by Deanna Chase
Rylie’s smile turned a little pinched. She hadn’t said that she thought Elise should put the dog down, but it was obvious in her eyes. “See you in a minute.”
Lincoln waited until the werewolves had disappeared up the road to speak. “When you said that this isn’t a town, you meant…”
“It’s a werewolf sanctuary,” Elise said, grabbing a plastic bag out of the front seat. She had bought a basket muzzle, collar, and sturdy chain while at Walmart, and now it was time to test them out. “The last surviving pack lives here.”
“It’s not all that far from Northgate. I can’t believe I didn’t know.”
She climbed into the bed of the truck with Ace. He was squeezed into the back corner, lips shivering with a growl. “There’s a lot of things you don’t know, Lincoln,” she said over her shoulder. “But there’s plenty of time for you to get familiar. You’re in my world now.”
It took no small amount of effort to wrestle the pit bull into submission and get the muzzle over his nose.
When Elise climbed out of the truck with Ace, Lincoln was gone.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
If there was one thing to be said about werewolves, it was that they knew how to throw dinner. One entire cottage near the center of the sanctuary turned out to be a restaurant-like kitchen, and people carted trays in and out of the hanging doors in an endless line. The nearby road had been set up like a block party, with picnic tables, paper lanterns, and a stereo blasting music. But as soon as one of those trays got set down, a half-dozen people ripped into it with a fervor that wasn’t quite typical of a normal party.
All they served was meat: steaks, pork ribs, turkey, whole slabs of them, barely cooked so that they were juicy and almost raw. It was a nauseating reminder of finding Ace in Father Armstrong’s basement with a barrel of rotten flesh.
“They have great immune systems,” Seth said, stopping beside Elise. She hadn’t even realized that she was staring. She jolted when he spoke, taking a step away from him reflexively. “I cook myself a steak medium-well every night when everyone else is done. I’ll make you one while I’m at it, if you want.”
Elise was still full with Father Armstrong. The idea of eating again—eating dead meat, no less—was utterly unappealing. “Deputy Marshall might be interested. Have you seen him around?”
Seth had obviously been talking to Abel, because he didn’t look surprised to hear that they had company of a more mundane persuasion. “That guy that looks like a football player, right? I saw him pacing out that way.” He jerked a thumb toward the trees. “Think he’s having a crisis of reality.”
That was a good way to put it. “Throw something on the grill for him,” Elise said. And then, with no small amount of effort, she added, “Thanks.”
Seth gave her a broad, lopsided grin. It was boyishly charming—the kind of cuteness that Elise’s best friend, Betty, would have jumped on in a hot second. She had the wild urge to ruffle his hair.
But she couldn’t bring herself to smile back, not when she remembered what James had said to her about Seth and Abel.
“You know I’m trying to protect the pack, right?” Elise asked impulsively.
“Guess so. Rylie trusts you, anyway. And you helped keep Abel out of trouble today. I’m not gonna forget that.” Seth raked a hand through his hair, which had been straightened so that the bangs fell over his eyes. “Rylie actually asked me if she thought I should let you hide out with us.”
“What did you tell her?”
“I said yes.”
He said it casually, but Elise understood the weight of it. The Alpha was asking Seth, someone who wasn’t even under her command, for his opinion on how to best protect her pack. And she had listened to him. If Seth decided that Elise wasn’t going to be safe to keep around, then that would matter to Rylie, too.
It was an impressive power. He was probably the only human that had ever had such sway over werewolves before.
Would that be enough to make James want to protect Seth—that unusual relationship with werewolves? Except that Elise had no reason to attack them over that. She couldn’t have cared less how the pack was structured. Seth remained an enigma.
“Thanks,” Elise said again, more sincerely.
Seth gave her a weighty look, the kind that said, Don’t blow this. “I’ll see if I can wrangle the deputy.”
Lincoln could barely feel his own two feet below him as he drifted through the werewolf sanctuary.
