Never let it be said that when she’d played Pilgrim Number One in her fifth-grade play, she damn well didn’t deserve an Oscar for her amazing ability to portray a woman shucking corn. Because surely phrases like “uncanny” and “eerily true to life” had been used when referring to her performance.
Chapter 7
She went limp in Liam’s grasp, falling back against him until she felt him push her upward for support, hooking his hands under her armpits.
“Claire? Are you all right? Claire?”
She slammed her eyes shut and trusted he’d fully catch her, letting herself go completely boneless.
When his arms went around her, she let her head loll to the right, mentally patting herself on the back for faking a good old-fashioned faint.
Liam tapped her face with a gloved hand. “Claire? Claire!”
She kept her body slack and her eyes closed while he felt for a pulse.
Liam grunted, muttering, “Jesus Christ,” before he scooped her up and carried her out of the library behind everyone else.
The second they hit the bottom of the library steps, Claire made a break for it, popping up in Liam’s arms and launching herself to the ground, stumbling when she hit a patch of ice, and skidding into her car before getting her footing.
She heard Liam cuss, felt the pound of his feet on the snow-covered ground in her bones as she began to shift, focusing on the crunch of morphing muscle and changing flesh. At the very least, she knew she could outrun him or, if nothing else, get a good head start.
Her clothing seemingly melted away from her body, falling to the ground as her paws formed. She threw her body forward at the waist and her legs became haunches. The feel of the icy snow beneath her feet brought with it a burst of exhilaration.
She might not love the hunt and even less the kill, but she loved the freedom she experienced in shift. The salty wind blowing in from the ocean swept over her fur, ruffling it as it began to sprout in thick patches over her body. She gained speed, sprinting for the woods and listening for the sound of the Dogs’ motorcycles.
Claire drove her nose to the forest floor, blocking out Liam bellowing her name, intent on locating the scent of Gannon’s body. If Irish truly had buried him, he could be in a million places, but if she could get to Gannon before that pack of sweaty mongrels, she could prevent them from finding him.
Maybe. She was only so fast.
Her thoughts flew to the old campgrounds, covered in white pine, as the roar of the Dogs’ engines grew, carried on the frosty wind. It was as likely a spot as any—plenty of places to hide a body.
Her sniff was frantic, her muzzle scraping the ground as she flew over the dense areas, leaping over fallen logs, pushing her way through frozen brush.
She skidded to a halt when she heard the roar of motorcycles cut off. Twisting her head, she listened, trying to pinpoint their location.
Claire wondered if Irish had the gift of telepathy, as some older vampires did, because she was damn well going to send him a message.
God damn you, Irish! If they don’t kill you, I’m going to do it for them! What are you doing?
When it really worked, and his thick chuckle popped into her head like a seed germinating, she almost jumped out of her skin.
Claire? Where are you?
Where are you? she countered.
None of your beeswax, Librarian.
Irish! This is crazy.
If you’re not with Liam, I’m going to tan your hide, Claire!
Meow.
You’re not with Liam, are you?
She kept the words in her mind on silent.
Claire, Claire, Claire…go home! What the hell are you doing, and where’s Liam? He was supposed to be watching you.
I ditched him. I pretended to faint. You should have seen me—I was brilliant. He totally fell for it. Your brother’s a sucker.
Jesus, Claire. You’re as bad at letting me play knight-in-shining-armor as you are at murder. Why are you always so difficult?
Irish, please stop this madness—you’re scaring me! I don’t need you to protect me!
She closed her eyes again, her ears twitching, listening for his husky voice to invade her mind once more.
Nothing.
Argh, men!
Lifting her snout to the wind, Claire followed it, picking up a vague hint of Irish’s cologne about a hundred yards away.
Her heart pushed at her chest so hard she was sure it would pop right out when she found them all gathered around an old hardtop camper. It sat in a row with three or four others, all of them rusted and covered in ice.
She heard Liam call out to Irish as he approached the group, the Fangs coming out of the shadows behind him.
