Wicked Hour

by Neill, Chloe

“That’s my thinking, yeah.”

  Silence fell.

  “Does it bother you?” I asked, breaking it.

  “Does what bother me?”

  “The fact that conversation stops when shifters see you.”

  He went still, watched me for a quiet moment. “Yes. It’s part of who I am. Part of who I want to be. But it makes me . . .”

  “Separate,” I said, and he nodded.

  “I think we’ve switched positions,” I said. “You’ve always been the prince, but when you were a kid, it didn’t really matter. Gabriel was in control, and that was that. But you’re older now. You’ve, I guess, come into your power. People are curious about you. Maybe wary of you. And wondering if you’re the next Apex. The next leader of the Pack.”

  “Yeah,” he said. “They see me for what I might be. Some for who I actually am—they’re the good ones. But most for what I might be able to do in the future. The possibility I can make things better or worse for them.”

  I nodded, shifted my gaze to the window and the dark trees outlined beyond it. “For me, it’s the opposite. When I was a kid, I was a novelty. The new thing. The first thing. There was a little of that when I came back from Paris, but now the novelty’s somewhat worn off because I’m a vampire with a real job. That’s not nearly as interesting, at least for humans. But I’m still . . . separate. I know how that feels.”

  “Yeah, I imagine you do.”

  I studied him. “You know, you’ve changed a lot. Grown up a lot. It’s strange to witness. But good.”

  “Because you wouldn’t be here if I was still pulling your pigtails?”

  “I would not.” I smiled with teeth. “But you can try it if you’d like.”

  “Oh, there are things I’d like to try.”

  “And that’s a little strange, too.”

  “Being flirted with?”

  “Being flirted with by you. You usually had an entourage of ladies hoping to bag the next Apex.”

  “And you dated vampires.”

  I pointed at myself. “Vampire, so.”

  “And yet,” he said, gesturing to the room, “here we are.”

  Silence fell, and because we were still getting used to each other, it was about halfway between comfortable and awkward, and on the verge of both.

  “This is going to be complicated,” I said.

  “No,” Connor said, stepping forward. “I don’t think it’s going to be complicated at all.” He put a hand at my waist, pressed our bodies together.

  Here we were. On the cusp of something, even without considering whatever the hell was happening at this compound. But when he kissed me, the rest hardly seemed to matter.

  Ten minutes later, I fell asleep to the howling of wolves. This time, it seemed they howled not in fear or alarm but in solidarity. Because dawn was coming, the night was nearly done, and it was time for rest again.

  SIX

  I blinked awake in darkness at dusk, howls issuing across the resort again.

  Shifters, I realized, were the roosters of the supernatural world. And I thought it best not to mention that observation to Connor.

  I sent Theo a message, gave him a brief update with a promise to call if we learned anything else. And when my stomach growled, I looked at the closed bedroom door and thought longingly of the kitchen that lay beyond it.

  I’d managed not to steer Connor into a relationship talk, into defining what we were doing. And I wasn’t so comfortable with him that I’d shuffle out of the bedroom in a T-shirt, hair a bird’s nest. I got up, moved around quietly to shower and condition a few hundred miles of wind out of my hair, dress in jeans and a fluid green V-neck T-shirt.

  I found him still asleep on the couch. He was shirtless, one arm thrown behind his head, the other across his abdomen, and a striped camp blanket ruched at his hips. He was much too tall for the battered leather couch, so his bare feet were propped on the opposite armrest.

  There was something disarming about seeing him—tall and muscular—squeezed onto the sofa, the sensation amplified by his bare chest and the dark lock that curled almost innocently over his forehead. He was a powerful shifter, a powerful alpha. But he was also a man who’d slept in discomfort, so I’d have a bedroom to myself.

  He was honorable. Or at least had become honorable after his puckish teenage years. Either way, that was where he’d ended up. And we’d ended up here together, in a North Woods cabin surrounded by shifters and the beast that seemed to be haunting them.

