Harlequin Nocturne May 2015 Box Set: Wolf HunterPossessed by a Wolf

by Linda Thomas-Sundstrom

  Lexie pulled a camera from her backpack and slid out of the car, the wind catching her long, fiery hair. She pulled it back, knotting it with graceful hands and sticking it with her pencil.

  Despite his speech back at the palace, Faran was apprehensive about her presence. He’d seen enough of these innocent-seeming excursions turn bad. Then again, the past few days had been dire enough he didn’t want to let her out of arm’s reach. He needed to pick one anxiety and stick with it, but where Lexie was concerned all he wanted to do was put her in his cave and guard the door. A natural urge for his kind but not very useful, and she’d probably kick him in the fuzzy dice if he tried it.

  “Stick close,” he said, heading for the administration office.

  She matched her stride to his. “What makes you think the manager will tell us anything? We’re not police.”

  “We could lie. That’s kind of what undercover agents do. Or, we could use this.” Faran pulled out a laminated identification card. “Prince Kyle gave me a palace security card. It’s the keys to the kingdom, at least for this kind of job.”

  “I want one,” she said plaintively.

  “I’m in charge.”

  “That’s not fair. You’re supposed to be my assistant.”

  “No way,” Faran said, falling into the spirit of the argument. “We have to take turns.”

  “I’m telling Chloe.”

  When they got to the manager’s office, it didn’t take long to figure out which room their targets had rented. It was the one that had been burgled just an hour ago when the unlucky couple had gone to the lobby for an early drink.

  “A crime like that’s to be expected,” said the hotel manager, wearing a golf shirt at least one size too small. “The royal wedding is announced, and every pickpocket and petty thief in the land descends to prey on the crowds of idiot tourists.”

  “Did they report anything stolen?”

  “Jewelry and electronics. They’ve gone to the police station to fill out a report. So why are you here?”

  “Your guests were at the palace today. The royal guard is interested in thieves targeting visitors to the palace precinct.” Faran flashed the security card and the manager let them into the room without argument.

  “What are we looking for?” Lexie asked once the manager had left them alone.

  She was doing a methodical sweep of the room, snapping photos while Faran looked around. He didn’t interfere, because it was exactly what he would have done. But when he tried to concentrate, she acted on him like a magnet, pulling his attention with her as she moved. The lingering heat of desire flared as she drew near, scattering his thoughts.

  His gaze drifted to the bed—big and comfy-looking, with fresh sheets judging by the scent of laundry soap in the air. He could see Lexie reclining on a stack of snowy pillows, her flame-colored hair spread out like a banner against the white. The mere thought threatened to short-circuit his reason. Unfortunately, there was the chance the couple might come back from the police station and turn his fantasy into a nightmare. Maybe there was an empty room somewhere nearby?

  Get your head in the game. If he was going to romance Lexie, he’d pick somewhere nicer than this. He sniffed the air again, detecting the usual mix of industrial deodorizer and mildew, as well as the parasitic wildlife that settled in urban settings. “I’d keep an eye out for rats, but I don’t think anyone we know has been here lately.”

  She tapped the tip of her nose. “You were hoping for an ID?”

  “Yeah, or maybe Prince Leo tied to a chair with a note addressed to the mayor of Gotham City.”

  Lexie picked up a flyer from the dresser. “This is for Maurice’s concert tonight.”

  “And?”

  “Maurice said it was invitation only. Why pass out flyers to something most people can’t get into?”

  Faran gave her a sharp look. Good thing someone was using their head. “Because most people wouldn’t catch a detail like that. But passing those around would give someone a chance to try a few doors.”

  She dropped it back on the dresser. “Should we fingerprint it? Did I smudge something?”

  “Probably not, but it’s best not to touch stuff even if we are wearing gloves.” He picked up the flyer with tweezers. “And everyone treats you with more respect if you’re holding an evidence bag. It just looks better.”

