Fangs Read online

  Table of Contents

  Legal Page

  Title Page

  Book Description

  Dedication

  Trademarks Acknowledgement

  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

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  New Excerpt

  About the Author

  Publisher Page

  Fangs

  ISBN # 978-1-78651-110-2

  ©Copyright Vella Munn 2016

  Cover Art by Posh Gosh ©Copyright December 2016

  Edited by Sue Meadows

  Totally Bound Publishing

  This is a work of fiction. All characters, places and events are from the author’s imagination and should not be confused with fact. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, events or places is purely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any material form, whether by printing, photocopying, scanning or otherwise without the written permission of the publisher, Totally Bound Publishing.

  Applications should be addressed in the first instance, in writing, to Totally Bound Publishing. Unauthorized or restricted acts in relation to this publication may result in civil proceedings and/or criminal prosecution.

  The author and illustrator have asserted their respective rights under the Copyright Designs and Patents Acts 1988 (as amended) to be identified as the author of this book and illustrator of the artwork.

  Published in 2016 by Totally Bound Publishing, Newland House, The Point, Weaver Road, Lincoln, LN6 3QN

  Totally Bound Publishing is a subsidiary of Totally Entwined Group Limited.

  Warning:

  This book contains sexually explicit content which is only suitable for mature readers. This story has a heat rating of Totally Simmering and a Sexometer of 2.

  Feral Justice

  FANGS

  Vella Munn

  Book two in the Feral Justice series

  As death and danger stalk the southern Oregon coast, Mia Sandas and Jeff Julian must trust each other. Can they handle the truth?

  When a poacher leaves a wounded elk cow to suffer on the southern Oregon coast, Mia Sandas has no choice but to end its misery. Before she’s forced to do the same to the cow’s orphaned calf, a massive gray dog appears and snaps its neck.

  Unknown to Mia, this is only the beginning of a test of her courage and comprehension. As she turns to Fish and Wildlife Officer Jeff Julian, the gray and his four-legged companions stalk local animal abusers.

  Jeff and Mia are drawn together as they seek understanding of what is taking place in the forested mountains. They know the canines are committed to primitive justice but why? Who are the targets and what will be the outcome?

  Can Jeff and Mia stop more bloodshed—and do they want to?

  Dedication

  This book, like everything I write, wouldn’t be possible without my mother’s love and support. She didn’t just raise my sister and me, she taught us through most of our elementary school years. She introduced two inquisitive girls to the world of books and always encouraged our imaginations. Most of all she guided us to believe in ourselves, to take chances, and to embrace life. Her support made me who I am today, and she will live forever in my heart.

  Trademarks Acknowledgement

  The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of the following wordmarks mentioned in this work of fiction:

  Ruger: Sturm, Ruger & Co., Inc.

  Glock: Glock Ges m.b.H

  Pandora: Pandora Media, Inc.

  Jeep: Fiat Chrysler Automobiles

  Styrofoam: The Dow Chemical Company

  Band-Aid: Johnson & Johnson

  Google: Google, Inc.

  Kindle: Amazon.com

  Chapter One

  Crack! Crack!

  Her heart pounding and breath caught, Mia Sandas stopped in mid-stride. The explosion wasn’t that close, the location impossible to pinpoint. Still, it alarmed Banshee enough that her dog barked and whined until she ordered him to stop. She strained to catch any and all sounds that didn’t belong in the wilderness.

  As the seconds passed and the sounds weren’t repeated, her heart rate slowed. Her breathing remained ragged.

  Vulnerable. She was fighting the fight or flight instinct because, alone except for Banshee, she was vulnerable. Rifle shots were common in southern Oregon’s coastal forest during hunting season, but it was June. If someone had been target shooting he or she would have fired more than twice, right?

  Prompted by Banshee’s continued tension, Mia abandoned the deer trail she’d been on and followed the Rottweiler-bullmastiff cross-country. The change in direction took her straight up Dark Mountain. Her hundred pound plus, mostly black mutt picked his way around the ground-blanketing vegetation that came with months of cool rain. Because Mia’s business demanded physical labor, the climb didn’t tax her. She just wished someone had designed boots capable of firmly gripping slippery roots, lush vegetation and downed madrone, red cedar and sycamore trees.

  Although nature’s sounds had resumed, Banshee remained determined to find some answers. In the three years they’d been companions, Mia had learned to take him seriously. Banshee could snore with the best of them—usually on the couch near her wood stove—but when his hackles lifted and he exposed his fangs, the dog meant business.

  Despite his solid form, Banshee moved almost soundlessly. So did she, thanks to lessons learned from the uncle and his wife who’d raised her in Alaska. If she was going to continue to live near the wilderness, which she needed to with every fiber she possessed, she had to remain part of her surroundings.

  Banshee stopped and looked back at her, prompting her to return his gaze. A little over a hundred feet above them the land briefly leveled and opened up, revealing good summer feeding ground for the coast’s Roosevelt elk.

