Wild Hunger

by Suzanne Wright

  Trick draped his arm over the back of Frankie’s chair and drew circles on her shoulder. “Marcia felt threatened by the mating bond.”

  “Brad seemed to feel the same way,” said Cesar. “Christopher was an interloper in their eyes. I’m not sure how much Brad understood about true mates, but I know his parents didn’t believe in any kind of metaphysical bond. They thought Caroline could walk away from Christopher if she ever chose to do so. They thought he’d brainwashed her into believing that she was stuck with him. Nothing Caroline said seemed to make any difference.”

  Clara caught Frankie’s gaze as she said, “Although your grandparents weren’t pleased about the pregnancy, they doted on you. Didn’t they, Cesar?”

  “Oh yes,” he agreed. “They were so proud, especially as you looked the image of Caroline when she was a child. They even softened toward Christopher, after a while. Unfortunately, Brad didn’t. He remained very hostile toward your father, but he loved you. ‘My Frankie,’ Brad called you.”

  Finished with her pie, Clara dabbed her mouth with a soft napkin. “The point I’m trying to make is that there were always sides, even before your parents left this world. Caroline often felt torn and sad that she’d disappointed her family. But she made her decision to be with Christopher; she stuck to it. Eventually they softened. Not completely, but enough that they didn’t leave her life. Maybe they’ll soften for you, in time. It may seem highly unlikely now, but it is possible.”

  Frankie wasn’t all that convinced of that, but she gave a short nod. “Wendel said that Caroline took to pack life like she was a shifter.”

  Clara’s smile turned nostalgic. “Oh, she did. The day Christopher brought her here, he was the envy of the pack. All the males were sweet on her. She was just so bright and hopeful and fresh, like an ethereal fairy. None of them ever poached, of course, but they did envy your father. She only had eyes for him, and vice versa.”

  Tilting her head slightly, Frankie asked, “Did anyone ever give him trouble over it?”

  “Oh no. If your parents hadn’t been true mates, it’s possible that someone would have challenged him for her. But nothing could be gained from challenging a male for his true mate—to break the bond would be to kill her, so there would be no prize.” Exhaling heavily, Clara shook her head sadly. “Everyone was devastated by her death. They were even devastated by Christopher’s, despite what he’d done. He was one of us. We all loved him.”

  Frankie poked her tongue into the inside of her cheek. “Is it usual for pack members to own a gun?”

  Cesar blinked. “No. We were surprised to find out that he possessed one. Josh has a rifle, but it’s a keepsake of some kind; he doesn’t use it. Doesn’t need it. Shifters fight with tooth and claw, so there was no need for Christopher to own a gun. I think that was why some believed he was suicidal. But I don’t believe he bought a firearm contemplating ending his own life. He had no reason to want to die. It didn’t make sense.”

  Many things made no sense, in Frankie’s opinion. “Do you have any of his things?”

  “No, why?” asked Clara.

  “I have some of my mom’s things. Marcia gave them to me. I have Caroline’s scent. But I don’t have his.”

  Her face softened with understanding. “I’m pretty sure Iris boxed up his belongings and put them in her attic.” Clara got up, disappeared into the den, and then quickly returned. “Here. This is the key to her cabin. You’re welcome to take anything of his as a keepsake. Iris would want that, and so would he.”

  Taking the key, Frankie nodded. “Thank you.”

  “Me and Cam will wait here,” Lydia told her. “You should have privacy for something like that. Well, obviously, you won’t have total privacy—Trick will be with you. But I think you’d rather have him there anyway.”

  Frankie smiled. “Well, how else am I going to reach the high shelves, chase off spiders, or pick up heavy boxes?”

  Snorting, Trick threaded his fingers with hers and then tugged her to her feet. “Come on. Let’s get it done.”

  Clara followed them to the front door. “Oh, Frankie, you asked about the sculpture. It only occurred to me later that you may have been interested about it because it was one of yours—especially with it being somewhat creepy. Is that why you asked?” At Frankie’s nod, she said, “Thought so. Well, I asked around, tried to find out who bought it. No one seems to know.”

