Lure of Oblivion (Mercury Pack Book 3)

by Suzanne Wright

  Jesse sighed. “No.” He pushed away from the SUV. “If you need any kind of backup, you call me.”

  Zander turned the key in the ignition. “Will do.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  If you’re so innocent, why didn’t you call me or come to the station last night to report the incident?” challenged Colt.

  Leaning back in her rocker with her legs propped up on the wooden rail of the porch, ankles crossed, Gwen lifted a brow. “And the point of that would have been . . . what, exactly? You wouldn’t have done any, you know, police work.”

  The sheriff perched his hands on his narrow hips. He was a good-looking guy. Broad and rugged. He was also a high-and-mighty bully who needed a good bitch slap . . . and to have someone stick an oyster fork in his eye because, you know, it would just be fun to watch.

  His nostrils flared. “Unless you want to find yourself in lockup, don’t question my ability to do my job. Brandt claims that you attacked him with a bat, so that may well happen anyway.”

  “Attacked him? The bat barely clipped his jaw.” Okay, that was an understatement, but whatever.

  “Then how do you explain all his injuries?”

  “He was already hurt when he got here. I only struck him with the bat once, and it wouldn’t have happened if he hadn’t brought it with him.”

  Colt’s brow furrowed. “Brandt says the bat is yours.”

  “It has ‘Brandt’ scrawled on it.” She pointed to the bat leaning against the wall. She’d grabbed it when she saw the sheriff’s car pull up.

  Colt picked it up and examined it. “Huh, so it does.”

  “You can tell the markings are old.”

  “There was mention of a knuckle stun gun too. You can hand that over.”

  Hell, no. “A knuckle stun gun?” Gwen let her eyes widen with interest. “They sell stuff like that now? Oh, I need to get me one of those.”

  He ground his teeth. “According to Brandt, you already have one. You don’t want to mess with the Moores, Gwen. His father is calling for your blood—and he’s calling for it loudly.”

  “Ezra does like the sound of his own voice,” she mused.

  Sighing, Colt adjusted his hat. “Brandt says he came here last night to apologize.”

  “With a bat and cans of spray paint? I think even his fancy attorney would have a problem making that sound innocent.”

  “If you didn’t hurt him, who did?”

  She snorted. “Don’t insult my intelligence, Colt. You know it was Ezra. Besides, why would I hurt Brandt? He’s giving me more ammunition to use against him when I go before the shifter council.” She gave him an excited smile. “I’m counting down the days. Can’t wait.”

  Colt’s mouth set into a hard line. “I don’t want this trouble happening in my town.”

  “You mean you don’t want the shifter council looking too closely at how you neglected the evidence. Understandable. And not my problem.”

  “I neglected nothing. The cougar altered her statement; she said that she wasn’t sure who beat her that night and that her attacker was a complete stranger. It’s your word against the words of Brandt, Rowan, and Mack. They’re from respectable families. Do you even know where you’re from?” he sniped.

  “Yeah, actually, I do.” She remembered plenty about her life before she came to live with the Millers when she was eight. Remembered the smells of rust, mildew, beer, cigarette smoke, and garbage that tainted the muggy air of the run-down trailer. Remembered the screen doors slamming, her mother screeching, her stepfather bellowing, and the constant clanging of the broken air-conditioning unit. Remembered trying to drown out the sounds of their fighting by opening her window wide to let the meth-using neighbors’ heavy-metal music filter through. Remembered huddling under a blanket to escape the rain dripping through the leaky roof, all the while wishing she was somewhere else. Anywhere else.

  For some, going into foster care was a nightmare. For Gwen, it had been a blessing. “The shifter council won’t care how respectable those families are. Ezra can’t buy Brandt’s way out of this.” But she was sure he’d give it a shot.

  Gwen looked to her left at the rumbling of a car engine. Moments later, an SUV parked in front of the B&B. This had to be Zander Devlin. He’d booked two rooms earlier that week, and she could still remember his voice; it was deep and throaty and sent a ghostly finger of need trailing down her spine.

