by Lori Drake
Whatever it was, the more Sam talked about “the body,” the more Joey worried she might throw up on her mother’s expensive Turkish rug.
She remembered another day, another time, when eight-year-old Chris had spilled paint on the rug that predated the current one. Fearful of whatever punishment Adelaide might dole out, they’d put their heads together and conspired to clean the rug themselves before it was discovered. The scent-memory of the bleach that had quickly made matters worse still lingered. The potted plant they’d moved to cover their tracks hadn’t fooled anyone. Her mother had been livid. Joey had thought that vein in her forehead might actually burst, but her father had laughed it off and smoothed things over as he often did.
She didn’t realize how far her mind had wandered until she noticed that the others were rising to disperse.
“Wait,” she said, springing to her feet. “What can I do? How can I help?” The question was directed at Sam, but he deferred to Adelaide once more.
“Your brothers have things well in hand, Josephine,” Adelaide said, in her no-nonsense manner. “Jonathan and Sara are going to take you to your apartment so you can pack some clothes.” Joey’s borrowed attire had not escaped her mother’s notice.
Joey blinked. “So, that’s it? I’m just supposed to sit back and let the menfolk handle it?” Her tone was incredulous, and the hand holding the glass of scotch began to shake as her grip on it tightened. “You’ve never kowtowed to any man. No offense, Dad—”
“None taken,” Reginald murmured.
“But you expect me to? Whose daughter do you think I am?” she challenged, drawing herself up to her full 4 feet 11 inches as she looked her mother in the eye. She’d inherited her diminutive stature from Adelaide, so she didn’t have to look up.
“It’s more complicated than that,” Adelaide explained, calmly. “We are facing an unknown foe—unknown in number as well as motive. All we know is that Christopher is dead, and street toughs don’t carry silver daggers. You’ve never faced a hunter before. Your brothers have. You are ill-prepared, ill-equipped, and ill-mannered.” She paused, pressing her lips together until they twitched, the only indication that Joey had gotten under her skin.
Joey seized the opportunity to get a word in. “Whose fault is that? Don’t act like this is all on me. You raised me!” Prowling footsteps carried her closer to her mother, until she stood barely a foot away, staring her down.
The room went quiet. Not even Reginald was willing to get in between mother and daughter at that moment. Joey could have sworn no one even breathed.
Adelaide stared back, unflinching. Unyielding. “I will not lose another one of my children to this menace.”
“I want in on the hunt,” Joey insisted.
Adelaide’s eyes narrowed. “I want all of my children under one roof.”
“Fine,” Joey growled. “Let me help Sam and I’ll stay here.”
“Done,” Adelaide said, a glint of satisfaction shining unexpectedly in her eyes before she turned and walked out of the room.
The old bitch outfoxed me.
Frowning, she turned to regard the others once more, challenging each with a level stare in an attempt to save face. Only Sara lowered her eyes.
It ought to be illegal to have so many alphas in one pack.
The next time Chris came to himself, he was in a familiar room with no idea how he’d gotten there. The carpet was soft under him. It was the first pleasant thing he could remember feeling in quite some time. Exactly how long, he wasn’t certain. Time seemed to have no meaning anymore. There was no sun or moon shining through the dense gray fog to mark its passage. The absence of the moon was the most unsettling thing. He couldn’t sense it at all anymore; it was as if whatever connection he’d had to it was severed.
There was no fog inside the room, but its features were only familiar because he knew them so well. Just as before, the colors were washed out, the edges of furniture and other objects indistinct. But at least it was all here. Unlike that empty street, this room contained everything it should have, except…
He sat up. “Joey?”
He didn’t recognize his own voice at first. It sounded tinny, like his mother’s old recordings of music from her youth. Clearing his throat didn’t help.
Moving gingerly, he picked himself up off the floor and looked around. His muscles ached and his legs felt rubbery, as if he’d run a marathon. Crossing to the window, he tried to peek through the blinds to see if that fog was still outside, but his fingers passed through them.
Where am I? What is this place?
He tried again, reaching for the blinds more carefully this time but his fingers only passed through them more slowly. Anger borne of frustration flared within him, but soon faded into bone-deep despair. It was as though he were nothing but a swirling pool of raw emotion, feeling everything at once until something or another surged briefly to the surface.
But he was home. Looking around the living room he’d shared with Joey for just a few short years, he drank in that sense of homecoming, only incomplete because she wasn’t there. Was she? He moved from room to room, growing more and more frantic with each passing moment. He missed her. Needed her. They hadn’t spent more than a few days apart since they were kids. She was always there for him when he needed her, sharing his joys and sorrows, triumphs and tragedies. Always. Until now.
“Joey? Joey!” he called, over and over, to no avail.
“Joey…” he moaned, sagging against the kitchen counter, full of despair once more. He had to find her, had to tell her… what was it? He couldn’t remember, and the tremors of this realization sparked a tsunami of woe that washed over him until he clung to the sink to remain upright.
Wait. How am I doing that?
