Shattered: The Sundance Series

by Rider, C. P.

  "That's the guy in the black-framed glasses, right?" he asked.

  "Yes. I think he wears glasses." Damn, it was hard to pin Lewiston down. The man elevated the act of being average to an art form. He had to be the most effective undercover agent my dad had, unless Dad knew someone who could shift his skin color into shades of wallpaper.

  "If you like, I'll drive you to your dad's house tomorrow and you can have Lewiston meet us there," Juan said. "It would be wise to keep a Martinez family member with you at all times. Not that our presence was terribly helpful today, but at least you'd have someone who knows what's going on."

  "Don't you have that big meeting tomorrow morning? The one with the investors or something or other?" Gert asked.

  Juan cursed. "You're right. The meeting runs all morning. Neely, I can take you in the afternoon—"

  "Why don't I take her?" Gert popped a piece of potato into her mouth. "It's no trouble."

  "Are you sure you want to go?" he asked. "You have the barn construction to oversee. Don't want to fall behind schedule."

  "I'll get the crew going and leave after." She squeezed her eyes into slits as she regarded her nephew. "Phfft. You aren't worried about the barn. You don't think I can handle guarding Neely."

  "Untrue. I think you can handle pretty near anything that comes your way," Juan replied, a bit of Texas drawl leaking into his voice, "but this is different, Tía. It's Gil."

  "Understood, but it's all right, Johnny. I can handle it." She glanced at me. "You okay with me taking you, Neely?"

  "Sure." I glanced at the disgruntled alpha at the head of the table. "Don't worry, Juan. Amir will be there, too."

  He appeared to mull it over before finally responding, "Fair enough. Gert knows as much about dire wolves as I do—probably more. She'll keep you safe."

  "That's right," Gert said.

  I did not point out that neither Gert nor Juan had been able to keep me safe on the ride home or in my bedroom today. It just didn't seem helpful.

  Chapter Sixteen

  The next morning, I was up at five, and showered and dressed by six. Someone in the kitchen had already made coffee, so I grabbed a cup and perched on a comfy club chair in the family room Juan had briefly showed Amir and me when we first arrived.

  I admired the picture window that ran the entire length of one wall, providing an unobstructed view of the back of the Martinez ranch. The rest of the walls displayed candid photos of family and friends, old sepia shots of the property, and an artful array of local fauna taken in black and white and professionally framed. The room itself was filled with weathered brown leather furniture, a fully equipped entertainment center, and a stone fireplace as big and warm as the one at Lucas's house.

  My heart squeezed. I missed him. I missed his house and his bed; I missed my bakery and my friends that were also family—I missed Sundance. In a relatively short time, the truck stop desert town had become home.

  My mind wandered, sought out things to worry about—as if I didn't have enough rolling around in there already. Would the attacks on me ever end? Would I be able to run my bakery in peace someday? Would there be a time when every bad thing that came to town didn't head straight to my doorstep?

  Lucas, Chandra, Amir—even the witches—all believed that the best way to thwart attacks would be for me to join the Blacke group. I'd be connected to every shifter and paranormal in the group, which meant if I was taken, it would be easier to track me down. There were, of course, ways around that. Nothing was absolute in the paranormal world.

  Secretly, in the darkest, quietest part of the night, as I lay sleeping beside a man I loved more than I'd ever thought I could love anyone, I dreamed about being a part of his group. My tío had told me how wonderful belonging to a healthy, loving wolf pack had been for him. When it was good, it was the best thing ever. No one wanted to break away from a powerful, healthy group. According to my uncle, leaving was painful, like tearing out a piece of your heart.

  But when a group was bad, as with my ex-fiancé and his brother's controlling, abusive pack, it was very, very bad.

  I feared that. I feared handing over even a sliver of my autonomy to Lucas and his group. I'd seen the worst of the worst, been trapped, dominated, and nearly destroyed.

  Plus, there was the relationship dynamic. I had a problem with wedding vows that used the word "obey" in them. My marrying Lucas and also being in his group would be like pumping the obey part of a wedding vow full of steroids. He'd have authority over me.

  I just didn't see how it could possibly work.

