About Face (Wolf Within)

by Amy Lee Burgess

  “The problem is, Councilor Murphy, your man hasn’t said anything either way. He has yet to deny or confirm any of my suspicions. He’s tying my hands.” Celine Ducharme looked positively elated at this fact.

  “Then tell the Councilor you’re not involved, son,” demanded Murphy’s father. The timbre of his voice jolted me with its familiarity to Murphy’s.

  Ryan gave his Councilor an agonized look and then bowed his head.

  “Mother of God.” Glenn Murphy shoved his chair back. “I can’t help you if you won’t deny the charges.”

  “Yes, Ryan. Say something,” begged his mother.

  Instead, Ryan fled the table even though he had not been excused. That was probably a smart, although doomed, move. He hadn’t yet been formally charged but his own actions made it just a matter of time.

  I escaped the conference room before Celine Ducharme could corner me for yet another imagined transgression.

  * * * *

  In the hallway outside of my room, a suit of armor stood guard complete with a jaunty plume atop the metal visor. This castle was almost a frigging cliche. I examined the armor and thought it seemed incredibly small. I doubted even I could don it. Medieval men had been impossibly short, I decided, and turned to go to my room.

  Ryan was sprawled across my bed on his stomach, face turned toward the window. He scrambled into a sitting position when he heard me enter.

  “I needed a place to escape everyone.” He got to his feet.

  “It’s a castle. You pick my room as the only hiding place?” I wasn’t sure I wanted to deal with him. I had to think about everything and sort my feelings. His presence complicated everything because when he looked at me with his soulful brown eyes, all my thoughts that he might be complicit in Paddy’s death seemed stupid and unfair. Goddamn, I sometimes hated gorgeous men.

  Always attracted to the shiny surface, never the substance beneath, I heard my father’s lecture in my head for perhaps the thousandth time in my life.

  Ryan’s cheeks flushed, and he looked so young and terrified, my traitorous heart melted.

  “How old are you?” I demanded as he headed for the door. He stopped and looked at me for a moment before he answered.

  “Twenty-three.”

  A fucking baby. Goddamn it.

  “You want some whiskey?” A decanter and glasses decorated one of the small tabletops. I shuddered at the thought of sipping the stuff, but Ryan’s eyes lit up with hope, and he nodded.

  We took our glasses to the cushioned window seat that overlooked the front of the castle. From this bird’s-eye view I could see the fountain and the precise spot where Paddy had fallen as he’d clutched at the stab wound in his stomach. My gut clenched.

  We drank in silence because I didn’t want to interrogate the poor bastard, and I’d bet he sure as hell didn’t want to talk to me about any of it. We sat with our knees touching, and I saw tears glimmer in his eyes, although he didn’t let them fall.

  “What’s going to happen to me?” he asked as he neared the bottom of his glass and his fears got the better of his tongue.

  “What do you think? The Councilors who Ducharme will ask here will condemn you, and you’ll be put to death,” I said. I knew I was brutal, but he had to hear it. Maybe it would make him think.

  He paled, and one of the tears in his eyes slipped down his cheek. Goddamn it.

  “Tribunals suck, Ryan. I should know. I’ve been through two of them. You don’t want to go there if you don’t have to.”

  “I’m the one who took the photographs you brought to An Puca,” he confessed before he leaped to his feet and escaped. He dropped his whiskey glass on the slate floor as he ran, and it shattered. Just like his life.

  The pressure of my fingers around the crystal whiskey glass turned to pain. The pungent scent of the alcohol burned the insides of my nostrils.

  Ryan took the photographs. He wouldn’t have done that if he were a part of the plot. He must fucking know who set everything in motion, and he was protecting one of them—his mother or his mentor, the man for whom he worked as Advisor. He’d had just enough doubts to take the photographs, but even now, with his life on the line, he maintained his silence rather than betray the person responsible for Paddy’s death.

  Why was he protecting that person? Because he’d been ordered to, or because he was a scared and confused young man whose ideals and naivety combined to render him helpless to figure out what to do?

  He’d turned to me as if I could untangle the fucking web and make it all right again. What a fucking laugh. What a colossal joke.