  I tiptoed into the kitchen, found a coffeemaker ready to brew, and turned it on. I sampled green grapes from a pile in a bowl of fruit, then opened the refrigerator and stared. He’d fetched the beers last night, so this was my first view of the fridge’s contents—and the dozens of bottles of blood inside.

  “You think that’s enough?”

  I glanced back, found Connor sitting up, running a hand through his hair and looking a little concerned that it might not actually be enough.

  I arched an eyebrow. “How much blood do you think a vampire drinks?”

  “I’m not entirely sure.”

  “A couple of bottles a night,” I said, “depending on whether I’m injured or training heavily.” I did a quick guesstimate. “There have to be at least a hundred in here.”

  “I figured it was better to err on the side of caution.”

  I raised my brows. “To avoid my snacking on shifters?”

  He grinned. “Maybe I erred a little far. I don’t want you to starve. And I actually asked Miranda to stock the fridge. She, let’s say, poured herself into the task.”

  “That’s truly awful.”

  “I just woke up” was his defense.

  That Miranda had bought the bottles probably explained why she hadn’t been at the party. She was here instead.

  “I’m sure Miranda was thrilled to help,” I said dryly.

  “She wasn’t, of course.” He smiled, but moved closer, rested his arm on the door, and peered inside. “Did she get anything good? I didn’t pay much attention last night.”

  “She bought the most ridiculous—and probably the most expensive—options. Nothing basic. Nothing simple. Everything with flavors and seltzers and swirls.”

  Brows raised, he took out a bottle. “Free-range, shade-grown vegan blood product.” He looked at me. “Why would a vampire want vegan blood?”

  “Why would a shifter buy it for a vampire?” I countered.

  “Touché. Probably to insult her.” He slid the bottle back into its slot. “Is there something in here you can actually drink?”

  “I’ll be fine.” I preferred my blood unadulterated or flavored, but I’d live. Because I was immortal. “I appreciate the gesture. It was thoughtful.”

  “It wasn’t meant to be. As you pointed out, I’m trying to keep you from snacking on us. It’s good, practical Apex behavior.”

  “Said the man who chases prey on four legs. Why is Miranda even here? Is she close to your family?”

  “Coincidence, or so she says. She’s got friends in the clan, and had already arranged the visit.”

  “Hmm,” I said vaguely, fairly certain there was nothing coincidental about it, and grabbed the simplest flavor I could find—“Hint o’ Lemon.” I closed the refrigerator, twisted off the cap. “Would you like a drink?”

  He looked at the bottle for a very long time, a man facing a tricky dilemma. “If I say no, will you think less of me?”

  “Don’t you eat prey on the run?”

  “Isn’t that a book title?”

  I just lifted my eyebrows.

  “I’m a wolf,” he said, eyes flashing like he’d already made the shift into that form.

  The coffeemaker finished its cycle, and he poured a mug, passed it to me, then poured one for himself.

  I took a drink of the blood, bit back a grimac
e at the tang. And swallowed a mouthful of coffee to erase the aftertaste.

  “Well, Mr. Wolf, what’s on our agenda tonight?”

  “Initiation,” he said. “But first we’ll go pay our respects to the other elders.”

  I grinned. “That’s very . . . politic.”

  “If you call me a vampire again, I’ll make you drink the vegan blood.”

  “I’d like to see you try.”

  Connor snorted. “After the initiation, we’ll have dinner with my family. It’s tradition for the initiate’s family to host a meal.”

  “What do wolves eat to celebrate a new member of the Pack?”

  “An old member of the Pack,” he said, and laughed when my eyes widened. “That was a joke.”

  “I know,” I said. Or I mostly had.

  He smiled. “It depends on the locale. Since we’re in Minnesota”—he paused to consider—“herring and moose?”

  “Yum,” I said with false cheer, uncertain about both choices.

  He turned, and I caught a flash of something dark on his flank, just above his right hip. It was ink and what looked like letters. “Since when do you have a tattoo? I saw you with your shirt off, like, two weeks ago.”

  “It was dark that night, and we were fighting.”

  It hadn’t been that dark, and it would take a particularly uninterested person not to notice his torso in great detail.

