Leader Of The Pack

by Karen McInerney

  “I guess if your picture is near the top, you’re important or something,” I said. “Anyway, what I meant was, Charles must have been high up in the pack.”

  “What an interesting expression,” Hubert said. “Do you know what tribe was responsible for the totem pole?”

  Enough about the stupid totem poles, already. “Haven’t a clue. But back to Charles,” I said, trying to shift Hubert off the whole Indian tangent. “Wasn’t he a mover and a shaker?”

  “You are correct in that. He was one of Wolfgang’s closest advisors, in fact. And he was very well connected.”

  “I’m surprised he didn’t end up with someone of his own, well, pack level.”

  Hubert sighed. “It would have been preferable, and Wolfgang strove to dissuade him from choosing Kayla as a mate, but he was staunch in his assertions that she was the right choice for him.”

  “Let’s just hope he told her enough that she’ll be able to suggest an alternate suspect,” I said, feeling a bit overwhelmed. I had only a short time to infiltrate the Howl and see if I could find out something that would prove my father innocent, and the foundation of my plan was chatting up a werewolf named Kayla. And I wasn’t even sure Luc Garou was innocent. I looked at Tom and Hubert. “You’ve both had dealings with my father in the past, am I correct?”

  They shared a glance. “Yes,” Tom said. “We have had many interactions with your father over the years.”

  “Really?” I asked, my curiosity piqued. “What kind of interactions?”

  Tom sighed. “Someday, when we have a few hours, I’ll give you the whole history. Why are you asking this now?”

  “Because I want to know. Do you really think my father murdered Charles?”

  Hubert furrowed his brow, which made him look suddenly, disconcertingly, old. Not as old as he probably was, of course—since Wolfgang had had his portrait painted in the 1600s (I’d seen it once in Houston), I was guessing Hubert, too, had a couple of centuries on me—but the change was unsettling. “All signs seem to point to his guilt,” Hubert said, “but I cannot say with certainty.” He turned to Tom. “What do you think?”

  “I do not know,” Tom said. “Wolfgang, of course, is convinced he is guilty, but he and your sire have tangled in the past. Their history may be clouding his judgment.”

  Lovely. “So we know where Wolfgang stands. I’m curious about the trial, though,” I said. “What’s the procedure? Will my dad—I mean, Luc—have a lawyer or anything?”

  “No.” Tom shook his head, but his eyes were steady on mine. “Although he is not prohibited from appointing a representative, it would be highly unusual. This country’s litigious bent has not yet filtered through to the werewolf community.”

  Normally, I would consider fewer lawyers a benefit, but in the current circumstances, it wasn’t exactly what I wanted to hear. Especially considering my father’s rather outspoken, and decidedly unflattering, opinions regarding the leader of the wronged pack.

  “Each side makes its case to the judges,” Hubert added, “and then the judges decide.”

  “The judges. Wolfgang and Elena?”

  Tom nodded. “The other alphas will be asked to preside, of course, but they are primarily in alliance with Wolfgang.”

  “What about the Louisiana pack alpha?” I asked, remembering the tall, dark-haired werewolf I’d seen talking to Wolfgang. “He’s not necessarily an ally, is he?”

  “No,” Tom said, looking pained. “But I doubt we can count on Jean-Louis’s support.”

  “Why not?”

  “His uncle was the previous alpha of the Paris pack.”

  “You mean the one my father took over from.”

  Tom nodded. “Were it not for your father’s intervention, Jean-Louis would have set aside his weak cousin and ascended to the rank of alpha.”

  My stomach sank a few notches lower, which was a surprise—I hadn’t known it was possible. “So half the jury has a vendetta against my father, and the rest of them are their allies,” I clarified. “Sounds completely unbiased.”

  “The system does have its faults,” Tom admitted.

  “Does anyone like my father?” I asked. “He seems to have pissed off just about every werewolf I’ve ever met.”

  “He has had a stormy history,” Tom acknowledged.

  “And he’s about to go out with a bang,” I said glumly.

  “There is one other approach to a trial of this type—much more primitive,” Hubert said tentatively.