  I heard him in my head telling me he wanted to become a Councilor, just like his mother.

  What kind of selfish mother would let her own son take the fall for something she’d done?

  “It doesn’t make sense,” I whispered. Avoiding the shattered pieces of glass and the spilled whiskey, I ran after Ryan. Maybe it wasn’t too late to catch him and beat some goddamn sense into him. I couldn’t help the idiot if he wouldn’t tell me which Councilor he was protecting, could I?

  * * * *

  I nearly knocked Glenn Murphy down the stairs. He was coming up as I tried to plunge down.

  “Whoa, watch yourself, woman,” he cautioned and grabbed me so I wouldn’t fall. He sounded so much like Murphy, but he didn’t look like him.

  Anger gripped me so hard I choked. Ryan Kelly couldn’t possibly be one of the Guardians who used murder to fight the debate. He was too young, too idealistic. He wouldn’t willingly help kill his Alpha or a Councilor. But I thought he might cover up for an idol that did. Or try his damnedest until his fear overcame him.

  When he broke, he’d betray everything and everyone who meant anything to him. I couldn’t let him do that to himself. It was the kind of thing nobody could ever really recover from. It would haunt him all the rest of his life.

  He would cover for his mother, no question. But would she let him?

  He would also lie to protect his mentor, the man he served as Advisor. And that was a person who might let him—might even expect him to.

  “Ryan Kelly has nothing to do with this shit, and you know it,” I snarled, and Glenn Murphy let go of my shoulders, his expression cautious.

  “Then why won’t he say that?” he countered.

  “Because he’s protecting you. He’s covering for you. You’re one of his idols. He thinks that’s what you’d want him to do.”

  “You don’t know what you’re talking about.” Glenn Murphy’s eyes darkened. “Does my son know you’re fucking my Advisor?”

  What an interesting defense. Cloud the issue and go after my vulnerability—my feelings about Murphy and his about me.

  Was he really the outraged father, or was he the calculating member of the underground movement?

  I said, “What difference does that make? We’re Pack. We can fuck whoever we want.”

  His lip curled. “You’re just like her, aren’t you? Sorcha, the bitch cow from hell. She fucked practically the entire bloody pack, and Liam just stood there watching.”

  “The entire pack? Including you?” I wondered, and he hit me so hard I tasted blood.

  “I never touched the bitch!” Glenn Murphy’s face mottled red with rage.

  My next words spilled from my mouth without a pause, as if my brain were on autopilot. To think—to reason—would be to lose the momentum. I’d never been an analytical thinker. I always operated best in the moment when choices narrowed and there wasn’t time to consider things from all angles.

  “No, you got Grandfather Mick to do your dirty work for you. You may not have fucked her, but you murdered her. How the hell do you sleep at night?”

  “I sleep fine. You’re mad, you know that? My son bonded with a lunatic. I tried to give you the benefit of the doubt. For Fee’s sake and Liam’s, but anytime Jason Allerton sticks his nose into Mac Tire business, we all get fucked over, and this is no exception.”

  “It’s snowballing out of control, Councilo
r. You got away with Sorcha’s murder, but you won’t get away with Paddy’s or Declan Byrne’s, and you won’t get away with Ryan’s. He took those photographs of Declan and Grandfather Mick. He made sure those got into my hands, but he kept the ones he took of you. But not for long because I’ll make sure Councilor Ducharme gets them.” I had no idea if there were compromising photographs of Glenn Murphy, but it stood to reason, didn’t it?

  “What did he tell you? He has nothing he can tell you. Get the hell out of my way. I’m sick of the sight of you.”

  I knew I was right when I saw the fear leap into eyes. Just a flicker quickly contained, but a dead giveaway nonetheless.

  Rage boiled through me. I hated him just like I hated my father. Weak, power-hungry, grasping bastards.

  “What kind of a father makes sure his own son loses the Alpha position? But then I guess you didn’t care because you had your daughter waiting in the wings to take over. You’re disgusting. Why would you do something like that?”

