"I can't believe the amount of money Dad sank into this place." Logan waved a hand in a flourish that indicated the whole of the building around them.
Victoria's brow furrowed. Granted, Arik had been an attorney but he'd only practiced family law. Her gaze swung toward Logan and a question formed on her lips, but the sheriff rounded a corner and stopped, which halted her question as well. A sign over a set of double swinging doors proclaimed MORGUE.
"Your father was a pillar of the community." Mike shot Logan a forbidding frown.
"Can we at least try to maintain a semblance of honesty here?" Logan rounded on his uncle. "Mike, you and Dad didn't even speak in the two years before he died. Now you're making him out to be a fucking saint?"
"Your father wasn't a saint, but he deserves respect. For all our differences, I always respected your father." Mike fell into silence. "Wait out here for a minute. I want to be sure the area is clear before we go in. The staff is supposed to be at lunch."
"Yeah, sure. Whatever." Logan exhaled a dismissive huff.
Mike stared at his nephew for a long moment. His jaw worked and he looked about to speak, but then his lips compressed. "Wait here."
"Aye, capitan," Logan dropped a sloppy salute.
The sheriff shook his head and plowed into one of the hinged doors. It swung wide enough to admit him and then dropped shut with a pronounced thunk, leaving Victoria and Logan completely alone for the first time since his unexpected return home.
All their issues reared like the ugly hooded visage of a cobra. An exaggerated, uncomfortable silence suspended between them. Logan stood with his shoulders hunched and regarded her with a smoldering gaze that set her teeth on edge.
"Why are you here?" Victoria asked.
"Mike came by the house looking for you. Sylvie made me scrub the kitchen and it looked like she was getting into her head to give me another project, so I decide to get while the getting was good."
"You better have helped her clean up the mess you made." She snorted in disgust.
"Hey, it wasn't just me making the mess."
Victoria harrumphed in exasperation and changed the subject. "What are you doing back?"
"In Sierra Pines?"
She gave a curt nod. "The last I'd heard you were off 'finding yourself.'"
"Consider me found."
"So you're back? Just like that?" Larger than life, imperiling the delicate balance of her entire existence and the stability of her small pack. His motivation for his abrupt return remained a mystery, one that tight-lipped Logan appeared unwilling to resolve. So she was left with worry and fear.
"In spades. Well, for one, I live here. This is my home. Two, I don't have to explain myself to you. My father was Alpha. This whole territory was his. Now, it's mine." Aggression defined his underlying scent. The same assertiveness bled into the orange-red hue of his nimbus. His tension put her on edge to the point where Victoria's wolf strained against her control.
That wasn't how it worked—Alpha status was earned, not inherited. Victoria opened her mouth to protest but then closed it. She didn't stand a snowball's chance in hell against him in a fair fight. He was strong enough to take everything she valued from her—and she sure as hell didn't trust him not to do so out of spite.
Logan confronted her with unshakable confidence, and her spirit sank. All these months spent dreading the inevitable challenge to her influence, for her status and her territory, but always she'd thought the threat would come from outside her pack. Of course, Logan had always been a potential rival but she'd naively hoped his apparent lack of interest in power would persevere.
At a loss, Victoria struggled to formulate a diplomatic reply. She inhaled and decay struck the over-sensitized olfactory glands in the roof of her mouth. Undead. A growl rolled from her throat and she turned toward the threat, instinctively placing her back to Logan. In unspoken cooperation, he assumed a guard position, facing outward.
Around them, the shadows flowed in a river of darkness, running across the surface of the walls. Puddles devoid of light pooled on the floor. It prickled her sense of familiarity. She'd seen this before; she just couldn't quite remember where.
"Hey, Logan. It's me, Evan. Call off your friend, okay?"
"Evan?" Logan, demonstrating truly questionable judgement, dropped his guard and slouched. When she continued to bristle, he waved a hand in her general direction. "C'mon, Vic. Knock it off. Evan is harmless."
