Touch the Sky

by Kari Cole

  He leaned back in his chair and cracked his neck. Fine. Arachne could pretend Raze was just some cog in the wheel. He was more than capable of playing nice.

  As long as it suited him.

  And then, all bets were off.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Gentle fingers trailed through Hannah’s hair, waking her. She stretched, brushing up against Vaughn’s hot, hard body. “Is it morning already?” she asked.

  “No. It’s not even midnight yet,” he said. “Just wanted to touch you.”

  “Okay. That’s nice.”

  His fingers slid deeper, massaging her scalp as they sifted through her tresses, and she moaned. He chuckled, a low seductive sound that raised goose bumps all over her body. “You’re slurring your words. You sound drunk,” he said.

  “Mmm, sex drunk. All your fault.”

  She could get used to his laughter.

  “Drunk on sex, huh?” He kissed the side of her neck, little nibbling touches working up to her ear. “I like that.”

  She tipped her head giving him better access. “You would. I’ve had moonshine that didn’t go to my head as much as you, Sheriff.”

  He bit her ear and she squeaked at the flash of pain. “Vaughn,” he said. “Me and you, it’s always just Vaughn.”

  His eyes glimmered in the moonlight streaming in the open window. They were serious and intense once again, and she wanted to put the smile and mischief back in them. She cupped his cheek. “Vaughn,” she agreed, earning a soothing stroke of his tongue on her lobe.

  White teeth flashed in a grin. Then he kissed her. It was slow and seductive, as if in counterpoint to his previous blistering passion and dominance. A sensuous glide of his lips over hers. Once, twice, three times before his tongue swept over her bottom lip.

  He gathered her hair in one hand, spreading it out on the pillow. “So silky. What color is it really?”

  “Hmm?” She tugged on his shoulder, trying to bring him back for more kisses.

  He obliged, but only just, by kissing the corner of her mouth and nuzzling her cheek. “Your hair.” His devilish hand caressed the side of her breast and trailed over her ribs, making her squirm from the tickles. He grinned again as he slid his hand lower and cupped her. Hannah jerked and the grin widened. “Or is this closer to the real deal?”

  Alarm bells rang in her head. “Wh-why do you care?”

  “I—” His nostrils flared. “You’re upset. Wh—”

  The buzz of a cell phone vibrating somewhere on the floor interrupted him.

  “That’s not mine,” she said. Nope. Hers was still out in the living room where she’d forgotten it. Far away where she wouldn’t necessarily hear it in case Raze tried to contact her. Stupid, stupid, Hannah.

  “Shit.” Vaughn huffed and leaned over the side of the bed. While he found his rumpled jeans and fished the phone out of a pocket, she wriggled upright and covered herself with a sheet. He frowned when he saw, but responsible law officer that he was, he glanced at the cell phone screen, and answered, “What?”

  Dean’s voice came through as clear as if Vaughn had put him on speaker. “Sorry to bother you two nights in a row, but you’re gonna wanna see this.”

  Vaughn pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed. “Yeah. Okay. Where?” Dean gave him some address and Vaughn disconnected. Jaw tight, he turned to look at her. “Cassandra—”

  “It’s fine. Go be a cop—sheriff—whatever. It’s important.”

  His eyes drifted to her gloved hands clutching the sheet over her breasts. The frown officially grew into a scowl. “We need—”

  No, nope, not going there. “We’ll discuss my sartorial choices right about when you tell me all about those scars of yours.”

  A soft growl rumbled in his chest. “This isn’t over.”

  She crossed her arms over her chest.

  As the front door slammed and his truck engine turned over, she kept thinking the stupidest thing: Please let him have been talking about us.

  * * *

  Vaughn parked his SUV on the road side behind a string of businesses on Main Street. The businesses shared a small parking lot, but its entrance was blocked by Dean’s personal truck. He stood in the lot, looking down at something on the ground. Luke was with him and—son of a bitch—Diego. Why the hell were they here?

