"Good morning. How can I help you folks?" The squat, portly form of the office manager rose from behind the waist-high reception desk. The pungent perfume of sweat and whiskey clung to the man. A thatch of graying hair formed a half-moon about his crown. Thick jowls and a triple chin. His wide gut overhung his belt.
"I'm Sheriff Barrett with the Maricopa County Sheriff's Department." Sawyer flipped his wallet open. A cop's gold shield shone bright. He tipped his head toward Victoria. "This is my partner, Deputy Storm."
Victoria sucked in a sharp breath but then clamped down on her surprise before she blew his gambit. Hurt stuck her heart, a dagger's blow. The only reasonable explanation for how Sawyer had a badge with his surname on it was that the shield had belonged to Daniel.
To cover her reaction, she turned toward a side table and fabricated an interest in the guestbook. Victoria flipped the guest log open and turned the pages until she reached the last one. She ran her finger down the list and stopped beneath the final entry.
"Maricopa County..." The manager's face pinched. His gaze darted to Victoria and then returned to Sawyer. "That down in Arizona?"
"Yeah, that's right," Sawyer confirmed. "We're here as guests of El Dorado County's Sheriff Department, following up on a crime that crossed state lines. What's your name?"
"Donald, Donald Hines."
"Donald, we'd like to ask you a few questions."
"Sure thing, Sheriff, what about?" Donald asked. To Victoria's perceptions, the manager remained guarded but truthful.
"We're following up on some persons of interest that were seen in this vicinity yesterday—one woman and two men. They were grungy. Long hair. Disreputable-looking."
The fat man chortled. "You mean like you?"
Sawyer had his back to her but the thump and snap of his aura said it all. He snorted, "Yeah, like me."
"You two undercover—cause you're two 'o the most unlikely-looking cops I ever seen."
"That's confidential. I'm unable to discuss the case."
"Heh, sure." Donald slapped his palm against the desk with a sharp crack. "M'kay, some fellas matching that description came through here a couple days ago. I seen 'em around."
"Did they stay here?"
"No, sir." Deceit lit the man's aura like a solar flare, so obvious that Victoria didn't even need to note the souring of his scent, marking the lie.
"You know their names?"
"No, didn't speak with 'em," Donald said, lying still. "Old Sal across the street at the Chevron may've sold 'em some gas."
"Thanks, I'll check that out." Sawyer removed a business card from his wallet, and slid it across the desk. "Here's my card in case you think of something else."
"I'll do that." The manager spared it a brief glance and clutched it in clubbed fingers. As they left the office, he called out after them, "You officers have a nice day!"
In the lead, Victoria turned her head toward Sawyer when the hunter settled his hand against the small of her back. His breath stirred her hair. "He was lying?"
"Yes, but you already knew that. You expected him to lie." She skipped over the uncertain stairs rather than risk them, and landed lightly on her feet. "The only cabin that was rented in the last couple days was number three."
He copied her method of descent. "Was that in the guest book?"
"The maid staff marks the edge of the page with the cabin number and their initials to indicate they cleaned it." She smirked and held up her hand to show off the master key she'd snagged while the office manager had been preoccupied.
They reached the car and stood shoulder-to-shoulder facing it. The convertible shone ruby-red in the mid-morning sunlight, as bright and beautiful as a budding rose. She stuck out like a sore thumb on the uneven gravel lot. No way even a boob like Donald Hines could miss it. If the drifters returned while they were inside the cabin... the potential complications abounded.
"Yup, I'll move the car," Sawyer drawled.
"I want to walk the perimeter of the property and see what I can smell."
"Sounds like a plan."
Victoria rode with Sawyer to the driveway and then hopped out. "I'll meet you at cabin three."
"See you there." Sawyer gave an offhand salute, too sloppy to be construed as anything more than a parody. Unlike his father and older brother, he had never served in the military or law enforcement. Oh no, not Sawyer; the family rebel who was a doctoral student at MIT, currently on leave.
She watched him pull onto the road before she left. Crossing the lot, Victoria kicked a loose stone, sending it shooting toward an overgrown patch of bushes, and worked her way to the motel's border. Ambling, she skirted the outer edge, stooping periodically to sniff for scent markers.
