Leader Of The Pack

by Karen McInerney

  “I know you from somewhere,” Elena said, narrowing her eyes at me. “Maybe we should ask her a few questions,” she suggested, and I shrank away from her, praying I’d applied enough eyeliner that she wouldn’t recognize me. “Find out if she’s got connections to Garou we don’t know about. Maybe she’s a French spy …”

  “Inga?”

  Four heads swiveled to the door.

  “There you are,” Tom said, stepping into the room. “I was starting to worry about you.” He nodded to Elena and the pleather boys and took my arm. “I think the assembly is about to start. Ready?”

  “Absolutely,” I said. I turned to my reluctant hosts. “Thanks for letting me use the facilities—again, I’m so sorry to bother you.” And then, with Elena and the pleather boys boring holes in my back with their eyes, I followed him out of the little house, heart pounding. Talk about a close shave …

  “What happened in there?” he asked. “I realized after you left that the closest place was Elena’s house.

  “Thanks for coming after me,” I said. “I think Elena’s onto me. I totally forgot the fenugreek, and she noticed the change in my scent.”

  He said something that sounded like a Norse curse, slapping his thigh with his hand, then winced; evidently he hadn’t healed quite as completely as he’d let on. “I forgot to give it to you. And then I got distracted, and let you put yourself in danger.”

  “It’s okay. After tonight, I’m hoping Inga can rest in peace. And I overheard some interesting things.” I opened my mouth to tell him what I’d heard, but he put a finger on my lips.

  “Shh,” he said. “Let’s go somewhere more private.”

  I followed him away from the crowd, toward a small grove of oaks. He drew me behind a tree as if we were lovers, then pulled me close. Despite the presence of a couple of hundred suspicious werewolves just yards away, I had an overwhelming urge to slide my hands into his leather jacket and let my animal nature assert itself.

  “Tell me everything they said,” he said in a soft voice. “But speak quietly.”

  My heart hammering in my chest—he was so close I could feel his warm breath on my face—I relayed what I’d heard of Boris and Dudley’s conversation. The words tumbled out, ending with “I think they may have set my father up to take the fall for someone else.”

  “Perhaps,” he said. “But who?”

  “That’s the million-dollar question. Maybe someone who was jealous of Charles? Or maybe it had something to do with that alliance they were talking about. Maybe Charles knew something he shouldn’t have.” I bit my lip, trying to piece what I’d heard together. Tom’s presence made it hard to think clearly. “Is there a werewolf named Beaumont here?”

  Tom shook his head. “Not that I know of.”

  “So they’re talking about a place. But what does a town in Texas have to do with anything?”

  He shrugged. “Unfortunately, I cannot help you with that.”

  “Whose territory is it in?”

  “It is in east Texas?” he asked.

  I nodded.

  “Houston, probably.”

  “What about the guy leaving Elena’s hotel room? They said his name was Grenier. Was that Charles? Or are there other Greniers here?”

  “The Greniers are a large family, but most of them are still in France,” Tom said. “Charles was the only one I know who was in Texas. And he was here because his family disowned him.”

  “So Luc wasn’t the only one angry that he double-crossed his family.” A new possibility emerged. “Do you think a family member might have killed him?”

  “It is possible,” he said, but he didn’t look convinced.

  “You don’t think so?”

  “I think they would have done it long ago, if they were intending to. It’s been over a hundred years.”

  “But the Houston pack still thinks my father killed him,” I pointed out.

  “They do. I did not say that I do.”

  I sighed. “Maybe Heath can bring in the whole hundred-years-ago thing when he’s putting together a defense.”

  Tom looked startled. “Heath?”

  Oh, yeah. I’d forgotten to tell Tom about Lindsey’s little faux pas.

  When I filled him in, his face grew still. “Sophie, that was not wise. And to share the Codex ….”

  “It was an accident. And they promised not to say anything about it.”

  “Still. To have it in circulation, and to have two humans know of your existence … You may be compromised.”

  “Lindsey knows about you, too,” I pointed out.

  “But my home is not in Austin.”

