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

by Melissa Snark

  He saved me. She swallowed around the lump in her throat, struggling to keep going. In many ways, Arik embodied Victoria's ideal mate: strength, stability, and generosity. Even his flaws were traits she admired, because a contrary part of her liked difficult males.

  Logan snorted. "Dad isn't the saint you're making him out to be, Vic. You don't know him the way I do."

  "I don't want to argue, Logan. I'm trying to explain why I denied my feelings. This isn't easy. It's taken me a long time to accept..." She trailed off, struggling for the words to explain how truly damaged she was, but they were all inadequate. It wasn't until she finally acknowledged her denial and owned her devotion to Arik that she'd finally been able to mourn him.

  "Don't. I get it."

  "Good." She preferred not to explain, especially if it meant dissecting her psychology. She and Logan were both taciturn types when it came to their feelings.

  Logan's hand dropped to the front of his pants. For a second, she thought he was about to do something incredibly inappropriate. And yeah, a tiny, stupid part of her hoped he would. Frowning, she cast a sharp glance down. He had paired fingers and his thumb wedged into his front pocket, fishing out a container of Tic Tacs.

  "Get your mind outta the gutter, Vic."

  "I swear, you're an addict." Victoria laughed and her mood lifted. With a touch of envy and a definite craving, she watched while he pried open the top and tossed back half the contents.

  "Want some?" Crunching, Logan proffered the candy with a mocking flourish.

  "Yeah." She palmed the box, polished off the remaining mints, and ground them to powder between her molars. Shiny pops of orange zest exploded on her tongue. "Just so you know—we're not courting."

  "Oh, snap." Logan fingers produced a crisp break. "I forgot—and here I swore to never fall into your Tic Tac Trap again."

  "I didn't think you were smart enough to understand alliteration."

  "Well, I showed you." He paused. "What's alliteration?"

  "Bigger than your IQ."

  "Ha." He exploded with a shout of laughter. His grin grew fearsome. "Sounds like you're back on your feet, so whaddya say? Ready to ring the bell and go another round?"

  His casual acknowledgement of the verbal sparring that was their norm put Victoria at ease. She liked this Logan, her antagonistic friend, so much more than the angry stranger from earlier. Eventually, they needed to sit down and talk, but for now she had more urgent priorities.

  "Not yet. Please." She laid a hand on his arm. "I'm right in the middle of a huge mess, and I can't handle anything else. I'm brooding on boat docks. One step away from a country western song..."

  Amber irises glimmered in the dark. He held her in a long look. "You want my help?"

  "I need your help."

  An odd intensity overtook him. He thumbed his chest. "You can count on me."

  "Good," she said, nodding.

  "So, what's the mission brief, V?"

  She grinned and adopted his flippant attitude. "Whaddya say we resurrect the crime fighting duo of Storm and Koenig?"

  "Wanna break into the morgue?"" He dropped a wink and a nod.

  "Maybe. I thought we'd start by following up on the guys I believe are the real killers. Earlier today Sawyer and I checked out some drifters over at the Fireside Inn."

  Logan snorted. "That claptrap? How does the plot always bring us back there?"

  "Dunno, don't care. These guys—whoever they are—had a pile of wolf skins draped across the bed, Logan." She shushed him with a wave, and her voice rumbled with the fierceness of her anger.

  He lost his smile, and his face hardened into harshness. "Why didn't you tell me about this earlier?"

  "Haven't had the chance." Victoria shrugged, deliberately choosing the dodge. "Does it matter? I'm telling you now. The hunters are over in Broken Bend on stakeout. I'm heading over there to check in with Sawyer."

  And, with any luck, the boys could start fresh—a handshake instead of a firefight.

  "I'll go get the Mystery Machine. Let's roll, Scrappy." From a standing start, Logan sprinted along the dock toward the shower.

  Pregnancy made her slow but she gave the chase her all. "Call me that again! I dare you."

  Chapter Sixteen

  Sessrúmnir, Freya's hall in Fólkvangr

  A long, uncomfortable silence ensued. Freya stared at Arik in complete and utter disbelief. End her relationship with Victoria—absurd. Or at least it would've been six months before. And though she hated even owning to it, Freya had harbored similar thoughts herself more and more as of late.