He’d left Gannon in a camper? Really? Rather than dump his sorry ass somewhere in the ocean where he’d be so much chum, Irish had left him right out in the open where almost anyone could find him—and worse, with her scent still all over the corpse?
Jesus. Jesus and a ring of fire. What kind of fresh hell was this?
No. This couldn’t be right. Irish was proving to be one surprise after another lately, but he was no idiot.
For sure, Freya would call her stupid for trusting a vampire, but Claire knew better than to question whether Irish would out her. Irish was many things, but he wasn’t a snitch; her instincts hammered that into her gut.
If he survived this round of werewolf versus vampire, she was going to knit him a jacket from the skins of a thousand heads of garlic—maybe a matching scarf and a jaunty hat.
The group’s voices grew louder, more frantic by the second, full of heated words and angry snarls, making her stomach lurch with fear she could taste on her tongue.
She crept closer, staying downwind and behind a large maple. Her ears homed in on Courtland’s taunts as he shoved Irish up the set of narrow steps leading to the interior of the camper while the Road Dogs egged on their new alpha and the Fangs hovered in the background.
Why wasn’t anyone doing anything to prevent Irish from going through with this? The Fangs were all hanging back, practically giving each other pedicures and sipping herbal tea, while Irish was going to be charged with murdering an alpha he didn’t murder.
This was insane, and there was nothing she could do to stop it. Sure, she could probably take out Courtland, if she took him by surprise and was quick about it. But could she take on six or eight of his crew, too? Would the Fangs back her or would they leave her to the business of her pack?
And what had Liam been alluding to when he’d said to trust him? What was Irish up to?
So now what, Claire?
She didn’t have to wait long to find out.
A biting breeze shot up from nowhere—and on it floated Courtland’s bone-chilling scream before he and Irish plowed through the flimsy trailer door and fell onto the frozen ground in a tangle of fists and limbs.
The Fangs rushed in, piling on top of Irish and hauling him off Courtland, while the Dogs scrambled to help the werewolf to his feet.
Courtland strained against the grip Rosy and Twinks had on his arms and shoulders, his chest puffing out, the veins in his neck thick and purple. “What the fuck is going on, McConnell?” he roared, baring his teeth.
Irish shook the Fangs off with an angry jerk of flexing muscles, with orders to step back, before he confronted Courtland. “I told you, he was there just last night, Dodd. I dumped his mean ass right here. Now back the hell up before I eat your face off!” Irish bellowed.
As the wind picked up another notch, driving its icy talons into Claire’s fur, Courtland screamed, “Then where the fuck is he? What did you do to my brother, you son of a bitch?”
Irish squared his shoulders, his body language changing from confrontational to antagonistic, and he smiled at Courtland, slow and easy. “I told you what I did to him. Maybe he just didn’t like dead and got up and wandered off? I’m undead proof that can happen,” he said, to the tune of laughter from the Fangs. “Orrrr maybe he didn’t like the locati
on? I made sure I picked out the perfect trailer for him, too. But they say where you pick your resting place is as important as where you choose to live. It’s like real estate. Location, location, location.”
Courtland let out a low, threatening growl, his booted feet scraping the ground as he tried to pull from the forceful grip of his crew. “You’d damn well better tell me what happened, McConnell! How the fuck did he end up dead?”
Irish assessed Courtland with a critical scan of his body from head to toe. He was buying time—buying time to make up some ridiculous lie that was only going to dig him a deeper hole.
“Here’s how I see it—there’s no body. So as far as I’m concerned, he’s not dead.”
Courtland’s head fell back on his shoulders. His wail of anger struck Claire’s ears like a gong, echoing until her head throbbed. It was a howl of pure rage and infuriation. He dropped to his knees, saliva dripping from the corner of his mouth while Twinks and Rosy held tight to keep him from springing into attack, knowing it would only create all out war between the two clubs.
The Fangs moved in, surrounding Irish, their bodies tense like bows, their fists clenched. But Irish clapped Courtland on the shoulder. “So, we’re good, right? No body, no problem?”