  At the thought of elk, she sucked in clean, cool, damp air. She wasn’t afraid for herself and only marginally so for Banshee, but she might soon see something she didn’t want to. Not far away, a long-abandoned logging road crawled up this side of the mountain. Only a few people knew of its existence, most of them hunters.

  Not hunters this time of the year. Poachers.

  After refilling her lungs, she waved her hand, indicating she was ready for Banshee to start again. As she climbed, she trailed her fingers over soft ferns and moss. The mountains that owned her soul as much as Alaska once had were places of incredible, enduring beauty and, sometimes, violent death. Here, the division between prey and predator was clearly marked. The weather ruled, and a careless step could mean broken bones and a slow end in an area where cell phones seldom found a connection.

  Her calf muscles were protesting by the time she reached the level area. Instead of taking a break, Banshee continued his deliberate walk. She didn’t try to keep up with him, choosing instead to focus on the difference between a wall of trees and a rolling meadow. The swales made it impossible for her to see everything, but from where she stood it all seemed peaceful.

  At least it did until she again concentrated on Banshee. He’d advanced in his slow, deliberate way to a madrone thicket to the right of the meadow and was standing in deep shadow staring at something.

  As she ap
proached, she heard a sound that made her think something was striking the ground. The dull thumps lacked rhythm. Banshee whined and sank down. Wishing she was doing anything else, she nevertheless continued to close the distance between them. When she was steps from her companion, her heart tightened.

  He’d found a downed cow elk.

  A hand to her mouth, Mia stared at the large creature lying on her side. The elk’s legs occasionally thrashed, hooves digging into dirt. Her sides heaved. She stared at Banshee, but didn’t appear aware that a human was around. Bright red blood stained the shoulder area.

  “Bastard,” Mia muttered. “You damn bastard.”

  Whoever had shot the maybe five hundred pound, light brown cow had left his victim to die. A thrill kill. Murder for murder’s sake. Worse than that because the elk was still suffering.

  Furious and still feeling vulnerable, Mia wrapped her arms around her middle and took in the setting. She couldn’t see the logging road from here, which meant that if the poacher had used it to get here, he’d left his vehicle behind. She’d been far enough away when she’d heard the shots she wouldn’t have known whether the so-called hunter had taken off or was still around.

  Hopefully gone. Hopefully without his rifle trained on her.

  No, the damn poacher wouldn’t add murder to his crime.

  Maybe.

  The cow’s hind legs jerked, drawing her attention to that part of the exquisite, but useless body. When she spotted engorged udders, her stomach roiled. “You miserable excuse for a human being,” she whispered. “I’d shoot you if I could. Let you know what slowly dying feels like.”

  Banshee whined and stared up at her.

  “I know,” she whispered. Instead of trying to finish what she’d intended to tell her companion, she drew her utilitarian knife out of the sheath at her waist with a shaking hand. “I don’t want to do this,” she whispered. “It’s the last.” She didn’t try to explain to Banshee that she’d decided not to use her Ruger to finish what someone else should have because she didn’t want to telegraph her presence. Thankfully, she’d armed herself before leaving her property. She hadn’t expected to need to use her weapons. They were simply insurance.

  When Banshee stopped whining, she took his silence as approval of what she was about to do. Anything to make the horrible act right in her mind.

  Hating herself, she approached the prone cow from behind so hopefully the animal wouldn’t have to deal with more trauma than she already was. Teeth clenched, Mia knelt behind the elk’s head. For too long she couldn’t force herself to move. Then her uncle’s words echoed in her.

  “Sometimes you’ll have to do things you don’t want to. Don’t hide from this. Get it done.”

  At the time, Uncle George had been talking about hunting deer and moose because they lived off the land, but his wisdom had carried over to a lot of things—like now.

  Teeth still clenched and head throbbing, she took hold of as much of the skin at the cow’s neck as she could, held her breath, and sliced through the artery there. Crimson exploded. The elk shuddered. Her legs locked. Fighting a whimper, Mia placed a hand over the cow’s eyes and watched the exquisite animal bleed out. When all movement stopped, she wiped her knife on the ground and put it away. Eyes burning, she stroked the inert form then stood and stepped back.

  If it was hunting season and she had an elk tag, she would have been tempted to take the meat—not that she had any way of carrying it home. Doing so would have been a sign of respect, a way of thanking the cow for her sacrifice.

  She’d always drawn a firm line when it came to playing by nature’s rules. Someone had shot this creature simply because he could. Maybe the state’s wildlife officers could determine which rifle the bullets had come from and make a charge stick, but for that to happen, she had to bring an officer here. Share what should be a peaceful place with a man who might only see a crime scene. Who might fault her for slitting the elk’s throat, even accuse her of being the poacher.

  No choice. She couldn’t let this wrong go unprosecuted.

  Although she was pretty sure what she’d find, she pulled her smart phone out of her pocket. No Service it read.

  Alone. Except for Banshee, the dead elk and the unseen calf, she was alone here.

