The Outlands Shifter: The Devil's Outlands, #1

CHAPTEr ONe

Kylie

Yer dead, ya lily-livered thief! the cowboy shouts. He shakes his fists in the air and bares his teeth like a wild animal. But he's not an animal. He's an actor playing a part.

I sigh as my gaze wanders over the street of the hokiest tourist trap in the Old West. At twenty bucks a pop, Wrathrock Ghost Town promises a fantastic adventure through the mists of time with authentic Utah Old West flavor, but it delivers off-off-Broadway schlock. I once again scan the dusty dirt street that stretches for three blocks ahead of me, taking in the old-looking buildings lined up along either side of the road, buildings that might actually be old structures or might be artfully aged replicas. A block away, a stagecoach---the one my friends and I arrived in---waits in front of a building labeled Sassy May's Boarding House.

Mopping sweat from my brow, I search the surroundings for anyplace where I might hunt down a bottle of water or a can of pop to quench my parched mouth. The midsummer sun scorches my skin and squeezes perspiration from every pore on my body. The sweat oozes down the back of my neck and between my breasts. Why did I wear a denim shirt over my tank top? Sure, the denim top is unbuttoned, but that doesn't make me feel any cooler.

I shrug out of the denim shirt and tie the sleeves around my waist. At least I had the good sense to wear shorts.

My attention wanders back to the phony cowboy.

He yanks the trigger on his clumsy, oversize revolver. The shot booms, echoing down the dusty street, while the other man, aka the lily-livered thief, lets out a melodramatic cry before collapsing in an exaggerated fall that sends his feet flying up as his backside hits the dirt.

The other tourists gathered before the duo cheer and clap. The faux cowboy proudly brandishes his gun over his head and smiles at the crowd. The corpse on the ground waves to the audience too, spoiling his ever-so-convincing act of playing dead.

That was so lame, my best friend, Jenna Foster, mutters.

I look at Jenna, who's rolling her eyes at the previously deceased thief as he rises from the ground and takes a bow.

Jenna groans. I mean, really, if these guys are SAG members, they should be kicked out for crimes against acting.

My other best friend, Megan Rivera, announces, They can't be members, unless SAG stands for Sawdust Amateurs Guild.

Oh, you two, I moan, returning my attention to the cowboys. Drama students should not visit tourist traps. What did you expect, Shakespeare in the Park?

Movement just past the two cowboys catches my eye, and I squint at the figure who walks out of the shadows beneath the saloon's porch. The man saunters into the street, his head turned away, a long and battered leather coat billowing around his legs and a rust-brown cowboy hat slanted low over his eyes. He towers over the two hams who are yucking it up for the crowd despite being several feet behind them. Just as the mysterious newcomer strides past the duo, he vanishes.

I stare at the space where he'd been. The guy had just...faded into nothing. Like a ghost.

A shiver tingles through me. I can't disguise the wonder in my voice when I say, Wow, that was one amazing special effect. Did you guys see it?

See what? Jenna asks as she tosses her hair over her shoulder.

I gesture past the cowboys. The man who walked across the street behind those two and disappeared. How'd they do that? I raise onto my tiptoes but can't see anything behind the cowboys. Must've been a projection or a hologram or something.

What man? Megan asks, a hint of annoyance in her tone. I was staring right in that direction, and nobody was there.

"He was there. I swear it. How could my friends have missed that imposing figure? Imposing and sexy. I saw a guy with big muscles and wide shoulders wearing a wicked-cool leather coat."

Megan pats my shoulder. Girl, you're majorly stressed about your capstone project, aren't you? Imagining hotties in a ghost town? She leans closer to murmur in my ear, You need to get laid, Kylie. Virginicity isn't good for your mental state.

Virginicity is not a word.

Sure it is. Megan straightens and smirks, eying the cowboys. It's in the dictionary, right after Very Pent-Up Grad Student.

I am not pent-up. When my friends giggle at my proclamation, I give up. If I hadn't known them both since fifth grade, I might take offense. But sarcasm is how we've always rolled, and I know my friends tease me because they love me. Maybe I did imagine that man. I'm thirsty, and dehydration can do weird things to a person. I need a drink.

Sorry, babe, Jenna says, nodding toward the saloon. Family restaurant, no booze.

