by Laura Taylor
But rest would not come so easily, she realised as she rounded the corner into the hallway that led to her room. There was a group of four men outside her door, and by the way they stood up when they saw her, it seemed they weren’t there just to shoot the breeze. They had been waiting for her.
Silas was at the front of the group, and Dee was dismayed to realise she didn’t recognise the rest of them. If Mark or Tank had been among them she might have assumed it was something civilised, an impromptu get-to-know-you maybe, to answer some of the questions the Den must have about her.
But this welcoming committee had a distinctly sinister feel to it, and it took a fair bit of courage to not turn tail and run back down the stairs.
“We don’t mean to scare you,” one of the men said. He stepped forward and Dee gasped as she saw he only had one eye. The other was a puckered mess of scars. “I’m Caleb,” he said, ignoring her fear and offering his hand. Dee shook it automatically, even as she backed up another step. “This is Kwan,” he said, pointing to an Asian man, “and Aaron,” a nerdish looking man with glasses. They both looked to be around her own age. “Also known as ‘KwanandAaron’. Where you find one, you’ll find the other. And you’ve already met Silas.”
Dee glanced at the silent, brooding man, still not sure what they were all doing here.
“Look, we’re not here to make you uncomfortable,” Caleb went on. “We just wanted to say welcome to the Den, and… well, if anyone gives you trouble, any one of us would willingly step up for you.”
Somehow the offer wasn’t reassuring. “Is anyone likely to give me trouble?”
Kwan snorted. “Hell yeah,” he said, earning a scowl from Caleb.
“There are eighteen people in this house,” Caleb explained. “Nineteen now, including you. And most of us come from chequered pasts. So not everyone gets along. You’ll figure out who’s who soon enough, but you need to understand that social dynamics here work the same way they do in a wolf pack. There’s a pecking order, and Baron and Caroline basically leave it up to us to fight it out amongst ourselves. It’ll take you a while to find your feet, so until you learn which way is up… I’m just saying we’ll be keeping an eye out for you.”
Dee didn’t quite know how to take that. She cast a wary eye over Silas. So far he’d seemed like a cut-throat killer, eager to either be away from her, or put her out of her misery. She longed to call him out on his odd behaviour now, but a subtle instinct told her not to. That was a mystery that would have to wait for another day.
“Thank you,” she hedged finally, not knowing what else to say.
“Goodnight then.” The men filed away down the hall, and Dee quickly let herself into her room, closing the door softly and turning the lock.
Okay, she thought, as she surveyed the Victorian style room. Time to catch her breath and take stock of the situation.
The room was decorated as much of the house was, with antique furniture, thick rugs on the floor, and a modest fireplace, though there was also modern heating in the room. There was a wide bed – definitely modern, though the wooden frame fit the style of the room nicely. There was a dresser, a chair, an old wooden wardrobe and a gold-framed mirror set in one corner. On the wall above the bed was a wide-angle photograph of a pack of wolves running through a snow-covered forest, and she wondered whether it was a generic, commercial shot, or if this Den had actually posed for the photo.
Faeydir perked up then, though she’d been silent for a good long stretch of the afternoon, and growled her approval at the scene. She’d like to run in the snow one day, she informed Dee, and Dee just rolled her eyes. She could already imagine the fuss Faeydir was going to make come winter. The first hint of snow, and she’d be clamouring at the back door.
But her eagerness to run with the wolves again made Dee stop and think. Would she one day run in a pack like that one? A fully-fledged, knowledgeable, useful member of the team? She’d been accepted into the pack today, a huge leap forward and a weight off her mind, but given the warning from the crowd outside her door, it seemed that the adventure was only just beginning.
It was mid-morning by the time Dee made it downstairs for breakfast. She headed for the smaller kitchen where each member of the Den made their own breakfast and lunch. Dinner was prepared daily by a shifter called George – Dee hadn’t met him yet – but for the rest of their meals, it was every man for himself.
