Elain snorted in reply.
“You’ve been like this all your life. Riding yourself harder than anyone else, expecting far more from yourself than anyone else did, and beating yourself up when no one except you thinks you deserve it.”
If only she knew.
“Go. Eat. And cheer up—Brighton’s not here this morning.”
Oh, yeah. There was that. Elain’s batcrap cray-cray brother-in-law, who was up to something. He’d replaced their baby monitors with bugged versions and had been listening in on them. Baba Yaga had told Elain that.
They needed to get him moved out as soon as possible. The only problem was Elain had rallied so hard and long on his behalf when he first arrived to stay with them that flip-flopping her position might look suspicious.
It didn’t help that Elain could tell Brighton didn’t like her dad.
Elain studied her mom. It had initially been difficult to get used to Carla’s rejuvenated appearance after Liam mated with Carla. Technically her adopted mom, Carla had raised Elain since birth, when Maureen gave Elain to her to protect the baby.
“You sure you’re not part wolf, Mom?”
Her mom grinned. “Ask Brodey how I put the fear of me into him that time when you were gone and he made me drop the casserole dish.” Her smile faded. “One foot in front of the other. Stop doubting yourself as a mom. We all do that. You don’t think I thought I was the world’s crappiest mom sometimes?”
Elain frowned. “What? You were—are—a great mom.”
“Well, see? Even with Joss, sometimes I wonder and have my doubts.”
Elain hugged her, careful not to jostle and awaken Ellie. “Love you, Mom.”
“Love you, too, sweetie. Now, go eat, get your shower, and get ready to tackle the day. I told Lina and Mai you’d be ready by ten thirty to meet with them here.”
Elain groaned, closing her eyes. “I need a day off. I told Ain that.”
“And as your mom, I overruled him. If you take a full day off now, you’ll beat yourself up worse for it later.”
Elain cracked one eye open at her. “That’s spooky, Mom.”
She grinned. “And I didn’t even need to be a Seer to know it.”
* * * *
After eating, Elain grabbed a shower and got dressed in real clothes—shorts and a T-shirt instead of just an oversized T-shirt and PJ pants—and walked out into the backyard with her cell phone, outside the range of shifter hearing.
When the jaguar answered, his rich, smooth accent flowed through her ear like warm salted caramel sauce over a brownie.
“Elain, my lovely Seer. How are you this morning?”
“Uh, sorry I didn’t talk to you in person yesterday.”
“It is quite all right. Martin said it was official business.” His tone changed slightly. “Are we still on track where he is concerned?”
Martin was Marston’s new name. “Oh, yeah. He’s fine.” She hesitated, not wanting to reveal too much about their field trip. “Actually, he’s better than he was before, in my opinion.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
“I shall keep that under advisement, then.”
“You, uh, might hear of some developments regarding some missing shifters. Not his fault, and not his problem.”
Ortega Montalvo’s tone turned curious. “Missing shifters?”
“Seer Says.”
“Ah. Message received.”
She tried to figure out how to say it and finally did. “I know he’s got a bad past. I get it. But…” She struggled for the words.
Ironic, since she’d been a journalist.
“He is important,” she finally settled on. “And there are other sides to things. Things I’m learning now about certain events that I didn’t know before. It’s even more imperative we keep him safe from a certain redhead who’d like to un-alive him.”
“Un-alive? Oh! Right. Yes. Understood. I, uh, take it that I can relax somewhat regarding him being in my household?”
“Absolutely. If there was a problem, put a gun in his hand and let him help. Especially protecting kids.”
Now the jaguar’s tone darkened. “That is difficult to believe.”
“I know it is, but do you trust me?”
He almost sounded hurt. “You are our Seer and my friend. Family. Of course I trust you.”
“One day, when time allows, I’ll drop in and we’ll sit down and I’ll fill you in. Until I can, please believe me when I say that Martin Hillyard is family and should be treated as such.”
“If that is your wish.”
“It is. I can’t publicly admit he’s my uncle, duh. But it’s all right. He’s all right.”
“Very well, my dear.”
* * * *
Elain was just getting ready to return to the house when her cell phone rang in her hand.
A chill ran through her as she stared at the screen for a moment before answering it.
“What’s up, Ryan?”
“I have some information for you. I had meant to tell you last night, but then the…events of the day distracted me and it completely slipped my mind. While there is no record of an ‘Aliah’ gone missing in that time period from Maine, there was a report filed of an ‘Alexa Borlen’ who did not return as expected from a visit to her family.”
Elain’s pulse quickened. “What?”
“She departed that very same day in March. The contact information for her supposed family, which she’d left with her employers, whom she also lived with, proved to be false.”
“That can’t be a coincidence.”
“No. Neither can the fact that she also had an infant son born only a couple of weeks prior to her disappearance.”
Elain sank down to the grass, feeling a little queasy. “So the cops are searching for her and the baby?”
