by Kathy Reichs
“Before you run off, I just want to be sure.”
Chance forced me to meet his eye. He was very close. And damn good-looking.
“Sure about what?” My thoughts bounced like a tennis ball—from my relationship with Ben, to rejecting Chance, to the dark secrets we all shared. “I don’t like games, Chance.”
“There’s nothing left of your flare power?” he asked, watching like a hawk. I got the distinct impression he didn’t believe me the first time. “No lingering trace? Not a shred of the old abilities?” Chance moved closer and whispered, “Or anything new?”
I swallowed, but held his gaze. “It’s gone, Chance. You’ve got to move on.”
His eyes narrowed. He opened his mouth to speak again, but a strong hand clamped down on his shoulder, spinning him around.
“May I cut in?” Ben growled.
Chance’s composure slipped a notch as he glared at Ben. Then he smirked. “By all means.” He stepped back. Ben took my hand. Chance watched as Ben led me away across the dance floor.
“Thanks for the lovely dance!” Chance called. Then, quieter, “I’ll be seeing you.”
I tried not to wince. What did that mean?
“Jackass.” Ben was scowling full throttle.
“Be nice.” I nuzzled in close. “How was your twirl with Ella?”
“Humiliating.” Ben released my hand and began tugging at his collar. “She moves like a ballerina, and I’m a frozen caveman.” Then he blanched. “Not that—”
“Shut it, Blue.” Resting my head against his chest. “I’ve seen her dance, too.”
Ben put his mouth to my ear. “She had a lot of questions.”
I nodded without looking up. “Chance, too.”
He lifted my chin so I could see his face. Should we worry?
I shrugged. What’s the point?
But I remembered the look in Chance’s eyes.
Did he believe me? Was he suspicious we were hiding more? Was he hiding more?
The last thing we needed was Chance Claybourne on our scent again.
But ultimately, what could we do?
Blargh.
Business as usual.
The song ended, and we clapped politely with the other guests. A jaunty, bouncy tune came next. I squeezed Ben’s hand, putting Chance out of my mind.
This was my father’s wedding, damn it. I was going to have fun.
“One more?” I begged, rabbit-pecking his cheek.
Ben’s smile was sickly. “Sure. You know me. Dancing. Love it.”
A half hour of busting moves later, Chance was the furthest thing from my mind.
The cool evening air was refreshing.
I stepped from a covered porch, scanning the now-picked-over flower garden. A quarter of the rosebuds were gone, sacrificed to Operation Emergency Centerpieces. I felt terrible about the damage, but we’d had no other choice. Better a plundered garden than a suicidal bride.
Upon seeing our handiwork, the house manager had nearly fainted on the spot. Only Kit’s promise of full reimbursement—plus a hefty donation to the building’s annual arboretum fund—had smoothed his ruffled feathers.
I sat down on a stone bench. Heard a rustling in the bushes at the far end of the yard.
No need to call out.
Cooper already knew I was there.
Sister-friend. Coop emerged from the shadows wearing a wide doggie grin. I reached out and rubbed his head. He nuzzled my other hand, sniffing out the treat I’d brought for him. Food?
I wouldn’t forget about you. I unwrapped a half-portion of filet mignon. Held it up for him to see. Kit says you’re being spoiled.
I tossed the meat in a short arc. Coop caught it easily, then settled at my feet and began gnawing his prize. Food is shared. Keeps pack strong. The wolfdog radiated contentment as he scarfed down the expensive steak.
I smiled. Try telling him that.
Coop paused. Cocked his head. Can’t tell eldest. Can’t hear. Nor his mate.
I know, buddy. I stroked his scruffy back as he resumed eating. Be thankful for that.
Coop and I could communicate almost perfectly since . . . whatever . . . had happened when I swallowed Chance’s antidote. But some things—like sarcasm—simply didn’t translate. Our minds were too different for stuff like that.
I noticed a shallow cut on his snout. What’s this? I asked, tracing the wound with a finger.
Devil animal. Coop gave me what I took to be a plaintive look. Allowed to bite?
