Quinn Security

by Dee Bridgnorth

  The question had been rhetorical so Conor didn’t voice a response, not that he had one. He and his brothers had already tried everything they could think of. They’d hunted through Yellowstone in search of the rogue werewolf who had been terrorizing their town for months. They’d taken painstaking measures to comb through the old Halsey land as well. They even carried stone-sized amethyst crystals in their pockets, wishing stones that their Grandmother Sasha had provided them with. The crystals tended to heat up whenever Dante was near and were apt to do the same when they came into contact with one of Dante’s damned. But if Conor was being honest with himself, even that hadn’t been fail-proof or consistent.

  “It’s just you and me, brother,” he told Dean, as he angled over the table, leaning in as far as he could and keeping his deep voice low.

  But Dean didn’t agree. “We’re all in this together.”

  “You and I are vulnerable in ways that our older brothers aren’t, and you know it,” he pushed.

  Dean couldn’t argue. Neither of them had found and bonded with their one true mates. Their older brothers had.

  Troy had found Reece Gladstone. They’d joined in eternal bonds, Reece having been turned werewolf and connected souls with their wolf king. Kaleb had united with Lucy Cooper, following the same ancient ritual, and as far as Conor was concerned, Kaleb had hit the real jackpot with that one. Lucy was powerful. Even Grandmother Sasha had described the willowy blonde as being more powerful than all of the werewolves of their pack combined. And most recently, Shane had joined eternal bonds with Whitney Abernathy, a fiery redhead who tended to the horses at the corral stables in Yellowstone.

  They were all protected. Dante couldn’t touch them, would never be able to end their lives, because they had found their one true mates.

  Conor and Dean hadn’t been so lucky.

  “I mean, hell,” Conor went on. “You were shot with a silver bullet,” he reminded his brother, Dante Alighieri having taken aim and fired when they’d battled him out on the old Halsey land to save Reece Gladstone’s mortal life. “If that bullet had struck you five inches to the left, it would’ve cut clear through your heart.”

  Dean didn’t appear to need the reminder. He’d been shot in the shoulder and it had been very, very bad for him. It had only been by their grandmother’s hand that he’d lived, Sasha having worked her ancient magic over him to save his life.

  “I need to find her,” Conor confided.

  “Who?”

  “I don’t know who,” he complained. “That’s the problem.”

  His brother picked up on the sentiment. “That’s not the right reason to want to bond with your one true mate.”

  “It’s as good a reason as any,” he maintained, but Dean didn’t seem to agree.

  “The bond is destined,” he said. “Eternal. It’s fate, not a cheap ploy to save your ass.”

  “I’m not aiming for a cheap ploy,” Conor told him hotly, even though he had to wonder, but he dropped it, leaning back on his side of the red, vinyl booth as their waitress returned with two steaming plates of steak.

  The cook had overcooked it. Conor frowned down at his porterhouse. Angel Mercer wasn’t cooking in the kitchen is what his burnt-to-a-crisp lunch told him.

  Angel was one of them now, a pure-hearted werewolf. Though Dante Alighieri had turned her into one of his damned and forced her to do his dark bidding, her love for Jack Quagmire had ultimately saved her. Jack’s love in return had as well. Jack Quagmire was a werewolf, an important member of the Quinn pack. He owned the one bar in town, Libations, and had been carrying a torch for Angel for as long as anyone could remember. His admiration for her had eventually won, and through love, patience, and determination, they’d finally united, Troy having come into his full gift of foresight and broken the bonds that had been tying her to the devil of Devil’s Fist.

  Even Jack had found his one true mate. What in the hell was taking the universe so long to present Conor with the same gift?

  As he sawed into his leathery steak, Dean chowing down as well, Rachel Clancy came to mind.

  Rachel Clancy was a no-nonsense police officer who Conor happened to respect. It was no secret around the Fist that Rachel had been vying to make detective and had likely only been held back from the well-deserved promotion because the sheriff tended to consistently overlook the woman in his precinct.