"Evan is disgusting and unnatural, and there's no such thing as a harmless revenant." Fuming, she nevertheless swallowed a snarl and forced her wolf to subside. Logan's terrible taste in friends aside, Evan had never threatened her and he'd actually proven helpful at least once in the past.
"Geez, it's a good thing I'm not sensitive or my feelings would be hurt." The breathy, childlike voice registered in the falsetto range and emerged from the limber shadows. The smell of decay accompanied it. But the dead thing remained hidden from direct view, more like a ghost than a ghoul.
"I want to kill it," Victoria muttered, clenching her fists.
"No." Logan snapped his tone and his fingers. "N. O."
"Logan, I don't have long so you have to listen," Evan ran his words together, clearly sensing his peril. "You shouldn't be down here. It's dangerous. The morgue is a gateway to the underworld. Oh, and I was sorry to hear about your father."
"Wait. What? Back up. The morgue is a gateway to what?" Logan asked.
"The underworld. Realm of the dead. Niffleheim. Helheim. Whatever the Hel-hick it is your people call the frozen wasteland on the other side."
"Do you mean Canada?" Logan snickered.
"Hardy-har-har. Very funny. Not. Look, no kidding, you should leave."
"Oh, this is ridiculous." Victoria shoved one of the heavy swinging doors to the morgue open and peeked in. Nothing beyond but a sterile looking front office. "See, nothing here but—"
"The Master is coming." Evan vanished from plain sight.
"How does he do that?" Victoria stared at spot where the ghoul had stood.
"Beats me." Logan shrugged.
Victoria cast a glance over her shoulder in the direction they'd come from. She wanted to leave. The scrape of Logan's shoes on the concrete floor sounded remarkably loud. With a burst of annoyance, she wished he'd cease his restless shuffling and just stand still. The basement was spooky enough on its own. Evan's surprise visit and bizarre proclamations upped the creep factor by a hundred.
Logan's gaze shifted. "Hey, Uncle Mike. Are you the Master?"
An uneasy quiver shot through her gut. Victoria turned. Sheriff Trash stood within the morgue's reception area.
Mike frowned. "I prefer 'sir' but you can call me Uncle Mike, Son."
"Gee, thanks." Logan rolled his eyes.
"C'mon in.” Mike beckoned them with a wave of his arm. “The coast is clear."
Chapter Thirteen
Sessrúmnir, Freya's hall in Fólkvangr
Freya's head spun—she was unable to think straight for her rage. The Trickster talked a good game but this had to be a con. She just couldn't see the trap for the web of lies he wove, obfuscating the truth.
"Whatever you're up to, I won't allow it. I'll expose you first." Irrational, foolish anger fueled her thoughts but her inner-serenity had been thoroughly fractured.
"Expose me, expose yourself. I might fall, but so will you, and you have so much more to lose than I do. So please, be my guest." He gestured—ladies first. "It will be entertaining. How will you explain your complicity to Odin? You've been stealing Valhalla's rightful share of wolf warriors for months now."
She glared and dismissed him. "An oversight—easily corrected."
"Perhaps, you may even get away with it. But what is your defense against having made Odin's sworn enemy the commander of half his army?"
"I'll say I was tricked. It's embarrassing, but it's also the truth."
"And I'll say you knew all along. I may not be believed. You may win, but it'll be well wort
h your public humiliation when it comes out that you took me to your bed."
Freya's spine grew ramrod stiff. Anger thrilled through her. Incensed, she tightened her grip on her spear. "You're disgusting. So help me, if you try to touch me again, I'll strike you down where you stand!"
He snorted. "That won't be a problem. I've had my fill. Just remember Freya—betray me and consider our deal nullified. I'll abandon you to your fate when Ragnarök tears the nine worlds apart."
Freya loosened an infuriated shout, seeking to release the enormity of her emotion. Unflinching in the face of her wrath, Loki only smiled. She seethed, wishing nothing more than to strike him down, but the maddening voice of practicality insisted she do no such thing. As the weasel had pointed out—she was stuck with him. She released her grip on her armaments. They vanished before they hit the ground.
