by Beth Dranoff
“We’re sure,” said Sam, padding across the floor to stand with me. When did he put on those pajama bottoms? Damn. Focus, Dana. “You already know he was the one who shot Dana with a tranq gun so the crew could snatch her from the Swan.” Jon nodded. “We’re pretty sure he’s the one who set off the explosives in her apartment as well.”
“Wait,” I said. “What?”
Sam turned to look at me this time, reaching out his hand to lightly stroke the back of my neck. Soothing. Not at all like he was coaxing my nerves into a reluctant purr. Nope.
Jon’s eyes flicked back and forth between Sam and me. Narrowed. But what could he say with one foot out the door in pursuit of his other lover?
My, what a tangled web we weave when to more than one lover we choose to cleave.
My words or Celandra’s? Where had that dragon lady gone anyway?
Impatient, I brushed Sam’s hand away.
“You knew,” I said, slowly, turning back to keep all three of the men in view. “You knew that Claude was dangerous. But he was—is—a member of your pack.” Anshell nodded shortly in reply. “And he was—is—your lover,” I continued, gaze settling on Jon this time.
“I didn’t know,” Jon said. “But...”
“But?” I raised my eyebrows, prompting him to continue.
“I should have,” he finished, lamely.
“And you,” I said, spinning around to catch first Sam then Anshell in a glare. “You knew that green-eyed cat was a danger to me and you didn’t warn me.”
“It was pretty obvious,” Sam pointed out reasonably.
“Oh, sure, I knew he hated me,” I replied, my voice rising. “But it’s a pretty major jump from ‘stay away from my boyfriend’ to setting off explosives in my kitchen and shooting me.”
“We had your back,” Anshell said. “One of us was around you at all times. But we had to be sure.”
“We couldn’t accuse a pack mate of treason and sabotage without proof,” Sam continued. “We had to know absolutely.”
“So, what,” I said, voice increasingly clipped. “I was bait?”
Sam and Anshell exchanged glances, so quick I might have missed it if I hadn’t been watching for it.
“We had to be certain,” Anshell said. “Considering the punishment.”
“And what about me?” My hands balled at my sides. I wasn’t sure what I was about to do, but I suspected it was neither pretty nor dainty.
“What about you?” Sam’s voice was mild. “What did you expect us to do, exactly?”
“Give me a heads up maybe?” My words plunged forward. “Or was I just a convenient fuck?”
Everyone looked away then, twitchy with the discomfort of too much sharing.
Sam stepped forward, invading my personal space, so close I could taste the salt and vinegar chips he’d had hours earlier on his breath. He took my hands, smoothing my fists into palmed flatness.
When had my life gotten so complicated?
“Excuse us,” Sam said to the room in general. Anshell shrugged, but Jon wasn’t going to let me be dragged off against my will.
“Dana?” Jon’s voice, questioning.
“It’s okay,” I said. “Sam and I need to talk.”
* * *
I allowed myself to be led outside, onto the veranda where the chill wind was blocked only slightly by the wicker blinds that slapped against the solid wood beams. I was still amazed at how the glamour held, as I watched two straggling parka-wearing partiers trundle past, oblivious to our presence.
As soon as they were out of earshot, I turned to Sam.
“So? Was there something specific you wanted to talk about?”
“I’m sorry,” he said, leaning against the wooden railing, “for using you as bait to draw that tom out. Our reasoning made sense, and it still makes sense, but...”
“Sucks to be me, eh?” I turned away from him to rest my forearms on the railing, looking out at the water so I wouldn’t have to look at him. “Tell me something,” I said. “The sex. Was that part of the full Dana protection package too?”
“Hardly,” Sam said, waiting until he could see my eyes. “Being with you, like that, was definitely not part of the plan. Any of the plans,” he muttered under his breath. Forgetting for the moment that my hearing was almost as good as his now.
I reached out and touched his index finger, gently, drawing a line from knuckle to nail. He gave a little shudder, eyelids fluttering in response, but didn’t move. Instead, he closed his eyes before continuing.