No sooner had the thought occurred to him, his hands slipped right through the counter and he staggered backward into the opposite counter. He looked down at his immaterial form, hip-deep in Formica and wood. This was swiftly getting out of hand.
He moved forward once more and tried to lay his fingers on the countertop, but every time they passed right through it. He was still puzzling over this when an unearthly breeze stirred around him with a terrible, familiar voice carried on it.
“Christopher…”
The sound of her voice caused his insides to clench.
“Go away!” he yelled, anger warring with terror in that swirling cauldron of emotion. He pressed the heels of his hands to his ears in a futile effort to block her out.
She laughed again, and there was a tug at the edge of his consciousness, pulling him away.
“No!” he cried out, sliding across the kitchen floor. He grabbed desperately for the counter. His fingers caught it, but slipped. Flailing his arms, he knocked a glass onto the floor. The crash and tinkle of scattering glass sounded far away.
“We’re not finished, Christopher…”
She dragged him across the dining area, toward the front door. He scrambled for anything he could possibly reach, knocking over a chair along the way. He grabbed for the bookcase by the door, but only succeeded in knocking a few books onto the floor before he was yanked right through the door and out of the apartment.
Even though the door hadn’t opened, the sound of it slamming shut echoed in his ears. There was a finality to it that filled him with despair. As the dense fog closed in around him, the searing pain rose once more in a symphony of torment. He screamed and fought until it burned him away again and there was nothing but agony that remained.
6
Joey stomped her feet all the way up the stairs. Something about the overprotective nature of her brothers brought out her inner tween.
“I can’t believe you won’t even let me go up and pack a bag by myself,” she grumbled, looking anywhere but at her brother’s ass climbing up the stairs ahead of her.
“I can’t believe you’re not lighter on your feet, for a dancer,” Sam retorted, stepping onto the landing and looking carefully to the left and right. She stopp
ed next to him and smirked.
“You know you’re not my actual father, right? Despite being older than dirt,” she said, taunting him lightly. Sam would be celebrating his 89th birthday next year, but he didn’t look a day over 40 thanks to werewolf genetics.
Moving past him, she turned left to walk along the balcony. He shadowed her, footsteps silent on the concrete floor. For a big man, he was really good at walking softly—also, carrying big sticks.
“You’re just bent out of shape because I wouldn’t let you drive,” he observed, with an air of amused tolerance. Teasing a man about his age didn’t work the same as it usually did with a woman. But the cadence of their banter was familiar and comforting, something Joey needed on a fundamental level.
“Did I ask to drive?” She rolled her eyes, twirling her key ring around one finger while she walked. The keys made a metallic rasp as they went around the ring.
“You wanted to drive.” A quiet chuckle rumbled from his chest.
“It’s your truck, why would I drive?” She protested, conveniently ignoring the fact that he was right. “Hey, that reminds me.” She glanced over her shoulder, footsteps slowing as she approached her apartment door. “When we talk to Detective Harding again we need to ask if they’ve found my car.”
“Noted,” Sam replied, but he didn’t whip out his little notebook to write it down. His eyes roamed, expression casual but wary.
Rolling her eyes again, Joey unlocked her door and pushed it open. A quiet thud sounded from the other side, and the door didn’t swing open as easily as expected.
Sam was quick, pulling Joey back with an arm around her waist.
“Hey!” She yelped in protest.
He shoved her gently but firmly behind him and drew a snub-nosed revolver from a concealed holster at the small of his back.
Joey’s eyes bugged. “What the… you’ve got a gun?”
Sam glared at her over his shoulder. “So much for the element of surprise,” he muttered, putting a finger to his lips before turning back to the door. Holding the revolver low, he pushed the door open a little farther and advanced.
Joey moved in behind him, close enough that she was almost but not quite pressed up against him. Her wolf ears picked up a noise from behind the door, something rubbing against the carpet as it opened.
Sam stepped forward quickly and turned to point the gun behind the door, but lowered it a moment later.
Peeking around the edge of the door, Joey saw nothing more threatening than a few books from the nearby bookcase.
“How’d those get—” A chill ran down her spine. There was no way those books had leapt off the shelf by themselves. “Okay, I’m officially glad you came with me,” she said, more quietly, but only got another shushing gesture from her brother.
Joey clenched her teeth and followed while Sam worked his way through the apartment. He moved so competently that she half expected him to yell “Clear!” every now and then like they did on TV. The search uncovered no lurking intruders, and once it was complete Sam returned his gun to its holster and tugged his shirt down over it.
“Whoever it was, they’ve gone,” he said.
“Should we call the police or something?” Joey said and closed the front door.
“That depends, how much do you want them sniffing around?”
Joey grimaced. She hated it when people answered a question with a question, but he did have a point. Looking around again, she wrapped her arms around her midsection. The idea of someone prowling this place, pawing through her things—it was a violation and it left a bad taste in her mouth and anger simmering in her belly.
“No more than necessary, I guess. Still, it might be nice to have someone besides amateur gumshoes trying to figure this out. Speaking of which… where did you get those moves, bro? You look like you know how to use that thing.” She jabbed a finger at his midsection, indicating the concealed firearm.