  His proposal contained a certain incontrovertible logic, but it was also heartless and cruel. The spiritual bond between a goddess and her priestess was intimate and integral. Severing that connection would be akin to cutting off a limb, or two, or three...

  "She'll be hurt—egregiously so," Freya protested. "You claim to care for Victoria and your child with her. Yet you're willing to casually subject her to torture."

  "No, not casually," he said, shaking his head. "But better she endure a grave wound now than whatever torture Odin will visit upon her later. By removing Vanadium from her possession, I'm actually protecting her. Surely..." He smiled. "You, of all people, can understand that."

  "You're assuming she'll fail." The realization shocked her. She supposed it shouldn't have. Loki was a deceitful, cynical creature at his core. A friendless fiend could hardly conceive of a scenario where others exceeded his worth.

  "Yes, I am. Odin already has his claws sunk too deep—"

  "Fine, I'll do this despicable thing for you. But in return, we're through."

  "Through?"

  "All our deals are null and void." She crafted an adamant gesture, cutting cords. "You will vacate your position as my general and leave my hall—never to return."

  "Are you sure? You'll be alone."

  "I'm better off alone than with an ally like you," Freya asserted harshly. "Additionally, I'll have your word. No more extortion or blackmail..."

  He cocked his head. A war of indecision, conflicted desire, played brief upon his face but at last he growled. "All right—fine. You have my word. I'll leave; never to return. No more extortion or blackmail..."

  "What do you suggest I do?" Freya asked. One final time, she would lower herself and roll in the muck with pigs. After this, she'd be free.

  His features sharpened, foxlike in his slyness. "I'll tell you exactly what you're going to do. This will work like a charm so long as you follow my instructions to the letter..."

  Broken Bend, California on U.S. Route 50

  The SUV's headlamps lit the pavement right in front of the speeding vehicle as they banked into a sudden turn. The road was a blur. The lights didn't pierce the darkness beyond the guardrail where the pine forest was dense. Victoria gritted her teeth and braced as they slipped through the curve. She bit her tongue to stop from nagging Logan that he was driving too fast.

  Taking a deep breath, she resumed her explanation, providing Logan with a recap of the complex political situation she found herself embroiled in. She questioned the wisdom of involving him. Logan was a hothead and uninitiated to the cultural traditions of their people. Before meeting Victoria and the Storm Pack, he'd been raised in isolation and had never known wolf shifters other than his father. Given his return, she had no choice but to include him. Certainly, he was bound to notice when dozens of strange wolves arrived in the area.

  "Sooo..." Logan rolled the syllable off his tongue. He slanted a sideways glance. "Let me see if I've got this straight."

  "Go on." Victoria nodded.

  "You've invited sixty-something strange wolves representing twenty-something packs here." He aimed his finger at the ground beneath the speeding car.

  "Yup."

  "They're arriving in a few days en masse for a massive werewolf jamboree."

  "Yeah." Jamboree—she liked that. It sounded fun.

  "For the stated purpose of uniting the werewolf packs. To the ex
press end of signing an alliance with the hunters. Who we've been at war with for months. A war that you started no less—"

  "It's more complicated than that." A sharp twinge bent her. She silenced a defensive protest—the blame for the mess should be spread around. The majority went to the Necromancer—and thus Loki—but Sawyer owned his fair share.

  "Wanna explain that too?"

  "Nope."

  Logan muttered something acerbic and explicit beneath his breath. "And with this alliance we'll attempt to defeat a huge-ass undead army commanded by some self-stylized jerkoff who calls himself—" He took his hands off the steering wheel to make air quotes. "The Necromancer."

  "I've never actually met him so I don't know if that's what he calls himself. But yes, that's what he's known as."

  "And—" His voice rang, a note of buildup. "The Big Boss at the end of this game is Loki." He released the wheel to punch the air. "We go all fists of fury on his ass. End Game. World saved. Top score!"

  "I wish it was that easy." Victoria exhaled a thin sigh.

  "The whole thing sounds like the plot to a corny movie."

  "I admit, it's far-fetched. But yeah, that's about the sum of it."

