exactly thirty days—on shore. The first half had been trying to acclimate into society, the second half, securing his boat and crew and planning his future.

He’d been a soldier. That had been his job—nothing more, nothing less. He’d done his job well. He’d followed orders, never shirking, never flinching. He’d stared death in the face; he’d stared cruelty in the eye. And while some of his friends had died or gone insane, or so twisted they’d become monsters, he’d kept his sanity by seeing what he did as what it was: a job, just like any other. Now that job was over, two years over, and Digger looked forward to the future.

The memories faded, rocked away by the ship. Another thing about the ocean that dry land couldn’t offer: sleep. Memories wouldn’t allow him to sleep. They weren’t nightmares; they didn’t have to be. Memories were brutal enough. But the sea calmed his mind, and he’d never slept better in his life.

We’re nearing the target, Sarge, Hook said as he fiddled with the Loran-C, their navigation tool—one he needed to replace as this one had seen too many years of wear and tear—and gazed at the nautical maps pinned to the walls of the bridge.

Digger eyed his first mate and nodded. I can see that.

Hook, born Winston Phillips, had been under his command in the war and had stuck to him afterward, catching his good—or bad—luck and surviving the bloody conflict. Even more grizzled than himself, Hook was several years younger and one-eyed, which caused several on board to tease him about being a genuine pirate. Hook always scowled in answer.

Digger