  Veiling her disappointment, Frankie gave her a grateful smile. “All right. Thanks.” Outside, she spoke to Trick. “Maybe Abigail can track the buyer of the sculpture. I’ll ask her.”

  “Good idea.” Trick walked her to the SUV. “You sure you want to do this?”

  “I’m sure.”

  “All right.” He opened the passenger door for her. “Get in.”

  Minutes later, they pulled up outside Iris’s cabin. Except for the birds chirping and the leaves rustling, it was eerily quiet. She spared her childhood cabin a brief glance before crossing to Iris’s front door. She unlocked it, but Trick stepped inside first—the protective move made her smile.

  As she walked inside, her brows lifted. “I’m surprised no one has started packing up her stuff.” Nothing appeared to have been disturbed.

  “Lydia wanted to start straightaway, but Clara’s not ready yet—she wants to give it a few weeks,” Trick explained. “Lydia agreed to give her time.” He led the way up the stairs and searched the ceiling until he found the hatch door for the attic. “Here it is.” He shoved it open and extended the fold-down staircase. “I’ll go first and make sure the ladder’s stable.”

  Frankie rolled her eyes. “I think I’ll be fine.”

  “Indulge me,” he said, climbing up the wooden rungs. The ladder wobbled only slightly. Reaching the top, Trick glanced around the attic. He ignored the pull-string light. As shifters, they could see just fine in the dark. “Quick warning: it doesn’t smell great up here.”

  “I can handle it,” Frankie assured him. But when she joined him, she put her sleeve to her nose, grimacing at the scents of mold, mothballs, stale air, and mildew. Her wolf curled her upper lip in distaste. “I don’t think anyone’s been up here in a while.” Rays of moonlight speared through the single window, illuminating the dust motes in the air.

  “My wolf doesn’t like the tight space.”

  “Neither does mine.”

  Trick stepped forward but then paused as a loose floorboard almost gave beneath his feet. “Let’s not stay up here too long.”

  “Works for me.” The dusty floorboards creaked as they walked, passing trunks, sheet-covered furniture, an old record player, children’s toys, and sealed, labeled boxes. The sight of the cradle in the corner tugged a smile out of her.

  She stubbed her toe on something and hissed. “Motherfucker.” Looking down, she realized she’d almost knocked over a painting propped up against a large chest.

  Crouching down, Trick took a good look at it. “This could be one of Christopher’s. He liked to paint landscapes.”

  “Maybe this chest could have his old stuff in it, then,” mused Frankie.

  “Maybe.” Trick moved the painting out of her way. “Want to do the honors yourself?”

  “Yes.” Crouching beside him, she flicked open the metal hinge and shoved up the heavy lid, wincing at the loud creak. The chest shook, and dust clouded the air. She turned her face away, covering her nose. “Damn.”

  “Hey, looks like you were right.”

  Frankie turned back to the chest. At the top was a framed portrait of a teenage Christopher. She looked at it for a moment and then carefully placed it on the floor. She flipped through the other items—there were clothes, books, baseball cards, sports medals, and . . . “Nice.” She lifted the chain. At first the pendants looked like military dog tags. But then she realized that one of the tags was thicker than the other. “I think it’s a locket.”

  “Open it.”

  Using her nail, she pried it open. There was a photo on either side—one of Caroline an
d one of Frankie as a toddler. Swallowing hard, she closed the locket and looked at the thinner dog tag. Engraved on it was “To the best mate a woman could wish for. Happy birthday, Chris.”

  When she went to return it to the chest, Trick gently shackled her wrist and said, “You should take the locket.”

  Her brow creased. “But—”

  “Your parents would want you to have that, just as you would if the situation were reversed. This meant something to them, just as you do. Clara said you were welcome to take something as a keepsake.”

  “Yeah, but this is jewelry. It looks expensive.”

  “When people come to pack Iris’s things, they’ll take all this stuff too. A lot of it will be thrown away or donated to charity. Lydia would probably see this and keep it, but she’d then give it to you anyway. No one would begrudge you taking it.”