  "Huh. So, those are your plans for this month. What're you gonna do in July?"

  "Lame." She groaned but then giggled. But then she was wistful. Glancing down, Victoria wrapped her hands protectively about her baby bump. "I'm so sick of being pregnant. What I'd really like to do is just have this baby. Fuck all this: werewolves, hunters—"

  "Loki," Logan said with a weird note in his voice.

  "Um, yeah." That hadn't been what she planned to say, but it worked.

  Logan fell silent, brooding on—whatever went on in that mysterious male mind of his. No doubt, he needed time to think. The whole thing was a lot to swallow, especially in one dose. Despite having known for months, she still experienced surreal moments when she wondered whether she'd gone nuts or was dreaming. She kept expecting to wake up, but never did.

  Victoria held her piece and engaged in some worrying of her own. Her mind returned to the morgue visit, replaying the scenario over and over again. Nothing about it sat right, starting with the brief but disturbing visit from Evan. She'd never given the ghoul's origin much thought; never had a reason to before. But all reanimated corpses from ghouls to zombies to vampires were revenants—owing their very existence, and thus their allegiance, to whoever happened to be pulling the strings. So who was the master Evan had spoken of with such urgency?

  Her intuition insisted Kevin Danbury hadn't been right either. The spirit's exceptional stability and coherence deviated from the norm. His description of his supposed killers had been dead to rights specific—calling out details that made the hunters immediately identifiable. She could only conceive of one explanation that covered both ghouls and lucid ghosts: necromancy.

  A chill ran down her spine; gooseflesh rose on her nape and across the backs of her arms. She gulped and spoke without premeditation. "Logan?"

  "Mmm, yeah?"

  Victoria's lips trembled, a long-held suspicion on the tip of her tongue—Do you follow Loki? She struggled to spit the question out but her vocal chords were paralyzed. She feared the loss of Logan.

  Deep down, she was terrified of the answer he would offer. Therein, her truth resided. At least if she didn't ask, he couldn't lie to her. Or worse, confirm her worst fear. This way, she retained plausible deniability and the ability to indulge in soothing self-comfort. She was paranoid. Silly. Unworthy. Always assuming the worst of Logan—a bad habit she should break. He deserved better.

  "We're here." Logan's announcement struck the frozen surface of her dark deliberations, fracturing them into a million pieces.

  He slowed as they approached Broken Bend. The tiny community consisted of a cluster of buildings situated to either side of the state road. The old saying applied—you could miss it if you blinked.

  "Pull in here." Victoria indicated the entrance to the packed parking lot of the diner which was directly across the road from the Fireside Inn. Although Logan's SUV was less conspicuous than the Chevelle, she preferred to err on the side of caution.

  Logan turned off and parked around the side of the restaurant. The Broken Bend Café wasn't much to look at from the outside but it served the best food for miles around. The size of the dinner crowd gathered in front testified to the quality.

  They joined at the rear of the vehicle and walked toward the busy highway that cut through the center of town. As they approached to cross, Victoria snagged Logan's elbow and tugged. He stopped and glanced over, quirking his brow.

  "It might be best if I went ahead and warned the hunters you're here." Victoria intended for Logan and Sawyer to make a fresh start. She was determined to see it happen—if she had to clang their heads together like coconut clackers until they saw things her way.

  "Dickless is easily startled, I take it?" Logan radiated superiority.

  "Sawyer," Victoria enunciated distinctly. "Has an itchy trigger finger." She clenched her fist and started counting—one...

  "Yeah, I figured him for a quick shot."

  "You. Stay put." She nailed his chest with her knuckles—two. Shoulders squared, she looked both ways and marched out onto the road.

  Logan sang out after her. "You know, there's no Norse god of premature ejaculation but I hear one's coming fast!"

  "You're an idiot."

  "You know you love me."

  Midstep, she hesitated and smiled, but only because he couldn't see. She resumed walking and safely reached the other side. The shoulder embankment was steep; the climb surprisingly challenging. She tackled it head on, slipped and almost fell, but caught herself. Her flip-flops lacked traction but she couldn't wear her normal shoes because, like every other part of her, her feet had taken to retaining water. She struggled and crested the hill, but only after an embarrassing amount of exertion. Flushed, Victoria hunched, panting for breath. Damn her changing body, her screwed-up balance, and her fat feet.