  “Arms up,” I said. “I want to see it.”

  “I don’t need to be inspected.”

  “As the inspector, I disagree. Come on,” I said with a grin, and twirled a finger in the air.

  “I object to being objectified,” he said, but his cocky smile said exactly the opposite. He raised his hands and turned.

  Across the side of his hip, in a thick font that looked medieval, were Latin words drawn with a very skillful hand in a deep crimson.

  “‘Non ducor, duco,’” I read. “What does it mean?”

  “Roughly: ‘I’m not led; I lead.’”

  “Once again, surprisingly politic for a shifter. You sure you aren’t part vampire?”

  “Watch it.”

  I grinned. “Based on the timing, and because you don’t exactly look happy about it, I’d say you got drunk with a bunch of shifters while you were traveling.”

  “I wasn’t drunk, Holmes. But I was outplayed in a game of darts,” he admitted. “Barely. And this was the cost of my loss.”

  “It’s a very pretty cost,” I said. The letters were sharp and crisp, the ink dark and immaculately applied. I liked the look and the phrase. “It doesn’t disappear—heal itself—when you shift?”

  “The wound heals, closes. But it doesn’t affect the ink.” He sipped coffee, cocked his head. “Can vampires get tattoos?”

  “Same issue. Healing closes the wound, but doesn’t affect the ink.”

  “It occurs to me that I haven’t seen you naked. Do you have any?”

  “No.”

  He smiled. “You wanna play darts?”

  “I do not,” I said with a laugh. “But I could eat. Human food,” I added. “Do you cook?”

  “I make a very good grilled cheese sandwich. You?”

  “Only coffee,” I said. “But it’s very good coffee.” And that was something.

  “I can probably manage to scramble eggs.”

  “Then I can probably manage to eat them.”

  He lifted his brows. “Are you asking me to make you breakfast, brat?”

  “Room and board,” I reminded him, and sipped the blood. “That was your offer.”

  He looked mildly irritated to realize I had a point, but turned back to the refrigerator, shoved aside bottles to reach a carton of eggs, a stick of butter, and a bottle of cream. While I sipped coffee, he cracked eggs into a bowl, added a splash of cream, waited for a small skillet to heat and for the plug of butter he’d put in it to melt.

  “You look like you can handle cooking well enough,” I said when he poured the beaten eggs into the pan.

  “Better than you can bake. I remember the Cadogan House fire.”

  I pursed my lips. “The Cadogan House fire was not my fault. Who lets a kid bake without supervision?”

  He grinned. “I think you mean, what eight-year-old vampire wanders into the kitchen alone during a House barbecue because she wants a cupcake and, when she can’t find one, decides to make it herself?”

  Me, obviously, but at eight, I hadn’t realized that ingredients had to be carefully measured and that frosting was more than sugar and food coloring.

  “It was only a small fire.”

  He moved the eggs around with a spatula. “Get two plates, will you? Cabinet above the sink and to the left.”

  I drank the rest of the bottle to get it over with, then came around the counter, found plates and forks. And when Connor began to spoon up soft yellow curds of scrambled eggs, I held out a plate for a scoop.

  I took my portion to the counter, sat down on a stool.

  He served himself, turned off the burner, and moved the pan, then put his plate near mine. But instead of digging in, he put his hands on the counter, arms braced, brows knit. “Before we go to the initiation, I wanted to . . . explain some things.”

  “Okay,” I said with a nod, expecting a primer on how to deal with the clan. The rules, the etiquette we hadn’t had time to discuss before the trip.

  Instead, he ran a hand through his hair. “I’ve had no shortage of women,” he began, then paused.

  I lifted an eyebrow. Not the conversation starter I’d expected. And I realized he seemed more than a little unnerved. For the first time that I could remember, he didn’t seem entirely sure of his steps.

  Connor looked at the floor, brow creased. “I’m struggling a little bit. I don’t usually struggle when talking to women.”

  He really did seem unsure of himself. “Are you about to tell me you’ve dated everyone in the resort?”

  “What? No. I’m talking about us. About the cabin and the bed.”

