Bad Wolf

by Jennifer Ashley

  “Come on,” he called down to Joanne. “It’s safe.”

  Cilla did not want to go inside. She was afraid Broderick was leading her into a trap, and to be honest, Joanne wasn’t certain what this place was herself.

  Joanne slid out of the car and locked the doors, shoving her key deep into her pocket. She ran up the short flight of stairs, following Broderick as he pulled Cilla inside. The door swung closed behind Joanne, and she stopped in stunned amazement.

  The room she stood in was about forty feet by thirty, with a high ceiling, and windows near the roofline. A typical warehouse. But what filled it wasn’t what Joanne expected. Wooden workbenches lined the walls, and power tools stood on stands in the middle of the room—a drill press, a wood planer, a couple of saws. Not simply giant power saws, but saws with thin blades that could do delicate work.

  A refrigerator hummed in a corner next to a sink and counter with a microwave and coffeemaker, along with a couple chairs so whoever worked here could have lunch or dinner. Or breakfast if they stayed all night.

  The workbenches were covered with wood shavings and metal scraps, sandpaper, and all kinds of hand tools—punches, knives, hand saws, carving tools, wood clamps, files. Sheets of metal hung from a rack, and wood planks were stacked everywhere. Over all was the clean-smelling odor of sawdust and the tinge of varnish.

  Broderick hadn’t been entirely accurate when he said the place would be private. His youngest brother, Mason, stood at a workbench, scowling, a small soldering iron in one hand, a screwdriver in the other.

  “What the hell, Brod?” he demanded. “What does secret mean to you?”

  “It was necessary,” Broderick said without apology. “This is Cilla. She’s helping us. You want coffee, Jo-Jo?”

  Joanne moved to one of the tables, on which stood the product of all the tools, wood, metal, and workmanship. She realized, as she gazed at it, that she was seeing a piece of Broderick she never knew existed.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Broderick busied himself with the coffee machine, not wanting to watch Joanne’s reaction to what he and his brothers made in this place. Shifters weren’t supposed to own any technology as advanced as coffeemakers or power saws, but Broderick always figured that what the humans didn’t know wouldn’t hurt them.

  Joanne was leaning over the delicate stringed instrument on the table, a guitar made of koa wood. Broderick had just finished that one for a client. Or at least, it was almost finished. He had to do some final polishing.

  The swell of the body rippled with the exotic wood grain, and the inlay around the edges was of black mahogany, as the client had ordered. Broderick had worked on this one for about a year. Joanne stared at it, enraptured.

  Broderick couldn’t move, but Mason laid down his tools and shambled over to her. Mason might be past his Transition but he still hadn’t quite mastered control of his big body.

  “It’s got a pretty sound.” Mason picked it up, tuned the strings, and plucked a few notes. A sweet, mellow tone wound through the air. A guitar’s sound grew deeper and fuller-bodied as it aged, but this one was good already.

  Joanne listened, her mouth open, then she looked around at the other instruments in progress—a mandolin, two more acoustic guitars, one polished bird’s-eye maple electric, and a harp guitar that was for another well-paying client.

  And then there was their hobby, the music boxes. In Mason’s spare time, he took leftover wood, carved it intricately, and Broderick created music with brass cylinders and combs with various notes. One that caught Joanne’s attention was made of onyx inlaid with gold and a tiny line of garnet around its top. Broderick couldn’t remember the name of the tune it played but he liked it. Mason did research on the music, and Broderick crafted the cylinder that would play it.

  Joanne took everything in then spun to face Broderick. “You made all this?”

  Why were humans these days so astonished when a thing was made by hand? Not beaten together in a factory or downloaded from a computer? Not so long ago, everything was put together by human—and Shifter—hands.

  “Yes,” Broderick answered. “Who did you think did it? Little fluttery pixies?”

  “But …”

  “Yeah, yeah, the big badass can carve wood and build something pretty.” Broderick thunked empty coffee mugs next to the coffeemaker. “How do you think we made a living before we were crammed into Shiftertowns? Or did you think we ran around in the woods hunting rabbits? Instrument making is a craft, passed down from master to apprentice for generations. My dad taught me, and his dad taught him. Now I’m teaching Mason. He doesn’t suck at it.”