I meant a drink of water.

Jenna grins and bumps her shoulder into mine. I know. Just ribbing you. Could you please relax a little and try to get into the cheese factory we paid good money to see? She adopts a fake pout that's a touch overdone. I was hoping for sleazy cowboys who hit on saucy wenches in the crowd. Instead, we're stuck in Disneyland Meets the Dust Bowl.

Let me get a drink and then we can leave. All right?

Both Jenna and Megan voice their agreement, though not in actual words, and I sidle through the crowd to hop up onto the saloon porch. From this vantage, I have a better view of the mountains far beyond the ghost town's limits, their slopes rising high above the Great Basin, in which Wrathrock lies. Though I've lived in this area for six years, since my best friends and I decided to escape rainy Seattle for the stunning scenery of west-central Utah, I still feel a little out of place here. For as long as I can remember, I've searched for a sense of connection that I never quite find.

Connection. What a silly idea. An ornithology grad student, steeped in science, ought to be immune to sappy mumbo-jumbo. Not that I'll ever admit to Jenna or Megan that I yearn for something I can't define, a nebulous need beyond my reach.

And yes, there are birds in this arid region.

I buy a can of Pepsi from a vending machine inside the saloon and amble to the end of the porch, near where I saw---or thought I saw---the man in the leather coat. While the two lame-ass cowboys left footprints on the dirt street, the path my mystery man took is clean. Because he doesn't exist, moron. Too many hours of studying the migration patterns of the cliff swallow must've fried my brain.

A scuffling noise draws my attention to the shadow-cloaked alley between the saloon and the general store. My breath catches, and my pulse quickens.

The man in the leather coat strides down the alley away from me.

I leap off the porch, rocketing down the alley after him, but he's already swerving around a corner into another alley behind the general store. I veer around the corner, stumbling to a halt when I realize the alley ends a few yards ahead of me. Panting, my heart pounding, I swipe the sweat from my brow with the back of my hand.

The man is gone, of course. Hallucinations tend to vanish without a trace.

Why can't I meet a guy like that? A real man, not a wuss like all the guys I've met who aren't hallucinations. Is it too much to ask for a hero who takes my breath away? Or at least doesn't wear baggy cargo pants? I long for the kind of man I've read about in books and seen in old movies, the kind who kisses a woman like he means it.

Oh jeez. Maybe I do need to get laid after all.

I've still got the unopened Pepsi can in my hand. So I pop the top, take a sip, and survey the ground for footprints. Nothing but my tracks. I swig more pop, and the blessed chill of it feels so good even while the carbonation sizzles down my throat. I toss back another mouthful, letting my eyes drift shut.

Someone coughs.

My lids fly open.

I gasp at the old man who hunches before me, leaning on a gnarled wooden walking stick. He studies me, his ink-dark eyes squinted. Wrinkles carve deep lines on his face while a sharp, hooked nose lends him the noble air of a bald eagle. A woven poncho covers his bent frame, and gray hair flares wildly around his head.

There you are, he says, his voice brittle. I've been waiting for you, Kylie.

I stagger backward half a step. Waiting for me? No, that's not creepy at all. How do you know my name?

Been waiting for you, he repeats, as if that explains everything. Took so much longer than I anticipated, but fate has a way of meandering to its destination.

Since I have no clue what the man is babbling about, I decide it's time to exit the conversation. I back up a few more steps, then whirl around and lurch into a dead run.

And I smack into the old man.

I stumble backward, and the pop can flies out of my grasp. It plops onto the dirt, spewing brown liquid.

The old man raises a placating hand.

My pulse thunders in my ears anyway. How did you...

The old ways. He shuts his eyes briefly. I have no time to explain, dear, else I would. But the winds of time speak your name, and nothing can stop what must come to pass.

A warm breeze tickles my midriff, and I realize with a start that my tank top had ridden up when I'd stumbled into the old man. Yanking it down, I tuck the hem under the denim shirt that's still tied around my waist. I have no clue what you're talking about.

You will soon. He reaches inside his poncho to pull out a bronze medallion the size of a silver dollar that hangs from a thick cord fashioned from what looks like hemp. This is yours.

He removes the necklace and holds it out to me.

