by Sierra Dean
Aside from my sword, we could have been any other couple exploring the city at night. I half-expected Paris to have an aroma like fresh bread or Chanel Number Five, but the whole city had a wet, dirty smell to it. Occasionally we’d pass a bakery receiving their morning flour delivery, and the scent of dough would waft out, but otherwise it was just the old familiar reek of damp concrete and garbage.
Still, it was better than the piss stink of Alma-Marceau station.
The walk back to our hotel was long, and for several minutes neither of us spoke. Desmond had the twitchy mannerisms of someone fighting desperately to hold back words but losing.
“What is it?” I asked finally, hoping to put him out of his misery.
“I’m worried about you.”
“Is this about Peyton? Because you’re not talking me out of it. I’m going in there tomorrow, and I’m finishing this thing.”
“No, it’s not. Well…a bit, but not entirely. I’m not worried about him, I’m worried about you.”
Sweat dampened my palm, and all my former ease vanished. I tried to free my hand from his, but he held firm.
“Can you please let me say what I want to say, without trying to run away?” he asked.
I went still. “I don’t run away.”
He gave my hand a squeeze, and in that moment the pain in his eyes was so raw my heart hurt just looking at it. “You do run away. You’ve always run away, bouncing from one problem to the next, hoping to avoid dealing with it. The only problems you know how to deal with are the ones you can kill. That’s why you’re so gung ho about finding Peyton.”
He sure got right to the heart of things, didn’t he?
I couldn’t speak. There were no easy, clever retorts for what he’d said, and if I did use sarcasm to fight my way out of the corner, I’d only be proving his theory. Words were a way to run the same as feet were.
I frowned. I thought I’d been hiding things well enough to keep his worry at bay. I thought I’d been doing a lot better. “I don’t know what you want me to do.”
“I want you to talk about it.”
My whole body went from merely still, to ice cold and rigid. “Why?” Even with such a small, simple word, my voice quaked.
Desmond started walking again, and I had no choice but to move with him unless I felt like being dragged. “Because you haven’t been yourself since we got you back. And I know you’re hurting, I know you went through hell—”
“You don’t know. You can’t know, and I’m fucking grateful you have no idea. None. I don’t want to talk about it. Talking about it means remembering it, and I can’t. I won’t.”
“Secret, you already do. You drew a gun on me while we were sleeping. You relive it every day. Do you think I can’t hear you when you’re crying? Or screaming? Do you think I’m deaf?”
“No.” Apparently I was doing a piss-poor job of projecting an air of mental well-being. Guess I could stop polishing my imaginary Best Actress award.
Desmond gave me a soft smile and ran his thumb across my cheek. I could tell he was trying to make me feel better, and I allowed my guilt to take a backseat for a little while. “I want to be here for you, and I want to help, but I can’t do that if you keep it bottled up. I thought coming to Paris was a good thing. It’s the first time in months you’ve gone anywhere willingly, so I figured it was a positive move. But you’re still having the nightmares, and you’re still seeing things.”
I hadn’t told him about the flashbacks, but it also wasn’t something I could hide very well. I defy anyone to behave like a normal human being while reliving the worst horrors of their life in vivid Technicolor.
“Is this where you tell me I need therapy or something?” I tried laughing to make a joke of it, but the truth was I’d thought the same thing myself dozens of times. Except, what kind of therapist could I talk to? The second I laid out my past, I’d be locked up in a mental institution.
“Would you talk to a therapist? Because you don’t talk to me, you don’t talk to Holden. If I thought there was a shot in hell you’d actually talk to someone, I might suggest it. There’s a doctor in the pack, her name is Felicity…” His voice drifted off. I think he’d been waiting for me to interrupt him, but I let him continue.
A werewolf therapist.
I mulled over the notion. At least she wouldn’t think I was a total crackpot. I might not be able to open up about everything, but I could definitely give her the gist of what had gone down in California.