If they were, it could get back to Blackie, meaning one more chink in the armor around her cover story. Until she knew for certain Connor was safe from Baba Yaga, she couldn’t risk others knowing.
She damn sure didn’t want Brighton to find out.
“No, because there doesn’t appear to be any evidence of foul play. She’d told the elderly couple she worked for and lived with as their caretaker that the baby’s father had abandoned her when she was pregnant, that he was a drug user. There has been supposition she might have reconnected with him and went off without telling anyone.”
“Which works in my favor.”
“It would seem so.”
“Thank you for that.”
“No thanks required, my dear. I’ll e-mail the information to you. Eh, be advised there was apparently someone else sniffing around that same information.”
“Who?”
“I don’t know that. Yet.”
“Brighton?”
“Again, I don’t know. It could be cockatrice. Three were killed with her. Surely their families, or at least their cohorts, must be wondering where they ran off to.”
“True.” She had a thought. “Is that the other reason you didn’t want me to have anyone from the Clan looking into it?”
“The thought had crossed my mind, yes. The less things those cockatrice can track back to the Maine wolves, the better.”
“Thanks.”
“As I said, you’re special. I wouldn’t normally get this involved, but I feel justified considering what we’re dealing with.”
“Hey, you can see stuff when you hold onto me, right? Maybe you can help us by helping me coax more of the vision out.”
“Perhaps that is an option if you don’t make any progress on your own, but I’m rather hesitant to intervene like that just yet. You showing me a vision is one thing. Me trying to see one through you with me in control of it is another entirely. I don’t know if my stepping in like that would falsely alter what you’re seeing. I will certainly keep the option on the table, however, if it gets to that point.”
“Thanks, Ryan.”
“No problem.”
She
ended the call and checked her e-mail on her phone. Yep, he’d sent her the police report.
The Devil sends me e-mail.
That wacky thought made her chuckle, even though she knew he wasn’t really the Devil. Ryan was a guy in charge of a bureaucracy and given a bad rap for the thankless job they had.
Just like she supposed, one day, future generations might curse her, Lina, and Mai for the jobs they did.
That sobering thought drove all good cheer right out of her.
She headed back to the house before she could depress herself even more.
* * * *
Brighton spent the morning in the DeSoto County clerk’s office in Arcadia, looking up land deals. Sales and purchases, and cross-referencing them in his laptop against local real estate listings. If anyone—like his brothers—asked what he was doing, why, he was trying to decide where to live. Thoroughly researching, as was his wont, the best property to suit his purpose.
Not a lie.
He would simply be omitting the real reason for his morning search. He had a list of names and corporations he was cross-checking against, and so far, he was coming up empty.
Carl Shupe was well-known to him as a silent but major player in cockatrice politics in the Northeast. He’d likely stayed off Kitty Blackestone’s radar thus far due to being involved in legitimate businesses.
Either that, or Shupe had paid the huntress off to ensure his safety.
Even with the growing revelations, Brighton still had a difficult time believing that possibility.
It was, however, on his list.
No, it was far more likely that Shupe wanting to purchase land so close to such a large concentration of wolf and other shifters was due to him having a very powerful ally in the area who could ensure his safety.
Brighton’s money was on Elain and/or her father, Liam Pardie.
It only made sense. Everything added up only if Brighton looked at the situation from that particularly sickening angle.
After an hour of searching, Brighton finally struck pay dirt. He found five different properties close to the Lyall and Alexandr ranches that, when cross-referenced against real estate agent listing databases, were either for sale, under contract, or recently sold.
He’d need to pay all of the realtors a visit. Lucky for him, he’d modified one of the cockatrice spells from the spell book to work in his favor, to charm someone he was talking to into revealing information he sought.
Not to mention, even without using that, women in the States tended to enjoy his British accent.
Abso-bloody-lutely he’d use that to his advantage.
He really would be barmy if he didn’t.
It would figure that it was the last stop of the morning, the office handling a pending contract, where he finally found what he was looking for. The young woman working in the office was alone there, the agents all out showing properties or attending closings.
“My employer is desperately interested in getting his hands on that particular property. Is there any way at all I could persuade you into allowing me a quick little peek at the buyer’s information? I assure you, money is not an object, and I’d be ever so grateful. They would certainly be willing to pay the buyer for the contract’s cancellation penalties.”
She blushed and giggled and finally pulled up something on her screen before she stood. “I have to use the restroom, if you’ll excuse me. I couldn’t stop you from looking at my screen, though.”
Which he immediately did, taking a couple of pictures of it with his cell phone and verifying he could read the data.
S&S Regional Waste Management Solutions of the Northeast, LLC.
That was one of Carl Shupe’s cover businesses. He was the Tony Soprano of cockatrice, only far smarter and richer. Other cockatrice hunters tended to avoid going after those who apparently abided by the law. They didn’t want to start an all-out war, and frankly, the cockatrice who did get caught were usually on the low end of the intelligence scale.
Brighton was sure some cockatrice, like Shupe, considered it a favor, weeding idiots out of their gene pool.
