Wicked Hour

by Chloe Neill

  “Yeah,” Connor said ruefully. “This place is more of a mess than I’d imagined. So I’m glad I have backup.”

  “It’s a shame you can’t rely on Miranda for that.”

  “I could rely on her if things got hairy because she’s Pack, and she’s Chicago Pack. But no, she won’t take a silver bullet for me.”

  “I’ll make you a deal,” I said. “You take an aspen stake for me, and I’ll take a silver bullet for you.”

  “Deal,” Connor said, and lowered his mouth to mine. The kiss was soft, almost teasing, and enough to have my blood speeding.

  But dawn was coming, and my eyes were growing heavy. I yawned, apologized. “Sorry. Biological mandate.”

  “No worries,” he said. “I’m not in any hurry. I mean—don’t get me wrong. I want you. And want for you, Elisa, is a powerful thing.” He brushed his lips over mine. “A powerful thing,” he said again, and kissed me softly. “But we don’t need to rush. Especially not when the wanting is so much fun.”

  I smiled against his mouth. “There is something . . . intoxicating . . . about the anticipation.”

  “There absolutely is,” he said slowly. “And the other reason I can wait?” He slipped his mouth across my jaw to my ear and whispered, “Because I know it will be very, very worth it.”

  ELEVEN

  The next evening—since we were now on a mission—we walked across the resort toward the lodge instead of beginning the drive home. Tonight, the shifters would decide on Loren’s memorial. That discussion would be very telling.

  My screen chirped, and I pulled it out, found a call from Petra. I accepted it, watched her face appear on screen. She had light brown skin and wide, dark eyes, her hair and brows both dark but for the golden highlights in her hair.

  “Talk to me,” I said as we moved off the main path and into the shadow of some trees. “But be quiet about it.”

  “Two things,” Petra said. “First, Theo and I passed your update along to Yuen, and Gabriel Keene also made a call. Yuen says be careful, provide a further update when you can, and keep an eye on your six. Do you know what your six is?”

  “I do,” I said, lips twitching. “Why didn’t Theo respond?”

  “Because all hell has broken loose.”

  My heart gave a thud, and I imagined flying monsters and magic battles. “In Chicago? What’s wrong?”

  “Oh, nothing with Supernaturals. Theo just discovered a copy of Mindmasters number four is up for auction today. He’s bidding. Yuen’s actually along for moral support.”

  I’d have sworn my mental brakes squealed as my thoughts ground to a halt. “A copy of what?”

  “What’s the condition?” Connor asked before Petra could answer.

  I just stared at him.

  “What?” he said with a grin. “That’s an important comic. First appearance of the Silver Champion.”

  I frowned. “He’s the one who went from killing werewolves to working with them, right?”

  “That’s him,” Connor said. “And they fought together against Captain Goliath.”

  Seeing his face light, I realized we’d talked about this before—years before, when Connor had been fourteen or fifteen. He’d had an enormous collection of comic books, but he’d reached the age where he didn’t think it was cool to be into anything, at least as far as his shifter friends were concerned.

  My parents had taken me to his house for dinner, where we’d also been joined by Lulu and her parents. While our parents had talked, we’d hung out in the basement, a shabby den that had been newly stuffed with boxes of comics.

  “Are you finally moving far, far away?” Lulu had asked.

  “Comics,” Connor had said, flipping through one. I’d sidled behind him, looking over the panels. They’d been beautifully drawn, with watercolor tones and expressive lines.

  “Who’s the Silver Champion?” I’d asked.

  “Werewolf killer,” he had said, then closed it and tossed it into the nearest box. “And before you get snarky, brat, he comes around eventually. Every man has a journey,” he’d added with attempted gravity. He sat on a weight bench in jeans and a T-shirt, lifting a dumbbell and trying very hard to look like he wasn’t trying very hard. “I’m getting rid of them.”

  “Why?” I’d asked him. “You love comics.”

  He’d shrugged, began to do curls. “I’m growing out of it. You’re still children,” he’d said with a cocky grin. “You wouldn’t understand.”