  She twisted her mouth, torn. Maybe she should ask Lydia first and—

  Trick took it from her and shoved it in his pocket. “There. Now I’ve taken it. Your conscience is clear.”

  Frankie softly snorted in amusement. “If I wasn’t busy, I’d make a citizen’s arrest.” She lifted one of Christopher’s shirts to her nose. Beneath the smell of stale cotton was . . . “Earthy musk, dark chocolate orange, and . . . Caroline. I remember this smell.” For some reason her eyes filled. “I didn’t remember hers as clearly as I do his. That makes no sense. I have some of her old things.”

  “Yes, but those things probably belonged to her before she mated with Christopher, so her scent would be slightly different on those. You only knew your parents when their scents were intertwined,” he pointed out.

  Damn, she hadn’t thought of it that way.

  “If you were to find something that belonged to her after she mated with Christopher, her scent would then be as memorable to you as his is.” Trick flicked a look at the shirt. “How do you feel when you inhale his scent?”

  “It makes me feel safe and happy,” she admitted in a low voice.

  “Until the end, you were safe, and you were happy.”

  “Some think Christopher killed himself because he didn’t want to live without her, but wouldn’t he have died from the severing of the bond anyway?”

  “Right. But most believe he wasn’t thinking clearly. He was acting on pure emotion. Emotion can make you do stupid things. I always thought it was more likely that he pulled that trigger because he hated himself for what he’d done to your mother and just couldn’t live with it a moment longer—that he didn’t think he deserved to live a moment longer.”

  “Maybe.” Dust tickled the back of her throat, and she coughed.

  “Ready to go?”

  “Yeah. I’m ready.” She returned everything to the chest, secured it shut, and then stood upright. Rubbing her hands together to shake loose the dust, she said, “I’m glad I did this.”

  He gave her nape a light squeeze. “Good.” Turning, Trick ducked, careful not to knock his head on a wooden beam, and then crossed to the ladder.

  “Wait.”

  He glanced over his shoulder. “What?” But she didn’t answer. She was staring at a huge cardboard box. He stalked to her side and saw that “Caroline’s things” had been scribbled on the side of the box with a black marker. He also saw that someone had clawed through the masking tape, leaving the top flaps open. Peeking inside, he frowned. “There’s nothing in there.”

  “Nothing?” Frankie looked in the box. “Why would someone take her stuff?”

  He shrugged. “Maybe Iris sent whatever was in here to your grandparents. Just because they didn’t give you anything of Caroline’s from after she was mated doesn’t mean that they don’t actually have anything.”

  “I guess you’re right.” It just seemed odd to Frankie that the empty box had been left behind.

  “Come on.” He led the way out of the attic, closed the hatch behind them, and then guided her down the stairs. As they were passing the shelves, Trick paused. “Want to take the sculpture? She’d rather you have it than anyone else. She’d have liked that it came full circle.”

  Frankie nodded. “Grab it.” Outside she took a deep breath, breathing in the clean air. As they dusted off their clothes, her gaze was drawn to her childhood cabin. “I want to go in there.”

  Trick stiffened, and his wolf growled in objection. “Frankie, you’ve already put yourself through something emotionally taxing tonight.”

  “Actually, it wasn’t taxing. I feel better for it.” Which tremendously surprised her.

  “I’m glad, but you won’t feel better for walking through that place.”

  “Maybe not. But it’s just something I feel I have to do.”

  “Is it something you really have to do right now? Because we’re both covered in dust, and Lydia and Cam are waiting for us. You said that going through your father’s things has helped you feel better. Take the time to enjoy that.”

  Frankie eyed him curiously. She could feel his anxiety through the bond. “Why don’t you want me to go inside?”

  Trick crossed to her and curved his hand around her neck. “Because I know you’re hoping that something will jog your memory of that night, even though it’s highly unlikely. Lots of things make no sense for you. You want answers. I get it, and I don’t blame you for that. But it will only hurt you when it doesn’t work. I’ve told you before, no one hurts my mate—not even her.”

  “I’m not expecting to have flashbacks. I was so young when it happened . . .”