  Gwen lowered her legs. “Although nothing quite brightens my day like your presence, Sheriff, I have stuff to do, so . . .”

  Tipping his hat slightly, he cursed. “Gwen, the Moores aren’t going to let this go.”

  She gave him a hard look. “I hope you’re not about to advise me to give them what they want, because I’d feel compelled to mention that to the council in the interest of full disclosure.”

  His eyes flared. “At least call me if Brandt comes back. I’d rather not have to arrest either you or Donnie for shooting him. Too much paperwork.” At that, he turned and jogged down the steps to his car.

  As Colt drove away, a male slid out of the passenger seat of the SUV. He was tall, dark, and incredibly masculine. Certainly pretty to look at. And a very nice distraction from Colt’s bullshit.

  Always the opportunist, Gwen took a moment to admire the stranger as he prowled to the trunk, grabbed two duffels, and then moved to the driver’s side of the vehicle. That was when a second male slid out; he took a duffel from his friend as he scanned his surroundings.

  Hard winter-gray eyes landed on her. No, they locked on her. She swallowed. The other male was hot, but this guy was a whole other level of hot. Like scorching, blistering hot.

  He had a lean, toned build that screamed raw power and did plenty of interesting things to her insides. And, damn, that face . . . He had a perfectly sculpted mouth that she would bet curved into a wicked smile. The edge of stubble on his square jaw was a few shades darker than his short, choppy hair the color of a wheat field. A neat scar sliced through the lower part of his eyebrow, and it somehow suited him.

  She didn’t usually go for blonds. She’d always preferred males who were more like his friend—dark, broody, and clean shaven. But the blond definitely had her attention right then. His attention, on the other hand, quickly slid away from her. Not that that was a surprise or anything. She wasn’t the kind of girl who would catch the eye of a guy like him.

  Oozing dominance and a quiet, supreme confidence, he fluidly stalked toward the house with his friend close behind. Every step they took was predatory and self-assured. Shifters, she sensed.

  Her heart began to beat a little faster. She’d always been intrigued by them and the dynamics of packs, prides, flocks, et cetera. She loved their animal grace, the way they seemed to glide rather than walk. And, hello, shifting into an animal had to be cool, right?

  The trailer park where she’d lived as a kid had been close to a wolf-pack territory. So many times she’d heard them howling, caught glimpses of them running, and found herself wishing she was one of them—wishing she was surrounded by people who would care for and protect her.

  Gwen was also fascinated by the whole true-mate thing. To have someone made specifically for you—someone who would never betray you, never hurt you, and would always cherish you—would be something special. She envied them that.

  As they climbed the steps and reached the wraparound porch, she stood with a polite smile. “I’m guessing one of you is Mr. Devlin.” Yeah, she played it cool. The blond might be all her fantasies rolled into one package, but he really didn’t need to know that. Honestly, she wasn’t brought to her knees by looks anyway. She’d grown up around perfection, so she was pretty much used to it. Her foster mother and foster siblings all had that “it” factor. Gwen didn’t.

  “That would be me,” the blond rumbled, eyes once again locked on her.

  A lesser female might have found that direct, penetrating stare unnerving. Okay, it did unnerve her just a little. Nonetheless, she walked toward the shifters, unable
to help admiring the way Zander held himself. He stood tall and still, his solid shoulders back, his head held high and ever so slightly tilted in a gesture that seemed both cool and self-assured.

  “I’m Gwen. I work here,” she said, using that distantly polite voice she reserved for guests.

  The dark wolf tipped his chin, eyes smiling. “Bracken.”

  Zander said nothing, just looked at her with a blank expression. Well, wasn’t he a bag of delight.

  “Good to meet you both,” she said. “Your rooms are ready, so let’s get you checked in.”

  Zander opened the front door and gestured for her to enter first. With a quick nod of thanks, she walked inside and straight over to the reception desk.

  At that moment, her foster mother came out of the kitchen, wearing a wide smile. It would be easy to look at Yvonne’s appearance and jump to the wrong conclusion—to think that the Botox injections, perfect hairstyle, slim figure, and inches of makeup on her dark skin meant she was vain and shallow. With Yvonne, it wasn’t vanity; it was insecurity. Her second husband, now deceased, had trashed her confidence and left her with a false, distorted image of herself.