“Okay. I’ll think about it,” I said at last.
He seemed surprised by my being so open to the idea, and pushed on. “You can always talk to me, you know.”
“I know, but it’s harder.”
“Why?”
“Because you love me, and you want me to be happy. And when I’m not happy, I know I’m disappointing you, and that makes it harder for me.” I squeezed his hand.
It was his turn to be quiet. We stepped onto a narrow street where the yellow lights made everything glow a warm butter-colored hue. This place should be romantic. It should be a wonderland for couples. But instead we were talking about how my poor screwed-up head had a habit of bringing everyone down.
“I’ll think about it,” I said again.
Desmond released my hand and wrapped his arm around my shoulder, tugging me tight against his side. I hated knowing that my bad moods were affecting him enough that he had to bring this up. I’d believed I could get through it all on my own without involving Desmond or Holden, but it seemed that I wasn’t being nearly as covert as I thought I’d been. I had to admit, too, that I appreciated his concern. He had stuck it out this long, seeing me at my worst, and he wanted to do whatever it took for me to be happy again. He loved me, and he wanted me to be better. I loved him and I wanted to be better for him. And for myself.
I breathed in his scent, the earthy sweetness mixed with a lingering lime tang that was unique to Desmond. Well, to me and Desmond. It was the way my inner wolf recognized him as my soul-bonded mate. We’d lost our connection once, and now that I had it back I loved to be reminded of it whenever I could. It wasn’t a scent, so much as a burst of flavor in my mouth.
I adored it, and adored him, and in that moment I knew I would do anything at all to keep him with me. If he wanted me to jump, I’d say how high. Now he wanted me to get help, and I had to do it. I couldn’t help myself, and I wouldn’t let him help me, so I needed to find someone who could.
It wasn’t going to be easy.
I took a deep breath, licking my lips to savor him, then bumped my forehead against his shoulder. “Hey.”
He looked down, rubbing his chin on the crown of my head, his stubble raking over my hair. “Hey.”
“I’ll try my best.”
“I know you will, babe.”
“I love you.”
“I love you.” He smiled, and though it was just the slightest turn of his lips, it lit his eyes in a way that made me feel warm all the way to the bottom of my toes. I would do anything in my power to keep him smiling. Anything, as long as it didn’t put me at risk of falling apart completely.
“I’m glad you stuck it out with me,” I confessed.
He kissed my forehead, and we turned onto a major street, now looking more like the stereotypical American couple in Paris. I could imagine how people saw us, my beautiful, masculine boyfriend who just oozed sex appeal and strength, and me, a small, unassuming blonde. Most times I used to laugh to myself about how people would misjudge my power. I didn’t feel like the powerful one between us right now though, but that would change.
There was a tough bitch inside me, both literally and figuratively. And when I killed Alexandre Peyton and felt his blood stain my hands, I hoped that bitch would come to the surface again and kick this sad, mopey, useless version of myself back into action.
Back at the hotel, Desmond called room service—one of us still had to eat—and I laid my weapons out on the bed, taking inventory of what I had. The sword, stil
l in its scabbard, called to me like a siren. Even though it had just been on my back, I reached out and ran my fingers down the smooth black surface. I’d fed the blade its fair share of blood in the years since I’d gotten the weapon, but she and I would go into the fire together one more time at least.
We had another head to collect, and I knew she was the right tool for the job.
Pulling my hand back, I checked my two guns, both SIG P226s, and a half dozen spare clips. I was grateful we had access to one of the Rain Industry jets thanks to Desmond’s position within the company. Flying privately meant we didn’t have to account for all the bullets. It also helped my claustrophobic anxiety not to share the space with a hundred other people.
It still didn’t seem like enough. I couldn’t bring in a whole arsenal with me, but I’d have strapped a rocket launcher to my back if it had been possible. Hell, if there was a way to drag a crossbow, a rifle, a machine gun and broadsword with me, I would have brought it all.
