“I still can’t believe you tricked me into confirming Ana hired you.” Tyr frowns at me, puzzled. “Last year. When I sprung you from Seph’s trap.”
He grins in apparent delight. “Neither can I. You’re slipping, Jett.”
Fucker. “I’ve been distracted. You already suspected Ana was your employer, didn’t you?”
“Actually, I had wondered up until then if it was you.” His grin widens as I stare at him. I can’t decide if I’m royally pissed or unwittingly impressed. “But our chat neatly eliminated that possibility. You were shocked. You’re not nearly as good a liar as I am. Don’t take it personally, love. No one is.”
He’s right. That starts to worry me as he gives me a cocky grin and heads for the door. Ana’s a big girl and way tougher than she looks, but . . .
“What are you doing with my sister, Tyr?”
He stops before looking over his shoulder, his black eyes dark as night and twice as impenetrable. “I’ve really no idea, Jett. But we both know I wouldn’t tell you if I did.”
Then with a wink and a wave, he’s gone.
I’m muttering to myself as I head up the stairs. My sisters sure can pick ’em. Carly’s dating a lake monster. Ana’s having booty calls with an assassin of the realm. And Seph?
Well, at least Seph found herself someone decent. I laugh as I push open the door to my room. Jack fucking Frost. Decent. Who would’ve guessed?
I refuse to think about my own excuse for a love life.
As always when I turn on the light, my eyes go right to the rug on the floor. My laughter dies. “Hi, Lev,” I say before kicking my boots off. “How’s it hanging, you son of a bitch?”
Love life? Me?
Who the hell am I kidding? I run my fingers through my hair, shaking my head. I know better than anyone why love isn’t in the cards for me. Rage, pain, obedience and duty, certainly. But love?
Never. I’m far too tainted for anything so pure.
When I glance at my bed, though, I can see Stephen sprawled across it, his eyes heavy lidded and full of promises.
Then I blink and I’m alone again, staring at an empty expanse of pale blue cotton swirled with darker blue and black roses. Minutes later, I throw the comforter back and slide inside.
I’m tired and pissy, and after my encounters with Stephen last night and Merry today, I want sleep. Preferably dreamless and deep.
That’s not what I get, though.
It never is.
6
Running a kingdom isn’t always what you’d expect. Especially a shifter one. Bruins are a self-sufficient bunch. I don’t have courtiers or a castle or even a permanent crown. (The one used for the coronation is traditionally weaved on site, with whatever green branches and flowers are handy. Mine was made of flowering plum tree. What can I say, it was Wisconsin in May.)
There’s a lot more ceremony and pomp in the Old World, but this is the Americas. They like to keep things simple.
So why have a king at all? Besides tradition, the enforcement of laws and someone to blame when shit goes wrong, there’s the Council. One thing bruins agree on is the need for representation. Being without a voice in the FTC world isn’t a smart idea. Besides the formal proceedings, which are always enlightening, attending Council meetings means I get to hear the latest gossip. Something not to be underestimated for a species like mine, one that traditionally keeps its distance from the thick of things. What is said over beer and wine after the meetings adjourn is often far more interesting than the topics that head the agenda.
Normally, we gather once every moon cycle, but the rise and demise of Herne disrupted things. Today’s is only my second meeting as king, though I attended several as Georg’s proxy. This one’s close to home, at Big Top Chautauqua. The Council books concert venues or convention centers a lot, as some of our members are a bit conspicuous.
There’s at least one new member this time. Thanks to me.
I insisted the werewolves get a place on the Council. Some deemed it an odd request, since I killed the wolves’ last alpha. While it was Luna’s choice to assassinate our former king, I’m aware she was coerced. I don’t regret her death in the least, but I refuse to let that blood debt extend to the rest of her kind. A job made easier since Herne eliminated the old guard with his moon madness potion.