“We did use you,” he said. I withdrew my hand; Sam reached out and sandwiched it between his. “Up to a point. Weird shit kept following you around, and for the safety of the city, of the Pack and of our supe community, we had to know what was going on. Plus, you hadn’t committed. To the Pack. With Claude clawing for you...if you’d become a liability, we might have let him have you.”
“Really?”
“Okay, maybe not,” Sam said. “But he is Pack and you’re not yet. Or weren’t. Be glad Anshell didn’t have to make that call.”
“So where does this leave us?” I knew I shouldn’t be asking the question if I wasn’t prepared to hear the answer. But I pressed the sore spot anyway.
“I don’t know,” he admitted. “I don’t like to share.”
“But it’s not like you aren’t sleeping elsewhere yourself,” I pointed out. Sam shrugged.
“Never said it was logical,” he replied.
“So tell me,” I said, changing the subject, “what exactly happened to Claude?”
“He’s alive,” Sam acknowledged, letting the subjects of fidelity and fealty drop for the moment.
Seems Claude had taken things one claw too far when he sold out Morgenlark and then me to Ezra’s crew. The proof was in some of the recorded footage taken from the compound where I’d been held.
Still, some questions remained open.
How had Claude and Ezra’s crew found each other? How had they determined they had a common interest in me? Why did Ezra’s crew want to spear me like a bug caught on a thumbtack under a microscope? Or maybe I was wrong—maybe Claude and Ezra had no connection, and their shared focus on me was a coincidence.
And who was Ezra at this point? The mentor I’d known, or just a skin being passed around from entity to entity?
Sam was holding my hand in his now, unconsciously strumming my palm with his thumb. My breath caught as he slid a single fingernail up along the inner crease. Whatever he’d been doing before, he was suddenly quite aware of the effect his actions were having on me—and by the grin hovering on the sides of his lips, those actions were deliberate.
Gods. Goddess.
Were Sam and Jon going to try and make me choose between them?
Chapter Thirty-Three
I had to get away.
Jon left to go after Claude, so Sam gave me a ride to my truck, still parked outside the Swan. Then he followed me home to make sure I made it this time.
Not to my apartment—that was still surrounded by bright yellow “police scene—do not cross—exercise caution” tape. Nope. When the world comes crashing into pieces around you, sometimes you need to spend some time communing with your Aerosmith posters and that single bed with the faded pink dust ruffle.
You know the one. It’s a little ripped in that spot where it caught on the rear spike of those biker boots you used to have. Before you lost them in an overly optimistic retrieval mission in Regent Park. A burn mark, carefully hidden, from where you dropped some ash smoking a joint with that guy in grade 11. The hot one with red hair in dreadlocks who didn’t say much with words but made fluent use of language with his hands on your body. You know who I’m talking about. That guy.
I hesitated at the threshold of my childhood home. The s
tairs were concrete slabs forced uneven by the years of crazy hot and cold (often in the same day) Toronto weather. The hand railings had been painted black by yours truly after my father died. Seemed like a good idea at the time but now, as I looked at the peeling formerly white paint rolling off and away from the beveled edges of the arched entranceway, I thought maybe it was time to redo the entire area in something cheerier. Possibly yellow. Or maybe green.
Or maybe I was procrastinating.
I grabbed hold of the bars, careful to avoid the rusted patches underneath; not careful enough as my heel slid on the second step and I had to grip harder to avoid falling on my ass. The metal decay had grown teeth of ice that punctured my wool gloves and embedded themselves in my index finger. I swore as I pulled off a glove and popped my bloodied finger in my mouth.
With my other hand, I quietly jiggled my key in the lock. There. I turned to wave at Sam, who waited in his idling vehicle until I was actually inside without anything exploding before driving off.
Should I have invited him in?
The light was on in the kitchen. Maybe Mum had had a premonition I’d be coming by—wouldn’t be the first time. Or maybe she never turned out all the lights at night anymore.
