Wicked Hour

by Neill, Chloe

  “You’re a brat.”

  “So you’ve said.”

  Connor glanced at his watch, his grin fading. “I need to get back. The memorial’s in less than an hour. I can give Georgia an update while we’re there, make sure the search is under way.” He looked back at me, frowned. “You’ll be okay on your own?”

  “I’ll watch my back. You’ll keep an eye out for Zane?”

  “Oh, absolutely,” he said. “We have many things to discuss.”

  * * *

  * * *

  I still wasn’t sure what the memorial would involve, but he didn’t change clothes, so given that—and the general nature of shifters—I assumed it wouldn’t be a formal affair.

  I knew it was safer to stay near the cabin, but I couldn’t just sit. If I sat, I’d think. And I didn’t want to think right now. Not about last night—the blood and the fire and the gore. Not about Carlie and the sickly gray of her skin, and not about the danger we were still in.

  We had an idea who the creatures were and knew they’d been using magic of some type. But we didn’t know the magical details or where Zane and the others had gone. We needed more information.

  We needed more luck.

  So I’d try to be productive. I’d start with another look at the ground near the cabin, at the shutters. Maybe I could find a trail, a scrap of fur that could be tested for magic, some bit of evidence I could ship off to Theo and Petra and, in return, get a solution.

  And because I apparently had a target on my back, I’d be very careful. I found a penlight beneath the kitchen sink, and walked outside. The temperature had dropped, and the chill seemed to soak the scent of woodsmoke into the air. The resort was quiet, probably because most were attending the memorial and those who were left were subdued enough to stay quiet.

  I walked around the side of the cabin, thought enough to stop and flick the light toward the ground. The tracks we’d seen earlier had been mashed and covered by others, probably clan members curious about Connor’s story. I didn’t see any other evidence, so I turned to the shutters.

  The grooves were obvious in the sharp circle of light made by the penlight. Striped grooves where something with claws—very large claws—had gouged the metal. Not just scratching at it—although there were scratches, too—but actually trying to rip it apart with claws. Not the smartest tactic.

  On the other hand, they were smart enough to try to remove the shutters. Punishment by sunlight.

  I moved the beam of light around the rest of the shutters, but didn’t see anything else unusual. Or at least not any more unusual than unique Supernaturals making a go at the real estate.

  But then I stepped closer.

  Near a shutter’s top right corner, in a spot I had to stand on tiptoe to see, was a scratch in the metal that didn’t look like a gouge. And it didn’t look accidental. It looked like a symbol: two capital Rs standing back to back, the first letter reversed so their spines were aligned. I wondered if I was imagining it, my brain seeing a pattern in marks that were actually scattered and random. But the letters looked intentional. There were even little serifs along the bottoms.

  So who was “RR”? That didn’t match the initials of the shifters we believed were involved.

  I pulled out my screen, took a photo, and sent it to Petra. SYMBOL AT SIGN OF ATTACK, I messaged. CAN YOU FIND ORIGIN?

  It was a challenge, I guessed, that she wouldn’t be able to resist.

  ON ASSIGNMENT was the message she returned. RESETTLING RIVER TROLL DUE TO CONSTRUCTION AND HE IS PRESENTLY TRYING TO PUSH SUV INTO RIVER.

  I stared at the message for a moment, trying to figure out if Petra—of the dry wit and sarcasm—was joking, or if I should contact Theo and have him send help.

  JUST KIDDING, she said, before I could ask for clarification. IT’S ONLY A SEDAN.

  She had a unique sense of humor.

  NINETEEN

  I was flipping through the cabin’s former guest book, which had been tucked among outdated travel guides and Minnesotan recipe books—heavy on the cranberries and wild rice—when there was shuffling at the back door.

  I put down the book—having just read an entry about the owl that kept the Peterson family awake all night—and picked up my sword, then unsheathed it.

  I was taking no more chances.

  I crept to the door and, as it swung open, extended my katana against the neck of the person who entered.

  Connor lifted his hands, grinned at me. “I’m at your mercy?”

  I liked the sound of that more than I was willing to admit. I lowered the sword, tugged a lock of his hair with my free hand to pull him forward, and pressed my mouth to his. He wrapped his arms around me, then shifted our bodies so I was against the wall, his mouth hot on mine.

  “Is that a sword,” he asked after a moment, “or are you glad to see me?”

  “Both?”

  He humphed, glanced down at the katana.

  “You usually come through the other door,” I pointed out. “I was being careful.”

  “Back door was closer. And I’m glad you were being careful. It made for quite a welcome home.”

  “I’m feeling more myself.” I searched his face. “How was the memorial?”

  “Surprisingly uneventful.” We walked back through the cabin. I sheathed the katana, put it back on the table.

  “That is surprising.”

  “It’s customary for all clan members to attend,” he said. “But that wasn’t going to happen here, and Cash knew he wasn’t going to win that battle. So the elders got the memorial they wanted, and the haters got to skip it. Attendance was low.”

  “Interesting,” I said. “Mostly Loren’s generation?”

  “Nailed it in one. The eulogy was about respecting your elders.”