Fifteen minutes later, she hooked up with Sawyer in front of cabin three. In lieu of a greeting, he asked, "Find anything?"
"Nope." Not worth mentioning anyway. She doubted Sawyer had a particular interest in the squirrel population or the comings and goings of the deer herd that lived in the area.
Victoria had the master key so she once again assumed the lead. The front door opened to reveal a main room with stone fireplace, and a tiny eating nook and galley kitchen. The interior of the cabin was just as she remembered—dark, dank, and dingy. Her nose scrunched and her stomach curdled. She gagged her mouth and nose against her hand to muffle the stench.
"Whew." Sawyer coughed and mimicked her gesture. "Didn't think it was possible but this place reeks worse than when I stayed here."
"This place is such a dump. It's no wonder the worst element always winds up here," Victoria said in a cagey tone.
Sawyer's mouth curved in a sardonic smile, but he refused to be baited. No doubt, he thought she meant him. Well, she did, but Victoria and the pack had stayed in Cabin #7 when they'd first arrived here back in February. She smiled at the irony but didn’t share it.
"It doesn't look like anyone's here now." Leaning over, she inhaled, breathing through her mouth so air passed over the sensitive glands in the roof of her mouth.
"Do you smell anything?"
"Humans. One woman. Two men." She wuffled, tasting the air. "One of the guys is ill or abuses cherry-scented cough syrup. Another has new boots. The scent is five or six hours old since they were last here." She rose and shrugged. “That's all."
He chuckled. "That's all? You can't tell what they had for breakfast?"
She rolled her eyes. "They left before dawn so they hadn't eaten breakfast yet."
They spread out to explore; Victoria branched left toward the kitchen; Sawyer went right. The interior showed signs of occupation: the waste can overflowed with empty beverage and fast food trash; an open bag of potato chips sat on the counter; and the fridge contained four sodas and three beers. Plenty of miscellany, but nothing personal or consequential to testify to the nature of the men who had stayed there.
The silence was awkward.
"Your deadline for fall enrollment at MIT is coming up fast, isn't it?" Victoria asked Sawyer who stood beside the mantle.
"Yeah." Sawyer's mouth pulled at the corners. His face contorted into a grimace. "Next week, as a matter of fact."
"Have you decided whether you're going back to Massachusetts?" Unease filled her. She'd come to depend on the hunter. While she hated the idea of losing him, she understood he had a life back east, including his educational program, friends, and even a girlfriend he'd left behind. He wasn't so much a hunter by vocation or preference, but simply as a matter of birth.
"Nah. Dad's told me to do whatever I want, but I feel like it'd be wrong to leave. Especially with Daniel gone..." Grimness and grief hung over Sawyer. He turned away from her, settling his handle upon the broad mantle.
"Do you want to leave?" Victoria asked, narrowing her eyes to stare at his hunched back with a shrewd gaze. Thanks to the empathic connection between them, she thought maybe she understood his emotions better than he did.
Right up until he said, "No, but I'm not sure I can stay."
&nb
sp; "What? Why not?"
His teeth ground together with an audible crunch. For a second, it seemed he wouldn't answer, but then he released a forceful breath. "He doesn't think I have what it takes to be a hunter."
"I'm sure that's not it." Victoria wasn't sure whether her reflexive protest came in Jake's defense or Sawyer's, and maybe it didn't matter. Her instincts compelled her to defend both men from and to each other. She rushed from the kitchen, moving close to the hunter.
"That is it. He told me so." He hung his head, long hair hiding his face.
"Sawyer..." She exhaled his name, thin with impatience. So far as the Barretts went, Jake and Sawyer were two of the most stubborn men she'd ever known. When they got into it, the confrontation resembled two rams butting heads. Over and over and over.
"Let's check the back rooms." He lurched into motion, heading down the narrow hallway which led to two bedrooms and a bathroom.
Determined to keep up, Victoria followed right on his heels. When he opened the first door, his bulk blocked her view of the room but distinctive musk hit her nostrils. She doubled forward, hands clutched protectively about her gut.