  Rachel was tall and athletic with wavy, chocolate-brown hair that matched her big brown eyes, both of which Conor really happened to like.

  He’d felt drawn to her for quite some time now and there had been a close call in Devil’s Advocate not long ago where Dante had nearly succeeded in enchanting her into surrendering to his dark power. Conor had shown up in the little souvenir shop just in time to break the spell. He’d pulled Rachel into his arms, shielding her eyes from Dante so that the dark connection would be broken, and if he wasn’t mistaken, he’d felt a spark of something real between him and Rachel at that critical moment.

  But PO Rachel Clancy was right up there with the sheriff. She was tenacious and discerning. She believed werewolves were among the innocent, mortal residents of the Fist, and she had every intention of exposing each and every one of them.

  There was no way she could be destined to be Conor Quinn’s one true mate. If anything, she was a dangerous adversary, one who had managed—through ironclad policework and determination like he’d never before seen—to figure out that Angel Mercer was a werewolf, as well as others. She’d also linked Angel to Dante and had come radically close to discovering that all of the Quinn men were as well.

  And yet, Conor had been finding it harder and harder to keep her out of his head.

  As if allowing his mind to wander in her direction had conjured her, Rachel breezed into the diner and neared the counter. She was suited up in her dress-blues, her policewoman uniform starched, her wavy hair pulled up in a tight, no-nonsense ponytail.

  Conor couldn’t help but stare as Rachel waited patiently for a to-go cup of coffee. Man, she made that androgynous uniform look feminine. It was in her long limbs and delicate curves that the starched material hugged so perfectly that enhanced her femininity. No one could pull off dress-blues like Rachel. He wondered if she would be heading back to the station once she got her cup of Joe.

  “Hey,” Dean said gently, pulling his attention back to the meal they’d nearly finished. “We’re in the same boat. I’ll give you that. But you can’t seek out and try to force connecting with your one true mate. It doesn’t work like that.”

  “Yeah,” he allowed. “You’re probably right.”

  But deep down, Conor was far from agreement and he had every intention to do just that.

  ***

  At about the time Conor was following Rachel with his light eyes, watching the poised policewoman sprinkle sugar into her coffee before starting down the sidewalk, across Main Street Sheriff Rick Abernathy had locked himself inside of his office at the station.

  He’d broken out into a cold sweat and knew exactly what it meant.

  He was being pulled in a very dark direction.

  Quickly, he jerked the curtains closed, not that anyone was strolling down Abernathy Way and would spy him, but it was better to be safe than sorry.

  Christ, he had a street named after him to honor all that he has done for this town over the course of his many decades serving as sheriff, and this was what had become of him.

  His breathing grew shallow and clipped. His hands stiffened into cramped claws. It felt like every muscle in his body was cramping up badly, his skin on fire, his heart racing.

  He collapsed into his office chair and pinched his eyes closed, willing the pain to subside even though he knew that no amount of prayer and willful thoughts would have the power to save him.

  The pull was much too strong.

  Why in the hell was this happening now? It was broad daylight and Wyoming wasn’t in the waxing or waning throes of a full moon. Rick had been adamant about checking the
moon cycles online. The next wasn’t due for at least two weeks and yet here he was, writhing and twisting in the torture of turning wolf.

  As his incisors elongated into fangs and he began salivating with tremendous hunger—he had been refusing to fall prey to his dark urges, the bloodthirst, the devilish need to feed on fresh human flesh—there came a pounding on his office door.

  “Go away!” he barked.

  “Sheriff?”

  “I said leave me be!” he called out even louder.

  The last thing he needed was for PO Rachel Clancy to barge in and discover what was really happening to him.

