Wolf's Cross: Book 4 (Loki's Wolves)

by Melissa Snark

  "Son, put that back."

  "Okay." Gage shrugged and plunked the priceless piece of fruit back atop a stack of oranges. The boy's voice conveyed a decidedly injured note. "But I just wanted to know why it's out again. It's been in the safe since just before Daniel died."

  "He's worried someone else is gonna die," JD said from the entryway to the kitchen. His tone was pointed and accusing, decidedly more aggressive than his brother's.

  "No one else is gonna die." Jake faced his son square on.

  "The apple only comes out before someone in our family bites the dust." JD stood with his shoulders squared and arms lifted, brawling for a fight. His hands clenched to form fists.

  "JD, don't—" Gage said.

  "We're entitled to answers!" JD all but shouted.

  "Quiet down before you wake up Michael." Jake set down the order and both his boys fell silent. He kept quiet for a long while. He stroked his beard while he contemplated. The bristles had grown too long and wooly. In a self-conscious gesture, he stroked his hand over his head, confirming his hair was getting shaggy. Time for a trim.

  "Dad?" Gage's forked clattered on his plate.

  He focused on his sons, appraising them with thoughtful regard. The twins had good reason to be anxious. He owed them an explanation but the trouble was... Jake wasn't quite sure why he'd removed the apple from the safe and returned it to the fruit bowl.

  "You both know I get premonitions even though I keep my second sight closed," Jake drawled, speaking slowly so he had time to compose his words. "Sometimes it's real specific, sometimes it's just a gut feeling..."

  "Yeah? What is it this time?" JD asked.

  "Just a gut feeling. And it ain't got nothing to do with either of you boys."

  JD huffed, deflating, but Gage remained alert. He'd always been the more perceptive of the two.

  "What about Michael?" Gage asked. "Is he gonna be okay?"

  Jake looked his son straight in the eyes. "I'm going to do everything in my power to keep that boy safe. You have my word."

  "Okay." The tension eased from Gage, a testament to his faith in his father. It was a heavy burden, one Jake damn well hoped he would prove worthy of.

  "I've got a parent-teacher conference with Mrs. Ricardo at ten." Jake sought to restore a sense of normalcy. He needed to roust Michael soon. The boy needed to eat and shower or he'd be late to school. "After that, they need me on Red Butte. Can you see to it that Michael gets picked up from school?"

  "Sure. No problem." Gage nodded.

  "Lucy will be by later this afternoon. She had a doctor's appointment this morning. She's supposed to be making cupcakes for the senior class fundraiser." Jake stroked a finger over his mustache. Lucy was their part-time housekeeper and an old family friend. She often checked in on the boys when he was away.

  A grin cracked Gage's face, accentuating the teenager's rugged good looks. "So make sure JD and Michael don't eat all of 'em. Check."

  "Hey!" JD took a lazy swing at his brother and missed.

  "You sure it's okay?" Jake heaped too much responsibility on the twins, and he worried. He should request Sawyer, another of his sons, return home, but pride prevented him from asking.

  "It's fine." Gage waved him along. "Dad, seriously. Go."

  Jake left the room and made it halfway to the family room before he remembered what he'd missed. He backpedaled and stuck his head into the kitchen, catching Gage in the process of pulling a gallon of milk from the fridge.

  "Break a leg out there today."

  Gage looked over and smiled. "Thanks, Dad."

  "I might not be able to make it to the theater tonight." More than just regret edged his apology. A poignant, bittersweet sorrow hung over Jake. Tonight was the closing night of his son's play, but he had missed a lot more than that down through the years. The birthdays, ball games, holidays, and weekends when he'd been away were too numerous to count. In less than a week, the twins would graduate from high school and then they would make their own way in the world as grown men.

  "It's okay. You've got to save the world," Gage assured him without a hint of sarcasm. "We understand."

  "Go," JD waved his hand, echoing his brother's sentiment. "We've got this."

  Chapter Four

  Sessrúmnir, Freya's hall in Fólkvangr

  When first Freya met Arik Koenig, he'd turned her head. He won her favor and rose to power in her hall at an unprecedented rate. Looks, intelligence, and a silver-tongue were a dangerous combination in a man. Upon occasion, the long shadow of doubt hung over her and she questioned—had she made a mistake? Thus far, he'd proven remarkably adept in every task she'd assigned to him, from oratory to military.

