Inside, Raphael and Mary stood in front, both of them wearing solemn expressions. Darkness fell under their eyes in crescents. Everywhere else, leaning against walls and bookcases, sitting on desks, tables and chairs, were more creatures than Alex could have hoped for. From weres to vampires, shapeshifters, a few witches, and a faery, they practically had an army here. Between them, there would be more than enough power to take out almost any opponent.
“Do we know who caused the damage?” the Alpha asked without preamble.
Alex shook his head. He had a hunch, but he wanted to be prepared for anything and anyone who might come at them.
At Mary’s urging, he told everyone in the room exactly what he’d seen, leaving out no gruesome detail. In order to protect Leila, they needed to know everything.
When he mentioned Leila’s condition, Mary flicked away a tear but showed no emotions otherwise. Harry, Sebastian’s assistant, wrote down every word he said, his hair turning an angrier shade of red by the moment. The young witch’s hair changed color based upon his mood, often revealing more than he wanted to. Now wasn’t one of those times.
“Does she know?” The way Briony asked the question, Alex had no way to gauge which answer she wanted to hear.
Either way, telling everyone the truth was too similar to the lie by omission he’d pulled on her months ago. Shame speared him when he spoke, but he straightened his shoulders just the same. This is the best way to keep her from harm.
“No.”
Mary’s quietly muttered, “Thank goodness,” shocked the hell out of him. His jaw dropped on its own accord, and Briony smiled as her mate simply stared at them all, bemused.
It was Harry who spoke. “You were a witch once.” His hair, long enough to hang over his ears now, had faded a few shades to a more muted crimson shade. “You know why you had to play it that way.”
Briony nodded, offering him a small smile.
Alex had almost expected as much from them, but he was still perplexed by Mary’s reaction. She didn’t know what they did, unless they spoke more openly about witch business than most covens allow. Then again, he hadn’t been in one for hundreds of years, so what did he know anymore?
“Stop looking at me like I grew a second head,” Mary told him wearily with a slow wave of her hand. Her green eyes became intense, belying the fatigue practically draped over her. “Haven’t you put it together? It happened once before, which I’m sure—” she broke off to look up at the ceiling for several seconds. When she lowered her head, her eyes were glassy but burning with anger. “I don’t think it’s a coincidence that the last time she was killed, it was due to a hole in her chest. She cannot go through that again.”
Hovering across the room, Wish nodded sharply.
The truth in Mary’s words fell upon Alex like a pile of bricks. He’d had a feeling the impending attack would be from the senator rather than the warlocks because the injuries he’d envisioned were not the type most members of the float would induce—they didn’t need guns, after all. But now, with the obvious fact he’d completely overlooked, there was no denying who they would fight in a matter of hours.
Senator Murphy would have her killed tonight in the same way she’d been murdered before.
“The good senator’s goals are about to drastically change,” Alex growled, his claws growing.
Affirmations of others, even werewolves he’d never met before, filled his ears.
Raphael hit the wall with a thundering noise that caused dust to fall from the ceiling fan and a framed picture to crash off its hook. The incensed roar, which had been growing louder by the second, fell into silence.
“It’s time to make a plan.”
* * * *
Newt Cunningham jumped at least two feet in the air when he received the call he’d been waiting for. Afraid Murphy would somehow see his contact list, he hadn’t listed her in his phone, opting to gauge who she was based on her New Orleans area code. This woman—Mary, she’d said—would protect him.
There was a chance she’d rescind the offer or wasn’t sincere to begin with, but he was so desperate he couldn’t consider that sort of practical reasoning. After the senator’s best hitmen and women were arrested, and then a second wave from his B-team were arrested twenty-four hours later, he was more than incensed, more than furious; he was making arrangements. More people would die. He wished the senator would channel his rage into something like boxing or kendo—anything that wouldn’t inevitably get him sent to jail with Newt right along with him.
Because Newt, apparently, was the man signing the checks for the hitmen. Me. There was a stamp made from his signature and everything, carefully locked in a secretary’s drawer. If Jeanine hadn’t been stupid enough to ask him for the key to a room on the third story—at the time, he was one whole foot closer to her desk than she was—he wouldn’t have ever realized the true level of trouble he was in.
Underneath the stamp had been the receipt for a check written out in embarrassingly girlish handwriting with his signature stamped in the bottom right corner. It was made out to one of the men Newt had seen pictures of. In them, he’d been wearing handcuffs with his nose pressed against the hood of a police SUV.
Undoubtedly, the police could acquire those checks. It would take but one, related to one hitman, for there to be enough evidence to indict him for either murder or attempted murder. Whereas there were a large number checks out there, waiting for the police to find them.
Little did this Mary woman know that by protect, he meant not only from the insane senator but from the law too.
He’d seen a chance, and he took it. Even if it meant leaving Baton Rouge for New Orleans.
“Hello?” Sound more casual, he scolded himself. If you sound any more high-pitched, people will stare.
“We have a problem.”
Newt’s stomach dropped. “What is it?”
