Wolf etiquette would've made the matter simple to settle, without the need for an embarrassing negotiation. The highest-ranked wolf always ate first. And in the case of a mated pair, the female usually won the prize tidbit because males were conditioned to place their mate's well-being over their own, as well as value sex over food. A horny male wolf with a hungry mate had a far better chance of getting bit than laid, so these matters had a way of sorting themselves out to everyone's satisfaction.
He chuckled. "Go ahead."
"Thank you." Victoria plucked her prize off the platter and downed it before he had a chance to change his mind. She sank her teeth into the middle without regard for the scalding cream cheese that burned the inside of her mouth. The popper hit her stomach in all its rich, calorie-laden glory. Not enough to satisfy her hunger, but it definitely took the edge off.
"Don't they allow you to eat at work?"
"I skipped lunch. Halloween is always a nightmare in the ER. No pun intended." She sipped her soda to cool off her mouth. Her regeneration had already kicked in—in another minute, her burnt skin would be healed.
"We see a crime spike every October 31st." He smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes. Despite that, she still couldn't tell what he was really feeling. It fit with what she'd observed of him on their first date—the man had a hell of a poker face.
"Is your job real or just for show?" Blinking, Victoria shifted her attention to the spiritual plane, opening her second sight. Blues dominated his aura—the shades of balance and confidence, survivorship and leadership. A lot of orange and gold in his chakras. Smoke drifted through his nimbus, marking the dark thoughts he so skillfully kept off his face.
"What do you mean?" His tone remained even. However, his jaw hardened and tightness altered the set of his shoulders. The contraction of his aura interested her more. Her casual question had triggered an unanticipated reaction.
"I mean—your family is well-connected. You have a paramilitary compound out on Red Butte and the National Guard at your father's beck and call."
"And 'beck and call' is a stretch. My father has never voluntarily asked the government for help with anything." Daniel employed humor edged with sarcasm. "He thinks they're a bunch of incompetent idiots."
"So the government doesn't fund you, or supply new recruits or weapons?"
"I didn't say that."
"Yeah, I noticed. You used a lot of words to not say it, too." Victoria schooled her tone to teasing but her curiosity had some serious teeth.
He grinned. "Hunters are autonomous."
She tapped her fingernail on the top. "So, let's circle back around to your job as 'sheriff'. Is that just a cover for monster hunting? I know for a fact that you weren't elected into office and your name doesn't appear on any official government org chart."
"You researched me?" He regarded her with open astonishment and grudging admiration.
"You betcha," she said, tongue in cheek. "Right after you asked me on our first date. I wanted to know what I was getting myself into."
He kept quiet, and a grimace working his face. Conflict played out in his aura too, generating spectacular fireworks which ceased when he reached a decision, or so she assumed. Seconds later, Daniel exhaled. "I'm not used to talking about my father or about being a hunter with the women I date. We're not supposed to discuss it with outsiders."
"Right, same here." She bared her teeth and allowed her wolf to bleed into her eyes to reinforce the distinction between her secrets and his. Hunters aside, most of the mortal population remained oblivious to the existence of the supernatural. And shifters, from wolves to coyotes to bears, preferred it that way. Normal humans outnumbered shape changers by the millions, and people tended to kill what they feared or didn't understand.
He nodded and warmed to the topic. "You're right about my job. I don't have the standard duties of a county sheriff. I have my own department and I report directly to the governor."
"And the governor reports to your father?"
He didn't reply—answer enough.
"So, you're really part of the state military?" Victoria pursed the subject with dogged determination. She strove to comprehend it because she needed to understand him.
"I'm a Maricopa County Sheriff. Just not with any law enforcement department civilians are familiar with." Daniel made the assertion with forceful conviction—the title and position must have a history behind it.
"What's it called?"
He grinned. "Officially, it's the Arizona Paranormal Enforcement Squad."
"APES?" Victoria snickered. "Funny, though I can't say I'm crazy about the name. 'Paranormal' is too damn broad for my taste."