  Yet while he'd been in her bed and her service for only a few months, already he'd lasted far longer than all his predecessors. The man was a complete contradiction. Refined and intelligent on one level; primitive and primal on another. He owed his animalistic aura to being a wolf shifter, one of Loki's descendants, but that fact alone came nowhere close to explaining his complexities. Most perplexing—his austerity. He made almost no effort to please her, though his skill as a lover paralleled that of many gods. Toward, her, Freya, the most desirous of all goddesses, he was often cool. Indifferent. It drove her mad and acted as an irresistible impetus upon her determination to conquer him.

  Just the fact that her cats had accepted him so easily struck her as another piece of the puzzle that comprised the man. As a rule, Tregul and Bygul were standoffish with anyone other than their mistress...if not outright hostile.

  She voiced her bewilderment aloud now, "Your rapport with them is astounding. I confess, I had no idea they'd take such a liking to a wolf."

  He chuckled. "Obviously, Tregul and Bygul are superb judges of character."

  "Obviously," she said but frowned. "You're covered in fur."

  "Aye." He took a useless swipe at the sleeve of his coat where a thick layer of fuzz clung to his suit. Despite Freya's chiding, the contrary man persisted in donning the clothing that had been familiar to him during the tenure of his mortality—a tailored, pinstripe navy suit paired a linen shirt and silk tie. And while he wasn't dead...he should have left those things behind when he entered into her service.

  Without so much as a "by your leave", Bygul decided that she'd had quite enough of Arik's attention. The tigress bounded off into the thick vegetation surrounding the patio. The man she abandoned only grinned and laughed.

  "Ah, cats are such fickle creatures." Freya hid the pleasure she derived from the female cat's cold-shoulder treatment of Arik. She acknowledged her pettiness but she'd always been jealous of her creatures...and she hated sharing.

  Sierra Pines, California, on the western shore of Echo Lake

  The savory aroma of cooking bacon and the cacophony of many competing voices greeted Victoria Storm when she ventured into the hallway outside her bedroom. On cue, her stomach issued an embarrassingly loud rumble and her unborn child fluttered in her womb as if to echo the sentiment. If she had been shifted to her wolf form, she'd have tilted her muzzle skyward and let loose a joyful yodel while thumping her tail in sheer delight.

  While human, she retained a tad more decorum. Still, hunger urged her onward, but her innate caution overrode her baser desires. Where once she would have charged headlong into potential danger without so much as a second thought, now she hesitated. Dropping her hand to the side of her stomach, Victoria pressed her palm to the swell of her baby bump. At almost six months along, her body had begun to experience alarming and unfamiliar changes, making it impossible to forget even for a moment that every decision she made impacted her unborn daughter.

  She had no idea why the kitchen of her lakeside home was full of strangers but the general mood of the bustle didn't sound contentious. Head cocked, she listened intently, assigning names to voices. Ah, there was Morena's bright girlish laughter but the man who addressed the teenager defied easy identification. Then, her keen hearing caught Sawyer Barrett's husky baritone
and the last of her concern dissipated.

  The pad footfalls upon tile announced someone's approach. A second later, Sylvie Thornton rounded the corner and stopped upon spotting Victoria lurking in the corridor. The Native American woman had a tall, strong stature. Her gray hair was pulled back into a neat ponytail.

  "Good morning." Victoria mustered a self-conscious smile, aware of how ridiculous she must appear to her friend. She opened her arms and they traded a quick hug.

  "Good morning." Sylvie flashed an easy smile. "I was just coming to see if you ever intended to get out of bed." As Victoria's second-in-command, the older woman held the rank of Beta within the Storm Pack. She also acted as their Skald, the keeper of tradition, and was a devout follower of Freya, the Norse goddess of war and love.

  On cue, Freya's aggrieved voice filled Victoria's thoughts. Once, you were also a devout follower of Freya, My Priestess.

  Victoria flinched at the harsh condemnation and reached out with her prayers to the deity. I am still your priestess, My Lady. She lacked the nerve to dare label herself devout. While she possessed many faults, hypocrisy wasn't one of them.