  "You look like a person who could use a second cup of coffee." Juan held up a carafe.

  I peered at the empty mug in my hands. When had I finished it?

  "Then I look like what I am." I smiled as he filled my mug and added a dollop of cream from a small pitcher. "Thanks."

  "Welcome." He set the carafe and the cream pitcher on an antique sideboard and brought his own mug over to the chair beside mine. The alpha wore jeans and a dusty T-shirt, and his work boots. Obviously, he'd just come from working outside. "It's chilly this morning. Good day for a fire."

  "I'd be willing to blast the air conditioner if it wasn't, just to have a fire like this. I've been known to do exactly that so I can wear my flannel prairie girl pajamas in the summertime."

  "Prairie girl?" His brows rose. "What's that mean?"

  "It's what Lucas said when he saw them the first time. That I looked like I'd walked off the set of Little House on the Prairie." I sighed and took a sip of my coffee. "He called my gown and my fuzzy socks birth control."

  Juan laughed. "You missing him?"

  "Yes, but for heaven's sake don't tell him that. He's got a big enough head as it is."

  That scored me another laugh. "The gods sure knew what they were doing when they mated you two. You're perfect for him." He held up his mug as if toasting me. "And he's good for you."

  "Is that right?" I knew he was good for me, but I wondered why Juan thought so.

  "Sure. You told me that before you got to Sundance you moved around a lot."

  "Not so much moved as ran. You could say my tío and I fled around a lot."

  "But you aren't running now. You've found a home in Sundance. Luke made that town a home. Before he arrived, it was a lawless—excuse me, but it's the truth—shithole. He made that place a home for his shifters, for himself, and for you." He gestured to the house in a general way. "All of this, my business, my house, and my pack, came to me by way of heritage. Luke didn't have that, so he created his own."

  He was right, of course, though I hadn't thought of it that way.

  "There are a lot of alphas hellbent on dragging you back to their groups to help protect them, but I'd wager there are even more out there who would drive you out of town the second they found out what you were. Spikers might be rare, but that doesn't mean people don't know what you can do."

  Right again. In fact, that had been the case in a couple of places in the years before my tío and I landed in Las Vegas and ended up on the outskirts of the worst pack either of us had ever encountered.

  "Did Luke ever ask you to leave?"

  I shook my head. Smiled. "No. He asked me to stay." Without asking for anything in return, really. He could have strong-armed me into joining his pack, or used our relationship to try to force me, but he'd always made it my choice, and stood by me when his shifters—even his third—gave him grief about it.

  Juan sipped his coffee. Grinned. "Now that I've given you something to think about, I wanted to tell you about an idea I have. A way to locate Gil."

  "I'm listening. I'd prefer to be proactive instead of sitting around here waiting for an attack." I went to take a sip of my coffee only to realize that I'd finished the second cup without realizing it. Thank the gods I wasn't drinking margaritas, or I'd have been toasted by now.

  "Uh, this might sound a little weird." Juan leaned forward in his chair with his mug clasped between his hands, his elbows on his knees. "Afte
r we spoke in my office, I got to thinking that maybe we could ask my meteorological mystic to help us find my brother. I mean, if Gil's working with a magic wielder, maybe we should, too."

  "So far, nothing about this sounds weird," I said, "which tells you a lot about how my life has been lately."

  "Same here." He stared down at his coffee. "Last night I dug that bee you brought to me out of the trash with the idea that it could be used to track him. I have no reason to believe it can, and what I know about witch magic could fill a thimble, but if the wolf—" He cleared his throat. —"if Gil manifested the thing with the help of magic, I thought we might could use it to track him down."

  I mulled the idea over. "I've heard stranger things."

  He set his mug aside and stood, grabbed the wrought iron poker beside the fireplace and prodded the logs. "I figured it was worth a shot. I didn't honestly think Barney could handle it—he's a weather mage, not a witch—but I figured he could point me to someone who could, being in the magic world and all. Imagine my surprise when he told Auntie Gert that not only was it possible, but he was pretty sure he could do it."

  "When?" I sat up straighter in the club chair.

  "If he can get the supplies and advice he needs, tonight."