  He’d been a punk but correct. I’d been thirteen, had my own collections that straddled childhood and adolescence. Holographic nail polish—which was becoming a Very Big Deal for girls older than me—and the vampire Barbies I hadn’t played with in years but couldn’t bear to part with.

  “I understand plenty,” Lulu said, snorting as she kicked her feet onto the coffee table. “For example, I understand you’re going to have to spend a lot more time lifting those weights.”

  He’d been whip lean then, didn’t have nearly the muscle he’d eventually grown into. “Why don’t you come over here and lift it, witch?”

  Her eyes had fired; she hadn’t liked that word. “Why don’t you shove it, puppy?”

  They’d argued like that for fifteen more minutes, until Connor or Lulu—or maybe both of them—had stormed into some other part of the house. I’d peeked into the closest box, found a battered book of manga, and settled in to read.

  “The comic is in mint condition,” Petra was saying. “Theo saved up.”

  “Good luck to him,” Connor said. “Nice addition to anyone’s collection.”

  “So Theo and Yuen are currently indisposed,” I said mildly. “You said you had two things—what’s the second?”

  “Second, I have information regarding your cryptid,” she said.

  “Give it to me, baby.”

  “The Beast of Owatonna,” she said, drawing out the words like a storyteller around a crackling fire.

  “Ha!” I said, and poked Connor in the arm.

  Petra’s expression fell. She looked disappointed we hadn’t responded with confusion and surprise. “You already know about it? Then why did you call me?”

  Connor rolled his eyes. “We know it’s nonsense. Local hokum.”

  “A shifter suggested the Beast of Owatonna was involved,” I explained. “But we’re nowhere near Owatonna.”

  “And the footprints were made by a real creature,” Connor muttered.

  Petra rolled her eyes. “The story only begins in Owatonna. It does not end there.”

  “Few good stories do,” he said.

  I put a hand on his arm. “For the sake of argument, why do you think this is the Beast of Owatonna?”

  “Because the shoe fits,” she said. “Or the footprint, anyway. Like you guessed—the track wasn’t made by any known domestic or wild animal, and certainly not by anything that’s native to the area. Too long, too wide.”

  “But it matches tracks made by the Beast?” I asked.

  “Technically,” she said, “we don’t know that, because there aren’t any confirmed tracks of the Beast. But,” she said, raising a finger, “the Beast is wolfish but bigger. Stalks prey throughout north and central Minnesota, usually at night. Prey is usually livestock. Sheep, cows, roosters. And, drum roll, there are multiple reports of attacks on humans.”

  “What kind of attacks?” I asked.

  “The humans generally report they were assaulted by big, hairy, canine-type creatures. Some reports have them on four legs. Some reports have them on two. Chasing, lacerations, torn clothing, bites. And one alleged incidence of interspecies flirting.”

  “Someone was propositioned by the Beast of Owatonna?” Connor asked.

  “That’s the story. Mildred Farmington of Albert Lea, Minnesota, says she was walking back to her home from her neighbor’s house when the Beast
approached and began to flirt with her.” Petra looked down, frowned at something offscreen. “Quote, ‘She was wooed weekly for approximately seven weeks, at which time she told the Beast she was unwilling to make a commitment, and the Beast moved on,’ unquote.”

  Connor whistled. “And humans think Sups are bizarre.”

  “Humans are the strangest of all,” I said. “At least we have a magical excuse. Tell us more.”

  Maybe—okay, almost certainly—this wasn’t really the Beast of Owatonna. But maybe, like many other tall tales, the tales had some origin in fact. Maybe there was some clue we could glean out of the stories.

  “It’s a carnivore. Has a taste for chickens—they tend to go missing when the Beast is roaming. It’s more active in the summertime. Not active at all in the winter.”

  Much like a hibernating bear, I thought.

  “Prefers to hunt after one o’clock in the morning, during what they call the ‘wicked hour.’”

  “Is that like the witching hour?”

  “Wicked,” Petra said, “as in the Beast is selective about who it eats.”