Sighing, I shook my head. Sorry, boy. Banjo belongs to Hi now. You two have to find a way to get along.
Foul beast. Cooper bared his teeth. Pretends friendship, then attacks. Then runs!
I chuckled, scratching behind his ears. Banjo’s a cat. That’s what they do.
The music inside cut off. A slurred voice began droning into the microphone—no doubt an unplanned toast from an over-served guest. I was glad to be outside, away from all the hoopla. Chirping crickets sounded better to me than the raucous cheers in the ballroom.
A door opened, and one of the singers stepped out for a smoke. I sighed, nodded politely as he wished me a good evening. My moment of solitude had lasted less than a minute. But one look at Cooper—a nearly full-grown wolfdog, topping one hundred and twenty pounds—and the man beat a hasty retreat, shooting me a wide-eyed glance as he stumbled back inside.
I snorted, though I couldn’t blame the guy. He probably didn’t expect to find an apex predator roaming the swanky grounds. Coop’s inclusion on the guest list had nearly cost us the booking, but I’d made Kit hold firm until the owners agreed to allow our “dog” the run of the garden during the event. I was extremely glad they hadn’t asked for a picture first.
Coop nudged my arm with his wet nose. Pack comes.
A moment later Hi and Shelton ambled outside, with Ben a short step behind. Spotting Cooper and me by the bench, Hi boasted, “I told you so,” as they moved to join us.
“The band ignored your request for a reason,” Shelton said to Hi, tossing me a half-wave as he unbuttoned the neck of his tuxedo shirt. “Nobody wants to hear ‘YMCA,’ much less dance to it. It’s an objectively terrible song.”
“The Village People are a wedding staple!” Hi removed his jacket, raked a hand through his sweat-dampened brown hair. “Plus, I know how to read a room. That crowd was primed for some funky disco action.”
Shelton shook his head. Pointed to Ben without looking.
“Disco sucks,” Ben said.
Shelton nodded. “True story.”
“I’m surrounded by barbarians.” Hi glanced over at Cooper crouching in the grass next to me, and his brow formed a V. “Tell that mutt of yours to stop harassing my sweet angel. Banjo’s been in a terrible mood all weekend.”
“Your psycho cat is the problem.” Then I sent, And tell him yourself.
“Cujo over there started it.” Hi jabbed an index finger at the wolfdog. I saw you chase my darling kitty-cat into the dunes this morning. Quit being a bully.
Coop growled deep in his throat. Deceitful creature. Ambushed me.
“Coop has scratches on his face,” I snapped. “Your stupid cat likes to jump out of the bushes and slash him, then bolt into the woods. One of these days, she’s getting chomped.”
“She better not!” Hi warned, crossing his arms. “I didn’t rescue Banjo from homelessness just to serve her up as wolf chow. Feline rights, yo. Cats matter, too.”
Whatever my response might’ve been was preempted by the sound of breaking glass, followed by high-pitched laughter. A guitarist strummed a few chords, then the whole band picked back up.
“Reception’s picking up steam.” Ben absently kicked a pebble. “Long night ahead.”
Shelton plopped down onto the bench beside me. “If it’s all the same to you guys, I migh
t just hang out here for a while. People in there are acting like fools.”
“Not me, gents.” Hi elbowed Ben, catching a dark look in return. “I know you’re spoken for, but this party is a target-rich environment. I wouldn’t want to let the ladies down. Player’s gotta play.”
Shelton covered his eyes. “You need to stop.”
“Seriously.” Ben knelt and scratched behind Coop’s ears.
Outside the garden wall, a car door opened and shut. Seconds later an iron gate rattled less than a dozen yards from where we were gathered. The bars swung open and a man in a white chef’s uniform entered the garden. He closed the gate quickly and hurried toward the building.
Coop lifted his head, tracking the stranger’s progress. Then he yapped sharply, popping to his feet with hackles raised.
The newcomer nearly jumped out of his skin. He backpedaled a few steps, eyes darting, trying to pierce the gloom.