  I had to admit he had a point. “I know, I know. It’s not good. It wasn’t what I wanted—I mean, I dated Heath for over a year without telling him—but I can’t change it now. Besides, I could use the legal help.”

  “Still…”

  “Let’s talk about it later—I’ve got enough to think about as it is.” He nodded slightly, which I took to mean assent, and I plowed on. “Back to what Boris and Dudley were saying. They mentioned Grenier leaving Elena’s hotel room, so maybe Elena’s the person Charles was seeing on the side. But that doesn’t make sense.”

  “Why not?”

  “The thing is, would Elena take the risk? She’s about to be alpha of the Houston pack. She’s big into power, and as far as that’s concerned, Charles had nothing to offer. I mean, unless he was phenomenally good in the sack or something.”

  “You are assuming they were intimate?” Tom said, his gold eyes burning into me.

  I felt my face heat up, and I was keenly aware that only a few inches separated us. “My dad—I mean Luc—said he had been ‘with’ someone. A female werewolf.”

  He held my gaze. “That does not necessarily mean it was Elena. There were many werewolves in Austin that night, and I have heard rumors that Charles was involved with a woman from Louisiana.”

  “Okay, so maybe he wasn’t sleeping with Elena. But he was still in her hotel room—and the pleather boys didn’t want Wolfgang to know about it. They seemed relieved my father showed up. But the thing is, is it because Luc killed Grenier before Wolfgang could question him? Or is it because someone else killed him, and Luc is an easy suspect?” My father had sworn his innocence, but I still wasn’t completely sure.

  “Excellent questions,” Tom said, his eyes steady on mine. “Unfortunately, I have no answers.”

  I sighed. “I wish werewolves were into forensics.”

  “It would be helpful,” Tom conceded. “But we may learn some things tonight that lead us to the truth.”

  “When? During the assembly?”

  He nodded. “At least we should know which alliance is in question.”

  “But even if we do, we only have a day to find things out,” I said, feeling a rush of despair. “And who’s going to talk to Inga the hick werewolf?”

  “There are other ways,” Tom said. “I will find out what I can.”

  “I just hope it will be enough,” I said gloomily, thinking of the pleather boys and what they’d said about the French werewolves. Maybe I should get in touch with Georges after all; the way things were going, the situation was less than rosy for the alpha of the Paris pack. But if worse came to worst, there was always Mark’s offer. Wouldn’t it be better to have him free my father independently than to invite the whole Parisian werewolf army to avenge their alpha? But for some reason, I was reluctant to do that.

  My stomach clenched at the thought of Luc Garou, chained to a chair in that little room, awaiting trial. If only I could prove that someone else had killed Charles—or at least that there were other possibilities. Did reasonable doubt constitute a defense in the werewolf world? Hopefully, Heath was at home with the Codex, busy figuring that out. Heath. I felt a pang just thinking about the hurt look I’d seen in his brown eyes. In truth, I was still reeling a bit—after all these years of silence, I hadn’t come to terms with the fact that my secret was out of the closet. And that my carefull
y constructed cover had caused pain to a man I cared about…

  Worry about Heath later, I told myself, pushing thoughts of my ex-boyfriend out of my head and focusing on Tom instead. Which was disturbingly easy to do, since he was just inches away from me, and his musky male scent was making my breath quicken. Among other things. “What about the alliance?” I asked, forcing my thoughts—with some difficulty—to remain rated PG.

  “There are at least three alliances proposed among the southern packs,” Tom said, shrugging slightly. “It could be any number of them.”

  “Are they planning on bringing that up tonight?” I asked. “What is the schedule of events at this assembly, anyway?”

  “Mating approvals come first,” he said. “Then alliances, then a presentation of any potential new alphas—in this case, Elena. After that, they will deal with disciplinary matters.”

  My stomach knotted. “Like Luc Garou?”

  “That has not changed. It will be tried tomorrow, at the Fehmgericht.”

  “I’m glad we have another day’s reprieve … but why the special trial?”

  His voice was grim. “The Fehmgericht is convened only for capital crimes involving born werewolves. Tonight’s proceedings will be for smaller infractions.”