The representative the pack sent looks all of sixteen years old. Lean to the point of emaciation, he has dark hair buzzed short and keen, light eyes that make a point of finding mine and holding. He gives a short nod, then returns to looking straight ahead. There is a clear space between him and the Council members seated closest. Herne’s demise did nothing to raise the werewolves’ status in our world.
At roll, he answers ‘present’ to Maccon Firth, but I soon forget the young wolf when the next name is called.
Jett is here. I’m not the only one surprised when she stands up. There are mutters of unease around the huge blue-and-green-striped tent. But her head is high when she retakes her seat. FTCs aren’t exactly a virtuous lot, but there is something about killing an immediate family member that leaves a bad taste in most creatures’ mouths. It also doesn’t seem to be common knowledge that Jett put that sword in Seph’s back in order to save her—and the world—from a far worse end. Most of those present wouldn’t mind if Jett went the way of her father, or at least showed them the courtesy of fading away from semi-polite company.
Courtesy isn’t really Jett’s style. As soon as the more pressing issues are tabled and the chair calls for new business, she speaks up at once, her voice clear and strong.
“Are we sure that my father’s former ‘associates’ aren’t continuing to carry out his will behind the Council’s back?” Her tone is blunt, damn close to an accusation. There is a beat of breathless silence, in which almost all present try very hard not to look at each other. Mistrust is rampant on the Council at the best of times. In the wake of Herne’s takeover and subsequent exposure and demise, paranoia has gained a life of its own.
“You tell us. He was your father,” a satyr speaks up with a sneer.
His words are punctuated by self-righteous nods of agreement around the throng.
Jett’s tone gains an edge. “Yes, he was. Before my sister ended him. A sister that plenty here were content to let be falsely accused and stripped of her powers not so long ago.”
Averted eyes, scuffling feet and cleared throats of all shapes and sizes greet this pronouncement. Watching her—the determined tilt of her chin, the way her eyes glint—not only turns me on, it makes me proud.
Until I remember she’s not mine anymore.
“Not all here,” I speak up, my voice ending on a growl. “Never all.”
“Be that as it may,” Jett continues without pause, barely acknowledging me, “remnants of my father’s network may remain. I think we should be sure the Council we have is one free of his taint. Interviews should be done of every member to confirm their fitness to serve. Perhaps a panel.” This time she looks directly my way, one thin, dark eyebrow raised. “You’re good at playing judge and jury, bruin. Maybe you should head it.”
Ouch. It takes me a minute to register the uneasy murmurs from the crowd. I get to my feet when the murmurs turn to shouts, trying to calm the waters. In the end, I propose we adopt Jett’s suggestion, panel nominations to be voted on next meeting.
The wolf, Maccon, adds his voice to mine, as do several others. When I get a chance to look back at Jett’s seat, she’s gone. I also note an empty space across from hers. Merry.
It takes nearly the rest of the meeting before I can slip away.
I wasn’t agreeing with her out of any sense of duty, at least not to her alone. Jett’s point was a valid one, one I am sure many of the Council were relieved to have brought up, despite their opinion of her.
However, I’m damn curious as to what prompted her actions. I doubt it was a shot in the dark. She’s not the sort to whistle past the graveyard. More like the kind to jump the gate and start kickin
g ass.
I follow my nose and find exactly what I expect. In a copse of pale green birch trees, she’s deep in conversation with the gnome. Behind me, the meeting adjourns. As the crowd starts to emerge, Merry vanishes down a nearby hole.
Like he doesn’t want to be seen with her. I frown.
Jett lifts her head, her brow furrowed. When she notices me, her jaw tightens. She squares her shoulders and heads straight for me. I let her come.
Dark strands of hair dance in the light wind, brushing a face that is far too drawn and pale. Despite the way things went between us in her shop, the brief contact did me good. I’m feeling physically better than I have in weeks. Her proximity now sends another blast to my system. Like a shot of tequila on an empty stomach, warm and bright, it bursts inside me. At the same time, my bear is growling, furious at her wan appearance, evidence as it is of our failure.