A werewolf sanctuary. Right there, just a few miles behind the town that he had grown up in. He had barely had a couple of days to become adjusted to the idea that werewolves weren’t behind the mass killings, only to find himself in the bosom of their hospitality. And there were a lot of them. One or two wouldn’t have been a surprise. Three dozen? Four?
He wanted to lie down for a while, but he couldn’t rest there. Not with the memory of the cadavers in the county morgue haunting him, and knowing that if the pack turned on him, the damage they inflicted would be even worse.
The faces of the pack swirled past him as he staggered down the road. They were staring at him, and he couldn’t help wonder what they thought. Did they see him as potential prey? Did they think he would go down easy? Lincoln gripped the gold crucifix at his throat for comfort, but the glowing love of God didn’t fill him as it usually did. In the shadowed valley where werewolves lurked, he was alone.
He double-checked that his sidearm was still in his belt, at the small of his back. There were twelve silver promises loaded in the magazine—bullets that ensured his safety if the worst happened. Twelve. Not enough to take the whole pack, but enough to take down eleven and himself.
“Deputy?”
Lincoln swung around, fists clenched, ready for attack. The man who had spoken to him held two hands up in a calming gesture, the fingers of his left hand tangled around the necks of two beer bottles. It was the young black man. Not the one that they had videotaped inspecting a murder scene, but his brother, Seth Wilder.
According to Elise, Seth wasn’t a werewolf. With effort, Lincoln relaxed his fists. “What can I do you for?” Lincoln asked.
“I thought you’d like a drink,” Seth said.
He handed one bottle, drenched in cold perspiration, to Lincoln. It felt like it had just been pulled out of an ice chest. Lincoln turned the label in his hands to inspect it.
“This is good beer,” Lincoln said.
Seth grinned. “When you’re sequestering forty-some adults away from civilization and expect them to get along with no fatalities, you better have the good alcohol. You should see our liquor cabinet.” He pulled a knife out of his pocket, and Lincoln tensed again, but he only used it to pop the cap off of the bottle. Seth offered it to Lincoln hilt-first.
“Thanks.” He kept Seth in the corner of his eye as he opened the beer. The guy looked young, maybe college age. “Are you twenty-one?”
“Does it matter?” Seth asked.
Wrong answer. “Let me see your ID.”
Seth barked a laugh, but he managed to produce an Iowa driver’s license from a battered leather wallet. His twenty-second birthday was approaching in a couple of weeks. Legal, but barely.
Jesus, a pack of deadly monsters was being run by children.
“Never would have expected to get carded here,” Seth said, gesturing at the milling werewolves ripping into their dinners. “You know, I’ve killed a dozen werewolves before. I’ve got an undergrad degree—I fast-tracked it through pre-med and graduated with honors. I’ve survived more attacks from the Union than I’d like to bother counting. Even if I wasn’t twenty-one, I’d deserve a cold one. Don’t you think?”
“It’s against the law,” Lincoln said.
“And it’s against the law for werewolves to have children, travel without filing an itinerary with the government, and vote in elections,” Seth said. “Sometimes, the law is an asshole.” He lifted his beer in a salute. “Cheers, deputy.” He took a long swig.
Lincoln si
pped his. “They don’t pass laws to try to ruin your day,” he said after swallowing. “Laws protect people.”
Seth made a noncommittal noise. “They protect some people.” He sipped his beer again, then turned it in his hands, as if studying the lantern light through the distortion of the amber bottle. “Nobody here’s going to judge you for dating a demon, deputy. I hope you’ll give us the benefit of the doubt, too.”
“Dating a demon?” he echoed. Was that what he was doing—dating Elise? Did visiting morgues and crime scenes count as dates? They probably did to her.
“Gossip gets around town. Even here.”
Good Lord, he hoped it wouldn’t get back to his mother. She’d have a coronary. “We’re not dating.”
Seth shrugged, like he couldn’t have cared less either way. “Did you want something to eat? Elise thought you’d want steak.”
Lincoln didn’t want anything cooked by werewolf paws. God only knew how the infection spread. He could think of a few things that he would like less than being furry twice a month, but not many.