I stare at the medallion and its frayed cord. Taking gifts from strangers was one of the big no-no's I learned as a child. But I'm an adult now, right? Twenty-four and capable of taking care of myself. Besides, what harm can a medallion do?

The old man jiggles the necklace. Take it, child. You will need its power soon.

Power?

My gaze locks onto the medallion as the bronze disk rotates on its axis, revealing flashes of both sides. One face has a five-pointed star on it, while the other features a stylized image of a howling wolf. It doesn't look Native American, though I'm hardly an expert. The medallion seems more Old World European.

Who are you? I ask.

A shaman of sorts. My people once lived in the lands that encompass this place. He shakes his head, his face pinched and his eyes half-closed as if he's recalling a painful memory. The curse will not let go. The Old Ones have spoken, and it was your name they called. His eyes spring open, fixed on me with an unnerving intensity that sends a shiver wriggling down my spine. Kylie Drummond, the purest soul and keeper of the wolf's destiny.

Another shiver rakes down my spine, harder this time, and goosebumps pebble my arms. Wolf's destiny? Purest soul? It's a bunch of wacko nonsense.

Yeah, sure, I tell him. Whatever you say.

He swings the necklace side to side like a pendulum. Your life will change when you embrace the power of the medallion.

The eerie way he intones those words does something strange to me. My mind is fuzzy, my pulse has slowed, and I can't move a muscle or look away from his eyes. I stretch out a trembling hand and close it around the medallion, feeling its cool metal against my palm. The second my hand encloses the disk, a gust of wind blows dust into my eyes, forcing me to shut them tight. When I peel them open again, the old man is gone.

But I still clasp the medallion in my palm.

I stand here frozen, dumbfounded by what I think I experienced. Am I suffering from heat-induced hallucinations? The warmth of my palm leeches into the bronze disk, which seems to amplify the temperature until it almost burns my skin. I open my hand and let the medallion dangle from its hemp cord. The metal reflects the sunlight, though its tarnished surface dulls the effect.

A lump hardens in my throat. I swallow, but that lump won't budge.

Okay, not a hallucination. Unless I've sunk so far into the deep end that I can't tell reality from fantasy anymore. The medallion swings side to side, over and over, the image of the wolf moving with it. The bronze disk commands my focus and, unable to tear my gaze away, I let my eyes shift left, right, left, right, in time with the medallion.

The world tilts around me.

A wave of dizziness crashes over me, and I stagger sideways, flailing for a handhold but finding none. My right hand still clutches the medallion's cord, so tight that my knuckles ache and my nails dig into my palm. The spinning sensation quickens, the world gyrating as if I've hopped onto one of those Tilt-A-Whirl rides at a carnival. Nausea surges in my stomach, the pressure of it forcing my gorge high in my throat. Oh God, I'm about to vomit.

I stumble out of the alley, careening like a drunken cowboy, my vision suddenly blurred. Darkness envelops me. An impulse too strong to deny compels me onward through total blackness while my heart hammers in my chest. Adrenaline scorches through my veins, and I know it's the only thing keeping me on my feet. A seductive abyss beckons me. I recognize that if I give in to the abyss, I'll fall to the ground unconscious, vulnerable to whatever the hell is happening to me.

I bump into a barrier, lose my balance, and slump to my knees in the dirt, breathless, my ears ringing.

There she is!

Oh my God! Kylie!

Familiar voices pull me out of the viscous blackness that gropes at my flesh. My vision lightens, and blurry shapes coalesce into people and objects. Jenna and Megan are racing toward me from the other side of the ghost town's main street, followed close behind by a bald man I don't recognize.

I blink slowly, drawing one deep breath after another. Where am I? On the ground, I realize, crouched at the end of the saloon's porch. When I tip my head back, I can see the porch railing.

Are you okay? Megan asks, her voice fraught with anxiety. She drops to her knees beside me. We were totally freaked out. Where'd you go?

Jenna kneels in front of me, her eyes wide, her face pale. Girl, where have you been? You scared us half to death, disappearing like that.

What? I say, still too dazed to understand anything. I rub my temples, but my friends' reactions seem out of proportion. I was only gone a few minutes.

Minutes? Jenna says. You disappeared for three freaking hours, Kylie.

Hours? No, it can't have been that long. I glance over my shoulder at the alley---which is not there. No more than a few feet