  “Okay,” I said again, still confused, but a lot more intrigued.

  “I’m used to being slick,” he said. “Suave. The prince surrounded by potentials. It’s kind of my thing. Or was. After the fight with the fairies—fighting with you—and after two weeks of traveling and thinking, I acknowledged that being that kind of prince wasn’t enough for me. Not anymore.”

  My heart pounded, as if it understood something the rest of me hadn’t yet. “What kind of prince do you want to be?”

  He looked up at me, blue eyes shining as if they were lit from within. “The kind that’s good enough for you.”

  I grasped at words, but they scurried away, totally uninterested in being wrangled to express my dizzying emotions. “I don’t know what to say.”

  He smiled. “Of course you don’t. You’re confident, Elisa, maybe a little arrogant. But not smug. Not cruel. You’re a skilled fighter and intelligent and funny, and you have a very charming obsession with rules.”

  “So the things that made me bratty as a child make me a very good adult.”

  The smile became a wicked grin. “Your words, not mine. You want to be good, to be skilled. But you can still empathize. You care about justice and doing the right thing. And you keep doing the right thing even when you’re afraid of what’s inside you.”

  I didn’t flinch at the reference to the monster because the sentiment was so complimentary. It was odd to hear myself described that way by him—a guy I’d spent nearly twenty years mostly wanting to slug.

  “I’ve been very privileged,” I said. “And I was taught—just like you—the very clear differences between right and wrong. You’re confident,” I said with a smile. “Maybe a little arrogant. Occasionally smug, but never cruel. You’re a skilled fighter and intelligent and funny, and you have an occasionally charming
obsession with breaking rules. You also care a lot about doing the right thing. You care about your people. You travel to help them, risk yourself to help them. You’re good enough for anyone.”

  “Even after harassing you for most of your teenage years?”

  I couldn’t help but grin. “You were a holy terror, but let’s acknowledge my role in that, too. While I will deny everything if you bring this up again in the future, I could be . . . bratty.”

  “Big admission,” he said, his smile as wide as mine. “I don’t believe in fate. But maybe we just needed to be ready for each other.”

  We just looked at each other, smiling.

  “I love my parents, my family,” Connor said. “But I’m aware I was spoiled because they considered me the prince. The Apex in training. I had attention and love. I was encouraged to take chances, and I was forgiven if I screwed up. I was praised for being cocky because it was a sign of being alpha. Showed I was on the right path.

  “That’s the thing about Apex,” he said. “Being Apex is about listening to the Pack, doing what’s best for the Pack. Acting on behalf of the Pack. If you aren’t confident enough to be who you are, to care about those who you care about, you’re not alpha enough to be Apex.” He paused. “It’s Alexei’s fault I grew up.”

  “Is it?”

  Connor nodded. “He’s always been more serious than me. Not as serious as you,” he added with a grin, “because he’s still a shifter. But he has . . . an old soul.

  “We were out on a run,” he continued, “scrambling around in the woods. Chasing rabbits, turkeys, deer, whatever. We heard this really odd sound—some kind of bird, but nothing like what we’d heard before. So we followed it, found a pond in the middle of a field. There was a full moon, and it was shining down on this water, and the water was perfectly still. Except, in the middle, was a bird.”

  He frowned. “A crane, I think. A sandhill crane. White, with black-tipped wings and a spot of crimson right at the top of its head. It was alone in the middle of this water, the light reflecting off its feathers. And it was . . . majestic.”

  He stared into middle distance, as if watching the memory play back. “It was alone, as far as we would see. No other birds—no other wildlife. Just this one single crane in the middle of this silvery water.” He ran a hand through his hair. “I was—I don’t know—eighteen or so. We shifted back, and I made some stupid joke about food, and let’s hurry up and go. I’m sure it was witty, but it was callous. And he said something like, ‘It can fly. We stumble around in the dirt, and it can fly. We should see what it has to tell us.’ And then the bird spread its wings and lifted up, droplets of water flying behind it like a trail of stars. It was one of the most beautiful things I’ve ever seen.”