Sawyer whirled. His hands closed about her shoulders. "What's wrong?"
"I smell wolves." The scent was stale. Dead. Combating the urge to retch, she wondered why she hadn't detected it before until she glimpsed the shapeless pile atop the double bed. Lashing out, she hit the wall switch.
Pale illumination filled the room. A heap of wolf skins perched atop the mattress.
Sawyer sucked air through his teeth, a wet slurping sound.
An angry growl rumbled in her throat. Gagging, Victoria pressed her lower face against Sawyer's arm but her horrified gaze was riveted upon the hides of her murdered cousins. Gray wolves from the coloring of the pelts, their heads still attached. Three pairs of fake marble eyes stared at her with intent accusation. Tears flooded her eyes and throat so she gasped for breath. She leaned into Sawyer, allowing him to support her.
"Don't look." Sawyer nudged her toward the entrance but she refused to yield. The hunter's aura engulfed her, a dark red shroud.
"Did you know about this?" Victoria asked in a ragged voice. She dug her fingers into the unyielding muscle of his bicep. His magic, her magic—it burned. Both dagger tattoos blazed with supernatural fire. She couldn't tear her eyes from the horrid spectacle.
"No, I swear to—" He cut his words short and swallowed. "I'd never expose you to this on purpose."
"You suspected something, Sawyer. I know you well enough to judge when you're withholding something." Victoria hung onto her humanity—and her human form—through sheer will. She inflicted the brunt of her revulsion to Sawyer via touch and the pack bond. Her nails broke his skin, drawing drops of blood, but the real burden he bore was that of her anger and accusation.
"Okay, all right." He nodded and turned so his chest blocked her. Not that it mattered. When she closed her eyes, she found the image etched indelibly on the insides of her lids.
"Go on."
"Yesterday, the drifters who caught my attention. They were suspicious but nothing too out of the ordinary except—"
Powerful emotion flooded their dual bond of wolf and hunter, conveying mental pictures—a woman with hair as black as the feathers she wore woven into her braids. At the base of her throat, she wore a silver wolf's cross... An amulet cast in the shape of Mjölnir, Thor's hammer, but with a wolf's head at the bail where it hung suspended from a rawhide cord. The vision entered her mind so clearly she could see it.
"How are you managing this level of detail?" Victoria asked in wonder. "The pack bond doesn't—" And she bit off her words upon the realization of the obvious.
"I'm using hunter magic. You'll learn it," Sawyer murmured. The images changed to two men who accompanied the woman. One of the men had stringy hair and ancient Norse runes inked on his forearms. The words, big and bold, solid black lines...
"His tattoos said, 'Hail Odin'," Sawyer grated. "Hail the One-Eyed."
Her heart heaved against her breastbone, seeking escape. "I hadn't realized you'd studied the runes."
His voice, like his scent, tasted bitter. Regret and sorrow, but his were not the words of a liar. "Considering who my father is, is it really that much of a shock?"
"No, I guess not." Victoria eased away from him, and at last yielded. Moving in concert, they backed into the hallway. She breathed easier once they were clear of the bedroom.
"I had to investigate further," Sawyer said, his tone urgent. "But you have to believe me—I didn't expect this."
"I believe you." Victoria exhaled, relaxing her fingers so her punishing grip on Sawyer lessened. Righteous anger overrode her revulsion, but not an iota was aimed at him. "The bastards who committed this atrocity will pay."
"They will. I'm with you." Through their empathic connection, he made unspoken promises which resonated as clear as thunder. She took him at his word–a man of honor, just like his father.
"Thank you."
"Wait here." The hunter's movements were jerky. He shoved open the second bedroom door, spent about thirty seconds or so within, and then returned. "From the looks of it, these guys haven't checked out yet. I'm going to call Cali and DNR. We'll set up a stake out to catch them when they return. All right?"
"I've got a doctor appointment this morning." As much as she wanted to help out, she had to keep her prior commitment. She already had too much on her plate—first the gathering of the packs, and now this. "I need to call Sylvie and warn her to keep Sophia and the pups close."