  Gwen and Marlon had shielded her from the Brandt situation as best they could, not wanting her to see how bad things were. Yvonne wasn’t stupid, though. She knew things were much worse than she’d been led to believe, but Yvonne was the master at burying her head in the sand.

  “One of you must be Mr. Devlin,” she said with a slight hint of a Caribbean accent.

  Zander gave a curt nod.

  “I’m Yvonne. I own the place.” Patting her short, dark corkscrew curls, she studied them with a knowing glint in her eye. “You’re shifters, right? I can always tell. Can I ask what kind?”

  “Wolves,” said Bracken.

  “My Gwen loves wolves. I don’t mean wolf shifters; I mean wolves—she’s always been fascinated by them. Not that I’m saying she doesn’t like wolf shifters, you understand. She’s always liked shifters, always been interested in—”

  “Is there a way to make you stop?” Gwen asked, staring at her in consternation. The males were going to think she was a shifter groupie or something.

  “I was just explaining—” Yvonne cut off as the phone began to ring. “Excuse me,” she told the wolves and then picked up the phone.

  While Yvonne took the call, Gwen put the males through the check-in rigmarole. Finally, she unhooked the keys for rooms four and five and slid them across the desk . . . only to see that Zander was staring at her with an intense focus that almost made her squirm. Sadly, there was no sexual interest there, just curiosity and a hint of . . . suspicion. Huh. Whatever.

  He stared at her, and she stared right back, drumming her nails on the reception desk. A strange tension gathered in the air, coiling and thickening with each second, but she’d be damned if she’d look away first and—

  Her head whipped to the side as the living-room door slammed shut . . . the empty room. She looked back at Zander, whose eyes were now narrowed on the door.

  Ending the call, Yvonne shrugged at the wolves. “The slamming of doors isn’t an uncommon occurrence here.”

  Bracken took a key and said with a smile, “So we should expect ghostly activity.”

  “That all depends on whether the ghosts take an interest in you or not,” Yvonne teased. “Most of the activity happens on the third floor, which is why we currently have a group of demonology students staying up there.”

  Zander’s brow creased slightly. “You think you have demons here?”

  “Oh heavens, no.” Yvonne chuckled. “The ghosts are merely . . . mischievous.”

  Gwen nodded. “They’ve never hurt anyone.”

  Yvonne winced. “Well, there have been a few guests who said the spirits threw things at their heads, but I think they just made that up.”

  Gwen bit back a smile as Zander studied her and Yvonne, as if he couldn’t decide whether they were being serious or not. “Follow me,” said Gwen. “I’ll show you where your rooms—” Hearing the back door of the house creak open, she looked down the hallway to see Donnie in the kitchen, still in camo gear and rooting through the cupboards.

  After a moment, he turned and called out, “We have any Pop-Tarts?”

  “Try the cupboard next to the pantry,” Gwen advised. “Any particular reason why you have a headless water snake hanging around your neck?”

  He blinked and looked down. “Forgot that was there.” Pop-Tarts in hand, he then disappeared out the back door.

  Turning back to the wolves, she ignored their puzzled expressions and gestured toward the wide, curved staircase. “I’ll show you to your rooms.”

  Zander and his wolf were alike in many ways. Hard. Shrewd. Distrustful. They were also never rattled by anything. But there was something about Gwen Miller that made his wolf very cautious. The beast feared nothing, but strangely, he’d backed away from her. He now watched her carefully, still and quiet.

  It wasn’t that the wolf had taken an instant dislike to her. No, in fact, the beast particularly liked her voice—it was low and sultry, and there was something oddly soothing about it. The wolf also liked her scent. Zander could admit that it was potent, especially for a human. Jasmine, orange blossoms, and wild berries. But even while his wolf greedily inhaled it, the beast also stayed back.

  Zander just didn’t get it.

  She was human, certainly no threat to him. And yet, his wolf had withdrawn from her, wary. It made Zander wonder what his wolf picked up about her that he himself was missing.