I paused for another moment at the threshold, my hand hovering over the beige plastic light switch plate. What had it been like for Mum, alone all of these years since Dad’s death? I’d left so soon afterwards—so wrapped up in my own wants, needs and desires—that I hadn’t stopped to think about how lonely my mother must have been.
A flash of guilt, a lump in my throat. I swallowed hard a couple of times before crossing the floor, first to fill up the red plastic kettle and then to turn it on. I drifted around the kitchen, poking in cabinets until I found something suitable to add to the hot water. A hardened packet of instant hot chocolate and an unopened bag of multi-colored marshmallows. I shoved a handful of the mini-marshmallows in my mouth and moved my search to the fridge.
Aaahhhhhh. I let out a breath I hadn’t even realized I was holding when I saw the canister of aerated, homemade whipped cream. Mum’s secret stash; her culinary kryptonite. And there was still at least half left.
The briefest streak of silver in my peripheral vision had me ducking out of the way of the baseball bat whistling past the place where my head had just been to connect with the fridge door. There was a clanging thud.
“Dana? Is that you? Oh God, are you okay?”
“Lynna?” I peered up at my friend from my crouched position on the beige linoleum floor. The friend I’d thought was staying with Anshell. “What are you doing here?”
“Tell me you’re okay. Are you okay?” Lynna pushed a clump of dark hair streaked with red up and away from her eyes with the hand not currently clenching the bat.
“I’m fine,” I said. “Seriously. But why are you here? Does my mum know you’re here?”
“Of course I do,” my mother said, coming out from the other doorway, twirling her own bat like a Victorian sun parasol. “You think I don’t know when your best friend is sleeping at my house? I put her in the guest room.”
“Normally I sleep in your room,” Lynna interjected. “But your mom had a feeling you’d be stopping by soon so this time she put me down the hall instead.”
“You had a feeling, eh?” I straightened up and walked over to my mum before reaching out to pull her into a bear hug. “Good call on the whipped cream.”
My mother quirked me a small grin, strangely very much like my own.
* * *
I wasn’t kidding about the Aerosmith posters. There was a small shrine to Steven Tyler in the corner of my old bedroom where ticket stubs, sweaty concert T-shirts and even the boots I’d worn the last time I saw him play were spread about in a semicircle.
Mentally shelving my teenage obsession with the big-lipped rocker a moment, I took a sip of my marshmallow-filled mug—three parts marshmallows, one part hot chocolate—and rolled the steaming liquid perfection around my mouth. I still had a change of clothes here for the odd time I stayed over due to snowstorms or laziness, although the selection was somewhat limited. Digging through my drawers yielded a pair of cotton candy—pink “cat’s meow” flannel pajama bottoms and a matching pink rhinestone-edged kitten “Yowza” tank top. I kid you not.
I finished off the outfit with a terry cloth hoodie—pink, what else?—and fuzzy bunny slippers. You can guess the color.
Dawn was breaking in pinks and blues over the grey-tinged backyard. And yet, despite it all, I was nowhere near ready for sleep. Too restless. Go figure.
I lay on the bed anyway, mattress still molding to my body perfectly, and felt my blood rush and beat its way through me. As the sun nudged its way up along its arc of sky, the throbbing intensified until it filled my ears and threatened to spurt out of my nose. I brushed the back of my hand against my face and it came away wet and red.
Lovely.
Red sky at night, sailor’s delight / Red sky at dawn, sailors be warned. The old saying echoing in my head.
I could feel the light tickle of blood as one drop, then another, paused on the edge of my upper lip. I touched the tip of my tongue to the salty cleft where the drop hung, just for a moment, before rolling down to coat the back of my throat. Bangles of gold, rings of light, encircling my wrists and neck and head and ankles.
The fuck?
I tried to sit up but couldn’t. I was pinned to the bed by these bands of my own creation. I tried to speak but all that came out was a croak.