“He’s sent more lackeys after my sister and probably myself as well, and I have it on good authority that they might succeed in ending us this time.”
Everything had been quiet here. The night before, last he’d known about the hired guns because Murphy complained about them, loudly, before he’d even added them to his special kind of payroll. Then he’d jetted off to Shreveport for an evening of drinking and gambling. Private gambling, of course, so he wouldn’t offend the morals of his voters.
“I’ll find out what I can and call you back.”
Newt hung up, angry himself now. Why was this man so hell-bent on killing a woman and her sister? Better yet, why did he feel the need to have anyone’s life taken away, ever?
Because he doesn’t value anyone else’s life, idiot. Only his own.
Not the best traits for a man high up in politics.
After the better part of an hour subtly questioning Jeanine and distracting her from her desk—between flattering compliments, of course—he had all the information he was going to get. He found an empty room and dialed Mary back. She answered before a single ring completed.
“He’s going to New Orleans,” he told her in a rush, covering his mouth with his hand in case someone stood by the closed door. “The senator is going. He’s written over thirty checks out to men and women, and I think it’s all for tonight.” He paused, breathed in, and continued. “I don’t know what’s planned, but he’ll be there in person, calling the shots. He has no other reason to be in that city tonight. He’s missing at least two meetings here because of it.”
Before she could speak, he continued, his words flowing not due to the fact that Mary could help him but because she was also a person with a life. She didn’t deserve to die and neither did her sister. The political train wreck in which he’d involved himself was as terrifying as the very worst of his nightmares, but he would do nothing less than everything in his power to keep lives from being snuffed out. He wheezed in a short breath. I’m going to need counseling.
“Go into hiding. Go where he cannot find
you. He will kill you.” Newt’s voice was ragged. “Trust me. He is too smart not to win this once he has you in his grip.”
Newt had seen it happen many times before.
Rodney Murphy always came out on top.
Chapter 18
EXCITED whispers carried across the concert hall, most of them belonging to excited children.
“Who’s Donnie Coyote? Is he bad?”
“Who’s the prima ballerina? What color will she wear?”
“Someday I’m going to dance right there, and all of you will watch.”
Alex stood in the wings of the stage as he normally did during Leila’s performances. Even before he’d known how certain it was that someone would attack while she was on stage, he kept his post right here so he could watch her at closer range and have an easier view of the audience. That drive to guard her had only strengthened, the beat of his heart becoming a forceful command. Protect. Protect. Protect.
Even louder than the children were the dancers, Derik, and the staff behind the scenes, all working tirelessly to get the production going on time. Alex glanced at his watch: two minutes until showtime.
The noise silenced. So did his heart.
Leila approached, ribbons tied around her ankles and a wreath of flowers pinned into her almost white hair. As graceful as a woman floating on air, she finally met him, taking his hands and kissing him directly on the mouth. Around the curtains, the lights dimmed and the music began. She pulled away, frowning slightly, to get into position.
His throat sticking, filling with curses, rage, and fear, Alex couldn’t manage to say a single word to the woman he loved more than himself, more than the entire Earth.
And then the drapes pulled back and she moved, smiling a secret smile as she flew across the stage, drawing the attention of a nimble male dancer while the spotlight stayed on her.
To calm himself, he watched Leila dance in the periphery as he eyed the creatures stationed at every entrance and exit, their arms crossed over their chests. Sebastian and Briony stood almost directly above Leila on a path intended for use by the maintenance personal who fixed the stage lights. There, Briony was practically hidden from sight, and they could both watch everything around Leila.
Everyone else not by a door was interspersed in the crowd. Even Heath and Sophia had come in at the last minute, bedraggled and frustrated about something they didn’t share with Alex. When he’d thanked Heath, the other man had clapped him on the shoulder so hard claws dug through clothes and into skin. “It’s my job.” Heath had growled before stalking off to help Sophia ensure there were no explosives in the building.
Alex made a mental note to check up on Heath. The other man was grumpy by nature, never holding back his high level of snark, but there was obviously something wrong now. Usually, Heath was the first packmate on the scene, a gun in his hand and a grin on his face.
“I see him,” an unfamiliar male voice said into Alex’s headset.
Him could be one man: Rodney Murphy. After Mary spoke with Newt, the human male they would likely soon take in, she’d told them Murphy would be here, tonight.
He was in New Orleans.
Everyone who didn’t know what he looked like had gotten a long glance at his face, courtesy of Sebastian’s computer. Most everyone who lived in Louisiana, however, at least vaguely knew of the senator. No one seemed disappointed that his reign in office was about to end.
“Where?” someone else barked.
“Back right corner, surrounded by children and their parents.”
Of course. None of them would dare strike him now, lest they hit a child instead. It was a move straight out of the coward’s playbook. He couldn’t even scent the man. There were too many smells here—the only ones he could pick out belonged to those he was close to, like Leila or Sebastian, or were particularly intense, like a human woman wearing a perfume so strong it practically singed his nose.