  Mason snorted, shut off the music box, and moved back to his workbench. “You didn’t answer, Brod. What the hell are they doing here?”

  “I needed a private place.” And there was no place more private for Broderick. Not even other Shifters knew exactly where his workshop was. Most of them didn’t even know he had one. He’d told Spike and then Seamus, the two he considered his friends. And Tiger.

  Broderick risked much bringing Cilla and Joanne here—he knew that. But Joanne was the other half of him, he knew that as well. As for Cilla, he didn’t worry about her blabbing, because he wouldn’t give her the opportunity.

  Joanne had moved down the bench to one of the guitars in the making, the wood bent around its frame, waiting to dry. That one was zebra wood, which would be beautiful when he finished it with French polishing. She paused at another music box Broderick and Mason had recently started. Broderick enjoyed making the innards of the boxes, getting the springs, cylinders, and gears right. The embellishments—stone inlay, lamination, and carving—which Mason was proving to be skilled at, would make the outside beautiful, but the heart of it intrigued Broderick.

  Joanne studied the beaten metal, the tiny cogs that fit together to move the cylinder. Broderick had left his tools strewn all over—he never put them into a logical order like his father had insisted, but he could reach out and put his hand on any he wanted.

  “These are beautiful.” Joanne gazed at Broderick, eyes shining. “Why haven’t you told me about all this?” She waved her hand around the room.

  Mason growled from his corner. “Because, secret.”

  “I’m showing you now,” Broderick said. The coffeemaker hissed and steamed. Broderick made himself abandon it and move to her. “If you need space to work on your computer stuff, I can clear off a table. Plus there are plenty of power outlets. The building’s owner is used to us working in the middle of the night, so no one ever comes to see what we’re doing.”

  Joanne turned reluctantly away from the scraps on the table. “Any corner will do.” She studied him, as though seeing him for the first time. “You know, music boxes are like computers. The bumps on the cylinders are like the holes in punch cards …”

  Broderick gave her a gruff laugh. “It’s nothing like it. Remember I said I liked real objects, not these soulless plastic boxes.”

  “Yeah,” Joanne said, her eyes soft. “I remember.”

  He knew she was recalling what they had done after that conversation, and his mating frenzy started to rise again.

  Broderick needed to touch her. He wanted the feel of her skin beneath his fingers, of her lips on his. He was also aware of Mason watching his big brother carefully, and Cilla, standing alone, uncertain, in the middle of the room.

  Broderick settled for smoothing Joanne’s hair. “Over there.” He gestured. “Plenty of space.”

  On the table beside him, one of the music boxes began to play.

  Broderick swung to it. This one wasn’t finished, the insides laid in place and the box only roughed out, but the cylinder was playing rapidly, the music more silvery than tinny.

  He realized he’d laid the medallion down next to it to touch Joanne’s hair. Joanne stared at both medallion and box, her eyes wide.

  “That’s interesting,” she said. “And kind of creepy.”

  “That’s what Fae magic is, creepy.” Br
oderick snatched up the medallion. The music box continued to play until he flicked the switch that stopped it. “I don’t care if a Shifter made the Guardians’ swords, he let a Fae touch them.”

  Cilla was looking around in fear but also with the first flicker of interest Broderick had seen in her. She addressed her words to Joanne. “How do you plan to open a portal and grab the guy inside without getting sucked in yourself?”

  Mason jumped. “Open a portal? What?”

  “No one’s opening anything,” Broderick said sternly. “But if whatever Fae is jerking you around tries to get through, I want him in a place I can corner him and end his Fae life. I can contain him here.”

  And if Broderick had to kill the bastard, he had plenty of ways of disposing of a body, hiding it so it had nothing to do with Shiftertown, no trace back to his family or other Shifters. Broderick hadn’t rented this place using his actual name—he wasn’t that stupid—so it was nice and untraceable. The owner knew he was a Shifter, and so did their clients, but they were cool with Shifters. Plus Broderick wouldn’t kill the Fae in a way that made it obvious a Shifter had done it.