  She looked up to him. Rick had been hard on her since she’d first passed the police academy in Jackson Hole and had returned to the Fist, bright-eyed and eager to protect and serve the town she’d been born and raised in. It was for her own damn good, as far as he was concerned, that he’d always questioned and challenged her. It was also for the good of Devil’s Fist. The deck was stacked against Rachel and it might not have been her fault. She probably hadn’t asked to be female. That’s just what God turned her into in her mama’s womb. She probably hadn’t even asked to have been filled with the ambition of becoming a policewoman, though Rick often questioned whether or not she truly was responsible for the big dreams that had taken root in her heart. He felt strongly that she would better serve the town if she worked as a sales girl at Acorn Fashion & Accessories or perhaps if she had gotten interested in becoming a stylist. Hell, the Fist was in need of a ladies’ salon. Why couldn’t that have been the height of her aspirations?

  He didn’t like being a hard ass. It didn’t give him pleasure to reject her applications for her detective badge. He was looking out for all the residents of this town. How could they feel safe with some brittle-boned, willowy woman assigned to protect them from the incredible dangers that had been sweeping through the Fist recently?

  He refused to allow it, but given his current state of unrest, he felt like an ass about it.

  Dante Alighieri had slipped into his office. He’d bitten Rick and turned him. Rick knew he was damned. He could feel it, the dark, devilish blood coursing through his veins. How did he expect to keep the residents of his precious town safe now? In the blink of an eye, he’d been turned into an enemy of Devil’s Fist. What in the hell was he going to do?

  He didn’t know and all he could think to try was to quarantine himself behind closed and locked doors as soon as the horrifying urge to kill came over him.

  “You alright in there, Sheriff?” Rachel called out through the door.

  “I’m fine!” he barked. “I don’t need you distracting me!”

  He listened out, hoping to hear the sounds of her footfall padding away from his door, as his enflamed skin pricked with thick fur. It felt like a thousand needles pressing up through his sweaty skin, and there was nothing he could do to stop it.

  “Sir,” she called out, “I thought I might swing by Devil’s Advocate, talk to the owner and salesclerks since that’s the last place any of us have seen Alighieri, and—”

  “Fine!”

  “I can go?”

  “Yes, you can go! Just go!” he ordered as his bones began to bend.

  He finally heard her start away from the door and seconds later he collapsed into his wolf form, his brain scrambling, thoughts shattering, mind coming apart like a juicy peach.

  He fought through the fog of his addled brain to remind himself that wolves couldn’t turn doorknobs. The officers and detectives outside the door would be safe. At least for now. Rick would have no way of getting to them.

  ***

  Having parted ways with Dean, who was heading back to Quinn Security on the west side of the Fist, Conor promised to meet him and the rest of their brothers at the private security firm offices in a bit.

  Not only had PO Rachel Clancy caught his eye, Conor had got it into his head that the most pragmatic approach would be to try to talk to her, find out what she knows about werewolves in the Fist, gather her suspicions, and bring the intel back to Quinn Security to inform his brothers of exactly where the police’s investigation currently stood.

  He’d taken his sweet time paying the bill and starting outside. He’d spied Rachel ducking into the station so he’d chosen to linger on the sidewalk in front of Angel’s Food so that he could keep his eye on the station across the street.

  All of Devil’s Fist was in the full throes of summertime. The blue skies overhead looked vast and endless. There were fluffy popcorn clouds lazing across, the occasional eagle soaring through the sky. The air was hot yet fresh. Conor’s keen sense of smell easily picked up the cool forest scent of Yellowstone that was a solid five miles off, in the west. He detected the rich scent of evergreens and hemlocks breezing through.

  He loved this town with all his heart. He loved how quaint and quiet it was. He found it charming, every resident like a storybook character in a child’s tale. The peace had been greatly disrupted and the mere thought of Dante Alighieri made his jaw clench and broad shoulders turn stiff and rigid.

  It was all Grandmother Sasha’s fault. He hated thinking in those terms, but how could he not? Centuries ago, before his grandmother had united with her one true mate, before the hand of fate had guided her heart, she’d gone to bed with a mortal who hadn’t been meant for her, and it had resulted in the unthinkable. A pregnancy. She’d borne Dante in secret and ushered him off to fend for himself, but the rogue werewolf who was half-wolf and all monster, had never forgotten his roots.