He finished his beer. It had been sealed. It was safe. “I’ll have another one of these,” he said, sitting on a nearby picnic table, far away from the crowds. Far enough that he would have warning if one of them ran at him, and enough time to draw his gun.
“Sounds good to me,” Seth said.
The kid disappeared for a moment, and then returned with an entire six pack. He set it beside Lincoln and joined him on the bench.
Lincoln didn’t protest. He didn’t have to like Seth to drink all his beer, after all.
Elise found Rylie in the thick of the action inside the kitchen, manhandling Nash. She was trying to get him to put on a pair of elbow-length yellow rubber gloves. He looked like Rylie was trying to convince him to stuff his arms into a pair of angry badgers.
“I don’t do dishes,” he said.
Rylie planted her hands on her hips, gloves crumpled in one fist. “I’m not telling you again.”
“That’s right,” Nash growled, pale eyes sparking. “You’re not.”
Elise stepped up to the sink. It was practically the size of a bathtub, and filled with sudsy foam. A stack of dirty pans stood on the rack beside it. “All I want is for you to get them soaking,” Rylie said. “I’m not asking you to work while everyone eats. Just…do your part.” It was obviously not meant to be a request.
“If it’s so easy, you can put the damn dishes in the sink.” His spine straightened, chin lifting, staring at Rylie down his nose. “I’m the CEO of Adamson Industries and richest man in—”
“In the Haven,” Rylie finished for him. “Which has long since moved on and forgotten you. You’re not a rich asshole here; you’re just an asshole, and if you’re going to be part of my family, you’re going to act like it.” She shoved the rubber gloves in his chest.
“How dare you?” Nash hissed.
“Don’t make me tell Summer that you’re not pulling your weight.” Rylie poked him.
He took the poking more like a slap to the face. “I guard the sanctuary, though I have no reason to be here without her. I tolerate her presence.” He pointed at Elise. “What more do you ask me to do?”
“The dishes,” Rylie promptly replied.
There was something much too sweet for words about watching the angel that had killed Eve’s children pull on the rubber gloves, looking disgruntled. Even an annoyed angel was beautiful. He was majestic, filled with the glory of ethereal light, and about to get soapy.
“Don’t say a word,” Nash shot at Elise.
Her satisfaction must have been showing on her face. She schooled her features. “I only came to speak with Rylie.” But if she happened to enjoy sweet justice in the meantime, that was just a bonus.
Rylie watched long enough to make sure that Nash was getting to work, then allowed Elise to draw her away.
“Where’s Summer?” Elise asked, sliding through the busy kitchen.
“Huh?”
“Summer. Nashriel’s girlfriend. Where is she?”
“Oh. She’s visiting my aunt with her brother Abram,” Rylie said. “Nash would have gone with her, but he’s one of our best fighters. We wanted him around while we’re still getting everything set up here.” She glanced back at him, lowering her voice. “And he needs to learn to get along with people when Summer isn’t around. He fakes it well for her, but he can still be kind of a dick sometimes.”
“He’s an angel,” Elise said. That was just how angels behaved. They were creatures of the intellectual, brilliant and creative, and they believed themselves to be superior to everyone. It was part of the reason James was such a dick, to use Rylie’s term.
Rylie snorted delicately at that explanation. “Like my aunt would say, being an angel is no excuse for being insufferable.” She sighed, stepping out the front door to the street. “You didn’t come here to talk family drama. Sorry. What’s up? Did something happen with the case?”
Unfortunately, no. With Father Armstrong dead and his accomplice missing, Elise was at a loss as to how she should continue the investigation. But she had other, much more immediate needs. “I was hoping you’d have something I could feed my dog.”
“You’re keeping it?” Rylie asked.
“For now.”
“We’ve always got leftovers.” She pulled a face. “Nothing he would want to eat.”
“Beef bone?”
“We can manage that. Hey, do you want to meet some of the pack while you’re here?” Rylie asked.