Sierra Pines, California, on the western shore of Echo Lake
The morgue's reception area resembled a prison more than a hospital. A lonely desk sat in one corner; the surface sparsely populated with an old curly-corded phone and a canister of pens next to a neat pile of paperwork. The rolling office chair stood empty. No one appeared to greet them, and someone had printed "Back at 2" in red marker on a white board on an otherwise bare wall.
"I sent the staff out to lunch." Mike answered her unspoken question. He escorted her and Logan through another swinging door, down some twisty corridors, and then into a refrigerated chamber. An ominous row of steel doors lined the far wall where, presumably, bodies were stored. The stench of bleach and formaldehyde burned at her nose and set her stomach to churning.
The air was cold enough to store meat... the random thought made her wince when she realized it was pretty much a statement of the obvious.
"I should warn you, bad smells have been making me queasy." Victoria dragged her feet, swallowing saliva in an attempt to quell the nausea. During her medical training to become an RN, she's never been squeamish. No, that hadn’t happened until she'd gotten pregnant and her body had rebelled.
"Thanks, I'll keep my feet clear. Hold on, I'll get you something to help with the odor." Mike headed straight for a rack of metal shelves and removed a small stack of blue face masks. He passed her one along with a small vial of essential oil. "I've only got peppermint. Hope that's okay. You know how this works?"
"Peppermint is fine, thank you." Victoria thought it odd the sheriff had essential oils on his person but she kept the observation to herself. She uncapped the vial, applied a drop to the tissue, and then pulled the mask over her head and down about her throat until she needed it.
Logan turned over the mask he'd been handed in apparent cluelessness. With a huff, Victoria caught his wrist and held his arm steady while she squirted oil across the inside of his mask.
"This goes over your nose and big mouth. Do you need help?" Victoria asked in a saccharine tone.
"Thanks, I think I can figure it out." He flashed teeth in a fake smile.
"In here." Mike passed through an open entrance to a smaller area set to serve as an autopsy room. Here, the sickly-sweet perfume of death pervaded the atmosphere, distinguishable even over the disinfectant and the peppermint. A dark green sheet covered something big atop one of the metal tables.
Victoria's unease grew. She no longer wanted to be there. She would have been only too happy to hightail it out so fast none of the series of swinging doors would've stood a chance of hitting her in the ass. Whatever the sheet concealed, the mound exceeded the dimensions a person. It had to be an animal...or it concealed more than one body.
She sensed Logan’s looming presence behind her. His aura shifted from threatening to protective. She had no idea how anyone could be so damn annoying one second, and reassuring the next, but she was glad he had her back. Bracing for the worst, she grabbed the edge of the sheet and yanked it off—and wished she hadn't. Her breath exited her lungs in a horrified expulsion and her stomach somersaulted even as her mind struggled to process the macabre sight laid out before her on the cold stainless steel.
The body of an adult male wolf lay on its side, a sad caricature of the magnificent predator it had once been. His fur coat had been skinned from nose to tail, exposing veins and muscle, greyish and bloodied. In death, he curled into a fetal position which enhanced the impression of an aborted fetus. Beside the wolf, the corpse of an adult man rested on his back—skin intact. A severed jugular appeared to be the cause of death.
Victoria recoiled in horror. She sucked in a shallow breath, afraid a deep one would make her puke, and closed her eyes. She reached behind her back, and Logan latched onto her fingers. Through the warmth and intimacy of joined hands, their auras collided and merged. Primal verve rushed through her, intoxicating and unexpected, and her head spun. Logan's strength startled and terrified her. More lone wolf than team player, he always held himself apart. He was a force of nature—unpredictable, always a threat to the stability of her safe little world.
An imperative overrode all other concerns—she had to check on her pack to ensure their safety. Within the shelter of Logan's arms, she turned away from the carnage, rested her forehead against his chest. Once she recovered, she pulled her mask down and summoned her personal power.
"What are you doing?" Logan asked, also yanking his mask aside. The question reminded her of his inexperience with pack magic. Potential wasn't the same as knowledge or ability.
"I have to make sure the others are safe."
"How do you do that?"