  As a rule, Zander didn’t “miss” things. He was good at reading and predicting people, but he couldn’t quite grasp what troubled his wolf about the human. She didn’t fall into any of the three categories that humans tended toward when it came to shifters. Nor was she setting off any of his inner alarms.

  He studied her again. She was small. Slender. Very feminine. Had a sleek cinnamon-brown side-braid and long, blunt bangs. Nothing like the tall, curvy redheads he went for. She might have been called plain if it weren’t for her eyes. They were exceptionally striking: a rich Prussian blue that seemed to stand out—maybe because the whites of her eyes were so clear.

  No, Zander didn’t understand his wolf’s wariness at all.

  Hooking his duffel over his shoulder, Zander followed her as she walked up the stairs . . . and found himself looking at a round, pert ass—it looked good in those skintight jeans.

  Forcing his gaze up, he glanced around. He’d expected the proprietors to make the large house seem gloomy and play on the haunted rumor, but it was bright and airy. Paintings and mirrors hung on the white walls. The furnishings were antique and well cared for. The natural oak flooring was smooth and gave the place a rustic feel.

  “It’s a big house,” he said. “You live here?”

  She flicked him a brief glance over her shoulder. “Yep.”

  “Isn’t it hard to share your home with strangers?” Zander would hate it. He was private and territorial.

  She shrugged. “I’m used to it.”

  It didn’t really answer his question, but Zander let it slide. In truth, he didn’t like inane chatter or talking for the mere sake of it, but he was trying to feel her out and understand what his wolf sensed that he didn’t. He wasn’t a friendly person, but he knew how to project a nonthreatening image so that he seemed approachable and relatable. “Our wolves will want to be free to explore your land. Will that be a problem?”

  “Of course not. Have at it.” Reaching the first floor of guest bedrooms, she led them down a narrow hallway. Coming to a halt midway, she gestured at two rooms. “Here you go. Inside, you’ll each find a Welcome Hamper and a pamphlet with breakfast hours, the Wi-Fi password, directions to local places, and important contact details. But if you need anything else, just call the reception desk. I leave for work at five, but there’s always someone around. Hope you enjoy your stay.”

  As she began to walk away, Zander spoke. “You really think the house
is haunted?” He hoped not, because he didn’t want her to be crazy.

  Her mouth curved a little. “I like it when skeptical people come here. It’s always fun to watch them freak out.” With that, she disappeared down the hall.

  Bracken gave a low chuckle. “She’s just fucking with us. The story is based on a family who lived here hundreds of years ago. A father and his two daughters were killed in a fire. The remains of the house were restored, and people say that all three ghosts now haunt the place.”

  Zander snorted. “Yeah. Right.” Unlocking the door, he slipped inside and closed it behind him. Gwen’s scent was present in the room. It was faint beneath the smells of clean linen, air deodorizer, and freshly made muffins, but it was no less potent.

  He slung his duffel on the overstuffed armchair as he took in his surroundings. Much like the rest of the house, it wasn’t gloomy. It was warm and restful. Bamboo shades, a fleecy throw on the armchair, a brick fireplace, a wall-mounted TV, a coffee machine, and a decadent-looking king-size bed with plump pillows and a soft comforter.

  He quickly unpacked his things, slipping some clothes into the antique dresser and hanging others in the closet. After placing his toiletries in the adjoined bathroom, he made a cup of coffee and stepped out onto the balcony. There was a great view of the grassy plains, water pools, nearby creek, and the moss-covered trees that bordered much of the territory.

  He settled into the deck chair, letting the peaceful air slide over him. All he could hear were birds trilling, insects droning, the burble of the creek, and the muffled conversation of other guests filtering through an open window. His wolf stretched within him, wanting the freedom to acquaint himself with the land.

  There was the sound of a door creaking open, and then Bracken was leaning over the partition between their balconies, a half-eaten muffin in hand. “These are damn good. How’s your room?”

  “Better than some hotels I’ve stayed in.”

  Bracken nodded. “Same here.” He bit into his muffin. “My wolf likes this place.”