  Victoria glanced back. Amazing, Logan had stayed put. He stood on the other side of the highway, watching her, and she suspected, laughing his ass off.

  A raven's craa caught her attention. She tilted her head back, gazing up at the big black bird perched above her on the branch of a pine tree. Its shiny black eyes gleamed and it croaked a harsh gurgle.

  "Cut me some slack. I'm doing my best."

  Odin's pet gargled in scratchy counsel.

  "I'm sorry, I don't understand—don't speak raven."

  The bird's rude reply flew right over her head.

  Heaving a sigh, Victoria returned her attention to the motel property. She stood on the perimeter. A thick copse of trees separated her from the cabins but she could glimpse the buildings through the brush. Most likely, Sawyer would be watching from the cover of the tree line so to find him she just needed to—

  A wolf's furious howl punctured the night. A shotgun blasted. Wings flapping furiously, the raven screamed as if to say, "I tried to warn you!"

  A burst of excitement seized Victoria. Her heart labored from the rush of adrenaline, catapulting her to battle readiness.

  She and Sawyer shared a dual bond—wolf and hunter. The tattoo dagger on her arm glowed white hot, burning with its arcane magic. Too bad she had no idea what it meant. More familiar, the pack bond combusted, fueled by his anger and agony. Certainty without knowledge; Sawyer was in danger, under attack by that strange wolf who'd invaded her territory.

  A savage shout formed in her throat. Her weariness of moments before was forgotten as she plunged through the copse of trees toward the combat. Victoria ran without seeing; her vision narrowed to a tunnel. Her wolf guided her steps, just as her instinct to protect her packmate governed her actions.

  Behind her, Logan shouted her name. Ahead, the wolf and shotgun roared in unison. More gunfire—the steady, repetitious burst of a pistol. The voice of a second wolf, also an intruder, called out a challenge.

 
An unearthly growl, weightier and brassier than that of any wolf, resounded with rage. Victoria's blood froze. She'd never heard anything so visceral or so horrifying. She wasn't one hundred percent certain, but she though it came from a—

  Bear?

  A slick patch of pine needles sent Victoria skidding. She compensated, surfing the debris until she found traction in the rough dirt again. Normally, she would have changed to her wolf form but her advancing pregnancy made even partial shifts hazardous. Instead, she reached overhead, seeking the mystical dagger that hovered over her shoulder, always invisible until drawn. As soon as her hand closed on the silken hilt, Vanadium appeared in her hand. The weapon murmured in welcome, warmth rather than words.

  As light as a feather, as swift as the wind, as bright as moonlight on water. The magical dagger was the product of Dwarven craftsmanship, a sword of prophecy said to be able to cut through anything and with good reason. Its blade was a piece of Gleipnir, the ribbon that bound the great wolf Fenrir, made from six impossible things. A gift from goddess to priestess, Victoria wielded the weapon the same as her mother and her grandmother, going back over many generations. Someday, Victoria would pass Vanadium on to her daughter. Someday, but not today. Today, she would use the dagger to kill.

  Gripping the hilt, blade aimed toward the ground, she raced between two cabins toward the conflict. She meant to slow but misjudged the distance. She plunged into the open, straight into the thick of the fight. Bullets sprayed overhead. Sulfur and silver metastasized in the air, a toxic fog.

  Combatants all around.

  Not knowing friend from foe, Victoria dropped and slid on her side. The bottom of her foot wedged on a rock and brought her to a halt. Panting hard, she rolled to a crouch and scanned her surroundings.

  Cali Kinkaid and DNR, both armed with guns, stood with their backs against the side of a cabin. Two pony-sized creatures, as large as the average shifted werewolf, faced the hunters. Wolves in form, but wrong in substance—facsimiles of werewolves, but a different breed. The product of the foulest magic. Gray fur matted with mange, tattered with age. Flaps of skin, just bits and pieces, dangled from the underside and limbs, resembling an ill-fitted suit. They stank of grime and grease, and the note of mothballs. Even so, their claws were long and wicked, and their fangs sharp and fearsome.