But the instant she stepped into the kitchen, her plans suddenly changed. Silas was sitting at the old wooden table cleaning his rifle, the gun in pieces and various cloths and tools lying scattered about. And his strange behaviour from the night before had been niggling at her.
She took a breath, preparing herself to ask him why he’d suddenly changed his tune on her, but then the door opened and another man walked in. Nate, Dee thought his name was, though she couldn’t be certain.
One thing she was sure of, though – Silas would not appreciate an audience for this conversation. But how to make sure they wouldn’t be interrupted?
An idea occurred to her, one that might be a long shot… but then again, stranger things had been happening to her in the past few days. Why not continue the trend?
“Silas?” He grunted, not taking his eyes off the gun. “I was hoping to go outside for a walk, but I’m not allowed to without a chaperone. I was wondering if you might have time. For just a short one.”
“No.”
Damn. “Please?” Nate found whatever it was he was looking for and left the room again, the door thudding shut behind him. “I wanted…” She glanced at the door, checking no one else was about to interrupt them. “I wanted to talk to you about yesterday.”
“There’s nothing to say.”
Christ, he could be stubborn. But so could she. “Please?”
Silas rolled his eyes. “Oh, for fuck’s sake.” He tossed down the gun and stood up, wiping his hands on a rag. “Fine. Lead the way.”
It was rather intimidating, having him so up in her face again after he’d been almost polite to her yesterday. But after a night’s worth of pondering, Dee was working on the theory that a lot of his aggression was just for show, saving face and maintaining his reputation, and that he had a softer side, if only the opportunity arose for it to show itself.
There was a side door leading directly out of the kitchen, and she led Silas out and around to the left, where the formal garden gave way to wide rows of roses. Faeydir was bouncing around in her head already, wanting to play, but Dee told her she’d have to wait. Playtime later, she promised, having learned that compromise was her best path to success. She assured the wolf that she understood her needs, but right now she had important things to do as a human.
“I thought you hated me,” she began, preparing to explain her disquiet, but she didn’t get the chance.
“I don’t hate anyone,” Silas told her flatly. “I just don’t particularly like them, either.”
“But yesterday evening you said you would help me,” Dee persisted. “And I’m trying to understand why.”
“Look, you silly little chit,” Silas snapped. “I didn’t say I would take you on walks through the flowers and frolic on the lawn with you. I said I would happily beat the shit out of anyone who causes you trouble. So don’t go thinking I’m suddenly your best friend.”
“But why? There’s no audience here to make you look weak or sappy, and I swear, my lips are sealed. So, tell me why you’d offer to do that for me.”
Silas fell silent. Looked away. Shoved his hands into his pockets and scuffed the toe of his boot against a weed poking out of the pavers. “There are… stories,” he said finally. “Myths. In the history books.”
“That say what? That you have to be nice to the new girl or she’ll put a curse on you?”
Silas recoiled at her words. “There’s a prophecy.”
Now that got Dee’s attention, but probably not in the way that Silas had intended. She tried to smother her laughter, but failed miserably. “You think
I’m the focus of an ancient shifter prophecy? A myth come to life?” Laughter bubbled over again, while Silas merely rolled his eyes and waited for her to get control of herself again. “Sorry, but I’m just a run of the mill office worker who fell down a rabbit hole.” She held out her arms, indicating her short stature. “There’s no mythology here.”
Silas shrugged. “That remains to be seen.” Dee’s laughter died out as she realised he was serious.
“You’re scared of me,” she blurted out, only a moment after the idea occurred to her. And wasn’t that a damn fool thing to say, accusing this badass of being a coward. Silas folded his arms and looked away. “What is it that I’m supposed to do?”
“Look, I’m not your tutor,” Silas snapped, running a hand over his bald head. “You want an education in shifter history, go read those great fat tomes in the library. Otherwise, mind your own damn business. And for that matter, I’m not your babysitter, either. So are we done here, or do you want to smell a few more roses? Quietly.”