  They finished searching the room and went back to the office to find out if the manager had approved the flyers for posting. He had, but he didn’t have a working security camera covering the desk, or anywhere else for that matter.

  “I approve everything,” the manager declared. “No one wanders around here without my permission.”

  “Did you get a look at the guy?” Faran asked.

  “He was shorter than you. Wearing sunglasses and a cap. Oh, and he had a red windbreaker stenciled with a logo. Other than that he looked like all the young men, like we owe them something.”

  Faran couldn’t exactly put out an APB on Entitled Young Dude, approach with caution. The guy had, however, left the plate number of his van on the clipboard at the desk so that his ride wouldn’t get towed.

  As Faran and Lexie walked back to their own car, he phoned Valois to run the plates. Valois checked while Faran was still on the phone. The plates turned out to belong to a stolen vehicle belonging to a beachfront florist’s shop. Valois gave him the address. Faran hung up, despondent. “I think it’s a dead end.”

  “Should we visit the flower shop?” she asked, getting into the Jaguar.

  “What for?”

  “Don’t criminals work in a comfort zone?” she asked, twisting in her seat to face him. “They stick to areas they know, right?”

  “Yeah,” he said, “depending on the kind of criminals, that is.”

  His old gang had gone where the goods were, but not every thief was so specialized. It was hard to tell with this bunch. Nevertheless, Lexie might be on to something. He reread the address. “That florist is near the site of Maurice’s concert. The thief printed flyers for the concert. I’d bet you anything the copy shop where the flyers came from is in the same neighborhood. Maybe they used a credit.”

  “Okay, now we’re talking.” Lexie was getting excited, talking with her hands. “That neighborhood is away from the palace but not so far that it would be hard to get there in a hurry. That’s got to be their home base. See, it’s not a dead end.”

  Faran was more cautious. He’d had his fair share of disappointments during an investigation. “Maybe. We can go look around,” he said, and started the Jaguar.

  The waterfront area was a mixed bag. One end was big casinos, high-end hotels and glitter. This was the beating heart of Marcari’s economy. The other end, where Faran and Lexie got out and started down the cobbled paths, was small-scale and in his opinion far more interesting. If you wanted handmade glass, authentic cuisine or a rare book, this was where you went. Lots of other people must have thought so, too, because it was crowded.

  The afternoon was fading and the tall, ornate streetlights were coming on. Street vendors lined the main walkway, many of them with open-air grills. He smelled lamb, rubbed with the unique spice blends he’d never found anywhere else. Faran’s mouth started to water. He hadn’t eaten for hours. “Hungry?”

  Lexie gave him a smile, mouth quirked. She knew all about his frequent feeding times. “I could eat.”

  He bought two of the lamb concoctions, the spiced meat wrapped in greens and served on flatbread drizzled in spicy cream. Traditional Marcari cuisine was in the same family as French, but had elements of Moroccan and Greek, as well. They sat on a bench under olive trees and ate. It was messy and Lexie was soon licking her fingers.

  “Sticky, but food always tastes better outside. Even the burgers from the fair back home,” Faran said.

  It was out
of his mouth before he thought about it. He didn’t have a lot of memories of his pack, but he did remember the traveling fair that visited a nearby town once every summer. His home was no more than a hamlet way up in the mountains where a few dozen werewolf households kept themselves to themselves, but they came down for the fair.

  “What was your home like?” she asked, wiping juice from her chin.

  It was all he could do not to lick her clean himself. “Small. Insular. It was a logging settlement and really cold in winter. We only got two TV channels and then only if the weather was right.”

  “Sounds very back to the land.”

  “It was, but it was a great place to be a kid. Lots of room to run around. We played in the woods all the time.”

  He’d belonged, and been loved. He’d come across other packs as an adult, but by then he would only ever be the outsider looking in. It was easier to go it alone. Except now he wanted a pack of his own, starting with a mate. Slow down. Don’t screw it up this time.