Elise would have preferred to choke herself with Ace’s chain. But if she was going to be leaving Lincoln with the pack, she wanted to familiarize herself with the people that would be responsible for his safety. Just in case.
“Okay,” she said.
Rylie took her around the tables, stopping to introduce Elise to each group. Few people were sitting. Most milled restlessly as if they couldn’t stop walking, even when they were eating.
The werewolves came in a wide variety of shapes, sizes, and features, but there was still a slight family resemblance to all of them—even beyond the gold irises. Elise couldn’t put her finger on the familiarity. Maybe the way they moved, or how they peeled their lips back in a wolfish glare when they smiled.
Rylie listed names: Trevin, Pyper, Bekah, Paetrick, one after the other. She knew everyone by sight. They all greeted Rylie with respect, and sometimes outright affection. The Alpha regarded them all with a little smile, a nervous laugh, a blushing wink.
This big group of mismatched people were family, united by the very thing that had turned them out from society.
What must it have been like to love so many people? Elise loved, somewhat reluctantly—it was one of Eve’s major drives, that love thing, but it came to Elise with difficulty. And with that love had come fear. Fear of losing Anthony, McIntyre, Leticia, their children.
Loving that many people made Rylie spectacularly weak. It left forty-something chinks in her armor. It was a curse, not a blessing.
Elise didn’t envy her.
She also didn’t retain any of the names that Rylie rattled off. They slid out of her mind as soon as they entered. Their faces blurred together into a sea of indistinguishable smiles.
“You look overwhelmed,” Rylie said as she led Elise away. “I thought it was overwhelming at first, too.”
“You seem to do well now.”
“I’m good at faking it. Being responsible for everyone still scares the crap out of me.”
Abel approached at a rapid clip, head bowed over the manila folder that he had stolen from the sheriff’s office. “Hey, Rylie,” he called, glancing up at her. “This guy look familiar to you?”
He whipped out a photo from the folder, shoving it in their faces. It was a man with short brown hair, thin lips, a scruffy beard.
“That’s the missing man,” Rylie said. “Bob Hagy, right?”
He wasn’t missing anymore. His body had been found that weekend, as mutilated as every other victim
. But Elise stared at the picture. She had seen his face recently.
“He was the man with Father Armstrong,” Elise said.
“He’s supposed to be missing,” Abel said.
She grimaced. “He’s supposed to be dead.” Elise spotted Lincoln on the edge of the hazy gold light cast by the paper lanterns. She gestured him over. He was followed closely by Seth, both of whom were holding half-empty beer bottles. Looked like they had been making friends. “This is the man that they found this weekend, isn’t it?”
Lincoln squinted at the picture and leaned in close. His night vision must have been terrible in comparison to Elise’s. “Yeah. Bob Hagy.”
Elise plucked his cell phone out of his pocket. “Be right back,” she said.
She let the others fill Lincoln in while she stepped away from the group, toward the quiet edge of the forest, and dialed McIntyre’s number. She had used Seth’s phone to update him earlier after the confrontation with Father Armstrong, so she expected that he’d still be awake to do some research.
Elise’s expectation was right. Someone answered on the first ring. But it wasn’t McIntyre—it was Anthony.
“Hey,” he said, sounding surprised. “I was about to call you. I was reading up on Father Armstrong and found a connection between the victims. You’ll like this.”
“Give it to me.”
“They’re all members of the same church. Right?”
“Everyone in Northgate’s a member of the same church,” Elise said.
“But these people are part of a church group that goes back a few years. Like, fifteen years back, to a high school youth camp. Guess who else was in the group.” Anthony didn’t wait for her to guess. “Richard Armstrong.”
Elise glanced over her shoulder at Lincoln. He was deep in conversation with Seth, gesturing with his beer bottle, maybe arguing.
“You think that Father Armstrong used that camp to select his victims,” she said, and Anthony made a sound of assent. It would have made perfect sense if she hadn’t seen one of the victims with Father Armstrong that afternoon, perfectly alive. “Father Armstrong looked like he was only thirty years old. He wasn’t leading a church group in high school, was he?”
