by SM Reine
“That looks like a rock,” Sheriff Adair said.
“I just explained that it is rock, but a very specific kind of magical rock,” Sophie said.
“I’ve never heard of any such thing.”
“If gargoyles are in the region, then they are much likelier to be the cause of death than werewolves,” she said. “I can prepare a statement, if you would find that helpful.”
“Abel Wilder has been arrested six times under four different aliases.” Sheriff Adair had lit the candle successfully, and now flipped open a file on his desk. A photograph of Abel’s profile was clipped to the top. “This man is trouble. The fact that he grows claws twice a month doesn’t help, but it’s not the only determining factor for a suspect. Do you have any other ‘evidence’?”
“You’ve barely looked at this piece,” she said.
“You could have gotten it off the sidewalk.”
“Does my testimony mean nothing?”
He slammed his hands onto the desk. “Look. Lady. You’ve got something going on with Lincoln, and he’s having fun with it. But you’re gonna pass like all his rebellious phases, and I’m not gonna pretend I like you in the meantime. Not even for family.”
“You don’t have to like me to do your job,” Sophie said. She shoved the fragment of skin into his face, forcing him to see it. That wasn’t even why she was there. Not really. She only needed to stall for time. Yet now the principle of the thing had become as important, and she couldn’t let it slide. “For the sake of justice, look!”
“What do you know about justice?” he asked. “Don’t you know that fifty years ago, I could have done anything to you that I wanted? Anything at all?”
Her spine went rigid. “Pardon me?”
The sheriff ripped the stone skin from her hand. “Now, I’m not gonna do anything to you,” Sheriff Adair said. His tone was restrained, but the redness of his mottled skin betrayed his rage. “The world’s not how it used to be in all sorts of ways. You’ve got special rights. Nobody’s going to touch you.”
He hurled the stone at her. It struck Sophie on the cheek. Her fingers flew to the injury—a bloodless sting. It had ricocheted to the floor between them.
“Nobody’s going to touch you,” he said again. “But you oughta know your place, say thanks, and stay the fuck out of places where you don’t belong.”
The moon was so big over Mortise that it looked like Abel should have been able to reach out the window of his cell and grab it in his fist. It had been full the night before. It was the same silvery gold as Rylie’s eyes.
Rylie had looked so worried when Abel got into the police car. How could she be anything but worried? She was at home without him, taking care of their new baby alone, right when she needed him the most.
She needed him to be strong.
Instead, he’d gotten his ass stuck in a jail cell. Again.
And he didn’t even need to be in there.
That was the part that galled the most.
He’d grown up knowing the police weren’t there to serve and protect men like him, so that was nothing new. The reminder was no worse than having grit rubbed into a wound that had been bleeding for years.
Yet in the past, when he’d been picked up for “looking suspicious”—usually when he’d been wandering around towns at night, doing nothing worse than keeping watch for his mom—he’d been a human being with human strength, easily confined by handcuffs, metal bars, and cinderblock walls.
Nothing the police had could stop him now. Nothing prevented him from punching a hole in the wall and walking out.
Still, he stayed.
The knowledge twisted like a venomous serpent in his guts. If Rylie never forgave him for letting himself be kept here, he’d understand. Every moment he sat on that bench instead of being with the pack was some kind of betrayal.
“I need my medicine,” Verna moaned from the corner. “God, my medicine. It hurts. Someone, please.” She wasn’t even crying at Abel. It was the helpless cry of a woman who knew nobody was listening but prayed a higher power would rise up for her anyway.
“Hey,” Abel said. “Talk to me. What are you feeling?”
“I’m so sorry,” she said. “Without my medicine, I’m going to soil myself. I know you have a better sense of smell than most. I can’t help it. I’m sorry.”
“Jesus, don’t apologize to me. Where the fuck did those assholes go?” He slammed his hands on the bars. Raised his voice. “Hey! Someone! She needs help!”
In the silence that followed the fading echo of his voice, there was only more room for his anger to rise.
