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Lycan Legacy - Paladin

Veronica Singer


Veronica Singer

To those who walk on two feet, but hunt on four.

Text copyright © 2021 Veronica Singer

All Rights Reserved

Fantastic Cover Design by:


Created with Vellum


Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33


About the Author


The drone of the aircraft engines was shockingly loud to my werewolf ears, bringing back memories of my last trip on a military aircraft—a trip to an Arctic prison specially designed to cage werewolves. At least I wasn’t chained down this time.

This aircraft was smaller, but otherwise similar to my previous transportation: stretched-canvas bench seats along each bulkhead, a swing-down ramp at the rear, and the well-worn look of roughly used equipment. The rear hatch was open, letting in the icy wind of our twenty-thousand-foot altitude. We ignored the cold, but we all wore oxygen masks. Werewolves can survive in thinner air than humans, but even we needed help here.

These masks had something extra: small one-way valves that allowed exterior air to enter. Werewolves hate not being able to smell their environment, so this modification allowed us to wear masks without feeling like we were blindfolded.

For this mission, I was surrounded by werewolves. Unfortunately, these were not my pack. Not only that, they weren’t American. Hell, I couldn’t even read their nametags—they used Hebrew lettering.

The Israeli pack’s alpha sat to my right on the long bench that ran the length of the aircraft. A diminutive blonde with bright amber eyes, she was in charge of this operation.

Yes, she. It was just my luck that the first time I met another female alpha, she had to be such a bitch. Each time she looked at me with that air of superiority, I wanted to smash her face in.

And ruin a month’s planning and put the hostages at risk? I swallowed my anger and put on a calm face. Useless—she could smell my anger and I could smell her superiority.

I smiled at the thought of tearing into her once this mission was over. She smelled my amusement, then emitted her own scent of anger. The bitch wanted me to submit to her. Not gonna happen.

Across from me, against the other bulkhead of the aircraft, sat my one ally, Mike. He was squeezed uncomfortably between two werewolves, who kept ‘accidentally’ bumping and jostling him. Mike just smiled with the calmness of a monk in meditation. He had been through all this before. He had told me that military units, no matter what nationality, would routinely harass newcomers to test their mettle.

And Mike was a puzzle to these werewolves. He wasn’t were, but he wasn’t exactly human. He lacked werewolf healing and senses, but he was inhumanly strong and tough—the result of a desperate attempt to save his life after a savage attack. The cure had involved the combined magic and skill of Mason and myself, and Mike’s own indomitable willpower.

Mike noticed my look, smiled, and rubbed the spot on his harness over his ‘good-luck charm.’ Then he winked at me.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a green apple. He looked at it with obvious hunger, but it would be impossible to eat the apple with an oxygen mask on. He tugged the side of his mask a bit, but it wouldn’t slide enough to let him get a bite of the apple without risking loss of oxygen. Then he reached to his calf and pulled something from a sheath hidden there. It was his combat knife.

His solid silver combat knife. Even in the dim red light, the gleam of pure silver flashed through the aircraft. Suddenly, the two werewolves who had been boxing him in had scooted away, leaving him with almost a foot of space on each side.

Mike nonchalantly sliced a precise quarter-inch section of his apple, pulled his mask out a bit, and slid the apple into his mouth. He munched contentedly, one slice at a time, until the apple was half consumed. He sliced off another section, then said over the intercom, “How rude. I’m sorry, does anyone else want a slice?”

He proffered a slice of apple, balanced on the deadly knife blade, to the werewolf sitting on his right. The were shuddered and shook his head.

“Damn,” said Mike in consternation. “I’m sorry. Is it not kosher?”

Do Jewish werewolves even follow kosher laws?

I expected that flashing a silver weapon in an aircraft full of werewolves would cause a fight. Instead, the opposite occurred. The were held up both hands in surrender and roared with laughter.

“Thanks, but we don’t like to eat before a mission.”

Tension eased with smiles and laughter all around. Mike finished half of the apple, put the remaining half away, and sheathed his knife. The two weres relaxed and scooted closer, but left a respectful distance between themselves and Mike.

I leaned back and closed my eyes, relying on my inner wolf to wake me if trouble arose.

It happened suddenly. I had a premonition of imminent danger, a shock to my brain and heart that made me want to escape—now!

I always trust my instincts. I jerked at my safety harness, only to find it locked. In an instant, I popped a razor-sharp claw, sliced through the harness, and jumped to my feet. There was a tug at my back as Ariel tried to stop me, but it was too late. I’m faster than almost anything on earth.

A microsecond to decide, then I reached for Mike. He had raised up but was moving too slowly for me. My claw sliced through his seatbelt and I grabbed him by the straps that held his parachute. Three steps to the hatch and I threw us both into the pre-dawn void.

Only an idiot would jump out of a perfectly good airplane.

I told

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