  “What do you mean?” I asked.

  “I do not know if it is a possibility in this case. It has fallen out of favor, but it was the prevailing method for centuries, particularly in the Old World.”

  “Let me guess. Stoning to death? Vivisection? Holding defendants underwater till they drown?”

  Tom gave me a lopsided smile that made me wonder if those had in fact been considered viable options at one time. Then again, since humans did it, why should I be so shocked if werewolves joined in the fun?

  Hubert moved into scholar mode as he explained the system to me. “In the past, a duel was considered a viable approach to testing innocence,” he said. “Probably a way of ensuring the survival of the fittest from a biological perspective. I’m still researching the practice; it was common in the German states in the 1300s, as well as some of the Scandinavian countries …”

  I cut him off. “A duel between whom?”

  “Between the accused and the alpha of the wronged pack. It was probably a way of ensuring that the alpha really was the strongest individual, since the pack leader would be making the largest genetic contribution. But with the advent of modern society, the practice has fallen out of favor.”

  “But it’s still considered kosher?”

  “The code still allows it, if that’s what you mean,” he said.

  “Hmm,” I said, mentally sizing up Luc Garou and Wolfgang. If I somehow managed to convince them to try the dueling approach, could my father take him? Evidently he had once before, back in the old country …

  “I seriously doubt that Wolfgang will agree to it, though,” Tom said, bursting my fantasy bubble.

  “Unfortunately, I believe Tom is right,” Hubert said. “A duel has not been recorded in this country for at least a century. The last occurrence I am aware of transpired in New Orleans, in 1883.”

  “But it’s still in the code,” I said.

  “Yes,” Hubert confirmed. “It’s still in the code.”

  “I still think it would be wise to mount a legal defense,” Tom said. “Wolfgang is hardly likely to agree to a duel.”

  I took a deep breath. “And to mount a legal defense, we need to find out what’s going on.”

  “That’s generally how it works,” Tom said. “I’ll see what I can find out, but I’m limited in the questions I can ask. Since you’re an outsider, you’ll have more leeway.”

  “So, it’s off to the Howl we go?” I said.

  “Are you sure you want to go?” Tom asked. Something in his golden gaze made my stomach flutter a little bit. Probably nerves.

  “What do I have to lose?” I asked, feeling like Little Red Riding Hood about to enter a forest crammed to the gills with big bad wolves.

  He fished in his jacket pocket and pulled out a little vial of capsules, shaking two of them into his hand. “Before we go,” he said, “swallow this.”

  “What is it?” I asked, staring at the two brown horse pills.

  “Fenugreek,” he said.

  “What’s it for?”

  “Your scent is already shielded, but consider it an insurance policy,” he said. “Just in case something goes wrong.”

  “How does it work?”

  “You’ll see.”

  I poured myself a short glass of wine—I know, you shouldn’t mix herbs with alcohol, but I needed a shot of courage—and downed them. Then I straightened my skirt and gave the two werewolves a bright smile. “Ready when you are!”

  Before I knew it, I was bumping down
the road to Werewolf Central on the back of Tom’s motorcycle. I was having mixed feelings about my choice of wardrobe—the short skirt made riding on the back of a motorcycle a rather risqué endeavor—and trying to ignore the fact that my body, including my crotch, was pressed right up against Tom.

  The ride, I must confess, was anything but boring.

  We made it to Fredericksburg in record time, and I was a little sorry to have to dismount, so to speak. Tom glanced away as I scuttled off the motorcycle, yanking my skirt down so that my smiley-face cotton undies were under cover once again. When I was no longer in flasher mode, he turned to me and took my arm, sending a pleasant tingle through me.

  “We’re together, remember?” he murmured.

  “Of course,” I said. I couldn’t have forgotten if I’d wanted to.

  Even with the rather heavy aroma of my perfume, the mixed bouquet of a gazillion werewolves was overpowering. As, strangely, was the smell of maple syrup.

  “Is there a pancake supper tonight or something?” I asked. “I thought it was a hunt.”

  “The maple smell is from the fenugreek,” Tom informed me.

  “You mean the pills you had me take?”