  “Do you ever go back home?” she asked.

  “It’s not there anymore. People started building out that way and it wasn’t a good place for wolves.” He looked away, unable to keep his thoughts off his face.

  “Everyone moved?”

  “Not exactly.” More humans in the area had meant more incentive to get rid of the wolves. Hunters called it wildlife management. For him, it had meant walking out of the mountains with his entire pack dead in the snow behind him. He’d been the only survivor because he’d been too young to go roaming with his parents.

  Unnerved by the memory, he picked up their garbage, looking around for a recycling bin. “It’s a long story.”

  She touched his arm. “I want to hear it someday.”

  He stopped, letting her hand keep him in place. He wasn’t sure he could tell it. Not all at once. He tried to smile. “Maybe a bit at a time. That was my first deposit.”

  “It’s a deal.” And then Lexie let him go.

  He took a steadying breath. If they’d been any other couple, all this would have been part of the getting-to-know-you phase when they’d first met. But they weren’t average, and even the little he’d just said hadn’t been possible before now.

  She helped him clean up and they started looking for the florist. “I don’t remember fairs, outside of one,” she said. “My stepdad took us. It was the only time I remember us doing anything as a family.”

  “What about your real dad?” Faran asked. He couldn’t imagine having a family and not doing things with them. They weren’t something to take for granted.

  “I don’t remember him all that well,” she said, her voice filled with regret.

  It was almost full dark, and shop windows glowed like beacons up and down the waterfront. They’d reached the front of the flower shop. Faran regretted letting the threads of the conversation slip, but his eye caught the sign before a large building in the next block. “There’s the concert hall. The flower shop is almost next door.”

  The hall was where the action was. A knot of people milled on the front steps—concertgoers, security and fans wearing pale imitations of Maurice’s outlandish outfits. No doubt the guy kept the world stocks in eyeliner afloat. A couple of random blasts of fuzzy guitar stabbed the air. Inside, the band was doing a sound check.

  Faran considered the options. Usually once the sound check was over, the venue would open the doors and start letting people in. And wouldn’t the dark, crowded crush of a rock concert, dazzled by flashing light, explosions and Maurice himself, be the perfect place to hand off a stolen ring? Absolutely no one would notice.

  Then again, there were a hundred other ways the thief could connect with his employer. This could be a complete waste of time. But Lexie was watching him expectantly, waiting for direction. “Let’s look around,” he said. “Maybe one of the fetches from the photographs will show up.”

  They went to the left, toward the back of the concert hall. The surrounding area was set out like a plaza, with benches and trees lit by strings of sparkling lights. The whole place was packed.

  Lexie grabbed his arm, turning as if to murmur in his ear. “Is that our guy from the hotel over by the stage door?”

  The figure was standing at the edge of the light and wearing a red windbreaker and a baseball cap pulled low over his dark hair. Just like the hotel manager said, the figure was unremarkable, his posture sullen. He was talking to a tall man with close-cropped hair, possibly in his late fifties. It looked like the older guy was chewing him out about something.

  Faran steered Lexie along the plaza, passing them downwind. The tall man smelled like French cigarettes, the young man like nothing at all. It was the most damning evidence possible. No scent was why he’d never noticed it in the hotel room. Fetches—until they were self-destructing into stinking slime puddles—were invisible to his nose.

  The man took off his hat just long enough to brush his hair back. It was the anti-Kyle.

  Inside, Faran howled with triumph.

  Faster than Lexie’s eyes could follow, Faran pulled out his gun. The move drew exclamations from bystanders. Someone screamed.

  “Freeze!” he ordered. Everyone within earshot obeyed, except the anti-Kyle. He took off at a sprint.

  Faran whirled to Lexie. He was in full-on Company mode, his teasing smile vanished into hard lines. “Go to the concert security desk and stay there till I come get you.”

  Lexie barely had time to nod before Faran bolted after the fetch, leaping a wrought-iron bench in a long-legged bound before they disappeared into the darkness.