“It’d be pretty dumb to carry it around and not know how to use it,” he said, dryly.
“Is it legal?” She eyed him. California’s gun laws were notoriously strict.
“Are you going to call the cops if it’s not?” He rolled his eyes. “Yes, it’s legal. Come on, take a look around but try not to touch anything. Tell me if anything’s disturbed or missing.”
Joey walked the apartment again, inspecting her surroundings more carefully this time. Though they were obvious, she pointed out an overturned chair and a broken glass on the kitchen floor. Her fingers twitched with the impulse to put things to rights, but she tamped it down and continued searching. However, there was nothing else to find. Everything seemed to be as she’d left it, though as “lived in” as Chris’s room was she couldn’t be sure nothing in there had been rifled.
“I don’t get it.” She turned to Sam once they’d returned to the living room. “Why break in and leave obvious evidence that you were here but not take anything?”
“Intimidation. Scare tactics. Some of them are like that,” Sam said, withdrawing to lean against a wall with his thick arms crossed.
“Them? Hunters?”
He nodded.
“Met a lot of them, have you?” She eyed him dubiously. Her brother obviously had skills she hadn’t known about. What else was he hiding?
Sam shrugged. “A few,” he said, apparently not wanting to get into it any more than that. “Was the door locked when you used your key?”
Joey’s brow furrowed as she thought back. “Um, yes. I’m pretty sure it was. Why?”
“They might have Chris’s keys. We should get the locks changed.” He reached for his phone.
“Okay, you call the locksmith while I pack,” Joey said, ignoring the fact that he was probably already doing that. “Suddenly, spending a few days at Fort Grant actually sounds kind of appealing,” she mumbled to herself, but her keen-eared brother snorted softly in response.
Chris was gone. Her family was taking over her life and her own home didn’t feel safe anymore. Any one of those thoughts was enough to make her uncomfortable, but the three together were like a dark storm cloud following her around, raining on her parade. With dangerous lightning and gusty winds.
“Oh hey, Mom wanted me to remind you to pack something for the service,” Sam called from the other room.
“She did, did she?” Joey tossed back, the words utterly devoid of surprise or enthusiasm.
“Well, technically she said ‘Remind Joey to pack something suitable for the service.’”
Joey scoffed. “That sounds about right.”
She sifted through the items in her closet. Everything was hung according to color, so it was easy to find the black items. Suitable. I ought to wear red, just to spite her. She wouldn’t, of course, but out of respect for Chris rather than daughterly submission. Thinking of Chris caused a fresh surge of sorrow, but she swallowed it down. Black suited her mood, at least.
Sam was finished with his call by the time she brought her garment bag out to hang on the coat rack, but his eyes were on his phone as he fiddled with it.
“Don’t you ever get tired of being her lap dog?” A small frown turned down the corners of her mouth.
Sam looked up. “Huh?”
“Mom. You jump when she says ‘frog’. You always have.”
He gave her a puzzled look. “She’s our Alpha,” he said, as if this ought to explain it entirely.
“You’re an alpha too. So am I. You don’t let me boss you around.” There was a difference between being an alpha and being the Alpha, of course, but Joey had made challenging her mother’s authority an art over the years. She’d never understood why her brothers never seemed to chafe under Adelaide’s yoke.
He snorted softly and scrubbed his fingers through his hair, roughing it up. It was the same color as hers, a rich auburn, but he was tall and muscular while she was short and lithe.
“Probably only a matter of time,” he remarked, looking back down at his phone.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Her
frown deepened.
“Think about it, you’re a smart girl.”
Clenching her jaw again, Joey turned away and went back to her room. Patronizing son of a bitch. The thought at least made her chuckle as she pulled her small travel suitcase from under the bed and started filling it.
Her phone rang while she was tucking a few neatly folded shirts into the suitcase. The number wasn’t one she recognized, but she answered it anyway.
“Hello?”
“Miss Grant?” It was a man’s voice. Familiar, but she couldn’t quite place it.
“Yes, who’s speaking?”
“This is Detective Harding. How are you holding up?” he asked, sounding sincere.
“Oh, hi Detective. I’ve had better days,” she said, sitting on the edge of the bed beside her suitcase. She heard a rustle of paper, and the distinct sound of a pencil dropping on the floor—the muted thump of an eraser followed by the clatter of wood on linoleum. A chair creaked; she imagined him leaning over to pick up the pencil.
“No doubt. I know this is a difficult time for you, but would you mind coming down to the station this afternoon? I have a few questions for you about your brother’s case.”
Sam appeared in the doorway, looking on curiously.
“Sure, as long as it’s not in handcuffs,” Joey quipped. Her brother gave her a quizzical look.
Harding didn’t chuckle. “Can you meet with me in an hour?”
“Uh, sure. See you then.” Hanging up, she sat there frowning and tapped the phone against her chin.
“Something wrong?” Sam asked.
“I’m not sure, but I think you should probably call Jon.”
Sometimes, it was nice to have a lawyer in the family.
7