Not the conclusion to their chat that she had been hoping for. “We’re done.” She led the way back towards the kitchen, noting the rolling clouds that promised rain later in the day. But at least he hadn’t punched her in the face. Or shot her with that rifle of his. So, all things considered, it could have gone worse.
Baron sat in front of the television in the lounge, cracking his knuckles compulsively. On the screen was a news report – the Den’s official response to the kidnapping story the Noturatii had put out. And it was a work of art. The Noturatii had its share of police officers in its pocket – detectives, sergeants, even captains, all willing to lie for them. But then again, so did Il Trosa. Some sided with them voluntarily, others needed to be bribed, but Baron had no qualms about the methods they used so long as they got results. The result in this case was that a couple of detectives were going to make this story go away, and the Noturatii were going to be reminded that Il Trosa could parry just as well as they could.
Skip was front and centre on the screen, a wig, coloured contact lenses and an expert make up job making her look very different from her true self. She looked tearful while two officers stood nearby, trying to appear supportive. “I’m just so grateful for the help from everyone who called in,” she said to the journalist interviewing her – and from all appearances, the journo was lapping it up, believing every word. “I thought I was going to die. And the police – I just can’t thank them enough.”
The camera cut back to the reporter in the studio. “A good result all round, and once again, thank you to everyone who called in with information about this kidnapping. Police have arrested two suspects, and as we just saw, Helen Grange has been recovered unharmed and is on her way for a medical assessment.”
Baron hit the mute button and glanced over at Alistair, standing by the sofa looking smug, and Skip, perched on the arm, grinning and swinging her legs like a child. “You do good work, Alistair,” he said, genuine appreciation in his voice. “I’m impressed. But keep a close eye on the news stations for the next few days. The Noturatii don’t like to be outsmarted, and something tells me this little episode isn’t quite over yet.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Jack Miller slowed the dark blue Range Rover he was driving, and turned carefully onto a gravel road. They were in a small village in the north-east of England, following up on one of the few useful leads that had come in before the shifters had cut off their investigation by ‘finding’ the kidnapped girl.
Sitting beside him in the car was Aliya, a new recruit to the Noturatii in her late twenties, who had finished her six-month training and initiation just weeks ago.
The lead was an interesting one. After seeing the news report on the kidnapping, a lady from this village had called to report ‘strange goings on’ at a nearby farmhouse. Howls in the middle of the night, large dogs guarding the property, a series of vehicles coming and going, and the owners of the house were very antisocial – which might be normal in the city, she’d said, but this was the sort of village where everyone knew everyone else. And a white Ford Transit had arrived the day after the kidnapping. It was the reason she’d been looking for to report the ‘weirdos’.
The farm in question was down a long gravel road, overgrown to the point where the Range Rover only just fit through the gap. They crossed a small stream, climbed a steep slope and came to a gentle stop in front of an old farmhouse. A white Ford Transit was parked in the driveway.
“Keep your eyes open and try not to say too much,” he cautioned Aliya as they climbed out of the car. New recruits, in his experience, were prone to pushing too hard, being too eager to get results, and that tended to cause a certain defensiveness in the people they interviewed, rather than eliciting useful information.
As they approached the house, a pair of dogs around the side went nuts, a volley of barking announcing them to the owners even before they reached the door. The farmhouse was rundown, one window broken and boarded up, the door frame cracked. Weeds grew up through the gravel and old planks of wood were stacked haphazardly against the side of the house.
A middle-aged woman opened the door, wiping her hands on a tea towel, and Miller got the immediate impression of a Betty Crocker wanna-be, so wholesome it made your teeth ache. “Good afternoon. What can I do for you?” she asked, with a strong American accent.