Verna was crying again.
“I’m sorry,” she said.
Abel wasn’t there for his pack, his mate, his baby. But he was here for Verna. A cell apart, unable to touch, but there. “Don’t apologize again or I’ll bite you, all right? We’ll get you fixed up. I’m Abel, by the way. Who’re you?” He’d heard her name before, but he wanted to get her talking.
“I’m nobody,” Verna said. “Nobody.”
He clenched his fists around the bars. If he just bent a few, would anyone even notice? “Let me tell you something I’ve learned. Are you listening to me?” She nodded, face streaked with tears. “If you were nobody, you wouldn’t hurt. You’re in pain because you’re alive, and that means you’re somebody. You’re not nobody. Now what’s your name?”
She whispered, “Verna.”
“We’re gonna get out, Verna,” Abel said. “You’re gonna get meds, and we’re gonna be free. We’ll do it together.”
“Why?” she asked.
“I already told you, because you’re not nobody.”
“But even if I’m someone, I’m still human,” Verna said. “I’m not with your…” She couldn’t seem to think of the word for it. The moon shined yellow on her face, deepening the shadows under her eyes. Her collarbones stuck out like razor-edged wings through the gaping neck of her t-shirt.
Abel’s throat was raw, his voice ragged. “We’re neighbors. We get out together.”
Hands appeared at Abel’s barred window. Pedregon’s tanned face rose up over the edge, bushy eyebrows topping the alert eyes of a watchful stag.
Abel closed the distance to the window. “What are you doing here?”
“I’m here to help,” Pedregon said. “You don’t plan to stay here until you can talk to a human judge, do you? They will find evidence to keep you here. The mundane justice system can always do whatever it wants, one way or another.”
Waiting for the mundane justice system would have been the ‘right’ thing to do. The least violent. The one that left Abel feeling both victimized and like he was complicit in his own torture. A path that would never get Verna from her cell to medical care, a comfortable bed, or someone to hug her, for fuck’s sake.
The right thing felt so wrong.
“The pack has been rowdy all night. They seem like they are about to riot.” Pedregon’s shoulders bunched as he pulled himself higher, bringing his chest up to window level. “They’re demanding answers from Rylie.”
That sent Abel back to the other day, finding Rylie and Benjamin at gunpoint.
Their new pack was filled with fresh shapeshifters from all walks of life. They could’ve been anyone.
They could’ve been out to hurt Rylie.
“If you want to stay, it looks like your son-in-law will take things in hand,” Pedregon added.
Abel’s hair stood on end. “Nash is handling things?” Nash Adamson wasn’t even a werewolf. Sure, he’d proven himself in the war, but the new idiots in the pack just might follow him away from the sanctuary to God only knew where.
Abel’s complacency would lose the pack.
“No,” Abel snarled.
Pedregon nodded knowingly. “Give the order, Alpha.”
“Open this jar of fucking pickles,” said Abel.
Pedregon pushed his feet against the wall and yanked back on the bars. Stone turned to dust. Metal groaned. He fell back,
leaving a huge open hole in Abel’s wall.
Abel swatted aside the bars between his cell and Verna’s. She weighed nothing—as little as Benjamin, as it seemed, and just as fragile.
“Hold onto me,” he said.
Abel leaped over the rubble to escape, Verna clutching his neck.
“What are you doing?” Pedregon asked. “She’s not one of ours.”
“She’s one of mine,” Abel said. He bared his teeth. He growled.
There must have been something in Abel’s face that Pedregon hadn’t seen before. The other shifter actually shied back.
Abel grabbed Pedregon’s arm, and together, they bolted into the forest.
Chapter 37
If there was one thing to be said about the department, it was that they’d always organized their files well; Lincoln found a thin file marked with John Marshall’s name from 1998 within minutes. But alarm klaxons sent Lincoln running from the records room before he could read anything.
That was the alarm they triggered when there was a security breach.