  “What do you mean, ‘selective’?” Connor asked. “It only eats the plumpest, most tender humans?”

  “A tried-and-true plan of attack, but no. It’s morally particular. The Beast’s victims have always done evil deeds. There was a deer poacher, an insurance fraudster, a lady who ran a Ponzi scheme and bilked a dozen Minnesotans out of their pensions.”

  Connor just rolled his eyes. “So the Beast was punishing white-collar crime.”

  “You sound skeptical,” she said, her tone entirely reasonable. “And I understand that. But if you’re going to believe in human-eating North Woods beasts, better they do a good deed along the way by ridding the world of the wicked.”

  While I was still 90 percent convinced the Beast of Owatonna was nonsense, she had a point.

  Maybe Loren’s attack had been random, the result of some animal we hadn’t yet identified. But if it wasn’t random, wasn’t just an attack, then someone had selected him. Someone had attacked him on purpose. Why? Because of something he’d done? Something he knew? Something the attacker was afraid he might do?

  I thought about the violence that had been done to his body. It looked like punishment. So who would want to punish Loren? And for what? And did Paisley have something to do with it?

  “Thanks for taking a look,” I said after a moment. “We appreciate it.”

  “You find any more evidence, send it along. And, Elisa?”

  “Yes, Petra.”

  “Beware of government types in ill-fitting black suits. You never know who else may be looking for the Beast.”

  She ended the call then, a nice bit of dramatic flair for the X-files-worthy send-off. I slid the screen back into my pocket, cleared my throat before looking up at Connor. And seeing the expected know-it-all expression on his face.

  “We had to ask,” I said. “And notwithstanding the Beast, she’s ruled out any native animals. So it’s progress. And we’ll keep an eye out for the feds, just in case.”

  He just rolled his eyes.

  * * *

  * * *

  There was more magic in the lodge today, spilling beneath the closed doors like smoke from a very energized fire. It wasn’t broken, but it did have an edge of heat that said discussions about Loren’s memorial were not going smoothly.

  The shifters hadn’t even made it upstairs, but were clustered in the lobby—Cash, Georgia, and Everett standing in front of the fireplace as shifters around them yelled out their concerns.

  We worked our way through the edge of the crowd, Georgia giving us a small nod in acknowledgment, and watched as a young shifter did the same on the other side of the horde. Maybe nineteen, tall and on the lean side. He was pale but had sun-kissed skin and dirty-blond hair that was combed forward to flop over his face. Brown eyes topped by thick brows, a square, narrow jaw, a wide but thin mouth.

  “Loren doesn’t deserve a memorial,” he said, eyes hard. “He brought nothing but trouble to the clan.”

  “Kid’s name is Traeger,” Connor whispered.

  “Loren was an elder,” Cash said.

  “Not because the clan wanted it,” Traeger insisted. “He’s not even a wolf. That means he’s not Pack. Not really.”

  Even I knew that wasn’t the rule; the Brecks were panthers, and Jeff Christopher was very much a tiger. All of them were Pack. But there were murmurs of agreement in the crowd.

  “I’m coyote,” Everett said. “That doesn’t matter, either, and you know it. We’re family as far as family’s concerned.”

  “He’s Pack,” Georgia agreed. “By choice and by blood. The Pack isn’t just wolves.” She looked at Connor for confirmation.

  Connor glanced at Cash, doing him the courtesy of getting his approval before entering the fray, and when he got the nod, he looked at Traeger. “She’s right,” he said. “Pack is geography, self-identification. He’s a shifter in our territory, says he’s a Pack member, then he’s a Pack member.”

  “Fine,” Traeger said. “So he’s Pack. Then he’s not clan. He’s not part of our family. Not by blood. He married in. That doesn’t mean shit.”

  “These are all technicalities,” Cash said, frustration clear in his voice. “We get that you had issues with him, Traeger. But he was part of our community, one of our elders. He did his part to work for the clan, and his death was violent. The least we can do is give him honors in death.”

  Traeger made a sound of frustration, shook his head.