  Vaughn got out and sniffed the air. There were thousands of scent spoors, making it hard to focus on any one thing: engine oil, tire rubber, exhaust, gasoline, asphalt, potted plants, grass, trees, a couple house cats, a dozen or so dogs, rodents and birds, too many humans and shifters to count, and...death.

  “Shit.”

  “’Bout sums it up,” Dean said, coming to meet him. “Sorry to interrupt your night.”

  Vaughn waved that away. He was still the sheriff. Dead bodies were in his job description.

  Dean sniffed, then smirked. “Really sorry.”

  Vaughn pointed a finger right in his face. They were not discussing it. Not with their current audience. Not ever, actually. The jackass raised his hands and, for once, kept his mouth shut. Vaughn was well aware what and who he smelled like.

  “What’s going on and why the fuck are Luke and Moreno here?” he asked.

  “Well, as you can smell for yourself, we got a stiff. Marianne’s handiwork. She called me directly rather than the station. Then, apparently, she called Luke. You know how she is.”

  Vaughn adjusted the cuff on his wrist, digging it in so he didn’t growl. Rissa’s mother, Marianne, was a world-class pain in the ass.

  “I called you right after I heard,” Dean said. “I have no idea how Agent Moreno found out. I was just about to ask him.”

  “Yeah, why don’t we do that?” As they walked toward the body, Vaughn asked, “Who is it?”

  “Not sure. No ID on the guy, but he matches the description of one of the perps who accosted the human woman outside of Buster’s last night.”

  They reached the others and he nodded at his Alpha, receiving a terse, “Sheriff,” in return. He ignored Diego.

  The body lay in the rear doorway of Marianne Townes’s clothing boutique. A werewolf male, not pack. About five-ten, five-eleven. It was hard to tell height while the corpse was all hunched up. Of course, going by the look of the male’s head and neck, he could have lost a few inches in the last few seconds of his life. The metal door hung from one hinge, bowing inward several inches. In the center of the damage was a more pronounced round dent. Vaughn looked at the male’s head again. Just the right size, give or take some crushing.

  Now he looked at Diego. “You have anything to do with this guy?”

  “Me? No,” Diego said, obviously pissed. Too bad. Show up uninvited to a crime scene, get asked uncomfortable questions.

  “Why are you here then?”

  “That’s my fault,” Luke said. “I was leaving the Golden Claw when Marianne called me. Agent Moreno was coming in from the parking lot. He overheard.”

  Vaughn shot Diego a look. He’d gone to see Mom?

  Diego crossed his arms over his chest. “I thought I should check it out. You guys seem to have a lot of crime for such a small town.”

  “Yeah. It’s strange,” Luke said, his voice icy calm.

  “Finally,” a female voice said. Marianne Townes appeared in the doorway. “What took you so long, Sheriff?” Somehow she always made his title sound like an insult. She sniffed, her otherwise lovely face twisting into a sneer. “Sorry to interrupt your evening with actual work.”

  “Marianne,” Luke said, a warning in his tone.

  “I’d have been here sooner if you’d called me or the station first. Nine-one-one is for reporting a crime,” Vaughn said.

  “I called Dean. He’s a deputy.”

  He swallowed down his annoyance. Marianne had never liked him, wouldn’t let her precious daughters
anywhere near him. If she’d judged him beneath her when he was just a kid, he wasn’t going to change her mind now. She’d made that plain.

  He held out a hand to Dean, and a pair of latex gloves were slapped down on his palm. He squatted to inspect the body. “What happened, Marianne?”

  “I was locking up, and this piece of trash and his buddy grabbed me from behind.” She drew her foot back like she might kick the corpse, but thought better of it and ended up pointing at him with the tip of a sky-high heeled shoe.

  “Are you all right?” Luke asked.

  She gave him a frosty look. “Of course. His friend grabbed me, put his filthy hand over my mouth and tried to lift me off my feet. I stomped his foot with my heel—you should have heard the way he squealed. Pathetic. I didn’t even impale him. I like these shoes.”

  Diego made a noise.

  “What?” she asked, turning her blue-eyed ball-buster gaze his way.