Men began yelling on the other side of the wall. He waited until a wave of footsteps passed before sliding into the hallway again, the folder tucked within his jacket.
Most of the building’s lights had been disabled to preserve power, but the alarm system still worked. It used the same sirens and lights as their fire system. The rhythmic flashing interspersed with lamplight as Lincoln fought the surge of deputies to search for Sophie.
She stumbled out of Noah’s office, clutching her heart. “Lincoln!”
He swept her out of the way of personnel who weren’t looking where they ran. “You all right?”
“Are you?” Sophie asked.
Lincoln didn’t have the time to answer. Noah was pushing out of his office now, shouldering a shotgun and looking fit to bite someone.
“Hide this,” Lincoln whispered, slipping the file to Sophie.
Noah stopped a deputy running past his office. “What’s this alarm? What happened?”
The deputy was sweating, frightened. “The werewolf prisoner just broke out.”
“Jesus Christ!” Noah swore.
The sheriff’s sentiments weren’t far removed from Lincoln’s. What was Abel thinking?
Sophie would have called that a foolish question from a foolish man, and she’d have been right. Lincoln had known everything would come to this. That there was no way the werewolves would submit to the rule of man. Noah had pushed too far, and now their entire family would pay for it.
“Are you gonna hunt Abel down?” Lincoln asked, shoving his way into the armory after Noah.
“No point doing that,” the sheriff said. “We’ll never catch up with him. But we know where he’s going. We’re going back to the sanctuary, deputies—and this time, not for an arrest!” He put a few boxes of ammunition into his pockets as the deputies oared their assent.
Sophie was shoved aside, dismissed as nothing. Forgotten. Lincoln got his foot stepped on a few times trying to protect her as the room emptied out, but it meant that he lost track of Noah. Lincoln was left at the back of the mob running for their cruisers.
The alarm kept wailing even as the chaos grew distant.
“What do we do?” Sophie asked with wide eyes.
Lincoln realized there was a large red weal on her cheek. “Did someone hit you when they were pushing around?”
“No. I’m fine.” She swatted aside his concerned hands. “They’re going to the sanctuary. We must do something, and the sheriff will not see sense.”
But he might be redirected. “If we can get the cops and the werewolves to run into each other at the gargoyle nest—”
“Yes!” She understood instantly. But her instant of excitement was just that—an instant. “It could work.”
“But?” he prompted.
“If it doesn’t work, the humans will be caught in the middle of a clash between werewolves and gargoyles,” Sophie said.
“It won’t happen,” Lincoln said.
“What if it does? Listen to me: you may be able to defeat the gargoyles without werewolf strength,” she said, speaking so fast that her words ran into each other. “One gargoyle will have a gemstone somewhere on its body. If you remove it, you will disconnect all of them from the witch.”
“And they’ll stop moving?”
“Yes, by sunrise at the latest,” Sophie said.
“Great,” Lincoln said. “So I’ll only have to run away from them all night if the werewolves don’t kill them.”
“Even terrible odds are better than no chances at all,” she said. “You defeated Ereshkigal without killing him. You can do this. You can save everyone.”
She was so full of shit, but it was the exact shit that Lincoln needed to hear right now. “Gemstone. All right. Thanks.” Sophie’s cheek was getting all swollen. There wasn’t time to figure out which asshole was responsible for it—but he could keep her from the action so she wouldn’t get hurt again. “While I’m doing that, I need you to take the file to the hospice. Watch my dad for me. Make sure he’s safe.”
“You mean, you want me to protect him?” Sophie asked. “Who will protect me, then?”
Lincoln took her gently by the elbows. She had one of those stupid totes hanging from her right arm, and a smaller pack over her shoulders. Knowing her, she was storing a miniature bomb shelter in one of them. “Shortcake, you don’t need anyone but yourself.”
She drew a deep breath. Nodded once. “Of course. On this one thing, you are right.”