  “Have you been to a Fehmgericht before?”

  He nodded slowly.

  “How did it turn out?”

  “For the accused?” he asked.

  “Yeah.”

  “Not well,” he said, and something in his voice made my hopes sink further. Then he smiled gently. “But we do not have to deal with that tonight. Tonight is for other things.”

  I took a deep breath, trying to think positive thoughts, and said, “Like Wolfgang and Elena getting together.” I recalled her beautifully cut black suit. Very nice, but not what I would have chosen for a wedding. “So after tonight it will be official?”

  “Not yet. All of the matings and alliances will be formalized at the beginning of the wild hunt, in two days, just before the full moon rises.”

  “Didn’t we do the wild hunt already?’

  “That was a warm-up,” he said.

  “What’s different about this one?”

  “The prey,” he said, and something about his voice made me shiver. My eyes strayed to Elena’s farmhouse, which was barely visible through the low oaks. “When Elena is made alpha,” I asked, “does that mean she and Wolfgang will, well, you know?”

  “That they will mate?” Tom asked, grinning a little bit, so I could see his gleaming canines.

  “Um, yeah.”

  “That is the custom,” he said.

  “Is it normal for them to stay apart before the … the wedding, or whatever you call it?”

  “The handfasting.”

  “They call it handfasting? God, that’s clunky. And why isn’t it called pawfasting?”

  He rolled his eyes. “The betrothed do not always stay separate, but Wolfgang is very traditional. And concerned for the lineage. If a pup was conceived it would be better if it occurred when both parents held the alpha title and were officially mated. Although the odds of such a conception are very slim.”

  “Why?”

  He gave me a considering look. “Has it struck you as odd that there are so many adult werewolves and so few pups?”

  I glanced toward the gathering of werewolves, suddenly realizing that I hadn’t seen any children. “I guess. I just assumed this was an adults-only gathering.”

  “Conception is very rare for werewolves,” Tom said.

  “Really? Why?” I had to admit that all this birds-and-bees talk with Tom was making me feel, well, moist.

  He shrugged. “We’d have to submit ourselves to science to discover that. It is another mystery of our kind.”

  “Ah,” I said, feeling Tom’s magnetic pull on me. What was it about him that made me respond so deeply? Was it that we were both werewolves? But from what I’d seen of other werewolves, they didn’t have this effect on me. I looked up at Tom, and my eyes were drawn to his mouth, thinking of how his lips would feel on my own lips, and on my neck, and other places … Heat rushed through me at the thought of it, and I was leaning toward him when a loud crack splintered the air above us.

  Tom yanked me toward him, burying my face in his chest; a second later, I was sprawled in a thin bed of last year’s leaves, Tom’s body pressed against mine. Adrenaline pulsed through me, and I had to fight the urge to change as my eyes scanned the area, looking for the source of the cracking noise. When I found it, I shuddered. Where we had stood a moment earlier was a huge oak limb, its splintered end smoking slightly in the spring air.

  “Jesus,” I said. “What the hell was that?”

  “I don’t know,” Tom said, rolling off of me and moving to inspect the fallen limb. It was huge—about eight inches in diameter—and solid enough to have crushed my skull. “It looks like a lightning strike,” he said, examining the smoking, splintered end of the branch and then glancing up. “But there’s not a cloud in the sky.”

  I glanced over toward the throng of werewolves. A few golden-eyed faces were turned in our direction, but most of them were involved in conversation. “They barely noticed it,” I said. “And if it was lightning, where was the thunder? All I heard was the tree cracking.”

  Before I could ask more, there was a long, mournful howl. A chill ran down my spine as the note died away. “We’ll have to work it out later,” he said softly.

  “What do you mean?”

  “It’s time for the assembly.”

  As if on command, the werewolves drifted toward the edges of the clearing, disappearing onto the trails that led into the darkening woods. I glanced at the fallen tree limb again, shivering at how close we’d come to being crushed.

  Tom reached for my hand. “Don’t worry about it now. We have other things to deal with.”