They weren’t a very sentimental lot, to be certain. He’d heard Shupe was notorious for taking women as payment for helping out his fellow cretins, sowing his wild oats all over. You needed to borrow money for your business? Either your wife or an adult daughter would be staying with Shupe until it was all paid back, with interest. You needed a favor? He demanded one in return. Without a mate of his own to worry about, he’d still managed to spread the horrid cockatrice seed.
But as with any race of humans or other shifters, Brighton could not, in good conscience, kill someone simply for being a jerk. He had no proof the man had ever murdered anyone or actively participated in outright illegal businesses that were any worse than human-run criminal enterprises. Either of which Brighton would readily use as justification to immediately remove Shupe from the breathing-abled population.
No, for now, the man was better off remaining alive so Brighton could watch his movements and see what plans were being set in motion.
And to see if he could secure any proof of Shupe’s involvement with either Liam Pardie or Elain. Proof he could take to his brothers to show them that he wasn’t simply paranoid, that there were dark plans afoot.
Just what he couldn’t yet say, but he’d heard rumors, rumblings.
Perhaps even a terroristic plot that would make 9/11 look like a minor car wreck by comparison.
* * * *
For lunch, Brighton purchased a take-out chicken meal from the Publix in Arcadia and then pulled into a county park to eat it under the shade of a gigantic oak tree. He’d needed peace and quiet.
More importantly, he’d needed privacy.
As he ate, he perused his extensive notes in the latest notebook he was in the process of filling. He thought he was fairly close to the answer he’d been seeking.
Next to him lay the cockatrice spell book, a Grimoire Lilitu, one of five that had been created. According to the inscription on the inside cover, this copy had originally belonged to Rolawnde, the youngest of the five cockatrice siblings, the second-tier attempt to reinvigorate the species by their dark and demented sire.
The book kept calling to the amulet Brighton wore around his neck, an artifact he despised but saw no other recourse for safekeeping other than in a bank vault.
It would do him no good there, however. He needed the wretched thing to help him make sense of the horrible spell book. Several times he’d tried to decipher the writing without the amulet in his presence, and he realized the book was nearly indecipherable garbage when he did that. He didn’t understand enough about the older languages. The written word had never been his strong suit.
No, he had to have the amulet with him. Keeping it outside of his presence, leaving it somewhere where anyone could happen upon it, was not an option.
It could not be allowed to fall into anyone else’s hands.
It had proven key in allowing him to seek out and destroy cockatrice around the world. The vermin liked to hide much in the same way cockroaches did. He idly wondered if the similarity of names was mere coincidence or something more.
No doubt Elain and her baby would be under near constant watch by his brothers. Brighton didn’t know who he could call for assistance in this, who he could even trust any longer. Even Kitty Blackestone, who was a fierce cockatrice hunter, was completely enamored by Elain, as was Kitty’s older brother, Daniel.
The head of the Maine wolf Clan.
There would be no assistance there taking Elain down.
It appeared Ain’s memory had definitely been altered. Brighton knew if he tried to tell Brodey and Cail—or any of their other brothers—they would simply think it was more of Brighton the Barmy going off on another of his silly rants.
They’d all know as well as he did that Ain couldn’t lie to them. Everyone would trust Ain’s versions of events over his, blame it on Brighton’s faulty memory. Or that Brighton simply wasn
’t remembering things correctly.
Given Brighton’s track record, they’d all side with Ain and think it was crazy imaginings on Brighton’s part.
The key was Elain. Brighton had to force her to admit what was going on, her part in it.
She couldn’t lie to her men.
Maybe I’ll have to trick her into it.
His fingers paused as he flipped through the Grimoire and his focus settled on two drawings there. He’d seen them plenty of times before in the book, but had yet to find them in person.
One was a set of stones, which he knew supposedly formed the original gateway where the cockatrice race’s sire was contacted, a link to an off-Earth realm.
The other drawing, a rough sketch and accompanying descriptors, that appeared very familiar to him for some reason, calling to him now.
Leaning his head back against the tree, he closed his eyes and tried to think.
Ah, yes. Now it came to him, the rock pile in Maine at the Clan compound. Where Lacey had been attacked by cockatrice.
Land originally settled by cockatrice, but taken over by wolves when they arrived from the Old World. The original cockatrice settlers had been killed or driven off.
It must be the same location. It was certainly a place of concentrated dark power, no doubt about it.
That could be the answer. He could use that power against Elain, turn it around.
Send her away.
That would show them.
He’d simply have to find that rock pile. Blackestone had passed the word to keep mum about the location of it and the cave where Rodolfo Abernathy had been held hostage for a time, supposedly.
There were too many versions of the story flowing around. Too many discrepancies.
Too many secrets.
Too many events where the nexus fell squarely on Elain.
When the amulet around his neck started to hum under his shirt, he reached up and thumped it with his fingers. “Quiet, you,” he mumbled.
By the Embers Dies the Fire Page 4