And at the same time, I’d have gone in with nothing but my bare hands.
It didn’t matter what I brought, because I knew I was going to destroy Peyton. I’d rip him apart with only my nails and teeth if that was all I had. When I was sixteen, I’d fought him off with little more and lived to tell the tale.
Funny, I might be struggling to find my inner strength again, but I knew I had it in me to walk away from a fight to the death with Peyton. I might be falling apart, but when the pieces fell away, there was something at the core of me that didn’t rely on humanity or personality.
Secret McQueen was a person, but at the center of that was my being. I was two monsters, the wolf and the vampire, and the two had learned to coexist. Maybe someday the woman would be functional again, but my monsters didn’t need mental stability or emotional well-being to function. They needed blood, they needed rage, and they needed my body.
I could provide those things.
Oh, I could provide those things by the buttload.
Chapter Six
My phone woke me up, recalling me from my nightmares before they could fully take shape. Night must be on the cusp of rising, or the ringtone—Gnarls Barkley’s “Crazy”—wouldn’t have cut through my daytime sleep.
The caller ID screen said it was my grandmere calling, which was strange enough to bring me to complete alertness in a snap. I hit the answer button and held the receiver to my ear. “Grandmere? What time is it there?”
Her voice sounded strained. “Oh, je ne sais pas.” She paused. “Just before noon.”
“Are you okay? Is everything all right?”
“I don’t know, bebe. Something is bothering me.”
Grandmere wasn’t psychic, nor did she have a predisposition to premonitions like I did, so I wasn’t sure what to make of her statement. If she was about to climb on Desmond’s get some help bandwagon, I so wasn’t ready to listen to it. I’d need a lot of coffee before I’d let someone else question my mental stability.
Since I rarely saw Grandmere, and didn’t talk to her on the phone as often as I should, she didn’t have the same perspective on my functionality Desmond or Holden did. She might have some hints, but she didn’t see it all. So it was unlikely she would be calling with an intervention while I was in Paris.
“Something is bothering you,” I egged her on, sitting up in bed and checking the safety on the gun. I hadn’t reached for the weapon during my sleep, so there was nothing to adjust. That was a step in the right direction. I set the gun on the nightstand and rubbed sleep from my eyes.
“Did you send me a postcard?”
A pang of guilt speared me, because I hadn’t thought to send her anything at all, even though this was my first trip abroad. I tried to tell myself such a slip was acceptable. After all, I wasn’t here as a tourist, I had come to kill someone. “No. I haven’t had a chance to do much sightseeing yet. Sorry.”
“Non, I wasn’t asking to guilt trip you. I have received a postcard and it simply says, See you soon. But I was confused because it was not from Europe. The photo on the front is from St. Francisville.”
My stomach lurched. St. Francisville, Louisiana, was where I’d been born. It was also where my uncle Callum ruled as King of the Southern packs, and where my sister, Eugenia, and brother, Ben, continued to live.
But I couldn’t imagine Callum sending such a vague postcard, nor would it suit Genie’s style. I didn’t know Ben well enough to form an opinion on his mail habits, but it didn’t strike me as something he would send either. Yet, by discounting all three of them, I was left with no one in St. Francisville who might want to send Grandmere a cryptic postcard.
“Do you recognize the writing at all?”
“It looked the slightest bit like yours, which is why I wondered if you had sent it. Feminine, but not too frilly. It is hard to be sure with so few words.”
“Can you, I dunno, do a spell on it or something?”
She scoffed. “Oui, bebe, let me perform my who sent the letter incantation. Why didn’t I think of something so obvious?”
“Geez, it was just a question. You can do plenty of other stuff. It didn’t seem completely far-fetched.”
“My apologies, my dear. I am a little on edge over this. Something does not seem quite right about it.”