  Silence served as Freya's criticism.

  Wincing, Victoria looked to see how much of the unspoken exchange Sylvie may have perceived. A worried frown pinched the older woman's kindly face, so she wasn't unaware. Also, Sylvie knew the circumstances that had driven a wedge between priestess and goddess.

  Thankfully, Sylvie offered no comment.

  "We have company?" Relief swept through Victoria. She wasn't ready to field any uncomfortable questions. These last several months had been wearing. She barely knew where she stood with her goddess anymore, let alone what to say.

  "I've been holding your breakfast but fending off hungry hunters, and Morena is becoming onerous." Sylvie waved her hand.

  "Hungry hunters—haha. Very funny."

  "I thought so," Sylvie said, tongue in cheek. "Are you going to come eat?"

  "I'm already fat enough. I'm never eating again." She grimaced because she wasn't kidding. Not entirely. Her entire life, she'd been athletic and slender. A ballerina's build and a werewolf's appetite were a great combination. She'd eaten whatever she wanted and had never gained an extra pound.

  Not anymore. Those days were done.

  "Of course you're not. Come along." Chuckling, the Skald turned and headed back from where she had come.

  Victoria followed. "Are all the hunters here?"

  "Yup. All three of them." Sylvie's ironic smile wasn't lost on Victoria.

  The trio of hunters belonged to a group of hardened soldiers who owed their loyalty to Jake Barrett, the Hunter King. They were currently "on loan" to the Sierra Pines area. Sawyer Barrett, Jake's son, was their leader. Up until then, the hunters had done their duty, patrolling the area, but had kept their distance from the Storm Pack. In December of the prior year, her pack and the hunters had clashed in a brief but bloody war that had left many people—wolves and hunters alike—dead. If someone had told her back in January that they'd all be sitting down to breakfast together in just a few short months, she wouldn't have believed it possible. In fact, Victoria would have sworn that she and Sawyer were far more likely to kill each than ever achieve a truce, let alone an alliance.

  Walking side by side, the two women entered the spacious kitchen—the true heart of their home. Rays of morning sunlight shone through the massive bay windows. The atmosphere resonated with bright, positive energy. Laughter and jovial conversation merged with a buzzing ambient aura full of primary-hued swirls. The fragrant aroma of happiness filled the room. Victoria inhaled long and slow, savoring the scents of bacon and eggs, golden pancakes, and maple syrup, which set her mouth to watering.

  Stopped within the kitchen entry, Victoria scanned the room and performed a quick head count. Just as Sylvie had said, the three hunters were plunked about the kitchen. The French doors leading to the enclosed patio stood wide open. The pack's four gray wolf members, mother Sophia and her three half-grown pups, were strewn about the area.

  The hunter known only as DNR perched upon a stool at the breakfast bar. The young man was in his early twenties with sandy blond hair shorn high and tight, and warm hazel eyes. The initials had never been explained, but his companions always said "DNR" with the air of it being an in-joke.

  Morena, a seventeen-year-old wolf shifter, sat at the counter beside DNR. The whip-thin teenager was already taller than Victoria. She had flawless brown skin and black hair, the product of an ethnic heritage of more Hispanic blood than Norse. She wore her short tresses in several ponytails bound with multi-colored bands. Gold piercings studded her ear lobes and cartilage. Her appearance was foxlike, but her pedigree was one hundred percent pure wolf.

  While Victoria watched, Morena slipped pieces of bacon to Mick, the adolescent gray wolf who sat at her knee as attentively as any Lab begging for food.

  Bacon. She'd better move fast if she wanted any. Victoria darted past Sylvie to make a beeline for the middle of the room. Cali Kinkaid, a petite woman armed only with a spatula, manned the gas stovetop. The female hunter's lack of arsenal counted as a surprising occurrence in and of itself. Her modus operandi consisted of fatigues, combat boots, and enough weapons to be dubbed a one-woman army. The other hunters, including Sawyer, called her Crazy Cali to her face; she never seemed to mind.