  Hopefully.

  Steeling herself against the thought, along with the reminder that surely Banshee would let her know if another human was still here, she engaged the phone’s camera and took several pictures, including a close-up of the milk-filled bag.

  “Where’s the calf?” she asked Banshee. Truth was she didn’t want to see the orphan. The Ruger at her waist would do the job if she could get close enough to be assured of a clean shot. However, the poacher, if he was still around, would hear.

  What did she mean, if she could get close to the calf? All she had to do was back away from the cow and wait for its baby to approach.

  “I hate this,” she told Banshee. She reluctantly touched the gun holster on her hip. “It’s the last thing I’d do if I had a choice, but I can’t let it starve.”

  Banshee sniffed the carcass. She wished death was as simple for her. Wished emotion didn’t keep getting in the way.

  But it did.

  “Over there.” She pointed at a thicket about a hundred yards from where they were. “We’ll wait there.”

  Judging by how Banshee slowly trailed after her, he’d rather have remained near the carcass so he could continue his examination. Banshee had been about three months old when she’d found him at the county humane society facility. He’d been dropped off at night, which meant the staff had no information on him. The already powerful puppy had been playful, but reserved—something she’d suspected would turn off a lot of potential owners. However, he’d had her from the moment he fixed his black eyes on her. We’ll do well together, his expression had said.

  Banshee had been right about them being suited for each other. She hadn’t trained him so much as adapting her expectations to his personality. For his part, Banshee understood she was comfortable in her own skin and didn’t need much in the way of human companionship. He’d grasped that she needed him to patrol the fifty acres where she raised the Christmas trees that provided her with a living. He might see the Douglas and Noble firs as nothing more than reasons for him to lift his leg, but they meant something to her and that was good enough for him.

  When she reached the thicket, she selected a tree that would support her back while giving her a clear view of the dead elk. Someone could get close to here in a four-wheel drive, but a trail bike or quad took up less space on the overgrown and eroded logging road. If the shooter had used a bike, he’d had no intention of taking any of the meat with him and there was no rack to show off.

  In the three years she’d been living on the coast, she’d met fellow outdoors enthusiasts, including a number of hunters, her former employee, and more, Ram. Much as she’d like to believe none of them were capable of wanton killing, she knew better. One thing Ram had going for him, as far as she knew, he didn’t shoot just to shoot. He took pride in making use of every ounce of meat he could haul out of the woods and insisted that his clients—he earned extra money as a hunting guide—played by the rules. His friends were hunters, but she hadn’t gotten to know any of them well enough to decide whether any were capable of doing what she’d just witnessed. Of course the killer—or killers—might not have been local.

  Life wasn’t fair. She knew that as well as the next person, better than some.

  “Take it easy,” she told Banshee who had his head up and was sniffing the air. “You’ve smelled blood before.”

  He swung his big head toward her.

  “What is it?” She again fingered her Glock.

  Banshee went back to smelling. His mouth parted and he started sucking in air so rapidly his jowls trembled. That, she knew, was how Banshee dealt with tension.

  “We aren’t alone?” she asked, even though she’d already suspected they weren’t. A frightene
d and lonely calf wouldn’t make her dog act this way. She wanted to ask Banshee for an explanation, but unfortunately, there were limitations to their ability to communicate.

  She stood on legs that didn’t want to be doing this, pulled out her pistol and gripped it with both hands. The weapon settled her nerves and reminded her of the countless times she and the man who’d raised her had gone target practicing or hunting.

  “Human or animal?” she whispered. “It’s too early for scavengers.”

  Instead of showing interest in what she’d said, Banshee started walking stiff-legged into the sunlight. He put some twenty feet between them, then dug his nails into the ground and swung his head to the left. He relaxed a little then tensed. Realizing he was trying to keep an eye on two things at once, she shielded her eyes with her, now free, left hand and tried to make out what had caught his attention. Banshee appeared less tense when he was studying the dead elk, so she focused on the other direction. Unfortunately, the trees at that end of the meadow were so tall they cast impenetrable shadows.

  Who is it? she wanted to call out, but years of caution held her back. She made no attempt to hide her weapon. If someone was watching her, she wanted that person, or persons, to know she was armed. Of course a rifle could cut her down before she knew she’d been shot.

  Banshee started chuffing, his signal that he was excited. Reluctantly turning from the densest shade, she again focused on the kill site. A few seconds later, she caught movement in some bushes beyond the elk. A still-spindly-legged elk calf was inching toward its dead mother. Its mouth hung open and its head bobbed.

  Her throat tight, Mia studied the awkward-graceful youngster. She longed to hug it. If she could find a way to get it down off the mountain and onto her property, she’d raise it. She’d have to make sure no one knew what she was doing, because wildlife officers would take it from her. Damn it, she wasn’t some ignorant fool. If anything, she knew more about nature’s creatures than they did. The last thing she wanted was some wildlife cop lecturing her.