“Coop!” I scolded, grabbing his collar and pulling him back.
It must’ve been an odd scene to the late-arriving chef. While my friends and I could see perfectly well in the moonlight, to him we were four teens skulking in a dark garden. With a sizeable wild animal, no less.
“Kids and a freaking wolf,” the man muttered in astonishment, but his body relaxed. He was tall and bulky, with close-set green eyes and bushy red hair poking from beneath his chef’s hat. The name BIGGS was stitched on to his pure white smock, which was fully buttoned up, as if we’d interrupted him mid-shift. Gathering himself, the man nodded our way, then strode briskly for the door and disappeared inside.
Coop barked again. Hauled me a step closer.
Easy, fella. I was surprised. It wasn’t often Coop menaced someone.
And yet . . . something about the cook’s reaction felt . . . off. Like he was relieved it was only us, despite the presence of a riled-up half-wild canine.
Was he avoiding someone? Everyone?
My earlier suspicions flared back to life. Dead flowers. Missing altar pins. And who was this random chef, showing up way late and sneaking in through a secluded garden gate?
The bulk of Corcoran’s security team had disbanded after the service, when the guests moved inside. Only the captain and two handpicked officers remained to “keep an eye on things.” And stuff their faces with free gourmet food, of course.
Coop gave a last snarl and settled back down. But I’d learned to trust his instincts.
I straightened, began chewing my bottom lip. “Huh.”
Ben’s head rose. “What is it?”
I scratched my cheek, thinking. “That guy was acting kinda weird, wasn’t he?”
Hi glanced at his watch. “Dinner ended almost an hour ago. If he’s on tonight’s catering crew, he missed the job. Maybe he’s hoping no one will notice.”
I frowned. “Could be.”
Ben was now eyeing the door. “But you don’t think so.”
“It’s just . . .” I shook my head, unsure.
I looked at Coop. That man? Was there something wrong?
Coop’s head tilted, as if he struggled with how to respond. Smell . . . off. Smell trouble.
The others heard our exchange. Frowning, Shelton removed his clear-lensed glasses. He could see perfectly now, but had no idea how to explain that to his parents. “Lots of things going wrong at this wedding, huh?”
“Yep.” Hi gave me a significant look. “If we’re laying it out there, I’m still baffled by the liquid in those vases. How could a florist accidentally use chemicals that kill flowers?”
Ben cleared his throat. “Yeah. So. I’ve been thinking about the pins.” He glanced up and met my eye. “I can’t see how they could fall out on their own. The whole point of their design is that they don’t fall out.”
“You know, now that I think about it . . .” Shelton pointed a hesitant finger at the door the mystery cook had entered. “Weren’t the caterers wearing uniforms with blue stripes?”
My pulse sped up. The newcomer had been dressed in white from head to toe.
“That actually seems right.” Hi tapped his chin, making a show of considering Shelton’s words. “You think the guy’s working for HYDRA? Or is just drunk and lost?”
Snap decision. “Let’s go see.”
Popping to my feet, I headed for the door. The boys exchanged mental shrugs before rising and following. Cooper leapt to join me, but I placed a hand on his furry head.
Sorry, boy. Out of bounds. Wait here.
He whined, but stayed put. Call if need.
Inside the door, the reception was straight ahead, but a covert scan of the ballroom failed to turn up our mystery chef. I ducked back out before anyone noticed me. “He’s not in there, which isn’t surprising.”
Hi pointed to our left, down a short hallway. “Only one other way to go.”
I nodded. The corridor led to the kitchen, which was empty for the moment. I paused in the doorway as doubt began creeping in. What was I doing, really?
Footfalls in an adjacent room. I looked to Ben, who shrugged. “Why not?”
We entered a small staging room connected to the ballroom by a pair of swinging doors. Music and laughter leaked through the cracks, but I only had eyes for our chef. The big man had his back to us as he hovered over Whitney’s triple-tiered wedding cake.
I put a finger to my lips, edging closer for a better look. The man was smoothing the cake’s frosting with a flat-bladed implement. He held something in his other hand I couldn’t see. As I watched, he glanced at a notepad lying on the cake’s rolling cart.
