A moment, he told her. And he quit playing because his wife needed him. He broke the sword with a swing of his axe and caught Geir’s eyes—only then realizing it was Fenrir, not Geir. He’d rather it really had been Fenrir lying with a broken back.
Hopefully, Geir would survive.
“Enough,” Charles said. “I do not have time for this. We are done. Submit.”
The old wolf fought the compulsion, sweat dripping down his face and dampening his shirt. But his fist opened and the blade dropped to the ground as he dropped to his knees, tilting his chin for Charles’s pleasure.
Brother Wolf was tempted to give him the coup de grâce. This one had kept him preoccupied when he needed to be attending his mate. Charles hit him on the side of the head with the blunt end of the axe instead. Enough to keep him out for a few minutes, not hard enough to kill him.
If it had been Geir, he could have counted on him to honor the submission as a cease-fire. But Fenrir wasn’t the kind of wolf he could trust that far.
Anna? he sent along the bond between them. What can I—
And he was sucked into a cartoon. He recognized it vaguely as the rendition of a fairy tale. The sky was dark, and the colors were bruise-like: purple, deep blues, deep grays, and black. The ground was squishy under his feet, which made him vaguely uneasy, but not as uneasy as the reek of black witchcraft. He looked around but didn’t see anything except the towering forest of thorn-encrusted vines.
“Anna?” He couldn’t see her, but he could feel that she was near and that she was worried.
“Charles!” she called. “I’m here, trapped in the stupid plants. I can’t get out.”
He waded through the sticky, sloggy ground, and when he reached the forest of vines, it opened reluctantly before him. It would have kept him from Anna if it could have, but their bond and his magic was too strong here, where such things had more meaning. But the vines closed behind with a wash of malice and dark whispers.
In a very small clearing, his mate stood contemplating the vines with her arms crossed over her chest, her back to him.
“What are you doing?” he asked.
“It’s witchcraft,” she said, without looking away from the vines. “I don’t know what to do with witchcraft.”
He approached her and became aware that her clothing was ragged and there were bloody scratches up and down her arms and on her cheek. She was frowning fiercely.
“Is the cartoon yours?” he asked.
She looked up at him then. “Oh good, you’re here,” she said, as if she only now saw him, though she’d answered his question. It was that kind of place. “Cartoon?”
She turned around slowly, looking around. She shook her head and laughed. “I think I’ve built this as a metaphor. But I’m not sure who is really in charge here. This”—she waved her arms to indicate the whole scene—“is a conglomeration of my powers, Wellesley’s magic, and that.” On the last word, she pointed at the briar-vine hedge. “That is black magic, witchcraft. And I don’t know how it got here or how to break it.”
He surveyed the hedge a little more thoroughly. The first thing he noticed was that the plants bore only a vague resemblance to any plant he’d ever seen—but this wasn’t reality. He’d had some experience with this kind of magical dreaming, though his adventures usually looked a little more like the real world and less like a Disneyland adventure.
“So is there a sleeping princess trapped behind the thorns?” he asked.
“No,” she said. “It’s Wellesley’s wolf.”
Interesting, said Brother Wolf. We never sensed any witchcraft about him. Is it new?
“I don’t think so,” Anna said. “I think it’s been here a long time. Asil said there might have been a witch involved in the business in Tennessee.”
“Rhea Springs?” Charles asked, frowning. “I didn’t find any signs of witches there.”
Anna raised both eyebrows and flung her arm out toward the thorn hedge and its distinctive scent of the blood and wrongness that was witchcraft.
“Point made,” he said.
“So how do I take down the hedge?” she asked him.
Blood, Brother Wolf said.
Anna held out her hands. “I bled here and—” She flushed. “I accidentally dug claws into Wellesley in the real world. The more real world, anyway. And he bled. Nothing happened to the witchcrafting.”
“This is a fairy tale,” Charles said thoughtfully.
“Yes?”
“If not blood, then maybe a kiss,” he told her.
A lot of pack magic worked with blood—but there were a few very select offerings that were symbolized by a kiss. He had an idea about how that could work for this.
He reached out and took her hand—the one still bandaged, so he was gentle about it. “I kiss you. You kiss Wellesley in the real world.”
She pulled her head back in instinctive rejection, though her hand tightened on his. “Love’s first kiss?” It sounded like a quote. “I don’t love him.”
He put his chin on the top of her head and pulled her against him. Even in the Dreamtime, it felt good. She made him smile.
“No love necessary between you and him,” he told her. “But Bran holds him as pack as he holds you and me. If I kiss you here, and you kiss him in the real world, maybe we can work a little magic, you and I.”
Then he bent down and kissed her.
* * *
• • •
ANNA DIDN’T UNDERSTAND exactly what Charles intended, but she was willing to trust him.
She blinked uncertainly, trying to be aware both in the real world and in the inner vision. It felt awkward and distinctly uncomfortable.
Asil still had Wellesley pinned to the ground but not without a great deal of effort. He saw her focus on him and smiled grimly. “Whatever it is you are trying to do, it is working. I can tell by how much easier it has become to hold him down.”