  With one last look at the splintered branch, I turned and followed Tom across the clearing, behind the other werewolves. I stole a glance at Elena’s farmhouse, wondering if Elena would emerge. There was no movement, though. My eyes swerved to the little house on the perimeter of the compound, where my father was imprisoned; despite the broken window I’d left the other night, the two werewolves who had flanked the door were gone. I briefly considered slipping back to see if I could free him, but abandoned the idea when I realized there was no way for me to chew through his shackles. If there were, he would have already done it anyway. Which brought me to another question—namely, what special powers did Mark have that would allow him to set my father free? Something told me it wasn’t because he’d studied lock-picking.

  I turned back to the trail. Tom’s wide back was just a few paces before me. The murmur of voices in the clearing had quieted, replaced by the sound of hundreds of loafers crackling on dead leaves. The air was electric with anticipation—or maybe it was my own nervousness that made it seem that way.

  It must have only been fifteen minutes, but it felt like we’d been in the woods an hour before we exited into the same clearing where the hunt had begun the other night. The area was unrecognizable.

  A smaller version of the bonfire from the other night lit the center of the clearing, and the area was lit by a ring of flickering torches, which gave the spring air a smoky smell and cast long dark shadows over the uneven ground. Canvas tents in a variety of colors ringed the perimeter of the clearing, each bearing a fluttering banner with what appeared to be a coat of arms and a motto. Some were larger than others, with a bigger throng surrounding them, and as we moved farther into the clearing, I could see that each tent sheltered two thronelike wooden chairs, only a few of which were occupied. In the center of the clearing, a few yards from the bonfire, several werewolves gathered around a large, flat chunk of granite. It was topped with an ornate wooden podium that looked like a medieval pulpit.

  Overall, except for the absence of women in leather bodices, men dressed like Jack Sparrow, and throngs of chunky suburbanites gnawing on smoked turkey legs,
the scene resembled something you’d see at a Renaissance Faire. With one major difference—this was anything but pretend.

  “What are the tents for?” I asked Tom as we entered the clearing.

  “They’re for the alphas in attendance,” he said. “Each pack gathers at their tent.”

  “I can’t believe they have coats of arms,” I said. “How fifteenth century.” I glanced at the words on the nearest one—they appeared to be in Latin. “What does that mean?”

  “Aut vincam aut periam?” he asked, glancing up at the banner. The coat of arms above it depicted a wolf set against a yellow backdrop, its mouth dripping blood, standing on top of what appeared to be a stack of dead wolves. “Win or perish. I believe that’s the motto of the Arkansas pack.”

  “Jeez. Whatever happened to ‘The Land of Opportunity’?”

  “I think that only applies if you win,” he said.

  As I watched, the werewolves distributed themselves among the tents, until Tom and I were just about the only ones who hadn’t picked a tent. I now noticed that many of the werewolves had chosen to wear their pack colors; in fact, the array of gold and red polo shirts under the Arkansas tent made it look like a tailgate party for the Kansas City Chiefs.

  Two tents down I recognized the Louisiana male alpha, Jean-Louis, whose co-alpha was a striking redhead who looked to be twenty but was doubtless a couple of centuries older. The pair was dressed more formally than the others, she in a royal blue sheath dress that sparkled with gems, he in a dark suit with a tie that matched his mate’s attire. The fleur-de-lis figured prominently on the flag, which strangely featured no wolf references—only a couple of castle turrets.

  “What’s the alpha family name in Louisiana?” I asked Tom.

  “De Loup,” he said.

  “You’re kidding me.” Unless my admittedly awful French had deserted me entirely, de loup meant ‘of the wolf. Loup was one of the few vocabulary words from French class that had kind of stuck in my mind.

  I could spot the Houston pack’s tent without any trouble, and not just because Wolfgang had taken up residence in one of its wooden thrones. It was at the top of the clearing, and was larger than the rest of them, thick with dark-blue and yellow stripes. The coat of arms bore a wolf that was somehow, despite the lack of opposable thumbs, clutching a bloodstained sword in one paw. Upon its head was a crown. “What’s the Houston pack motto?” I asked.