  “Exactly.”

  “Oh. So instead of smelling like a werewolf, I smell like a short stack of pancakes?”

  “I don’t know about short,” he said. “Maybe a statuesque stack of pancakes?”

  “Compared to you I’m a midget,” I pointed out. Even though I was five-eight, he towered above me. “What’s the protocol tonight?” I asked, rather enjoying the feel of his arm through mine. If my goal hadn’t been to interrogate pack members and get my father off murder charges without being discovered by a bad-tempered alpha werewolf, I might have found the prospect of a few hours on Tom’s arm rather pleasant. Even if it was in the company of a couple hundred other werewolves.

  I glanced in the direction of the inappropriately named garden cottage, straining to pick up a whiff of my father’s scent, but there were too many werewolves to isolate it. Unless they’d beefed things up over the last twenty-four hours, there were only the two guards at the doorway. Would they decrease security during the hunt? If so, perhaps I could slip in and set Luc Garou free. Assuming I could co-opt a car, we could be out of here in no time flat. We weren’t that far from the airport; if all went well, he could be on a plane back to Paris before the night was out.

  Unfortunately, however, even if I did manage to spring my father, I would still have to convince him to get out of Dodge. And something told me that skipping town and hopping on a plane wouldn’t come anywhere close to the top of his to-do list.

  “We’ll mingle a bit,” Tom said, reminding me that my goal tonight was not to break my father out of jail, but to find a way to get the werewolves to drop the charges and set Luc Garou free. “There’s usually a happy hour and some light dinner before the hunt begins. A good chance to start meeting people.”

  “And even better if they’ve sucked down a few margaritas,” I said, sniffing at my arm. My stomach gurgled; my personal pancake aroma was making me hungry. “So I need to talk to Kayla. Is it safe to assume you know what she looks like?”

  “I’ll point her out to you. It will probably be best if we part ways; she will be likely to talk more to you than to me.”

  “What happens after happy hour?” I asked.

  “When they ring the bell, we’ll move to one of the changing rooms to transform. If we get separated, meet me near the site of the bonfire, and I’ll show you where to go.”

  I stared at him. “You’re kidding me. They really call them changing rooms?”

  Tom grinned at me. “Can you think of a more appropriate term?”

  He had a point. As we approached the festivities, which centered around the big farmhouse in the middle of the compound, but spilled out into the surrounding fields, I gripped his arm tighter and murmured, “Any last helpful hints?”

  “Ever been to Minnesota?”

  “Nope.”

  “Then I probably wouldn’t start reminiscing about your golden childhood.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Thanks for the tip. What I meant was, are there any weird werewolf conversational conventions I need to know about?”

  “None that I can think of,” he said. “Just tell whoever you’re talking to that you’re new to this part of the world; since you’re from a small pack, they should forgive your ignorance.”

  “Gee, thank goodness for that.”

  Moments later, we joined the group of werewolves milling around the grounds. Despite the casual setting, the area was swarming with jacket-and-tie-clad waiters—werewolves, I noticed, probably pack underlings—toting around trays of longnecks and piles of plump little venison sausages on toothpicks. The starched uniforms were incongruous, to say the least—I’d never thought of beer and barbecue as a particularly formal cuisine. Aside from the waiters, the dress code tended toward blue jeans, with a smattering of miniskirts, which made me feel quite at home. As did the number of rather hairy limbs I spotted. It was comforting to know that if my recent appointment with my Lady Bic wore off, I’d have plenty of company.

  As we made our way through the crush on the porch, Tom greeted several werewolves with a handshake or a clap on the back. I don’t know what I’d expected from a werewolf get-together—maybe raw-meat-ripping contests, or lots of bared teeth and unrestrained howls—but aside from a little excess body hair, a rather strong animal bouquet, and a preponderance of shimmery gold eyes, everyone in attendance seemed downright, well, human. Tom traded pleasantries with many of them, tossing around names I’d never heard of and introducing me as his Swedish “friend” from Minnesota. The introductions frequently elicited knowing looks, and even a few guffaws—invariably followed by a few off-color remarks and a barrage of questions directed at me—my pedigree, my age (Tom and I had decided on a youthful fifty, which to me felt just ancient), and how long I’d known Tom (our story was we’d met a few months ago, which was true). I found myself raising my eyebrows at Tom on several occasions, wondering exactly how many women he’d trotted out to previous Howls. He ignored my glances, of course, and I resolved to question him with more intensity later on.