"Watch. It's easier to demonstrate than explain." She summoned the energy and channeled it to serve her will. By focusing, she extended her awareness through the metaphysical connection known as the pack bond that bound the members of the Storm Pack together—wolves, wolf shifters, and hunters—and also formed the foundation of their magic. As a rule, it worked best at proximity. Lately, Victoria experimented with pushing the boundaries of what was possible. Her limits continued to expand.
"Uh-huh. Cryptic response. About what I've come to expect." Logan clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth.
"Oh hush." Victoria found those closest to her—Sylvie and Morena. A hazy, dreamlike image of the two women formed in her mind. Both were inside the lakeside house, but in separate rooms. Without disturbing them, she brushed past and cast a wider net until she located the four gray wolves sacked out on the floor of the living room. They were well.
Sawyer proved harder to isolate. Victoria reached for him and came up empty-handed. Frowning, she tightened her search, pouring more energy into the effort. While the hunter belonged, he didn't quite fit—the square peg on a board of round holes. To make matters worse, he possessed an uncanny talent for stealth.
"Who're you looking for?" Logan asked in an edgy tone. "Sylvie, Morie, Sophia and the pups..."
His aura roiled with territorial aggression; he knew who she was searching for.
Like Sawyer, Logan didn't conform. He occupied a far-flung point on the periphery of their group; a part of and yet apart from the dynamic. Unlike Sawyer, Logan was disruptive to their stability.
Exhaling heavily in exasperation, Victoria gave up. A phone call would settle the matter easily enough, and besides, the man could take care of himself. Licking her lips, she pulled her attention back, easing out of the spell. Her thoughts flashed to Jake Barrett, and she wondered whether she should she check on him too.
But no—the omnipotent Hunter King could...
I can what? Jake's gravelly voice boomed through her mind.
Take care of himself. Victoria responded with cultivated grumpiness. And stay hell out of my head.
Jake chuckled. You reached for me, girly.
Correction: I thought about you. There's a slight difference.
"Who the hell are you talking to?" Logan stirred, and his alarm crashed through the pack bond. An unexpected huff of hot, citrus-scented breath blew across her face, and she jumped. Her eyes popped open, and she discovered Logan hunched over so his face was in hers. He held
both her hands in his own.
"Praying," Victoria said aloud, hoping to sooth Logan's fear. "It's something I do sometimes—"
"I thought you worshiped Freya," Logan interrupted. "That's a man's voice."
Victoria faltered in the grip of sudden doubt, and then stumbled into worry. Her lips formed words but she had no idea what to say. Logan shouldn't have been able to eavesdrop on her conversation with Jake.
The pack bond was empathic, not telepathic.
Victoria, is something wrong? Do you need help? Jake manifested within her mind; rumbling thunder and flashing lightening marked the coming of the storm. His offer was genuine. If she asked, he'd come with his magical dagger and his undying ferocity, and quite possibly a crew of hunters. He would obliterate everything and everyone who opposed him.
She swallowed, trying to eliminate the lump in her throat and fear froze her heart. While having the Hunter King as her enemy had been terrifying, counting him as an ally was only slightly less scary. She had loved his oldest son with all her heart; a part of her died with Daniel. She respected Jake and, against her better judgement, loved him as a father. Despite all that, she worried about the potential for friendly fire...and only a fool would dismiss the possibility of real conflict breaking out between wolves and hunters. It'd happened before. It could happen again.
Her silence went on too long.
Victoria? Jake prompted.
"Vic, what the hell are you hiding?" Logan spoke louder than was necessary, and Mike Trash shifted and mumbled something that may have been cautionary. Her anxious gaze raked Logan, and she contemplated all the things that could go wrong if his rebellious attitude ever clashed with Jake's authoritarian rule. TNT—an invitation to disaster. She had to keep Logan safe which meant keeping him as far as possible from the hunters.
"I appreciate your concern but I'm able to take care of myself," Victoria employed her most assertive tone, speaking to both of them in a no nonsense manner.
Wolf's Cross: Book 4 (Loki's Wolves) Page 18