  “At least I would know that any child Fee bore would be true family, not like the bastard Sorcha carried. Do you think I’d stand by and watch my son’s bond mate have Colin Hunter’s baby and ruin any chance Liam had of having his own child?” Glenn Murphy’s lips peeled back from his teeth in a feral snarl. “Better that he lost the Alpha slot and had the chance to get it back again someday with a good, loyal woman, than become broken-hearted spare to the pair to that treacherous bitch. Only look what he’s done to himself with Jason Allerton’s frigging help? He’s tied himself to the same sort again. As if once wasn’t enough.

  “Well, you’re not gonna ruin Liam’s life any more than I let Sorcha ruin it!”

  By the time I realized I was in danger, it was too late. He had his hands wrapped around my throat, thumbs digging into my larynx, and I couldn’t fucking breathe. The pressure hurt so much I wanted to scream, but I couldn’t drag air enough to inflate my lungs.

  I kicked and struggled, but Glenn Murphy was a strong man, and I couldn’t find leverage.

  My vision narrowed until all I could see was Glenn Murphy’s mouth. Everything else went black. My coordination deserted me. I could no longer remember how to move my arms and legs. We fell to the carpet, or maybe it was just me. His mouth disappeared, and all I saw was one of the buttons on his shirt. It was small and white. The thread was one shade darker and I could see the machine perfection of it.

  I wanted Murphy so badly. I wished I’d answered the phone when he’d called. I wished I’d had that one last chance to tell him I loved him.

  The button turned pinkish red, which puzzled me, until I realized it must be a burst blood vessel in my eye. I shuddered, and it seemed all at once that I could see myself on the blue-and-green diamond-patterned carpet and the back of Glenn Murphy’s head as he bent over me.

  Out of body. I was free of my physical shell. Where would I go? Was there really an otherworld? Would Paddy be there? Grey? Elena? Or would I be eternally alone?

  A terrific jolt shoved me back into my body. I felt my amorphous self force its way back into the top of my skull and work its way down until I felt my arms again, my stomach, my knees and then my toes.

  The air tasted like fire. It had never hurt so much to breathe. Something was wrong with my throat. I felt like a fish out of water and flopped bonelessly on the carpet.

  What the fuck had happened? Was I dead? I could see everything again, although it wavered in and out of focus, but one thing I couldn’t see was Glenn Murphy.

  I tried to stop shuddering. Pain flared like a noose around my neck.

  Someone groaned. I wasn’t the only one in pain.

  “Liam?” I tried to say his name, but the noose of pain around my throat prevented me. I couldn’t make a sound.

  I reached out for the wall so I could brace myself and maybe sit up.

  Another groan. The sound was below me, but not too far. Down the first flight of stairs perhaps? On the landing as it twisted around to the second flight?

  I dragged myself to the edge of the stairs, appalled at how weak I was.

  Two figures sprawled across the small landing. I recognized Glenn Murphy’s shirt. He wasn’t moving. At first I couldn’t make out who the figure beside him was, but then I focused on the mahogany-brown hair. Ryan. It was Ryan.

  I tried to say his name, but again could make no sound. I couldn’t stand up. I was too weak. So I crawled down the stairs, intent on getting to him, although I didn’t know why. All I knew was I had to go to him. My fingernails sank into the rough nap of the carpet and I braced my shoulder against the cold wood of the railing to keep from pitching headlong down the stairs.

  Glenn Murphy’s eyes were wide open but empty. His head rested at a strange angle on the slate floor of the landing, and it took me a moment to place where I’d seen that awkward angle before.

  Elena’s head had flopped on the stalk of her broken neck the exact same way. The fall down the stairs had killed him just as the back of the Mustang’s seat had killed her.

  Ryan’s eyes were closed, but his lashes fluttered as he struggled to open them. Blood pooled beneath his head. He’d fallen, too. Why?

  I reached out a shaking hand to touch the blood. It was warm.

  “Oh, mon Dieu,” said a woman. She was on the stairs below us, one hand on the railing, the other clutched to her throat. Her hair was straw yellow and her lipstick was coral. She had on Louboutin peep-toe pumps. “Tu es tombés? Tu es blessés? Constance?”