  Juan finished with the fireplace, picked up my mug and his, the coffee carafe and the cream pitcher, and excused himself, saying he needed to shower and get ready for his business meeting, but would see me later.

  I went to my room to brush my teeth, then out front to meet up with Gert and Amir to begin the trek over to my dad's house—because I needed even more stress in my life.

  "My dad isn't answering his phone," I told Amir and Gert on the ride over.

  Gert had picked us up in her personal truck, a metallic green extended cab Ford F150 that had seen some farm work. The interior was worn, but comfortable, the exterior scratched and the bumper dented. It drove smoothly, and Gert bragged that "Jimbo" had always been a workhorse and that two hundred thousand miles hadn't changed that one bit.

  Yep, her truck was named Jimbo.

  "Didn't you tell him you'd be meeting him today?" Amir asked.

  "Yes. I talked to him last night. He said to drop by, that he would be home catching up on paperwork."

  "Could he have gotten called out for an emergency?" Gert asked. "Johnny tells me he's a big hoody hoo in the world of paranormal espionage."

  "Maybe," I said, "but why wouldn't he call or text me?"

  Amir and Gert looked at me, then at each other. Were they thinking what I was thinking? That I wasn't important enough to my own dad for him to worry about telling me when he was leaving town?

  "Not to change the subject, but Barney said he'd meet us back home this evening," Gert informed me.

  "Thanks for asking him, Gert. I know you're a little upset with the man."

  "I was madder than a hen in a rainstorm yesterday, but I get over it fast. Johnny's right. Even if he is acting odd, we're lucky to have him."

  "You've mentioned that a few times. That he's acting oddly," I said.

  "Because he is. All this running into fences and such. I've been wondering if he's gone senile. Still, he saved our bacon a couple of years ago when a big lightning storm hit us. Held it off long enough for us to get the animals and staff inside. Lightning won't usually kill a shifter, but it'll damn sure kill livestock. Plus, we've got humans working for us, too."

  That was unusual. "Do the humans know about … you know, us?"

  "Oh, sure. The Flores family has worked alongside ours for more years than I can count. I'd wager at least five generations. Good people." She stopped at a red stoplight, and turned to give me an assessing look. "Get any rest last night? You had a hell of a day yesterday."

  "A little."

  After tossing and turning for half the night, I'd finally gotten a few hours of uninterrupted sleep. I hadn't heard from the dire wolf since he'd ejected me from his head, and I was beginning to consider the possibility that he was either hurt or dead. Either way, we'd know once the mystic tracked the spell.

  Hopefully. With magic, things never went a hundred percent according to plan.

  Gert pulled Jimbo into the drive of my dad's house in a disturbingly short timeframe. The woman drove like she was being chased by the police.

  Once we were parked, Amir threw open the door and jumped out. He was two shades paler than when we'd started the trip, and sweating profusely. "Is eighty-five your age or your personal speed limit?"

  "Well…" Gert pursed her lips. "I can't lie to you, sugar. I have been told I have a lead foot. My last boyfriend told me he'd rather jump the Caesar’s Palace fountain with Evel Knievel than ride with me. I've got to admit, that pretty near hurt my feelings."

  "Who's Evel Knievel?" Amir asked.

  "Motorcycle daredevil from the seventies." I shrugged at his look of surprise. "He was on an episode of The Bionic Woman that I watched with Chandra."

  "What's The Bionic Woman?"

  Gert shook her head. "Good lord, feathers, you really are too young for me. Just as well, seeing as how you've taken a shine to Dahlia. Like the young ones, do ya?"

  Amir opened his mouth—I assumed to respond—but before he could say anything, Gert snorted and trudged toward the house. "Come on, then. Let's get off the street. We're making a dadgum target of ourselves out here."

  My dad's house was a modest red-brick single-story home. He lived in a middle-class Austin neighborhood not far from Pflugerville, sandwiched between a couple of nicer homes that sat close, but not too close, to his property line. The backyard butted up against an expansive green belt area, which probably appealed to his wolf.