  “Also unsurprising,” I said. “You talked to Georgia? Gave her the update?”

  “I did. She didn’t like it. We had some hard words, but she said she’d talk to Cash about a search. And how was your evening?”

  “I found something interesting. Come here.” I took his hand, tugged him toward the patio doors.

  “Why am I going outside again?”

  “Because I want a second opinion.” I led him to the shutter, posed him in front of it, used the penlight to direct his attention to what I’d discovered. “What do you see?”

  “One of many reasons that someone is going to get their ass very handily kicked?”

  “In addition to that. Be more specific.”

  “I don’t know . . . ,” he began, but then trailed off, leaned closer.

  “Do you see it?”

  “I see something. A symbol? A logo?” He traced it with a fingertip. “It’s scratched in, by the creature that tried to rip off the shutter.” He paused, looked back at me. “They left a goddamn calling card. Do you know what it means?”

  “Not yet. I’ve asked Petra to take a look. I assume it doesn’t mean anything to you? Nothing wolf related?”

  “Such as?”

  “I don’t know. Realm of Regal Canines?”

  “Yes, you’ve cracked it. It stands for the Realm of Regal Canines.” His voice was as dry as toast.

  “I knew it. I guess we can report to the elders now and go back to Chicago.”

  “Theoretically,” he said. “But maybe first let’s go check with Georgia.”

  * * *

  * * *

  She opened the door with a dish towel in her hands. “Right on time. Come in. Sit down. We’re just about to eat.”

  We exchanged a glance and Connor shrugged, and we followed her into the dining room. The table had been set for four, but Traeger was the only other person in the room. Dinner was apparently a stack of butter-topped steaks, foil-wrapped baked potatoes, and a gorgeous baguette that would have been perfectly at home in Paris.

  “A
re you expecting company?” Connor asked.

  “Yes,” she said. “You and Elisa.” She pulled out the chair at the head of the table. “I figured you’d be by. Family needs family in a crisis. And allies. I figure we’re both. Sit down, and let’s eat while it’s hot. Then we’ll talk.”

  * * *

  * * *

  I’d barely eaten a thing since the bonfire, so the food was a warm welcome.

  We were famished and ate in relative silence—three shifters and a vampire refueling with some pretty magnificent steaks and my well-kneaded bread. Maybe baking could be a hobby, after all.

  “I owe you an apology,” Georgia pronounced when we’d stuffed ourselves silly.

  “I don’t disagree,” Connor said, and Georgia’s mouth quirked.

  “You’re a lot like your mother, you know. She also doesn’t suffer fools.”

  “No, she doesn’t. But while I’ll agree you owe us an apology, I’m going to save you from making it. Let’s all just agree the situation is complicated.”

  “I can agree to that,” Georgia said. “I’m sorry about Obsideo.”

  “It exists for a reason,” Connor said. “And it’s done, so there’s no point in dwelling on it.” As if reminded of the weight of his magical bonds, Connor rolled his shoulders. “Did Cash agree to send out teams to search?”

  “No,” Georgia said grimly. “He thinks that would be a waste of resources, and the clan needs to stay close to home, given the external threats against it.”

  “Quintet of idiots,” I murmured, and Connor squeezed my hand in agreement.

  “Fortunately,” she said, “I have my own allies, and I’ve sent out some teams. They won’t have the coverage we need—not given how large the area is, how deep the woods—but it’s better than nothing.

  “I’d heard rumors about Loren having affairs, of course,” Georgia continued. “But he’s a shifter and single. I’d never heard anything about it being nonconsensual.” She reached out, put a hand on Traeger’s. “If that’s what happened to Paisley, I’m sorry for it. Very, very sorry.”

  Traeger nodded, but looked away, grief and anger etching lines in his face that he was too young to bear.

  “Connor says the spellseller told him Zane bought a rock,” Georgia said to him. “Do you buy that?”

  Traeger shook his head. “He wouldn’t care about a rock.”

  “Have you ever visited the shop?” I asked them. “Bought any magic from her?”

  Georgia snorted. “I haven’t been in and didn’t know she was a sorceress. Is she—what do they call it—registered?”

  “She says she isn’t,” I said, and glanced at Traeger, brows lifted. “What about you?”

  “What would I want with crystals and shit?” Traeger asked.

  “She’s lying,” Connor explained. “Maybe because she doesn’t want to get tagged by the Order, or maybe because she’s feeling guilty or afraid. We’re hoping the Order can give us some leverage.”

  “We could go into town in wolf form,” Traeger said. “Scare her into telling us the truth.”

  “Trying to scare people into doing the right thing is what got us here in the first place,” Connor said. “If we get leverage, we’ll talk to her again. What about a symbol made up of two Rs?” He looked between them.

  “No,” Georgia said, and glared at Traeger, who shook his head. “Why?”

  “We think they left it near the shutter,” Connor said. He pushed back his chair. “Trae and I will take care of the dishes. But first, we’re going to get some fresh air.” He looked at Traeger expectantly, waited until he rose.

  “Don’t go far,” Georgia said.

  “Literally just to the patio,” Connor said with a smile. “Your boy will be fine.”