  Of course I couldn’t answer her. I wanted to tell her, no, I didn’t fall. No, I am not hurt. But I couldn’t speak.

  She hissed when she saw the blood and Glenn Murphy’s vacant stare. When she touched my throat, I winced and tried to scream but couldn’t.

  “Mon Dieu,” she said again and was gone, heels clattering on the stone stairs.

  Chapter 20

  My throat was swollen and bruised so badly I could barely swallow the honey-infused tea Celine Ducharme brewed for me. Jason had applied compresses and given me a shot of something that made me feel floaty and disconnected. Thoughts burst like fragile soap bubbles inside my brain and made it impossible to string together any coherence.

  I wouldn’t stay in the bed, so Jason sat with me on the window seat and we watched the sunset as Celine Ducharme fretted in French and forced hot tea on me.

  They spoke sometimes, and I gradually pieced together the knowledge that Etain Feehery was with Ryan, still unconscious from his fall down the stairs. Ducharme had not yet pulled in any other Councilors, and Jason was patiently attempting to dissuade her, but most of his attention was focused on me.

  I knew by the intensity in his blue eyes he believed once I regained a decent grasp of the situation and myself, I would shrink away from him. Blame him.

  “No more damn tea.” My voice was shredded. Every other word didn’t even make a sound, and the ones that did were distorted and came out in a frightening whisper.

  “Don’t talk,” Jason ordered. “You need to rest. Your larynx was nearly crushed and if you want to recover with undamaged vocal cords, you need to be silent for at least a week.”

  Ducharme made an impatient clucking noise. “Ah, but how will we know what happened? You expect me to wait until Ryan Kelly regains consciousness? Perhaps he never will. I know—we can have her write it down.” She began to search for pen and paper.

  Alarm surged through me, and I tried to bolt, but Jason caught me around the waist and dragged me down. Celine Ducharme must have thought I was trying to get to her, because she danced backward out of reach, her Louboutin heels loud on the slate floor.

  “Ryan,” I croaked. I took Jason’s face in my hands and made him look at me. His skin was warm, and his cheeks were stubbled with five o’clock shadow. His usual perfection was slightly off, and it unnerved me the way it always did.

  Jason had been too preoccupied with me to shave. Surely, he’d been smooth-shaven in the conference room today. Was it still the same day? Confusion sparked f
ear.

  “Is she trying to tell you Ryan strangled her and Glenn Murphy tried to rescue her, or was it the other way around as Etain insists?” babbled Ducharme.

  “Celine, I am not a mind reader.” The pent-up frustration in Jason’s tone scared me, but his blue eyes were kind as he gazed at me. He gave my shoulders a gentle squeeze. “Don’t speak, Stanzie. Nod. Who attacked you? Ryan?”

  I shook my head violently in negation. No! Something flickered across his expression. Relief? Triumph? I couldn’t tell, it was too fast.

  “Glenn Murphy tried to kill you?”

  I nodded confirmation and there was no triumph this time, just profound sadness. Tears stung my eyes, and he pressed his cheek to mine.

  “I’m sorry, Stanzie,” he whispered.

  “Liam,” I choked.

  “I’ll have him here tomorrow. We’re going to break the news to him and to Fee and Siobhan. They and Paddy’s family are coming here tomorrow to plan Paddy’s funeral. We’ll tell them about Glenn when they arrive.”

  “Before,” I insisted, and he sighed.

  “Liam before,” he compromised. “But not until tomorrow morning because if I tell him now, he’ll come here, and Fee needs him.”

  I needed him, too, but I only nodded.

  “Good girl.” He beamed approval at me. I still held his face between my hands, and his cheeks were warm against my palms.

  “Ryan.” My ruined voice made him frown.

  “Please don’t talk,” he requested, and Celine Ducharme snorted.

  “You’ll sooner make stones sing than persuade this one to do something she doesn’t want to do. Constance, she listens only to herself. Selfish.”

  I turned my head to glare at her, and she flashed me a predatory smile. Was that approval on her face? I had to still be high from whatever drugs Jason had shot into my system.