“Ashley should be with my dad,” he said. “Have her call the pack—she’s got the number. I don’t care what she says to them so long as they’re at the caldera before I get there.”
“Of course,” Sophie said again.
He trusted that she would do what needed to be done. He didn’t even bother saying goodbye, even though Lincoln was as likely to get crushed between werewolf and golem as any of the police.
So Lincoln left Sophie behind with the file on his father—the account of his arrest—and he chased Noah to the sheriff-branded Jeep.
He was already pulling out of the parking lot. Lincoln leaped in front of the bumper, slapping its hood with both palms. The license plate nudged his shins.
Noah stuck his head through the window. “Out of the way, Marshall!”
“I’m not trying to get in your way. I want a ride,” Lincoln said. “I know where Abel went, and it’s not too late to catch him.”
Suspicion crossed Noah’s features. “Where?”
“They’ve got a hiding place up the mountain,” Lincoln said. “In the old caldera.”
“Are you trying to give the Alpha time to escape?”
“No,” he said, baring his panic, his anger. He didn’t have to fake anything. “Abel broke out of jail, Noah. It looks guilty. I guarantee that I’m just trying to get you guys to the same place he goes, without losing track of him.” If they didn’t get there before the werewolves killed the gargoyles, there wouldn’t be enough proof of the other monsters.
Noah nodded slowly. “Get in back.”
Lincoln leaped into the back of the Jeep. It roared into motion and took the lead in front of the other cars—one small human army rushing to their deaths.
The first earthquake struck while Sophie was still trying to figure out how to drive the Chevelle. She had watched both Abel and Lincoln closely while driving, so she knew to insert the key into the ignition, place her feet against the pedals, and steer using the wheel. Shifting between gears was going to be the only initial hurdle, she decided, since she was unfamiliar with the rhythms of the machinery, but Sophie planned to figure it out before reaching the Mortise hospice.
She thought the shaking might have been due to clumsy gear shifting at first. Or perhaps because she had turned the stereo system up all the way so that she could enjoy Abel Wilder’s music. He liked music with a good deal of bass—and so did she, Sophie realized—but even the insistent drumming could not explain away the vibrating
seat cushion.
Then a light post fell onto a gas station, and she noticed the pavement rolling beyond it. It was not one of the brief tremors that had rocked the mountain throughout the week. This one struck and kept going.
“No music is that good,” Sophie said.
She stomped on the far-left pedal, yanked on the shifting device, and lurched into the street. The Chevelle sounded less like a purring tiger now and more like a kicked puppy.
The earthquake repeated three times on the drive to Mortise. Each successive quake was ten seconds longer than the last. A distinct pattern suggesting building energy.
“That’s none too surprising,” Sophie said to herself, decelerating to take a mountainous turn. The car bucked around her. “It takes great energy to power gargoyles, and a witch summoning that much power will inevitably leak into her environs. My real question is why now? Why is the witch suddenly gathering power for her gargoyles when she cannot even know that police and pack are about to clash?”
She laughed at herself as soon as she asked the question. The answer was so obvious.
The witch controlling the gargoyles was either police or pack.
Sophie laughed most of the way to the hospice, simply because she feared she might cry if she stopped. She’d felt on the brink of tears ever since Noah had flung the rock at her face. It hadn’t even hurt that badly. It was the indignity and the injustice of it—the outrage. And knowing that there had been nothing to do about it.
She’d gotten out of his office as quickly as possible, but she hadn’t told Lincoln about the incident. She just wasn’t sure how he’d react. Sophie hoped he would become equally outraged, but it seemed equally likely that he would admonish her for provoking him.
In this, Sophie would not trust Lincoln.
But she would also never be caught alone with Noah Adair again.
Parking revealed itself to be much more difficult than learning to drive. The Chevelle stopped on the sidewalk in front of the hospice, and she hopped out to find that the tires had demolished a clutch of tulips. “Oh, I’m sorry,” she said to the flowers. She grabbed John Marshall’s file out of the front seat and rushed inside.