When Courtland raised his head, his eyes full of unadulterated hatred, he spewed, “I don’t know what kind of game you’re playing, McConnell, but I’m gonna get to the bottom of this. I have a witness who says that hoity-toity Claire is in on it, and when he makes an official statement, I’ll make you watch the bitch die!”
Irish squatted in front of Courtland, gripping his jaw with a gloved hand, squeezing until the werewolf’s cheeks puffed outward. “Call her a bitch again, and meet your maker. Maybe you can ask Him where Gannon is,” he spat with a flash of his fangs before shoving Courtland away and rising, directing his crew and Liam to go back to the club.
As Irish stalked off toward the thicket of pines, Claire skirted the shadows, following until she was directly behind him.
“I told you to go home, Claire-Bear,” he chanted, just before turning to confront her, walking backward, a smile on his face.
More Irish smiles? That was two in two days. And Claire-Bear? It made her wonder if she shouldn’t be listening for horse hooves and preparing her doomsday kit.
He gazed down at her, stopping in the middle of a patch of snow. “This is killing you, isn’t it? You all in-shift, unable to nag me for an explanation. For the record, as much as I enjoy our heated debates, I like this side of you. It’s…what’s the word I’m looking for, Librarian? Oh, wait. You can’t tell me, can you?” He chuckled at his joke, turning once more to saunter off.
After she’d nearly lost a life worrying he’d end up fried to a pork rind, he was going to make jokes about it?
Oh, no sir.
Leaning as far back on her haunches as she could, she settled on them, planting her front paws on the ground to get good leverage just before springing forward, one goal in mind.
Taking Irish and his smug ass down.
Claire zeroed in on his back and the patch he wore on his jacket to represent the Fangs—it made a perfect bull’s-eye. As she soared through the air, she fought to keep from howling her joy, calling out her rebel yell in euphoric release.
She landed on Irish, creating a resonating crack when he hit the ground, dropping him as if she’d just cut down a big oak with a chainsaw.
He landed in the snow with a harsh grunt, sprawled out and still as beautiful face-first in the snow as he was when mocking her.
He fought to turn over but Claire wouldn’t let him. Instead, she let her full body weight press down. She weighed far more in shift; her muscles were heavier, sharply defined from so many pack runs over the years.
Leaning into his ear, Claire panted heavy and hot, making him swat at her nose. “Aw, c’mon, Claire. Can’t you take a joke?”
She growled, low and rumbling. It was no laughing matter when the man you liked far more than you should—or was allowable, for that matter—had scared twenty-years off your life in a mere thirty minutes.
Irish finally managed to twist his body, leaving her to rest on his chest. He grabbed her face between both hands, a single eyebrow propped upward. “Is this any way for a damsel in distress to treat the man who saved her from her band of vicious pack members?”
Claire bared her teeth, narrowing her eyes.
Irish’s gaze, black as the surrounding night, glittered with amusement. He gave her muzzle a shake. “Whatsamatter, cuddlebunny? Feeling out of the loop? Shift back and I’ll explain.”
If her eyes were laser beams she’d burn a hole in his forehead. She couldn’t shift here in the middle of the damn woods. She had no clothes; she’d freeze to death. Claire pawed at his jacket to indicate as much.
Irish nodded his head with a wink. “Ah. I get it. Your clothes are shredded. Yet another outfit ruined because of Gannon, huh? That bastard. Even in death, he’s making a shambles of your life,” he teased.
Catching her off guard, he rolled from beneath her, rising to his feet in a blur of motion and color. He hitched his jaw toward the lights of town, running a finger over her ear. “C’mon, Lassie. We’d better hurry before Timmy gets stuck in the well.”
As he began to walk away, Claire made a face at him in her mind.
Irish didn’t even turn around when he said, “Now, now, Claire. Don’t be ugly. I’ll explain everything at your place. You know, when you can add your two cents with those luscious lips.”