  I thought the least they could do was find his killer, but maybe that was just me. For all their nerves the night before, the clan didn’t seem to be much interested in diving into the cause of Loren’s untimely death. Was that avoidance? Guilt?

  I looked at Traeger, wondering how deep his dislike went—and what “troubles” Loren might have caused. And if Traeger’s anger over them might have moved him to murder. Considering the number of injuries and the amount of damage done, someone had been very, very angry at Loren.

  Traeger seemed angry enough to kill. But we’d all been angry at someone sometime, and very few of us actually committed murder. And there was no evidence linking Traeger to the death, at least not yet. But maybe we could have a few words. . . .

  “The memorial will go forward,” Cash said, which sent a new wave of sound through the crowd. Some approval, some anger. “We’ll address the details—whether he’ll be honored with song, with magic, with sacrifice—in private council.” His gaze landed on me, suspicion keen. “This isn’t the time or place to have those discussions.”

  Cash looked away, spread his gaze across the shifters at large. “The clan accepts violence is inevitable. Nature is not soft, and neither are we. Nature is hard, and strength is rewarded, and sometimes we must fight for what we want.”

  I glanced at Connor, wondered what he thought of the clan’s liberal attitude toward violence, and found cold disapproval in his eyes.

  “Because of that,” Cash continued, “we hold the sheriff—the human justice system—at bay so the clan can make its own decisions. But the injuries done to Loren were not sanctioned by the clan, and no one has presented evidence they were warranted. If I find out any of you were involved, there will be hell to pay.”

  This time, Traeger was the recipient of Cash’s cold gaze. Maybe Cash, too, believed Traeger was capable.

  But the chill in his eyes disappeared—blanked out—when a hush moved through the room, filling it with utter silence. And a cold spill of magic followed in its wake.

  The hair on the back of my neck lifted. I knew that magic.

  Vampire.

  I turned around, watched the crowd slide apart, smooth as the slice of a dagger.

  He walked through them, the shifters giving him hard looks and ample space as he made his way toward Cash.

&
nbsp; He was a handsome man, with dark brown skin and cropped black hair, brown eyes topped by a heavy brow, and generous lips just a little heavier at the bottom, and edged by a short beard. He wore a black tunic of stiff linen with a short collar and a V-neck, pants in the same stiff fabric, black shoes, and a silver cuff on his right wrist. He wore no sword, carried no other obvious weapon. But he was the one in charge, if his square shoulders and stern expression were any clue.

  Two vampires appeared behind him. A man, tall and broad shouldered, with tan skin and dark hair—short on the sides, waved back on top—and a woman with pale skin and blond hair in a complicated braid around the crown of her head. They wore tunics of the same style, same color as the first vampire’s.

  If the shifters objected to vampires walking through their lodge, they didn’t say it aloud. But Connor moved a step closer to me.

  “Ronan,” Cash said, nodding at the vampire in front. This was the vampire my father had mentioned.

  “We heard of Loren’s death,” Ronan said. “We come to offer our sympathies.”

  “Appreciated,” Cash said. “Loren was an elder, a statesman, and he’ll be missed.”

  There were obviously some who disagreed with that assessment, including Traeger. But they kept their mouths shut. They might debate whether Loren was clan, but he was plainly a shifter. So they presented a unified front to the outside. To the vampires. Shifters versus the world.

  “I always appreciated his thoughtfulness,” Ronan said. “He was a cautious and careful man. And above all, he loved the family that he found here and desired to protect it. The authorities were contacted?”

  “Sheriff Paulson came out,” Cash said. “Took a look at the scene, agreed with us that an animal attack was probably to blame. We searched Loren’s house, didn’t find anything. Found nothing compelling in the woods indicating his death had anything to do with the Pack.”

  That wasn’t even close to accurate. And while my first instinct was to wonder if Georgia had told Cash what we’d found, the fact that Cash’s gaze shifted to Connor—and contained a pretty obvious warning—answered that question. He knew the truth, but was holding it close. Maybe there were some in the room who believed him regardless. But I wondered.