  When Sasha united finally with her one true mate, the werewolf king, and birthed Xavier, Xavier soon became the rightful heir of the werewolf throne. Lurking on the outskirts of the clan, Dante had felt murderously slighted. He’d thought he deserved the crown as the eldest son of Sasha. That was when he’d begun to plot his dark plan. But it wasn’t until Troy had inherited the throne next, after Xavier’s passing, that Dante had put his plan into motion.

  All of the Quinn men knew—along with their entire pack—that Dante would never stop. He was hellbent on dethroning Troy and the only way he knew how to do it was to secretly turn the residents of Devil’s Fist werewolf and gradually build his army of the damned. Conor could feel it with every fiber of his being that sooner or later, Dante would drive his army to ambush Devil’s Fist…

  …and none of this would have been happening had Sasha maintained her purity and patiently waited for her one true mate to enter her life.

  Conor felt torn and conflicted. He didn’t want to blame his grandmother, and though he couldn’t help how he felt, he also couldn’t deny that his own heart might be pulling him in the same dangerous direction that Sasha herself had traversed all those centuries ago.

  He would have to keep a lid on his desire to ferret out his one true mate. The instinct to do so was nearly blinding him. What if he became so impatient, so urgent to save his own skin—driven by the fear that if he didn’t find his one true mate and bond with her that he’d be at grave risk to be killed at Dante’s hand—that he connected with someone he was never meant to be with? What if he got that woman pregnant and she bore another rogue werewolf? He would never forgive himself.

  He wasn’t going to let himself make the same mistake as the grandmother he so harshly judged. He resolved, with conviction, that he must remain patient and abide by his brother and king’s enlightened directive. Troy would—sooner or later—know who was destined to become Conor’s one true mate. The werewolf king would see it with the gift of foresight. Then, and only then, would Conor become proactive.

  But though he told himself this, issuing a firm warning against the urgency that had riled up in his heart, when PO Rachel Clancy emerged from the police station, there was nothing Conor felt he could do to stop himself from crossing the street and following after her as she ducked into the little souvenir shop next to the precinct.

  Conor entered Devil’s Advocate, as well.

  Armed with the conviction that he needed to talk to Rachel in order to a
scertain what she did and didn’t know about werewolves and also what she did and didn’t know about the Quinns, he edged into the cool store and lingered around a rotating display of postcards, as Rachel neared the salesgirl behind the counter.

  “Hey, there,” Rachel said, greeting the perky girl behind the counter who looked like she was fresh out of college if not still enrolled and biding her summers working at the souvenir shop to make a little extra spending money. “Is Adelaide around?”

  “She’s in the back,” the girl informed her in response to Rachel’s inquiry about the owner of the store. “Is there something I can help you with, Officer?”

  “I’d just like to speak with Adelaide,” she maintained, though she gave the girl an easy smile meant to dispel any apprehension she might have. “You can tell her it’s about the apartment.”

  “Sure,” she agreed. “Mind keeping an eye on things?” she asked as she slid her suspicious eyes over to Conor. “I’m the only one on the floor and Adelaide’s been holding me responsible for pickpockets.”

  Rachel glanced over her shoulder and when Conor felt her eyes on him, he met her gaze and offered her a friendly smile.

  “Of course,” Rachel agreed and the salesgirl rounded out from behind the register and made her way through the store then slipped around the employees-only door in the back. “Why do I not believe a Quinn would be in the market for a Yellowstone postcard?” she asked good-naturedly as she joined Conor in front of the stand.

  Thinking fast on his feet, he allowed, “You got me there, though these are mighty nice.”

  Rachel laughed though her big, brown eyes were full of skepticism.

  Conor mentioned, “Last anyone’s seen Dante Alighieri was right in here, so…” He let her mentally fill in the blank then asked, “Is that why you’ve stopped in?”

  “As a matter of fact, no,” she told him. The energy between them felt electric, and Conor wondered if she was thinking the same thing he was, that the last time they were in here he’d held her firmly in his strong arms for a long moment that even to this day he wished could have lasted forever. “I’m interested in the apartment upstairs.”