"We don't hunt shifters unless there's good cause." He looked her straight in the eyes, forthright in his deportment.
"I believe you. What's it called unofficially?"
"Publicly, we're known as the "All-purpose Enforcement Squad."
"Nice. And ambiguous too. So, do tell—are writing traffic tickets a normal part of your duties as sheriff of the Arizona Paranormal Enforcement Squad?"
Chagrin washed over his face. "Uh."
So, it was as she'd suspected... He'd walked right into her trap and shown his hand. Her smile widened and she closed in for the kill. "So, you don't have a weekly traffic ticket quota to fill, huh? It was quite the coincidence that you pulled me over for speeding."
A bark of laughter escaped him. He grinned, unabashed and shameless. "You're never going to let me off the hook for that, huh?"
"Nope." She snickered again, fought laughter and failed.
"You should. You didn't pay the fine and we're here now." Daniel reached across the table and caught hold of her fingers. When he touched her, her heart jumped like a spring cricket—high and happy. His hands were big and warm, and engulfed hers in a protective shelter.
"Here is nice." And she'd be damned if her voice wasn't positively breathy in a way that reminded her of Gone with the Wind, except Victoria lacked even the most basic requirements to be an antebellum heroine. Growing up, she was more tomboy than girly girl despite her mother's preferences to the contrary, which had included years of dance lessons in ballet and gymnastics.
Victoria stared into his warm brown eyes, and lost herself. The outside world ceased to exist. Their auras extended—touched at the edges—blended in an Aurora Borealis of dancing ribbons, blues and greens. His eyes signaled his intent. When he leaned across the table, she closed her eyes and met him halfway.
Their mouths met over joined hands; the barest pressure. Not tentative, but rather savoring. The man kissed with the same assurance he brought to every other endeavor. His lips were firm and warm in contrast to the chilly night air. His breath even hotter, scented with the spicy sting of peppers.
She tightened her grip on his hands, somehow altering it so their fingers interlaced. His hands dwarfed hers so the span stretched her joints to the point they hurt. As a shifter, she'd been born to endure the discomfort of shape changing. Pain always verged on pleasure. A moan built in the back of her throat and she acted as the aggressor. She thrust past his lips, stroking the smooth evenness of his teeth.
He groaned. His tongue met her advance with a caress, still maddeningly restrained. On him, arousal tasted like cardamom soaked in burgundy. He was fast becoming her favorite flavor. She grinned into the kiss, so damn tempted to push his limits and see what it'd take to break that impressive control.
Victoria's sharp ears picked up the approaching footsteps of their server whose stride hitched, probably when he caught sight of them. As hungry as she was, food held its appeal too. She ended the kiss and pulled back. She opened her eyes fast enough to learn Daniel had also closed his. His lashes were ridiculously long and thick, resting upon his smooth tanned cheeks.
After they broke apart, the waiter delivered their food. A companionable silence descended again while they ate. Victoria inhaled her steak—which was rare enough to almost moo on the plate—and chafed at the restraints of fork and
knife when fangs would've been the natural way to go. Her baked potato—smothered in sour cream and chives—also hit the spot and even her steamed broccoli was... acceptable.
"Don't like broccoli?" Daniel snickered as she used her fork to poke at a vegetable grown cold because she'd left it for last.
"It's not my favorite." A firm believer in the goose-gander principle, Victoria turned a critical eye to his plate. To her glee, she spotted a small number of cooked carrots shoved aside on his otherwise spotless plate. She schooled her tone to prim and reproving. "You should eat your carrots. They're good for your eyesight."
"So I've heard." He laughed but it broke off. His face fell into shadow. The corners of his eyes pinched and his lips compressed. Even his scent soured.
"What's wrong?" Victoria asked.
"Nothing—" His head jerked and his hands fisted. With a grimace, he started over. "That's what my mother used to say."
"I'm sorry. I know your mother passed away last April." She tensed because they'd just strayed into what had to be sensitive territory for him. Sarah Barrett had fought a year-long battle with breast cancer. Victoria wanted to kick herself for the unwitting blunder.