  “Do what you gotta,” Broderick said to Joanne. “I’ll do the rest.”

  Joanne gave him a look that said she wasn’t sure what he had in mind and maybe didn’t want to know.

  Broderick closed his hand around the medallion as she turned away and started telling Cilla how to set up the computers. He knew at some point he’d have to give over the medallion, and he didn’t want to. He looked at it, sitting innocuously in his palm, the Celtic knot shimmering.

  He slid the medallion into his pocket. Broderick turned away and left them to it, though he watched Cilla closely. They should put a leash on her, tether her to the wall. From the looks of things, Mason agreed.

  Joanne wouldn’t agree, as much as she would make Cilla help them. She was too soft at heart, or maybe she still carried guilt for making Shifters the focus of police searches last year. Wallowing in guilt too long wasn’t a good thing, Broderick had come to know. It made you make bad decisions. Best to suck it up that you did something wrong and move on.

  Sure, ’cause that was so easy …

  He watched the two women as he finished up the coffee and poured it out. Joanne was maybe five years older than Cilla, but Cilla hung on Joanne’s words as though she were some kind of guru. They busily set up the laptops and other pieces of equipment Broderick didn’t understand, Joanne directing and Cilla obeying, if shakily.

  Ironic that the musical instruments in this room were crafted by giants of men with huge hands, while Joanne’s and Cilla’s delicate fingers worked the square plastic pieces that had no beauty to them at all. Broderick liked watching Joanne’s hands, and he got caught in that for a while, as they started coding, arguing as they went.

  The static man didn’t appear on the screen this time. He hadn’t looked Fae, Broderick thought, though he’d only seen the man’s outline. Fae were tall like Shifters, but they looked stretched rather than natural and they had, as Broderick had mentioned, pointed ears. Fionn, Andrea’s father, was a quintessential Fae, with long white-blond hair in braids woven with beads, always in armor of some kind, weapons nearby. Fionn was, first and foremost, a warrior.

  “What coordinates?” Joanne was asking.

  Cilla typed, then she read off the gibberish that flowed up the screen. Must be interesting to know what that all meant.

  Joanne looked up at Broderick, her expression a mixture of excitement and worry. “From what I learned from the Guardian Network, we need to create a physical prop that can represent what we need to do. Can you fashion something like a doorframe? Even a couple aluminum poles would do it.”

  Broderick waved at all the stuff around the room. “What do you think? I’m on it.”

  Easy to cut some boards to size. Broderick wasn’t about to use his exotic hardwoods to make a plaything for a Fae, but he could sacrifice some less expensive boards, which he could use for something else later. If they weren’t tainted by this experiment.

  Mason came charging over. “You aren’t seriously going to try to open a gateway to Faerie in our workshop, Brod. Are you insane? Or did you catch a feral disease from our houseguest?”

  Broderick plucked goggles from the rack next to his table saw and slid them over his eyes. “Joanne’s right. If there’s someone stuck in there, we have to get him out. His message was pretty desperate.”

  “You believe a Fae?”

  “I don’t think he’s Fae. Let me put it this way—if I were trapped inside Faerie, I’d beg and plead and scream to get out. I can’t turn my back, on the off chance it’s a legit cry for help.”

  “Are you sure that’s why you’re doing this?” Mason asked. “Or are you just out to impress your girlfriend so she’ll go all mate frenzy with you?”

  Broderick gave him a growl, but he didn’t grow as belligerent as he might have a week ago. “Maybe a little bit of both. Now stand back. Sawdust in your eyes isn’t pretty.”

  Mason glowered but ceased arguing. Broderick set a board in place on his table saw, pressed the On button, and slid the board through. He loved this saw. It cut smoothly through the wood and was amazingly precise.

  He cut two more boards while Mason watched, then carried the three pieces back to the computers. “Here you go. Let’s get this over with.”

  “It might not work,” Cilla said darkly.