“Ma’am. I’m Detective Ashton,” Miller said, pulling out his fake police badge. “And this is Detective Lewis.” One of the reasons he’d brought Aliya along was as a form of social reassurance. As a black man from a military background who stood six foot three in bare feet, Miller was aware that he invoked an automatic anxiety in a lot of people. Showing up with a woman as his ‘partner’ went a long way towards alleviating those fears, which tended to land him better information from his enquiries. “Do you mind if we ask you a few questions?”
They didn’t get the chance. “It’s one of the locals causing a fuss again, isn’t it?” the lady said, not sounding terribly put out by it. “Look, they took a dislike to me and my Harry when they found out we’re American. This place is old. It’s rundown; we haven’t had a chance to fix it up yet. But there’s a keep round the back, lots of history – a few notable families lived here back in the day. They think it should be owned by someone British, not a foreigner.”
“How long have you lived here?”
“On and off for four, maybe five years. We bought it before we moved here, then business back home in America kept us away for longer than we’d planned. By the time we moved in full-time, I suppose a few rumours had started. Let me guess,” she said indulgently. “Strange sounds at night, lots of odd people coming and going, witches, warlocks, lightning striking the house on Halloween?”
Interesting. “That’s not far from what we’ve heard,” Miller said, giving the lady an indulgent smile. Sometimes, just letting people talk gave you the most information, and he was in no hurry to shut her up.
“We’ve been getting the roof repaired. Leaks from lack of maintenance. But it’s all historical this and protected that, so we’ve needed quotes, and experts and biologists and historians. So there’s been a fair bit of coming and going. But if people get upset about it, they’re just seeing what they want to see, when there’s nothing to see in the first place.”
“That sounds perfectly reasonable,” Miller said politely. “Nonetheless, would you mind if we take a look inside the keep? And inside the van? It’s just that if we receive complaints, we’re obliged to follow them up.”
The woman sighed. “Oh, if you must. The van’s unlocked.” She led them over, opening the back door, and Miller climbed inside. Nothing out of the ordinary, but…
“Do you ever take your dogs out in the van?” There was fur on the back seat.
“Occasionally. Trips to the vet and that sort of thing. They tend to stay on the property mostly.”
He climbed out of the van again. “And do you ever get complaints from the neighbours about the barking?�
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“The neighbours are too far away to hear much from our set. We’ve got three. German shepherds. Just for company. They’re loud, but they’d never hurt a fly.”
“Shall we see the keep then,” Miller prompted. “And I’m sorry, but I didn’t ask your name.”
“Helen. Helen Coombs.”
The keep was far less remarkable than he had hoped. “We use this place to store some of the furniture while we’re getting the house repaired,” Helen said, showing off a room that was surprisingly neat and clean. A quick peak underneath the white sheets confirmed her story – a wooden bookcase, an antique dresser, nothing more remarkable than that – and soon enough, Aliya and Miller were heading back to the cars.
“We did hear one report that was intriguing,” Miller said, when they reached the drive again. “Lights in the forest at night. Shadows moving back and forth, people and dogs…” Actually, they’d heard no such report, but it would be interesting to see what she said.
“We like to go for long walks in the woods, that’s all.” Helen was momentarily uncomfortable, but hid it quickly. “Sometimes we get back late, so I take a torch with me. Like I said, people see what they want to see.”
“True enough,” Miller agreed, before thanking the woman for her time, and excusing them both. As they reached the car again, he glanced back and saw someone at the window watching them. The moment they saw him looking, they darted out of view, the curtain falling back into place.
“Did you notice the woman at the upstairs window?” Aliya asked him softly, when Helen was out of earshot. “She was watching the whole time.”
“And another woman in the far corner of the garden, hiding in the trees,” Miller added. “Suspicious, but not enough to run with. The dogs are a good excuse for the howling, at least.” He’d often wondered how shifters and domestic dogs would get along, though there was no information in the Noturatii’s files on the subject. “But no sign of the girl from the lab, unfortunately.”