She couldn’t tell if he was being sarcastic or not. And she didn’t have enough brainpower to puzzle it out right now. The angle Asil held him in was wrong to kiss Wellesley on the mouth. She could kiss his cheek, she thought, and felt a wave of relief.
On the mouth, love, said Brother Wolf, because in the not-real world Charles was kissing her and so could not speak. It is symbolic. We give our word, we communicate, we eat, we intake food through our mouths. Through his mouth, we can feed him power. Charles says that Wellesley has some abilities of his own. If we can feed him enough, he should be able to free himself.
“Can you move him around?” she asked Asil. “I have to kiss him on the mouth.” Even to herself, she sounded grumpy. She wasn’t sure that feeding him power with a kiss felt less intimate or more.
Asil paused with his whole body—and Wellesley struggled fiercely. He snapped at her hands—which she managed to keep on his face only by throwing herself forward on top of both Asil and Wellesley. She had a feeling that losing that touch right now would be bad.
Asil swore in Spanish, moved his grip a little, and jerked. Wellesley’s struggles became instantly less effective, though no less passionate.
“He’s under a spell,” she told Asil before he could say anything. “Witchcraft. Charles says I have to kiss him on the mouth.”
Incredibly, irritatingly, Asil’s own mouth, which had been tight with anger, suddenly blossomed into a grin. “Did he, now? Told you that you needed to kiss the handsome prince. All right, let me think. You can’t break your hold, right?”
Anna nodded uncertainly. “I have no idea what I’m doing here, Asil. But if it’s working, I’m wary about screwing with it.”
Wellesley snapped his teeth together again, and Asil gave her a look. “You are certain about this?”
“Brother Wolf is.”
Asil rolled his eyes—Anna was afraid that she was teaching everyone in the pack bad habits
. “And Brother Wolf could never be wrong,” he muttered. “Fine. Your job is to keep your hands on him, then, while I position him for kissing. For your kissing him.” He muttered something to himself and grunted.
She couldn’t tell exactly what he did, only that Wellesley moved, Asil moved—and she did her best to keep up with them. Eventually, Asil was underneath Wellesley, and Wellesley was faceup with his mouth accessible.
“Do it quickly,” said Asil. “This is not a secure hold.”
Anna leaned over, concentrating on the feel of Charles’s mouth on hers in that other place. She pressed her lips to Wellesley’s. It felt like she’d kissed an electric fence.
Wellesley’s eyes opened, bright gold laced with chocolate, and he drank down her power until she was empty.
* * *
• • •
SHE SWAYED IN his arms, and Charles growled. Stupid Wellesley, he thought. He could tell that Wellesley had a power akin to the gifts Charles’s mother had passed to him. The other wolf should have been able to use Anna as a conduit to the power that Charles held—the power of the Marrok’s pack.
Charles opened his mating bond as wide as he could, then opened the pack bond and drew upon it—shoving all of that power into his mate and through her. He wished he were physically with her, so he could explain, could tell Wellesley what to do instead of hoping that he saw . . .
* * *
• • •
ANNA’S SKIN WAS suddenly hot with energy that felt like Charles, felt like pack. She fed it into Wellesley as he writhed in Asil’s grip. He bit her lip, and blood welled.
Okay, she thought. Let’s see if Brother Wolf is right.
In that other place, where she was still kissing Charles, Anna reached out and grabbed a vine with her sore hand. It writhed and wriggled and struggled—but she was a werewolf, and she knew how to hold on. It burned her hand and whipped her wrist with thorns, and still she kept her grip.
She opened her eyes and saw the briarwood explode into flowers that reminded her of the flowers that had covered the valley when Jonesy died. For two breaths, the air smelled fresh and beautiful; and then she and Charles were wrapped in vines.
Thorns dug in, sharp pain followed by a dull ache. The flowers turned from bright yellow to gray, then died away. Around them, the vines tightened until she could barely breathe.
And Charles . . .
Something protected her, maybe it was Charles himself. But her mate’s body was stiff against her as the thorns dug in and sent shafts of agony that she could feel through their bond.
Feels like silver, said Brother Wolf.
They weren’t going to be strong enough, she thought.
Brother Wolf howled.
* * *
• • •
IN HIS HOTEL room, Bran paced, fighting his wolf. He’d had every intention of going to Africa. Africa had sounded as though it was far enough. But Spokane was as far as his wolf had allowed.
He picked up his phone and listened, again, to Charles’s dry rendition of Hester’s death. Of Jonesy’s cryptic note. Of the connection between their enemy and the one who had been stalking them for years.
My fault, Bran thought. It was my fault that she died. She trusted me—and I failed her.
He set the phone down carefully and started pacing again.
Hester was dead, and he was no closer to knowing who their traitor was—or at least no more certain who their traitor was. He glanced at the computer on the fake cherry desk, but he didn’t dare touch it until he calmed down. He’d pulled out the financials on Leo’s pack and the much simpler financial data on Gerry Wallace and had been going through them, again, until his wolf had had enough.