Not here. No.
My mother and Lynna were both unprotected. Whatever was doing this to me would get them next and I couldn’t warn them. Couldn’t stop it.
Ironic how being pinned down this time wasn’t so fun. Might be a while before Jon and I played another one of those games. If you ever get to see him again said a traitorous voice, taunting me in my head.
I looked around the room for a clue. For anything to tell me why this was happening.
Nothing.
I arched my back, shook my shoulders, wiggled my toes and twisted my neck, rolling from side to side. Releasing my panic with each labored exhalation of breath.
And then. I blinked.
The sun was a little higher and I could feel its warmth on my legs. The strange glowing restraints were gone. The pink Hello Kitty clock beside the bed told me an hour and a half had passed. It was 6:30 a.m.
Was I having blackouts now? Was this some nifty new way for the Big Bad to let me know they could get to me whenever, wherever I was? Or was there something here, in this house, affecting me? I sat up with a groan, too jittery now to risk closing my eyes.
I tried to take a sip from my mug, but all that met my lips were the gelatinous remains of chocolate-soaked marshmallows.
I needed coffee.
The kitchen felt too far away and I didn’t want to wake up my mother or Lynna. Then again, after that trippy interlude I just had, I couldn’t not at least check on them. A quick trip down the hall confirmed both still were safely tucked into their beds, snoring peacefully.
I used the bathroom while the coffee brewed, marveling at the random lavender velveteen-edged hearts on the wallpaper. When did my mother develop this whimsical side? Since when did she start putting it into her home decorating practice?
For that matter, when did we start taking trinket-focused pride in our home generally?
Too weird. The way this week had been going, maybe Ezra had swapped out my mom for someone else entirely. Unless the Ezra skin was my father. In which case...
And what had just happened? Everything had gone strange as soon as I tasted blood. No, wait—I’d spilled it first. But that had never happened before, that reaction, and I’d bled lots of times. Was there something special about here? This house?
I tested the theory. Coffee in hand, I walked tow
ards the front door and tried to sense a difference in the area’s energy. Nothing. Back to the kitchen. The living room, the den, the dining room. Still nothing. Pffft. Yeah, I was losing it.
Shook my head at myself as I took my coffee upstairs to stand in front of the French beveled-glass doors to my closet. Maybe I still had something worth wearing here.
And then I felt it. A thrumming something from the other side of those doors. What was that?
* * *
My bedroom closet was definitely more packed with stuff than I remembered.
The source of whatever was pinging off my nerves was there, I could feel it, but where? I scanned the area but saw nothing obvious. Stronger at the back of my neck; a more powerful prickling crowning my scalp.
I looked up.
Huh.
I dragged my pink sateen-covered dressing table chair to just inside the frame of the archway to get a better look. Climbed onto the chair with one foot out to test my weight, the other foot following cautiously behind as I hoped the decades-old faux-antique-circa-1989 stuffing would hold. I held on to the door frame as well. Just in case.
On top of the inside wooden wainscoting, hidden under a flap of loose wallpaper made looser with a bit of help, I found a long-forgotten joint.
I remembered the night I’d put it up there. It was late, maybe 3:00 a.m., and I’d just snuck in from a party—well past the curfew we pretended I still had. I’d made it to my room safely without waking anyone up. I thought. I was so sure I’d pulled it off. There I was, joint in hand, ready to hang out my window and smoke it...when the light went on in the hallway.
Busted.
But not quite. I found the spot in the closet and then dove into bed, fast, fully clothed.
Too late. My mother was standing in the hallway, arms crossed, foot tapping.
So very busted.
Although maybe not as thoroughly as I’d thought when I was fifteen, given that my contraband was still there. Score. Okay, sure, it was now a dried-out pile of vaguely THC-enhanced dust with just the faintest aftertaste of wallpaper glue. But it was a symbolic reminder of a time before complications, before I’d developed the urge to scratch then shave then scratch again at the backs of the palms of my hands.