My fists clench at my sides as reason battles instinct. Instinct that insists I am responsible for the woman in front of me—making sure she eats like a queen, sleeps deeply each night and is satisfied in each and every way. Her being happy is my duty. My fucking purpose in life.
The fact that Jett looks anything but happy has my bear climbing the walls.
I force the guilt down. She’s not mine.
The lie makes me sick, but I repeat it. If I keep telling myself it often enough, maybe I can make it so. It’s the only chance. For either of us.
Before she can open her mouth, I snap, “You don’t need to thank me for speaking up in there.” My voice comes out harsher than I mean it to, but she doesn’t flinch.
One eyebrow lifts coolly. “I wasn’t going to. You of all people don’t need me as an excuse to stand up for the truth.”
I don’t know what to say to this, so I switch tactics. “What’s going on with the gnome?”
“Nothing that concerns you.”
“Keeping secrets. Same old, same old.” My irritation builds, along with the urgent need to shift. Gods, less than a minute and this woman is already making me crazy.
“That’s right, furface,” she says gently, but her words fall like a sledgehammer on my heart. She started using that nickname as an insult, but somewhere along the way it turned into an endearment. One that she would whisper in my ear when I was inside her, moving slow with her arms around my neck. “There are some things you’re better off not knowing.”
“Bullshit.” I shake off the memories. “That’s just your way of controlling those around you.”
Her eyes narrow. She closes the distance between us to poke a small finger into my chest, her voice hardening. “I’m not the one with the control problem, bruin. You are.”
With a sniff, she tosses her head and walks away. I watch the sway of her ass and hips and fight the urge to run after her. Because Jett is absolutely right.
I’ve never been able to control myself when it comes to her.
7
Seeing him hurts far more than it should. Maybe it’s because I’m tired. Maybe it’s because this case is getting to me. Maybe it’s simply because I’m weak.
The first lesson of being an assassin is pretty simple. Feel nothing. In the end, it’s the one I never was able to master.
When I came to the Valkyries, I was broken. It’s how they prefer their recruits, there’s less work to do. To be one of the realm, you must put away all humanity. I thought that’s what I wanted. I thought they could take it away, the pain, the fear, the regret and most especially the goddamn shame. That’s what they promised.
But they lied.
Everyone lies. Even perfect, sainted Stephen.
He lied when he said I was his. What’s worse is I was starting to believe the lie. Everyone thinks I’m so damn tough, so cold. The truth is, I’ve never been cold enough. The Valkyries told me as much before I ran away. Freya herself told me the same when she caught up to me.
When you think ‘goddess,’ what’s the image that comes to mind? Someone beautiful and ethereal, wrapped in flowing robes, or any image equally vague and vapid?
Freya is none of those things. She takes many forms, but the only one I ever saw up close and personal was a tall, imposing woman with long blond hair bound in dreads hardened with lime. Eyes like black ice. Strong and wiry, wearing fur and leather proudly stained with blood.
She’s the perfect killing machine. The ruler of the Valkyries is one scary bitch—not someone you want on your bad side.
So when she found me on a mountainside in Norway two days after I fled her school of hard knocks, I was sure I’d breathed my last.
Not only had I failed my final, I’d failed it spectacularly. Then I’d run as if the devil himself were after me. Or his pissed-off mistress.
I expected torture, then maybe some nice dismemberment, finishing off with ravens pecking my eyes out while Freya tossed back a mug or two of ale.
Instead, I woke up to her sitting across from my pallet with a sword across her knees.
One of the prizes for making it through assassin school alive is a custom-made weapon, one created for you by Freya herself. Quietly, she explained that the sword she held was the one she’d made for me. It was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen.
I thought she was going to kill me with it. So I got to my feet, because even though I knew I couldn’t win, I wasn’t going out without a fight. She laughed and told me to sit my ass down.
Turns out she had one more lesson for me.