Follow the money. The enemy had a lot of funding from somewhere. That much money should leave a trace, but he couldn’t find it. Nor had the much more capable accountants that the Chicago Alpha had turned the records over to. He should have given those records to Charles instead. Charles might have been able to find something . . . which was why Bran hadn’t turned them over to him. Because he was afraid of what Charles would turn up.
“Treachery is dirty business,” he told the beast inside of him. That was his mother’s gift, the monster who lived within. She hadn’t infected him, true. But he had absolved his father of that responsibility a long time ago. Not even the Lords of Faery had been able to get the best of his mother. His father, who had been a simple farmer, had no chance once she had set her eyes upon him.
The beast roiled inside of him. Angry. Afraid.
Well enough, so was he, and worried on top of that.
Something yanked hard at the pack bonds that he’d tightened down to threads after Hester’s death. He loosened them, just a hair, ready to be angry at being so rudely disturbed—and found Brother Wolf.
* * *
• • •
ASIL HELD ON to the mad wolf as best he could, though he was pretty sure that the best thing that he could do for all of them was to break Wellesley’s neck and save everyone trouble. Yes, Wellesley was an artist of the sort to make Asil’s soul soar. Yes, Wellesley was insightful and witty—even as he struggled with the beast inside him.
But Anna was an Omega. A treasure. Asil had lost his mate, but Allah, who knew men’s hearts and how to heal them, had given Asil a second Omega to guard. He loved her—though he was not in love with her. He loved her as a man must love the well that brings water to his people in the desert. For her sake, he would give his life. For her sake, he should simply eliminate Wellesley.
For her sake, he could not do so.
He felt it when Charles opened the pack bonds and asked for power. He gave all that he could and not lose his hold on Wellesley. Attuned through the bonds, he could sense the surge of pack-and-Charles-flavored energy sweep through Anna and into Wellesley, felt the other wolf’s body shake under the onslaught of so much magic.
The scent of witchcraft, of black magic, seeped out of Wellesley’s pores. Asil wrinkled his nose. It smelled of power, of age, of death.
“Yes, yes,” he muttered irritably to himself. “And pain and misery and suffering, too, no doubt.”
He waited for the scent to ebb, for the power of the pack to sweep it away. But it wasn’t the scent that ebbed, it was the power . . .
He flung his bonds open and pushed everything he had into the tide of pack magic that was slowing to a trickle. The pack magic began to feel like the reek of witchcraft on Wellesley’s skin. He felt Charles launch a desperate appeal to the Marrok, who had abandoned them.
Asil knew that wasn’t fair. He, of all people, understood the burden of Alpha. He’d given that position up because it was such a burden. But they needed Bran, and he was not there.
Until he was.
Power, raw and huge and flavored with the magic of a hundred packs (or a thousand, Asil wasn’t in the frame of mind to count), burst through the bonds. Above him, Anna’s eyes widened, turned ice blue, and her whole body glowed with the Marrok’s magic.
* * *
• • •
ANNA SCREAMED WITH the fire that flooded her veins, the sound she made muffled by Charles’s lips. The fire slid down her arm and into her burnt hand, turning her flesh into agony.
But she held on to the vine. She held on when the whole briarwood caught fire and burned with a fury that started from her hand and met another power from within. She closed her eyes against the brightness, plastered her body against her mate’s, and held on until the vine disintegrated into gray dust.
As the last of the dust fell from her hand, Charles broke their kiss. He took a step back, holding her steady until she found her balance. Then he disappeared into the darkness that was falling in the wake of the destruction of the briar hedge. She didn’t lose him, though; she could feel his weariness through their bond.
The set from Sleeping Beauty faded, as Charles had
faded, until she stood in a vast, grayish emptiness. The only thing present besides her was a gaunt golden wolf.
His fur was matted, and there were gouges that leaked blood and yellowish goo. He panted, head low, looking even more tired than she felt.
Go home, Namwign Bea, the wolf told her in Wellesley’s voice. Go home and rest.
That made very good sense, as she was tired. She took a step and crumpled. The ground rose and caught her in gentle hands. She patted it gently. “Thank you,” she murmured, and closed her eyes.
* * *
• • •
SOMEONE RUDELY WOKE her up.
“Drink this, mija. I promise it will help.”
She should have known it would be Asil, she thought grumpily. Asil didn’t respect anyone’s boundaries except his own.
Knowing that there was no use in fighting him, she drank the sweet tea he put to her lips. And she drank the second cup, too. By the third cup, she was sitting up on her own and alert enough to look around.
She was sitting on a love seat in a room made of light. One wall of the room was a great window that looked out onto the forest. The room was huge and mostly unfurnished. One corner of it was a well-appointed modern kitchen, and the love seat she was on was near that corner of the room. There was a great gaping hole in the wall next to the love seat.
Beyond the hole was the dirt-floored room where she’d helped Wellesley fight for his freedom. Wellesley’s curled-up body was still on the dirt floor.
She blinked at him a moment. She couldn’t tell if he was breathing or not.
“Finish that,” Asil said from the kitchen. He had the refrigerator open and was examining the contents. “I will make you some food.”
“Is he dead?” she asked.
Asil pulled his head out of the fridge and looked out the gaping hole where the steel door—and the steel doorframe—had been, toward their prone host.
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