  “Nothing, ma’am,” he said. “Just glad you’re okay.”

  “Hmmph.”

  “Go on, Marianne,” Vaughn said as he finished patting the back and sides of the body down. Dean would have done this already when he searched for an ID, but he liked checking himself.

  “Well, while the other one howled, this one charged me, so I threw him into the door.”

  “I’ll say,” Dean said. “I’ve seen less damage done with a battering ram.”

  Vaughn rolled the body over and had to agree. The male’s face was a mess. Not even his own mother would be able to identify him now.

  “Shit,” Diego said.

  “Well,” Marianne sniffed. “He called me the C word. I may have used a little more force than necessary.”

  “Necessary for what?” Vaughn asked, rising. “This male attacked you. He’s a werewolf. You were defending yourself.” And after what happened here in the last year, no pack member was going to give another shifter the benefit of the doubt if things got unexpectedly physical.

  “Precisely,” she said. “Anyway, after I tossed this one, the other one jumped in a dark Ford sedan and drove off. He was in such a hurry he drove over the curb and scraped the lamppost.”

  “Did they say anything to you? Call you anything, other than a curse word?” he asked.

  “Not to me,” she said. “The one who got away said, ‘Told you this one was a wolf.’”

  Vaughn looked at Diego, but he directed his question to Marianne. “Can you describe him? Was he a wolf, too?”

  She sighed. “I didn’t get a very good look at his face. He was behind me at first, then he was hopping around whining like a baby. Hmm, about so tall”—she held a hand up around three inches above her head—“short, dark hair. He was white, but not pale. Um, discount-store blue jeans, and a light gray tank top. He was wearing camel-colored work boots.”

  “Did you recognize him?”

  “No. There are too many strangers around. I don’t remember seeing him before, but...” She shrugged. “He was a werewolf, too. Same pack as this one. Though I can’t tell you which one.”

  Vaughn nodded. “They both match the description of the guys outside Buster’s.”

  “And Marianne is blonde,” Dean said.

  Again, Vaughn looked right at his former friend. “Question is, if they’re not IA, who else is after Sharon Beck?”

  Chapter Thirty

  Caine checked the time on his cell phone as he entered his Alpha’s home. Right on time. Good. He hated being late. The walk down the corridor behind the grand stairwell was short despite the size of the home. His nose told him before the sound of voices did that he wouldn’t be meeting with Holt alone.

  “Ah, Caine,” Holt said. He was standing behind his desk, a mug of coffee in his hand. Kroll and a familiar male werewolf were seated in front of him. “Coffee?”

  “No, thank you.”

  “You remember Bryce Angelo from the Atlanta pack?”

  Angelo was a compact, muscular male with bright blue eyes and dark buzzed hair. “Of course,” Caine said, and shook the male’s hand. Hard to forget a male who’d helped you butcher a family.

  Holt gestured for Caine to sit. He took the last seat in front of the desk while Holt looked out the floor-to-ceiling windows behind him. They overlooked gently rolling hills of lush green grass and trees. If those windows had been open, the scent of horses, ripening grapes, and apple orchards would perfume the room. The rural landscape was a ruse, though. Depending on traffic—which was usually a nightmare—you could be in the heart of Washington, DC, in just over an hour. This was where the wealthy and the connected lived out their land baron dreams.

  “I’ve received credible information that Sharon Beck is in Montana,” Holt said, turning to look right at Caine.

  “Black Robe?” Caine asked.

  “Yes.”

  Inside, his wolf paced, eager.

  Kroll made a face. “Why the hell would she be there in that backwater? Is she looking to recruit from the pack?” He turned to Caine. “You know that pack. I thought everyone left was loyal to Wyland.”

  “They are,” he said.

  “Then they’re not going to be the kind of shifters eager to join ranks with that bitch,” Kroll said. He placed a hand over his heart and made a slight bow to Holt. “Apologies, but they’re not.”