  “I’m not her boy,” Traeger muttered, but there was something pleased in his tone.

  “Fresh air does a body good,” Georgia said. “And you will take care of the dishes, but they can wait until you’re back. And this will give Elisa and me a chance to talk.”

  We waited until they walked outside and the door closed behind them.

  And then I was alone with her, dreading the possibility that I already knew exactly what Georgia wanted to talk about.

  “Getting some attention from Connor will also do him some good,” she said. “Feeling like he’s heard.”

  “He came to us,” I said. “Told us about Zane. Connor’s already told him that was the right thing to do, the hard thing to do. I think he appreciates his dad’s influence enough to know what it’s like when people don’t have good role models.”

  “Trae definitely didn’t,” Georgia agreed. “I did the best I could, but I wasn’t his parents.”

  I nodded, looked out the window. The wind had picked up outside, and branches snapped against the windows.

  “Doing the right thing,” Georgia said. “The hard thing. There’s a lot of that going around.”

  I looked back at her, wasn’t sure if I’d see censure or approval. I found neither—more a kind of curiosity.

  “You did right by Carlie,” she said. “It’s taken me some hours—some hard hours—to think through it. But it was the choice you had to make, and you made it.”

  “I did.”

  “I’m glad of it. I get the sense, Elisa, that you make a lot of hard choices.”

  I understood we weren’t talking about Carlie anymore.

  “Would you like to tell me about it? I realize I offered that before, and you declined, and events in the middle may not endear me overmuch. I don’t know you very well,” she said. “But you saved Carlie, and that means a lot.” She smiled a little. “And I see enough of you reflected in his eyes, in the way he looks at you.”

  I watched her for a long time, my chest aching with emotion.

  Maybe it was a weakness I shouldn’t have shown. Maybe it was the debt I’d have to pay back drawing nearer. Maybe it was the combination of exhaustion and weakness. Maybe I was tired of being afraid.

  Or maybe, because she was a shifter and there was trouble enough in her own family, it didn’t feel as hard to be honest.

  “I call it the ‘monster.’”

  * * *

  * * *

  We stayed at the kitchen table, and I told her everything. I told her about the dragon, Mallory’s binding magic. The sensation that something foreign, something other, was living inside me. That it was violent and angry and powerful and strong. That it wanted out.

  And that it was getting harder and harder to hold it back.

  “Why don’t you want anyone to see it?”

  “Because then everyone would know what I am—that there’s a risk I’ll go crazy and hurt someone every time I fight. And everyone would know that my parents’ big plan had a very big flaw, and that flaw hurt me.”

  “Why do you say it hurt you?”

  “It makes me crazy. It makes me fight like a berserker.”

  “It makes you fight like a predator.”

  “It makes me a monster.”

  “It makes you a vampire.”

  This was beginning to feel uncomfortably like a trip to a therapist’s office, not a casual chat with my boyfriend’s aunt. I didn’t feel good about mixing those streams. I walked to the windows, folded my arms, looked out.

  “Even if your parents’ plan was a failure,” she said quietly, “do you think they want you to suffer? To bear the guilt over something none of you could control?”

  “I think there’s no reason for me to add to their guilt when I can bear it.”

  “Then I guess those are the questions you have to ask yourself: Are you bearing it? Or are you just getting by?”

  She paused, seemed to organize her thoughts. “I think Supernaturals, because we focus on our unusual strengths, don’t spend nearly enough time discussing our weaknesses. I think we should
all talk more. Be forthright and honest about who we are and what we’re feeling. If the clan had, if we hadn’t forced the younger shifters to suppress their anger, to hide their feelings and push them down, maybe we wouldn’t have lost people.

  “I like you, Elisa. And I don’t want you to end up like that—pushing down your feelings, living for your anger, until you’re consumed by it.”

  “I don’t know what to do. I don’t know how to avoid that. There’s no one I can ask. No book I can read. No screen page with information. I’ve found a few things that help—yoga, office work—that keep it quiet.”

  “I think you have to ask yourself why you have to keep it quiet.”

  I just shook my head.

  “Have you asked it?”

  “Asked it what?”

  “Who it is? What it wants? What it can do for you?”

  “I know what it can do for me. Violence.”

  “You can do violence well enough on your own. You don’t need the monster for that.”

  I shook my head.

  “Maybe I’m wrong,” she said, sitting back and crossing her arms. “But even if it was foreign before, it’s not foreign any longer. It’s part of you, and you’re part of it. You’re stuck together. So figure out how to live together.”

  “That’s what Connor said.”

  “He occasionally has a good idea.” Her face softened with kindness, with sympathy. “I know you feel like you took a risk telling me this. I can feel it. But consider the possibility that I’m not the only one who wouldn’t judge you. Based on what I know, your parents love you, and they’d want you to let them help. They wouldn’t want you to bear something so heavy on your own.”

  I thought about the talk I’d had with my father, how he’d been the first one I’d talked to about biting Carlie.

  “Sometimes the hardest thing we can do is be honest with those we love about who we are. Sometimes it’s also the best thing we can do.”

  “I’ll think about it,” I said. Because that was the most I could promise right now.