Alex, and he suspected Briony and Sebastian, could get around that. So could Brendon, who happened to be sitting closest to the bastard. Alex couldn’t see the other warlock’s face from here, but he was fairly certain he could see the slash of the other man’s white teeth. He was smiling.
Brendon, Alex had discovered, was at least partially insane. Maybe a spell had gone wrong and wrought more than a little permanent damage. It didn’t matter. Alex needed a partner in the float, and the warlock presented no signs that indicated any possible double-cross.
“Did anyone see who he came with?” That sounded like the female vampire, Charlie.
“Sweetie, I doubt he arrived at a public event with hitmen surrounding him,” Sophia answered, not unkindly.
She was right; there was no telling who the hired guns were. They could appear to be an innocent father or mother, or even a teenager if they were young enough. Then again, Alex wouldn’t put it past the senator to hire a desperate teenager for a heinous job like this.
He needed to be put down. And he will be.
“You losers out in the audience—look for people ducking down.”
Christabel. As far as Alex knew, she was this close to being insane. At the same time, she was someone he was glad to have on his side. If she lived in New Orleans, she would have been one of the powerful yellow pricks of light belonging to a non-warlock, and the warlocks themselves knew it. The float had been stupid enough to cross her, something about selling a spell to her ex-lover, and their alliance fell apart in a stroke of good luck for his pack.
The moment she spoke, the light that had turned to focus on the male dancer, who eyed Leila with a little too much affection, no matter what the plot of the ballet called for, moved off him. The crowd became illuminated as if they were the show.
“Thanks, Sebastian,” Alex murmured. Now everyone could see who bent over, not just the creatures seated among the crowd. Gripping two pages in one hand, an entire book resting in his back pocket, Alex threw out a complicated spell that shot similar pieces of light to those on the map over everyone he could see who fit Christabel’s description. He was quick with the energy and not nearly as thorough as he wished to be. The light came back to the stage before he could do a second head check.
He blinked. Now that there was no light on the viewers, they seemed almost darker than before—mere shapes sitting motionless in the darkness. The white, twinkling lights, hanging so far above everyone’s heads that they were almost unnoticeable, didn’t hurt. They simply looked like the faery lights Sophia and Heath kept out on the roof of the firehouse.
“If they had a certain weight of metal on them, I made it heavier and pulled,” Christabel explained in his ear. “Do those lights mean what I think they do?”
“Yes,” Alex answered. “But they’re only to be watched. Someone with crutches or a walker, or someone legally open-carrying or who has a concealed license may be here with no intention of harm.”
Someone snorted. There were a few affirmative grunts.
“There are thirty-five lights, and Mary was told the number hired by Murphy was closer to thirty,” Raphael said.
“Does one of the lights belong to him?” Heath asked.
Several people voiced emphatic yeses.
“When his gun hit the floor, it made a noise so loud I’m surprised more of you didn’t hear it,” Brendon drawled. “With your super hearing.”
“It would do us more good to have super vision right about now,” Cael growled.
“Some of us do, hotness.” Aiyanna didn’t speak with her trademark humor this time. She was obviously distracted, most likely making the most of her ability to see better in the dark than any of them.
The voices in Alex’s ear dimmed, heightening the music from the small orchestra placed immediately in front of the stage. It quickened, accompanying the entrance of many more dancers than in the previous scene while Leila left the stage, taking some of its otherworldly light with her into the wing.
She shot him an excited smile, raised he
r eyebrows and allowed him to enfold her in his arms for a second before rushing off, finding a pair of leg warmers to throw on as she went. Her citrus scent was buried deep underneath the strange chemical smells from the makeup that made her skin appear pale and something holding her hair so that no matter how she moved, it stayed in place.
As utterly, objectively breathtaking as she looked, he preferred to see her without her face covered with so much makeup it was practically a mask. She was the beauty, not the product a woman in black chased her with while she stretched. So much so, the eye was drawn to her face even when she completed a grand jeté, a move that would cripple most who tried it, while she conquered it effortlessly every time. While she danced, her radiant smile was enthralling, all-encompassing.
The second scene in the second act ended far too soon, a man onstage falling to the ground after attacking an abstract-looking windmill. Alex raised an eyebrow at Leila, who winked at him on her way to dance around the now-sleeping Don Quixote. For the second time that day, she muttered merde under her breath, earning a strained laugh from Alex.
Merde was the French word for shit, and apparently a favorite of dancers before performing.
“Is there no intermission?” Sophia demanded.
“No.” Alex found himself shaking his head ruefully even though no one save Sebastian and Briony could see him. “This is just a dress rehearsal.”
He wished it was otherwise, but this was the way the company always did dress rehearsals. Leila had explained that it meant the children who came to watch could get home sooner. Otherwise, their parents might not agree to let them come at night despite the free price tag for the performance.
Paper crinkling in his hand, he elevated the light hanging over their possible fiends. It wasn’t enough to catch anyone’s eye unless they were looking up rather than forward, but it helped him see the faces of those he wanted to watch. Most of those faces were rapt with attention, while a few appeared bored, their eyelids drooping. It could be an act. He didn’t rule them out.
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