"Thanks. It's been six months now. I keep expecting it to get better." His sorrow resonated throughout his aura, a single pure note.
"It will—give it time." The platitude sounded inadequate, but she wasn't sure what else to say. Words—empty without action to support them. Victoria reached across the table and covered Daniel's clenched hands with her own.
Conflict divided her heart. Despite the separation between wolves and hunters, her pack didn't exist in a vacuum. They kept distant but vigilant eyes on their allies. When cancer had sickened Sarah, the pack had engaged in a long, fierce internal debate before they'd sent Katherine, Victoria's mother and their most talented healer, to the Barretts. Their offer had been politely but firmly rebuffed and they hadn't tried again. Victoria's father, Adair, had accepted the rejection with equanimity but Katherine had construed it as an insult and lack of trust. And although Victoria seldom agreed with her mother, this time, she had. The vaunted Hunter King had preferred to allow his wife to die rather than trust his wolf allies of almost thirty years near her.
Distrust and suspicion—that right there quantified all the reasons why her sitting here with Daniel Barrett qualified as a Bad Idea. And she didn't mean in the capacity of an ally helping him locate a missing hunter, but as a romantic interest. Jake Barrett and his eldest son were widely known as being in agreement on most issues. Always, they presented a united front to outsiders. So deep down, she wondered if Daniel shared his father's paranoia toward the Storm Pack and agreed with the decision that had—in part—assured his mother's death. If so, the two of them definitely didn't belong on a date.
She didn't dare mention any of her concerns. In a way, she considered herself selfish for even worrying about such things while he suffered in the grip of grief, thinking only of his mother. Time passed during which neither of them spoke, and the silence grew tense rather than comfortable.
Daniel squeezed her fingers, and then he released one of her hands. He dug a coin out of his pockets, spared it a glance, and offered her a lopsided smile. "Canadian quarter for your thoughts?"
He set it on the table and slid the quarter toward her. Smiling, Victoria picked the coin up and clutched it between her fingers, rubbing her thumb across the rough edge. Briefly, she considered putting all her cards on the table but abandoned the thought. Assumption was plain old bad form, especially since they technically weren't on a date. She opted for redirection.
"I'm worried about how we're supposed to find Macan. Even if we luck out and your friend finds some traffic camera footage, that only tells us what direction he was going when he left town. There are hundreds of square miles of rugged wilderness out there..." Way more than two people could cover alone at night. A thorough search would require manpower and equipment they didn't have. She couldn't help wondering if the smart thing—what they ought to do—would be to call in the official authorities.
"I know," he said in a tight voice. From what he said next, his thoughts paralleled hers. "But I can't call for a search and rescue without some proof that one's necessary. So far, we don't have enough to justify it."
"Are you sure he's still alive?" Victoria hated being the one to make the suggestion but the thought had crossed her mind more than once. They should at least discuss the possibility.
Daniel's jaw hardened and his gaze locked on some far-off point. She got the distinct impression his mind went elsewhere. A hint of magic—tart and orangey—flavored the air. The hunter's mark—the tattoo dagger on his upper arm—emanated a faint glow. Not the brilliant strobe effect from when he faced combat; only a tenth as bright. Following the delay, his handsome features set in a mask of resolve.
"Yeah, I'm sure."
"You know because of that?" Victoria pointed to the tattoo. She wanted to ask why he could use hunter magic to confirm Macan still lived but not ascertain the missing man's location.
"Yeah." He read her mind, because he added, "My father would be able to track Macan with the mark, but remote scrying is beyond my ability. The best I can say is he's still alive—for now." A worried frown pinched his face.
"We're going to find him," Victoria promised with absolute conviction. She strengthened her hold on his hand and entrenched her resolve. Though, for good measure, she added a prayer to Freya and Freyr—and whatever deity happened to be listening—that this evening of Winter Nights would not end in tragedy.
His jaw jutted, fierce determination. "Time out is over. Let's get back in the game."