  “Whoa!” someone exclaimed in astonishment. Lexie had to agree.

  “Your friend has exceptional talents,” said a voice from behind her.

  She turned, the hair along her neck prickling. It was the tall man, his hands folded behind his back. He wore a pale trench coat unbuttoned over a tweed jacket and gray slacks. Something about the ensemble screamed professor. His face was the same: worn, a little baggy, more of a thinker than a man of action. What struck her the most, though, was the shiver that suddenly coated her skin. Not a ripple or a wave, but as if she was suddenly stuck in an envelope of electricity. She’d never felt the full force of magic before—not that she knew of—but this was how she’d always imagined it.

  Lexie backed away. Faran had told her to go to security, and it sounded like the best idea in the world. But the man matched her step for step, lagging behind just enough that it felt as if he was stalking her. “Ms. Haven. Alexis.”

  He knew her name!

  “Alexis!”

  She quickened her step, refusing to answer. Only her parents ever used her full name. Even professionally, she used Lexie.

  But as she sped up, so did he. He grabbed her wrist. “Stop.”

  The encircling fingers gripped like manacles. “Let me go!” She twisted her arm, trying to pull free.

  “I wouldn’t do that. You’ve already broken that arm.”

  She froze. He released her, a look of satisfaction on his face.

  “How did you know that?” she snapped. “Who are you?”

  “My name is Ambrose.” He didn’t specify if it was the first or last name. “I’ve been in touch lately.”

  This is the one who is tormenting me. “What the blazes do you want?”

  “To talk, for now.” He held out a hand to the glimmering streetlights. “Come with me?”

  “No.”

  He reached for her again, but this time she was on her guard. She dodged, but the electric prickling grew stronger, weighting down her limbs. It seemed that if physical strength didn’t stop her, he’d try other means. Lexie walked backward a few steps, afraid to take her eyes off him, but knowing her window of escape might be small. Her head began to pound, the buzz of the magic almost cracking her skull. “How do you
know who I am?”

  “Why, my dear, I’m a friend of your father’s.”

  “Why should I believe you? I never met any of his golfing buddies. They wouldn’t know me.”

  “Not your stepfather, Alexis. Your true father.”

  That nearly caught her. Longing and curiosity welled up, searing the tender places inside where the loss of her father still ached. He’d walked away without explanation—no phone calls, nothing.

  Her true father didn’t deserve friends. And if this was a real friend, why would he be here, in Marcari, hanging out with a fetch? She spun on her heel and made for the stage door at a run. It was propped open to make way for a pair of enormous roadies lugging a huge silver box that looked like part of the set. They would just be clearing the door by the time Lexie made it there, but another man was stepping into place to block the path of any crazed fans.

  She probably looked crazed, but escaping Ambrose was her new goal in life. She just had to get past the big, bearded guy who looked as if he folded sheet metal into origami cranes for a hobby. Please, please, please let me through.

  The prickling on her skin began to burn as if some strange form of friction was at work. All at once she felt hot and raw, as if she was burning from the inside out. But there was no time to worry about that. Ambrose was close enough that she heard the pounding of his long legs. Fast, for someone who looked more versed in physics than the physical. His fingers grazed her back.

  Lexie was no athlete, but she found energy in pure terror. Please let me through! Please! She bounded forward, a cry on her lips. The roadie at the door frowned, massive eyebrows scrunching together into one bushy caterpillar. He unfolded his arms and took a step forward, looking around as if to see the source of the noise.

  Lexie zipped past him and through the door to the inky vault of the backstage area. The sound check was over, but the noise of the crew still setting up was all but deafening. The pounding of her feet disappeared in the clamor. She veered right, toward a stack of amplifiers. There was just enough room to wedge herself between them and curl up into a gap between the largest cube and the wall. If the band started to play, she’d be deaf for life, but it was the perfect sanctuary to catch her sawing breath.