She huffed at him, following behind his long strides, forcing herself to avert her eyes from his yummy backside.
Jerk.
As they strolled out of the woods, his hand occasionally reaching for her ear, Irish asked, “So, tell me, fair maiden, did you shift because you thought you’d have to save me? Little ol’ me? I’m so incredibly touched I’d cry if I had the ability to shed tears.”
Yep. She was going to kill him.
Chapter 8
While Irish texted Liam to grab his bike from the library parking lot, Claire changed into a pair of jeans and a sweater, cursing him the entire time, fighting the urge to walk right out into her living room and knock his head against a wall.
What he’d done wasn’t just foolish, it was dangerous. If Courtland grew angry enough with Irish for making a game out of something as serious as the death of his brother, he’d lash out without thinking. When the Dogs didn’t think, really bad things happened. Bad things that would only lead to a war between races.
The peace they’d all managed to keep since the government had shipped them off to their own territories was bliss compared to other regions she’d read about online and watched on the news. She didn’t want that to change because Irish was protecting her.
Why was he protecting her? That was a question she wanted answered tonight. Last night, he had been all about his sister Hadley, and she’d been in full agreement. Nothing was more important than the children.
Just as she was pulling on a pair of socks, Irish pushed her bedroom door open, Mr. Darcy in his arms and purring loudly, as though Irish was the original king of catnip.
She lifted her chin, setting aside the fact that Irish liked cats, which made her heart turn to goo.
And he knows his way around the English language; some might even say his vocabulary is broad. And he saved your hide.
Oh, and his name is likely listed under the word “amazing” in the dictionary. You know, because his bedroom skills, bar none, far surpass anything you’ve ever imagined in your wildest imaginings.
He’d been a fantasy for a very long time—so long now, she’d forgotten what it was to think of any other man. Finding out that fantasy had substance, texture, and knew words longer than three letters was…well, that was no good. He was too attractive on too many levels. Too big, too overwhelming, too much, too…
There was no way for them to be together. Not in this dangerous new world. Which meant this had to stop now.
&nbs
p; Right now, Claire Montgomery.
And there was nothing saying he wanted to be with her. Maybe she’d just been a dalliance he’d forget all about. Maybe his words from last night were words he’d used a million times before.
Maybe.
Her heart pulled tight in her chest and her stomach clenched hard at the thought of seeing Irish every day and pretending nothing had happened between them. It had been easier before they’d made love.
Back then he was just a curiosity—something she’d often wondered if she’d only built up in her mind because he was forbidden to her. And the forbidden was almost always more exciting than it was in real life, right?
Now that she’d experienced the reality, and found out he was everything and more, it was going to make anyone after him a complete nightmare
Dropping Mr. Darcy to the bed, Irish plopped down beside her, forcing her to focus on the immediate problem here.
Distance. It was the only way to keep from throwing herself at him. She couldn’t allow what had happened last night to happen again. It would only make it harder for her to walk away. Something Irish was bound to do anyway—for the safety of his clan and, most of all, for Hadley.
Claire hitched back on the bed, crossing her legs and calling Mr. Darcy to sit in her lap as if he were her McGyver version of an Irish-away-a-nator. “First, let me just get this off my chest—”
“Are you going to yell?” he asked, cracking his knuckles and wrinkling his nose. “I have sensitive ears and it’s been a long night, Claire. You werewolves sure know how to howl. Be kind to the vampire.”
Her head almost popped off her neck. Was this some kind of joke? Claire’s blood boiled. “What the hell were you thinking back there, Irish? You could’ve gotten yourself killed, you stupid, stupid man! Why would you do something like that?”
As he prepared to answer, she threw up a finger to stop him. “And something else to think about, Prince Charming, you didn’t just risk your own life, you risked the lives of your clan! And what was all that nonsense about me raising Hadley? Are you so much of an imbecile that you don’t realize how much she loves you—needs you? Or maybe how much Hadley would resent being raised by a woman who allowed her brother to go to his death to cover the woman in questions ass?”
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