Nothing about this felt right.
“Hey!” I called out.
The man flinched, then spun around, keeping both hands hidden behind his back. He seemed to recognize us after a beat. His gaze darted to the kitchen door, then the doors leading to the ballroom. He blew out a shaky breath, once again looking relieved. “Yes?” he snapped in an annoyed voice.
“What are you doing in here?” I squinted at the notepad. Something was scribbled in cursive on its face.
Biggs noticed my glance. Eyes widening, his right hand shot out, ripping off the top sheet and crumpling it in his fist. The notepad tumbled to the carpet, ignored. “Just, uh, relaxing the frosting mixture,” he stammered, eyes once again darting between the doors. “We don’t want it to, um, harden before the cake is served. Pretty basic stuff.”
His back was ramrod straight. Beads of sweat darkened his temples.
All my alarms were sounding at once.
Something was wrong.
Check him out, Ben sent, as if he’d read my thoughts. He may have.
I stepped closer to Biggs than most strangers find comfortable. Leaned forward and inhaled deeply, drinking the man’s scent. I detected the acrid stench of deception immediately.
He’s lying.
Biggs reared back, watching me warily. “Did you just—”
The ballroom speakers squealed. Someone made an announcement.
Biggs seemed to forget I was there, eyeing the doors, an artery pumping in his neck.
I stepped sideways to get a look at the cake, a three-level monstrosity of pink curls and raspberry script, topped by a chocolate bride and groom. Beside it, a metal bowl half-filled with brown liquid rested on the cart. A pastry brush and plastic icing smoother sat beside it.
Biggs had been retouching the cake.
And from the looks of things, doing a crap job of it.
“Why is the icing smeared?” I demanded. The top and middle tiers looked uneven, as if the frosting had been massaged with significantly less skill than the original application.
I don’t like this. What’s he doing? The cake looks worse.
The boys tensed behind me.
Biggs must’ve sensed the change in atmosphere. He stepped backward, his left hand still tucked out of sight.
/>
“What’s in the bowl?” Hi pointed at the cart. “Weird place for a finger bath.”
Biggs glared, then sniffed imperiously. “I don’t have time for this.” He started to turn away. Found a hand on his shoulder, stopping him.
Ben winked at the chef. “Make time.”
Biggs shrugged Ben off with a sneer. But despite the bravado, dots of perspiration lined his brow. His left hand remained maddeningly out of view.
“This cake looked better before you messed with it.” Shelton spoke softly, as if making a casual observation. “You sure you were supposed to?”
I pointed to his closed fist. “What’s that note about? Why’d you ball it up?”
Biggs didn’t answer. I could sense his confidence leaching away, despite his size. The four of us had him surrounded, and it was making him uncomfortable. “I . . . I . . . uh . . . I have to prepare the cake for service now.” He made a shooing gesture with his fist. “You’d better run along now. Go on.”
No one moved.
“Okay, fine.” Biggs spun and dropped something into the bowl, then scooped it with one hand, shielding the rim so we couldn’t see inside. “Guests aren’t supposed to be back here. I’m going to get my boss.” He shouldered through our circle—and the kitchen door—before anyone had a chance to stop him.
We exchanged glances.
“That was interesting,” Hi said. “It’s like we caught him with his pants down.”
“Maybe we did.” Shelton was inspecting the cake. “Dude really jacked this frosting up. It’s not crazy noticeable, but he smashed some of the ridges when he smoothed the icing. Look at the bottom tier. See how it’s supposed to look?”
Hi licked his lips. “Still looks delicious. Maybe I should take a small taste, just to—”
“Don’t even think about it,” Ben warned. “Whitney would have a heart attack. Whatever that guy was doing, thankfully the damage isn’t too bad.”
True.
But something was definitely fishy.
Just then, three cooks bustled in from the ballroom, laughing and exchanging jokes. Seeing us around the cake, they smiled. “Soon!” promised a woman with twinkling brown eyes.