“To be a warrior requires passion and anger,” she said, her words clear and precise, ringing off the stone around us. “The urge to protect and thirst for revenge gives power. A certain fire in the blood. To be an assassin requires the polar opposite. Clear, cool avarice of self. The best assassins are those without ties, without fear, a weapon to be picked up and wielded at will.” Feel nothing.
“Like Tyr?”
She lowered her eyes to my sword, stroking the blade with a fingertip, apparently oblivious when it sliced her to the bone, crimson staining the colorless crystal. “Tyr appears the perfect student, does he not?”
I shrugged, feeling my stomach knot. Wondering how much she knew of what had transpired between us during the test.
“More perfect assassin material than I,” I said finally.
She raised her gaze and it was like a thousand bits of onyx shattered at once and stabbed into my skull. I’d been tortured before. Not only the impersonal brutality we had been subjected to as part of training, but conditions far more personal, with Lev. Burned, cut, starved and worse.
One look from Freya made all that feel like a nice day at the spa. I went to my knees, screaming so loud I thought my ears would bleed with it.
Oh god, she knew. She knew what we’d done and . . .
It stopped.
“No one is perfect,” she said, watching me roll over and crawl to the side of the canyon to puke. “But it seemed a waste to destroy the sword and it will suit no other, so—” Stretching out a palm, she offered the sword. It lay there, exquisitely balanced, the light of the rising sun glinting along the blade like white fire.
“Why crystal?” I couldn’t help but ask, still shaking. It seemed such an odd material for a weapon.
She smiled, a smile that made my pounding head ache. I had to look away. “One day it’ll make sense.”
My fingers closed around the hilt. A weird sort of energy seemed to vibrate up my arm and straight into my soul. I swallowed. “What did Tyr get?”
“A sword as well,” she said lightly. “It seemed fitting.”
I kept my gaze on the weapon, not at all sure that she wasn’t toying with me. “You’re really not going to kill me?”
“You’d do well to remember that I’m not only the goddess of assassins, but of warriors, as well. You, Jett Gosse, are no assassin, but we have yet to see about the warrior part.”
She turned to go. I could hardly believe it.
Then she looked over her shoulder. My heart sank.
“Oh, and Jett?”
> I swallowed hard. “Yes?”
“You try to trick me or one of my Valkyries again, and I’ll use that pretty new sword to eviscerate you.”
When I emerge from the port, I’m still thinking of Freya. And Tyr. And choices. Stephen has made his. Better now than later, I suppose. I ignore the pang that comes, curling my upper lip and striding across the velvety green lawn, imagining every step taking me farther and farther from the pain.
It’s a technique I’ve mastered over the years.
After all, compartmentalizing problems is kind of my specialty. I shove Stephen into a box and focus on issues that don’t involve stubborn bruin assholes.
Showing up for the Council today was a calculated risk. For one, I wasn’t entirely sure they’d let me in. Technically, since my mom came home, the Council seat isn’t mine anymore. But she’s gone again, so that was kind of moot. For another, it’s probably not smart for me to be pointing fingers right now.
I chanced it anyway.
When something vile like this happens, whether it’s the human or the FTC world, it’s all the same. People want to sweep it under the rug, to pretend it never happened. What, our friends and neighbors conspiring with a lunatic? Heavens, no. It had to be a mistake, some sort of momentary aberration. Good folks of any stripe don’t want racial annihilation, right?
Problem is some of them do. You never know what’s lurking in someone’s soul, be it a satyr with a big mouth or the cookie-baking grandma next door.
I’m not going to let them forget my father and what he almost got away with. If they hate me for it, so be it. It’s not like I’m running for Miss Congeniality here.
I had another, more selfish reason to bring up my father and his gang, too. If something happens to me on this little venture, I am hoping there were at least one or two people paying attention today.
It would be prudent to clue my sisters in, of course. But other than asking Ana to scry off a locket of Fiona’s, something I do fairly often in my work—often enough she didn’t question it—I won’t draw them into this. I can’t.
Threescore & Tequila (Toil & Trouble Book 4) Page 4