Chapter Six
* * * *
The whereabouts of Macan Guffin wasn't so much a riddle wrapped in a mystery inside an enigma. Rather, it bore closer resemblance to a preschool jigsaw puzzle—sticky and smelly pieces, some with their fronts chewed off, others missing... In other words, a real mess.
After dinner, they'd returned to their suite at just past ten p.m. Daniel wanted to comb through all the material they'd taken from Macan's room. He plunked down in the middle of the bed, put his back against the headboard, and spread out dusty maps, yellowed newspaper clippings, journals and notebooks, along with various other miscellanies all over the bedspread.
Victoria watched him, snorted to herself, smiled, and shook her head. It looked like all the thought she'd put into how to handle his anticipated advance was for naught. The man meant what he'd said about getting back to work. A shame—she'd been looking forward to the continuation of that kiss they'd shared before dinner.
Determined to help, she perched on the edge of the mattress at the foot of the bed. At random, Victoria picked up a hardbound book that was grimy with age. When she opened it, she discovered a black and white photograph of a family tucked between the pages. The man was a silver fox—in his late sixties or early seventies—with a full head of gray hair and a groomed handlebar mustache. He had piercing dark eyes and rigid posture. Although not dressed in traditional Scottish garb, he did wear a distinctive clan crest brooch pinned to the front of his shirt. His hand rested upon the shoulder of a plain-looking woman, presumably his wife, who looked to be about half his age. Twin boys of six or seven years crowded close to her as though fearful of their father. She turned it over but there were no names on the back.
Victoria tucked the picture back into place and turned to the first entry, dated May 1944. The book wound up being the personal journal of Patrick Guffin, Macan's great-grandfather, who had written everything in longhand. Despite being in cursive, she found it easy-reading thanks to his neat penmanship. She needed clues, not the story of the man's life, so she skimmed, sometimes flipping three or four pages. He'd kept elaborate entries rife with details and personal asides. The hunter's cutting wit leapt right off the page and she imagined Patrick speaking the words he'd penned decades before.
Ever impatient, Victoria flipped until she located the last journal entry. She fig
ured the man's final record was the most likely to contain a useful clue as to his eventual fate.
"Listen to this..." She waited until Daniel looked up, and then she cleared her throat and read aloud:
"October 30, 1945. Met an old-timer at the saloon last night who went by DW. A couple whiskeys loosened his lips and he got to talking. With a bit of encouragement, he told me some of the local ghost stories. Of course, the one everyone knows—that widow who hung herself from the fourth story balcony of the Hermosa Inn. He threw in a piece of gossip about the lady having been murdered by the hotel manager at the time, one Sebastian Greer. Allegedly, Greer staged her suicide, but it was never proven. All rumor and speculation from decades ago. Besides, the manager in question is long since dead, having perished in a fire that consumed the basement and lobby mere months after the hotel opened. The fire was taken as a bad sign by the owners who subsequently sold the business. To this day, many still believe the hotel to be cursed or haunted—possibly both. Whatever the case, there's no denying the Hermosa Inn has been plagued by an unusual number of conflagrations in the decades since.
More interesting: DW told a tale of a lost gold mine, discovered by a miner who, naturally, took its location with him to his grave. Allegedly, and this is where it gets outlandish, the spirit of the miner guards his treasure to this very day. Manifesting as a ten-foot-tall skeleton who has a tarnished brass mining lamp suspended within his ribcage. The locals affectionately call it 'Old Skelly'.
Now, I've seen some strange and scary things in my day, from vampires impervious to sunlight to a werewolf with fleas—"
"That's ridiculous!" Victoria scowled at the journal. She pretty much dismissed the existence of "Old Skelly" out of hand as an obvious fairytale. Werewolves and vampires were one thing—perfectly plausible supernatural creatures. Animated skeletons, however, belonged to the realm of cartoons and goofy Halloween posters.
"Is it?" Daniel burst out laughing.
Victoria looked up, directing her displeasure toward him. "No self-respecting wolf would ever—"
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