  “But you’re hoping that you somehow miraculously will. You’re still mad at yourself because you buried the memories and you can’t seem to get them back.”

  Frankie ground her teeth. It really was annoying just how well he read her.

  “Look, if you really feel you have to do this, I’ll make it happen. I’ll get permission from Josh to go through the place. But can we not do it tonight? Going through your father’s things was huge for you—even though it turned out to be a good thing, it still wasn’t easy. Let’s take it one step at a time.” He rested his forehead against hers. “Please. For me.”

  She took in a long breath. “Okay.”

  His face softened. “Okay.”

  Shivering, Frankie rubbed her upper arms. It was cold and dark and dusty in the display room. The eyes of her sculptures were closed. They were sleeping. She had to be quiet.

  She tiptoed through the door that led to the studio. But when she walked through the door, she wasn’t in the studio—no, the door had led her right back into the display room. She saw a hatch door above her head. She opened it, pulled down the staircase, and climbed the steps. And she found herself back in the display room.

  Trick was there. He was staring at The Face. It wasn’t twisted in pain, not while it was asleep. Trick looked at her. “I don’t like it when you hurt yourself. You have to stop.”

  She closed her eyes and took a breath. When she opened them, Trick was gone. Iris was there, looking as hale and hearty as she did in her photos, and there were puzzle pieces all over the floor.

  “Don’t pick them up,” Iris told her. “Leave them where they are. Let it lie, Frankie.”

  The pieces suddenly rose off the floor and began to orbit around Frankie. They moved too fast for her to really see any of them. She looked back at Iris, but she wasn’t there anymore. “Where are—?”

  The pieces froze in the air. Fell to the ground. She could smell gun oil and gunpowder and blood. Beneath those was his scent—rain, brine, and burned wood.

  She noticed then that The Face had woken, and his eyes bore into hers—eyes that were now human and familiar, yet not. “You’re supposed to be in bed, Frankie.”

  Her eyes snapped open, and she drew in a shuddering breath, clenching her hand around the coverlet. The arm that was curled around her from behind twisted her to face Trick, and she let him pull her flush against him.

  He kissed the top of her head. “Another nightmare?”

  She just nodded, keeping her face buried in his ch
est.

  “Talk to me, Frankie. Your heart is pounding like crazy, and my wolf is raring to get out and hunt down whatever scared you. Tell me about the nightmare.”

  She swallowed. “I think someone other than my parents was there the night my mother was killed.”

  The hand stroking her back stilled. “Who?”

  “He smelled like rain, brine, and burned wood. I smell that scent every time I’m around Clara’s sons, but since they’re triplets they all smell the same.”

  Trick resumed stroking her back, petting the anxiety out of her. He hated the tremor in her voice. His wolf rubbed up against her, trying to comfort her. “What makes you think he was there that night?” he asked softly.

  “I smell that scent as well as the gunpowder. And then a voice tells me that I’m supposed to be in bed.”

  Sliding his fingers into her hair, Trick tugged her head back and said gently, “That doesn’t mean that anyone else was there that night. I’m not saying you’re wrong. I’m saying this could be your brain trying to put all the pieces together and mixing them into one dream.”

  She couldn’t even argue with that. The human eyes on The Face hadn’t been eyes that belonged to any of Clara’s sons. The picture forming from the pieces she had didn’t make sense. And she had to consider that just maybe she wanted to believe someone else had been there because she didn’t want her father to be guilty. Since her wolf reacted so badly to the triplets’ scent, they were convenient scapegoats, weren’t they? Still . . . “I feel like my subconscious is trying to tell me something. I don’t think I’m remembering what happened. Just that my subconscious has picked up on something that I’ve overlooked. Something important.”

  Trick rubbed his nose against hers. “I don’t know what that could be,” he whispered.

  Neither did she.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  As Frankie walked through the arched door of the underground nightclub a week later, her brows lifted in surprise. It was nothing like a usual club. The lighting was dim, and the dance floor was full, but there was no thumping overloud music, no stale hot air, and no flashing strobe lights. The club had both style and class. With the redbrick walls and the arched ceiling, she felt like she was in a large train tunnel or something.