"Do that and don't worry. You don't need to be here. I'll handle this, okay?"
"Okay."
"Let's get out of here." He edged her toward the exit.
Victoria hesitated. "Sawyer, will you bring the pelts? Please? They deserve a proper burial." The skinned animals probably hadn't been shifters or kinfolk, but she wanted to honor their spirits.
"Yeah. I'll take care of this. Go wait outside."
Victoria left, accepting Sawyer's protection, no longer ashamed to do so. The world was too full of villains for her to waste energy fighting her own.
Chapter Eight
Sessrúmnir, Freya's hall in Fólkvangr
Freya stared at him in astonishment. He hadn't revealed any secrets she didn't already know. The real question was—how had he found all this out? What was his source? Did she have a mole within her own hall?
"The war with the hunters is over," she said, adjusting her stance.
"The war with the hunters hasn't even begun!" Arik growled; the wolf in his eyes. His ferociousness—pure and primal. The bones in his hands crunched and ground, marking their transformation to claws.
Startled by the sound, Tregul snarled and bristled. The tiger leapt from the wolf's lap and stalked off, his flagged tail straight behind him like a bottle brush. The cat's indignity commanded the attention of werewolf and goddess, an unexpected intermission in the drama. Staring, they watched the great cat stalk off before looking at one another again.
Exhilaration coursed in Freya's veins along with marked desire. This unrestrained passion beneath implacable austerity—his fervor set her blood on fire.
"Come now, Arik. You're letting your emotions get the better of you. Victoria and Jake have made peace and shaken on it. I do believe Sawyer may even have been part of the settlement. There was talk of the hunters paying a blood price in the form of an arranged marriage. Jake Barrett only has sons, you know...and Victoria is single again."
"I'm not jealous."
"Are you sure?" Freya concealed a smirk but she couldn't resist baiting him. It served him right for daring to cross her.
"I'm sure."
Phoenix, Arizona
Premonition always tasted sour.
Obeying his gut, Jake turned his SUV off the road into the parking lot of a grocery store. He pulled into the first available slot. The driver of a white compact to his right had done a crap job so the front end of the little car hung several in
ches over the line. Jake centered neatly within his space, even though doing so left a gap of only a few inches between him and the other car. He thought about reparking, but then rejected it. Screw it. Asshats who couldn't park straight in shouldn't be allowed to drive in the first place.
He trusted his intuition but a premonition that something was wrong wasn't worth a hill of beans. Still, it was enough to stop him from traveling any farther until he figured out the source of his unease. Ten minutes ago, he'd dropped Michael at his private elementary school. The parent-teacher conference wasn't for another hour-and-a-half so he'd headed home afterward.
He opened the car door and stepped into a broiler oven. Heat poured over him. The prior day's rain shower was nothing but a faded memory and the temperature seemed to be making up for lost time. The sun shone big and bright overhead. Not even a hint of a breeze stirred the air to provide the slightest relief.
Squinting, Jake adjusted his Cardinals baseball cap, tugging the rim down over his eyes. He'd forgotten his sunglasses on the kitchen counter. The twins teased him unmercifully about being so old he couldn't remember his own name. Sawyer, being Sawyer, took it one step further and trotted out even more scathing observations. "Geez, Pops, are you worshipped as the god of senility, too?"
Grumbling, he attributed his absentmindedness to a lack of sleep, which conveniently allowed him to blame Loki. An Old Norse correlative to the modern Murphy's Law held: When something goes wrong, Loki's to blame.
Loki this, Loki that. Lately, the Trickster's name preoccupied his thoughts far more than he liked. The prolonged conflict with the undead required all his consideration. He couldn't afford distractions at a time when missing something important could cause his people their lives.
Tilting his head back, he scanned the clear sky. He lifted his hand to his mouth and let loose with a sharp, loud wolf whistle. The sound rose and carried high and far. Cocking his head, he listened. Within seconds, a female raven's distant craa flew to him on a mystic wind. She answered his call—on our way.
Wolf's Cross: Book 4 (Loki's Wolves) Page 11