  After shaking paws with at least twenty rather buzzed werewolves who showed a disturbingly strong interest in the Swedish werewolf from Minnesota, I found myself desperately trying to turn the conversation to anything but me. Tom seemed to be a pretty popular guy, and not just with the female contingent. Which surprised me a little bit; I guess I’d always thought of him as something of a lone wolf.

  The smell of beer and werewolves almost knocked me over when we squeezed through the front door into the main room of the house. The Shiner Bock had apparently been flowing for a while, which—despite the preponderance of supernatural predators—gave the entire get-together a relaxed, rather boozy feel that suited me just fine. There were little packs of werewolves jammed in everywhere, cradling beer bottles and swapping hunting stories. As I followed Tom through the crowd, I overheard a trio of werewolves with big gold belt buckles and fancy boots discussing last night’s excursion. “Did you see how Graf took that buck down?” one of them was saying. “I wouldn’t want to meet him in a dark alley.”

  “I wouldn’t want to run into his consort, either.”

  “Oh, I don’t know. Depends on the circumstances,” the first werewolf said. “She’s got a good-looking tail, if you know what I mean.”

  I resisted the urge to roll my eyes as we passed them by. Although I picked up a few familiar smells among the crowd of werewolves, many of whose noses twitched a bit at my perfume-and-syrup-scented passage, I didn’t see anyone I recognized. “Have you seen Kayla yet?” I whispered to Tom as he snagged a fifth sausage from a passing tray. Either he hadn’t eaten in days, or he was blessed with an excellent metabolism. I limited myself to one miniature link, even though the juicy taste left me drooling for more.

  “She’s over there,” Tom murmured into my ear. The feel of
his breath on my earlobe was so delicious it took me a moment to register that he was pointing in the direction of the kitchen. I spotted her a moment later: a frizzy blond werewolf in too much eye makeup, tight jeans, and pink rhinestone-studded cowboy boots, leaning against the wall and peeling the label off her Shiner Light. She even looked like she belonged in a bad country song. “Shall we?” Tom asked, and I trotted after him, struggling to keep up with his long strides.

  “Hello, Kayla,” he said in his rumbly, sexy voice. Her eyes gleamed a little as she looked up from her beer bottle.

  “Tom Fenris, right?” she asked, with a deferential—and rather flirtatious—head dip.

  “I’m so sorry to hear about your loss,” he said in a voice that would have melted butter. Kayla looked like she might be feeling a little moist herself.

  “Thank you,” she simpered.

  Tom turned to me. “Kayla lost her promised mate in a terrible accident last week.”

  “It wasn’t an accident,” Kayla said, chin stuck out.

  “I’m sure they’ll get everything worked out,” Tom said soothingly. “Are you holding up?”

  “Kind of,” she said in a tone of voice that indicated just the opposite.

  “If there’s anything I can do, don’t hesitate to ask,” he said gravely. “For now, though, I have a favor to ask of you.”

  “Really?” she asked, eyes widening in anticipation. I felt kind of bad for her—from the light panting, she seemed to be expecting an opportunity to do a little one-on-one two-step a little later on.

  Her disappointment was obvious when he revealed the rather more pedestrian nature of his request. “Would you be so kind as to entertain Inga for me for a little while?” he asked. “I have one or two things to do before the hunt, and I don’t want to bore her.”

  “Sure,” she said with a faint east Texas drawl, turning to inspect me with interest. Her snub nose wrinkled slightly as she picked up my perfume-and-pancake scent, and she took a small, involuntary step back. I couldn’t blame her.

  “Nice to meet you,” I said, thrusting out a paw. I was glad I’d never really picked up a Texas accent. I didn’t know what a Minnesota accent sounded like, and I was hoping Kayla didn’t, either.