I wanted to set her mind at ease, but if I was being honest, I didn’t feel a hundred percent comfortable with the postcard myself. If it hadn’t been sent by someone I was on friendly terms with—and that was a limited list—there was a chance it was from someone who meant to harm Grandmere. My catalogue of enemies vastly outweighed my friends, and plenty of people might see my aging human grandmother as an easy target, in spite of her being an accomplished witch.
If the goal was to hit ’em where it hurts, then striking at me through Grandmere would be a perfect approach. I was actually surprised it had taken this long for anyone to seek her out.
I scanned the dark room, as if hoping to find a way to protect her. “Are all your wards intact?”
“I checked them last month.”
“Check again, just to be safe.”
“My wards are fine.”
“Check them again, please.”
She was quiet for a few seconds, then said, “You think I should be worried about this.”
“It might be nothing. But you didn’t move all the way to Manitoba without reason. And I’m not the most popular princess in the world.” In my case, princess wasn’t a mere turn of phrase. I was, biologically, a princess to the Southern pack. Unfortunately, I was also a technical Queen to the Eastern pack. Being werewolf royalty was more trouble than it had ever been worth.
Losing a supernatural title wasn’t as simple as moving away or breaking up. It seemed once you were part of a pack, you were pack for life. Whether I liked it or not.
“But you agree it is strange.”
“Yeah, I can’t dispute that. You don’t have any friends from Louisiana who might send you something?”
“I severed ties with the South a long time ago. I have no friends there now.”
Even though it wasn’t an attack on me, I couldn’t help but feel bad. She’d fled the Southern pack after my grandfather died because she didn’t think my safety was assured under my uncle’s reign. She thought my life would be in danger if Callum learned I wasn’t entirely wolf. That pesky vampire blood had a habit of getting me into trouble.
I activated the phone’s speaker option and placed it next to the gun on the nightstand. After shucking off Desmond’s old Yankees T-shirt, I rummaged through the drawers and settled on a pair of leather pants and a yellow T-shirt. The pants, once tucked into my knee-high boots, would resist water better than my usual jeans, making them a smarter choice for wandering around in a sewer. I’d learned over the years that leather was a bit more wash-and-wear than denim.
After tugging on the pants and top, I reclaimed the phone.
“Be careful, that’s all I ask. If I get a chance, I’ll call Genie and see if she maybe sen
t it or knows something about it. But until then, be alert, okay?” Cradling the phone between my shoulder and ear, I pulled my hair into a haphazard bun.
“I am always careful. I should be telling you these things.”
“Would it do any good?” I had to smile at my own question.
“Non, my foolish girl. It never does.” Her voice had warmed, and I suspected she was smiling too. It was nice to feel weightless for a moment, free from the heavy burden that hung around my neck day in and day out. What I wouldn’t give to feel this light every day. Or if not a day, even an hour.
“Stay safe.” I was struck by the sudden, intense need to see her. With the nagging feeling that something was wrong with that postcard, coupled with the fact I hadn’t seen her since my failed wedding, I just wanted to go home. Not New York home, but home home. “When I’m done here, maybe I’ll take a detour. Come see you.”
“You don’t need to babysit me.”
“No, not like that. I could bring Desmond. We could make a proper visit out of it.”
She made a small hmm noise. “If you are bringing me a man, does that mean he is the man?”
I still wasn’t sure how much of my messy love life my grandmere was privy to, but the way she emphasized the man made me think she knew a lot more than I gave her credit for. Was Desmond the man? After coming home from California, he and Holden had agreed to their uneasy peace. They both still intended to fight for me, but the actual fighting was to be kept at a minimum.
Since then, I hadn’t been the most romantic girlfriend in the world, and I feared instead of keeping them, I was on a fast road to losing them both.
I loved them, and I wasn’t in a position mentally or emotionally to be choosing favorites. Especially since they’d both had a hand in bringing me back from the verge. How could I choose between two men who quite literally saved my life?
At some point I’d have to, or they would decide for me, and I’d end up with neither of them.
But for now, I was keeping that decision as far away from my mind as possible.