  When we were ten feet from the front door, it opened, and a tall, nondescript African American man stepped out. He was dressed in a suit that was either light black or very dark gray, his hair was cut military short, and he wore a pair of black, horn-rimmed glasses.

  "Good to see you, Neely," he said blandly, but not unkindly. "Mr. Gamal, Ms. Martinez, I am Lewiston, Mr. MacLeod's associate. Please come in."

  Amir and Gert told him to use their first names, and we filed into the house, me dragging my feet. Was it odd that I felt like a stranger in my own father's home? I think I had expected something, a sense of homecoming, maybe, but I felt nothing. No familiarity, no connection, no warmth.

  "Hi, Lewiston. Dad must have sent you." I didn't try to hide my disappointment.

  "Yes. I'm sorry. He was called away late last night. He asked me to meet you here to give you some boxes. They belonged to your mother."

  Excitement washed away my disappointment. I could not wait to go through those boxes. I wanted to know everything about my real mom.

  "Uh, Mr. Lewiston, does Mr. MacLeod actually live here, or is this one of them staged houses? Like real estate people do when they're trying to sell a property?" Gert asked.

  "He lives here as much as he lives anywhere. And it's just Lewiston. No Mr. necessary." He smiled, and it was pleasant. His clothing and looks were pleasant. Lewiston was a pleasant, bland, forgettable man. He was a navy-blue line on a black plaid shirt. There, but not noticeable unless you looked closely.

  "The boxes are in the guest room. Would you like to go through them now?" Lewiston asked me.

  "Sure. Thanks."

  "You're welcome." To Amir and Gert, he said, "Please help yourselves to anything in the kitchen. There's water and soda, a little fruit. Not much, I'm afraid. Mr. MacLeod doesn't spend a lot of time at home."

  I followed Lewiston through the open floorplan entryway, living room, dining room, and kitchen, and down a short hall to what I presumed was the guest room. It was small, big enough to hold a full-sized bed, two nightstands, a dresser and mirror, and three cardboard file boxes. Everything in the room was a different, coordinated, shade of gray, which seemed like an on-the-nose metaphor for my dad's whole life.

  "Only three boxes?" I couldn't help but feel disappointed.

  "These are the boxes I was instructed to give you. Y
our father said you may take them with you, if you like. My understanding is there are more en route, but I'm not privy to the details pertaining to those. My apologies."

  "Don't feel like you have to apologize. Thanks, Lewiston." I sent him a sideways grin. "And there's no need to talk like a robot in front of me. I've heard you curse. Plus, Alpha Blacke told me you were something of a badass leading the shifters into battle when I was being held in that sanctuary."

  "I have my moments." He adjusted his glasses and smiled—a genuine, non-robotic smile—and it occurred to me that his eyes sparkled brighter, his brown skin glowed with life, and he stood a little taller.

  I read him. His mind was carefully blank, his thoughts humming below a crisp white layer of nothing. "It's an act. The great Lewiston disappearing act."

  He didn't deny it. "You read me?"

  "Yes. You're very good. If I hadn't been looking for a trick, I'd never have realized you were doing it."

  Frowning, he asked, "Why were you looking for a trick?"

  "After what's happened to me over the last year, it would be stupid of me not to look for tricks and lies everywhere, wouldn't it?"

  Maybe it was the sadness in my tone. Maybe it was the defeat in my posture. Or maybe he simply had no idea how to respond. Whatever the reason, Lewiston folded in on himself a little, shoulders bowing, eyes and skin losing their shine, smile fading.

  And once again, he was invisible.

  "I'll give you some privacy," he said, and walked out.

  The boxes were interesting, if not enlightening. Photographs of my mom—several of her holding me as a baby—one of Dad, Mom, and me together with Tío José. There were pieces of jewelry—a watch, what I took to be her wedding ring, a gold twisted bangle bracelet and matching earrings, a brooch that looked antique, and three silver necklaces with familiar globe-shaped charms. One had a heart in the center, one a moon, and one a star.

  Witch charms.

  They were probably past their prime. Expired. According to Dottie, charm magic had a tendency to weaken after a while, but I made a mental note to take them with me tonight. The witches, or Barney the mystic, might be able to figure out what purpose they had once served.