  "Good morning, Cali. I almost didn't recognize you without your helmet." Victoria greeted the chef with a friendly smile. She took a plate from atop the stack on the countertop and hungrily eyed the disorderly breakfast buffet laid out on one end of the island.

  "It's been too hot." Prompted by the reminder, the female hunter raised her hand to self-consciously wind a lock of her frizzy brown hair around her finger. Biting her lower lip, she tugged. "Besides, no one's shot at us in months."

  "Is that a complaint? Things getting too boring for you, Kinkaid?" Sawyer heckled from his seated position at the kitchen table.

  "No sir! I'm happy to be here babysitting you on your first job—" Cali's fingers flew in air quotes. "Out of grad school."

  Good-natured laughter erupted, and everyone seemed to be having a blast. Even Sylvie wore a pleased smile. While more jibes and insults flew, Victoria loaded her plate with food and made her way to the kitchen table. To say she found their presence surprising would have been an understatement. Yet, here they were eating and laughing as if they belonged... She found she liked it.

  Sawyer occupied the head position, facing the patio. The hunter sat with his chair pushed back from the table, his legs spread wide, one short work boot rested atop his knee. No matter what time of day, his dark blond, shoulder-length hair always looked like he'd climbed right out of bed with no more concern for grooming than a quick finger comb. The five-day scruff on his jaw enhanced the hunter's already disreputable air in a strung-out-Hollywood-chic fashion. He wore a short-sleeve shirt that revealed well-defined arms and the stylized dagger drawn in black ink on his right bicep. The symbol was the hunter's mark, a badge of brotherhood and belonging.

  Judging from the dark circles under Sawyer's eyes, insomnia continued to plague him. He suffered from frequent nightmares but refused to tell her about them. His tattered leather coat and shoulder harness hung over the back of his chair. The hunter no longer brought weapons to the table as a concession to Sylvie—with the exception of his .45. For whatever reason, he refused to be parted with his last handgun, so he and the Skald had arrived at the compromise—the firearm remained holstered and slung across his chair.

  Sylvie was to his left. Sometime in the last five minutes, a crochet hook had materialized in her hand, her current baby blanket project in the other.

  Approaching the table, Victoria hesitated while a hot, fast internal debate raged. Could she sit? Did she dare? That morning, she had stuffed herself into her last pair of normal pants which had the dubious distinction of being her favorites because they were the only ones that still fit. Even so, she had the top button undone, concealed
beneath the long hemline of her blouse.

  "I don't bite," Sawyer said, apparently misinterpreting her reticence.

  "But I do." With a quick grin, she plunked down to his immediate right.

  The high-pitched rip of fabric was shockingly loud. Victoria's smile vanished when sudden freedom down below told her she'd torn her pants right down the rear.

  Horrified, she glanced up, staring straight into Sawyer and Sylvie's blank faces. Oh yeah, they knew. Fortunately, the boisterous camaraderie throughout the rest of the kitchen continued without a break. The others hadn't noticed.

  Sawyer's eyes sparkled and his lips compressed, bit from within. The man looked about to burst. His aura pulsated like a strobe light.

  "Don't. You. Dare." Victoria locked gazes with the hunter. She glared, challenging him to say anything or laugh at her. She braced her hands on either side of her plate and rose, thinking maybe she would kill the hunter yet.

  Unexpected betrayal came from within Victoria's own pack.

  Sylvie devolved into a most unbecoming Muttley-snigger. "Oh. Good grief! Victoria Svana Storm, you must have known this day was coming. It serves you right."

  "That's so unfair!" Mouth downturned in wounded pride, Victoria turned a look of askance on her friend. Unfair but true.

  "Quick, go change before the others figure it out." Sylvie shooed her. The Skald smiled and pinned Sawyer with a meaningful glance. Then she quoted an Old Norse proverb, "A head stuck on a pike no longer conspires."

  "I don't know nuthin'." Sawyer thrust his hands up in surrender.

  "You're smarter than you look," Sylvie said to the hunter.

  He chuckled. "So I've been told."

  Discretion being the better part of valor, Victoria shot to her feet. She grabbed the waistband of her pants with both hands to stop them from dropping around her ankles and beat an ignominious retreat. In her room, she changed into a pair of yoga pants which had—of all things humiliating—a stretchy waistband.