  “We’ll never know until we try,” Joanne said. “No, you don’t.” She latched a hand around Cilla’s wrist. Broderick hadn’t seen the woman try to run, but Joanne must have caught the hint of it. “You started this; you’re seeing it through.”

  “Mason, watch her,” Broderick growled.

  Mason, who was large and strong, stepped close to Cilla, making her more nervous than ever. But Mason would stop her, no matter what. He was not fond of humans, and if he ever found out she killed a Guardian … Best not to tell him.

  Broderick held the boards in the shape of a doorframe, the crosspiece resting on the two uprights. He already felt a qualm. Doorways, even ones that looked like they went to nowhere, were dangerous. You never knew what would come through.

  Joanne and Cilla had their heads together, talking, arguing, both making sounds of delight when they came up with a solution.

  “I think that’s it,” Broderick heard Joanne say … and then he went blind.

  Maybe not blind. Tiny red dots marked the room, where the emergency generators were, which, by the way, didn’t start up. The computers were completely dark, no little glowing lights on the power strips.

  “What happened?” Mason called out. He kept his voice steady, but Broderick, who’d taught the kid how to walk, heard his fear.

  “I don’t …” Joanne began, then her words were drowned by a boom of thunder. Wind howled down on the warehouse, screaming and wailing like a lost soul on a winter’s night.

  After a second, Broderick realized that the sounds of the storm weren’t outside the warehouse in Austin. They came from inside the doorway he held.

  Broderick ripped his hands from the doorframe, ready to let it fall to pieces. But the planks remained upright, standing by themselves, supported by nothing. The wind whipped through the opening, ice-cold, with the touch of death.

  “Shit,” Broderick said over the noise. “I knew doorways were dangerous.”

  There was a tinkle of metal, and abruptly all the music boxes, finished and unfinished, began to play. The cylinders spun faster and faster. The silvery music vibrated the strings of the finished guitars, and the guitar harp began to waft melodious sounds. The medallion in Broderick’s pocket grew hot.

  “Broderick!” Joanne yelled. “Where are you?”

  Mason’s shouts grew faint until they were entirely snapped off. Broderick could still hear Joanne, and the storm, and the damned music boxes, but nothing else.

  Someone fell into him. Broderick recognized the crush of female against his body—Joanne, his mate.

  He
also realized another tricky thing at the same time. The wind was at his back now, not in his face, and rain slapped his skin. The scent was wrong—almost briny, and cold, as though he stood by the ocean, not in the warmth of Austin on a spring night.

  He was on the wrong side of the frigging doorway. Joanne plastered herself against him, and Broderick wrapped one arm around her. The music boxes and guitars gave one last jangling tinkle and then were gone.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Joanne felt herself falling, but at the same time, there was solid earth under her feet. Earth, not concrete. Slippery dirt, like sand. She clung to Broderick and let herself panic.

  The vibration of his voice cut through her fear. “If you think I’m going to say It’s all right, sweetheart, you stick with me, and I’ll take us home, I haven’t the faintest fucking idea how to do that.”

  Joanne hugged him tighter, happy for the contact. “Some alpha boyfriend you turned out to be.”

  The wind was freezing. Granules, either sand or snow, stung her face. The only warmth came from, of all places, Broderick’s pocket.

  “The medallion!” she shouted.

  “Yeah.” Broderick sounded resigned. “Figures.”

  “What does that mean?” Joanne’s heart pumped hard with fear and cold. Her short-sleeved top, jeans, and sneakers were made for warmer, softer climates.

  “It’s a Fae artifact, which lets you go through gates. Damn thing trapped us here.”

  Joanne could see nothing in the darkness, but she knew light would reveal only swirling snow or a sandstorm. Or ice. What slapped her face was needle-like, cold and grim.

  Broderick gave a sudden shout, and his Collar lit up with an arc of blue. He made a choking sound.

  The Collars went off only when a Shifter was fighting—fighting for real, trying to defeat an enemy. But Broderick wasn’t fighting, he was struggling, writhing. He fell to his knees, taking Joanne down with him.

  The next thing she knew, hands were prying her from Broderick. She fought, needing to keep hold of him, but his strong body slipped from her grasp.