  A smirk creased Holt’s face. “No apologies necessary. My wayward mate has earned her ruthless reputation. And I agree with you. It’s highly unlikely she’s there for recruits from the pack. Though, with the Thunder Moon upon us, that little backwater fills up with shifters from all over. But”—he picked up a legal-sized manila envelope from his desk and handed it to Kroll—“she’s not your concern. I have another assignment for you.”

  Kroll opened the envelope and peered inside. He raised his brows in question.

  “I need you in Chicago,” Holt said. “The situation is delicate and requires your brand of finesse.”

  Kroll’s smile was wide and full of teeth, a cat about to play with his prey. “Fundraisers, cocktail parties, and bloodshed. You spoil me.”

  Holt laughed. “I aim to please. You should go home and pack. Your flight is in a few hours.”

  “Seems like he could get all that here in DC,” Angelo said.

  “Ah, but not the right people’s bloodshed,” Kroll said, rising from the chair and clapping Angelo on the shoulder. He shook Caine’s hand and tossed a salute at Holt.

  Once he was gone, Holt focused on Caine and Angelo. “You two worked well together before.”

  “Yes,” Caine said. Their styles complemented one another. Neither of them was swayed by emotional appeals, nor did they get lost in the lust for blood. The damage they inflicted was an efficient means to an end. Nothing more.

  Angelo nodded. “Well enough.”

  Caine slid a glance at the other male. His tone seemed less than happy.

  Holt set his mug down on the desk. “Do you have a problem?” Dangerous, but if Angelo was stupid enough to whine, that was his own fault.

  “We missed Hannah Cochran and haven’t recovered your property. I don’t like not finishing a job,” Angelo said.

  Holt laughed again. “Well, then I am about to make you a happy male. I think Sharon is in Black Robe for your elusive Ms. Cochran.”

  Caine sat forward. “Are you sure? That is—”

  “A disaster of epic proportions? Yes. It would be. We can’t allow those two females to get together. There have been a few ham-fisted attempts at capturing my darling mate. All have ended in spectacular failure. You were right to warn me off using augmented soldiers in the search, Caine. They’re not ready.”

  Caine inclined his head. He didn’t like uncertainty. When he planned a mission, he considered all the details. Others were not nearly so cautious. The serum made volatile males even more so.

  “What do you want us
to do when we find them?” Angelo asked.

  “Get the memory card, make sure they haven’t made any copies or shared it with anyone,” Holt said. Gold spilled into his eyes, and his voice filled with his beast. “Sharon Beck is mine. Feel free to enjoy the lovely Ms. Cochran as you wish before you kill her. Oh, but before you go there, I have another little job for you two.”

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Hannah scowled at her hands. She was covered in sweat and her head was pounding. “This is supposed to be getting easier.”

  “It’s only the second day,” Jessie said. “You’ve already made a lot of progress. I’ve only had to pick you up off the ground once today.”

  “I still can’t block anything.”

  “Again,” Jessie said. “Second day. Cut yourself some slack.”

  Frost nudged Hannah’s leg, looking up at her with his pale gold eyes.

  “All right. Fine.” She sighed and scratched behind his ears. “I won’t give up.” Like she had a choice.

  Jessie hopped off the kitchen counter where she’d been sitting. “That’s the spirit. Maybe you should take a break? I have to get back to the shop and I don’t want to come back to find you twitching on the floor. Drool and blood are gross.”

  “Hardy har.”

  “Just saying.” She checked the time. “I’ll be back at seven thirty if you want to go out to dinner. You know, one you’ll actually eat.”

  Hannah slid a look at her cousin. “I ate it.”

  Jessie had come home last night to find her scarfing down chocolate cake, the cold Monterey chicken and rice already devoured. It had been a massacre. Empty takeout containers all over the kitchen, chocolate and cheese smeared on her face. She’d worked up an appetite with Vaughn. And it wasn’t like she could sleep. She was mad. And annoyed. And...well, other things she didn’t want to think about.

  “Not for dinner,” Jessie said. She stepped back into her garden clogs. “What you did is called sublimating your feelings.” She shuddered. “It was terrifying. I think you scarred Becca for life.”