And Jericho Burned: Toke Lobo & The Pack

by MJ Compton

  “I only said it to annoy him.”

  “No, it was good.” Restin glanced at Stoker, who looked even more miserable than usual, if that were possible.

  “Telling Butler you were bringing the band to play at the reception is better than any strategy I’ve been able to come up with.” Restin hated admitting that a mere female–and a human one at that–had out-strategized him, but females of every genus thrived on flattery, and open hostility hadn’t mattered to Lucy.

  He pulled out the chair from the desk and straddled it backward.

  “Make yourself comfortable,” Stoker said, irritation accenting every syllable. The mattress dipped and squealed as he perched next to Lucy.

  Modestly covered by the bed linens, she drew her thighs to her chest and rested her chin on her knees. Her gaze was more alert than it had been two minutes earlier. “You’re not here to dish out compliments. What do you want?”

  He had to admire her bluntness, too. She was a lot smarter than he’d first thought. She hid a functioning brain under her fluffy yellow hair.

  “Since you unlocked the gate for us, so to speak, I wondered if you might have thought about what to do if Butler won’t let us in.”

  Stoker growled.

  Restin held up his hands. “Quit chasing your tail. Lucy knows more about New Sinai than we do. I need her expertise, that’s all.”

  “Your timing–”

  “She’s the one who set the time and date,” Restin reminded Stoker. “You can take that up with her. Later. Right now, we need a script. A contingency plan in place, just in case.”

  “Why don’t we wing it?” Lucy asked.

  Restin squelched a spark of irritation. “Winging it is what got you into trouble in the first place.”

  “Are you calling me trouble?” Stoker glowered as he spoke.

  Lucy touched his arm, which seemed to calm . . . no, appease him.

  Mating was already having an impact on Stoker.

  Someone pounded on the door before Restin could respond to Stoker’s absurdity.

  Stoker growled again then said, “It’s Luke. Let him in.”

  “How do you know it’s Luke?” Lucy asked.

  “I can smell him.”

  “Through the door?” She sounded skeptical.

  “Luke’s aroma is distinctive and strong, due to his human blood,” Stoker said.

  Restin opened the door, and Luke bounded into the room.

  “Wait until you see what I found,” Luke said, his enthusiasm crackling like disparate energy. He pulled a white dress from the bag draped over his arm and held it up.

  “What is that supposed to be?” Stoker asked. “I told you to buy Lucy something to wear.”

  “I thought she could wear it to New Sinai for your wedding,” Luke said.

  Lucy made an odd noise that sounded as if a bone were stuck in the back of her throat. “Uh, Luke? We were married this afternoon.” The bright orange T-shirt leached all healthy color from her complexion, leaving behind a jaundiced tint.

  “It’s really a prom dress,” Luke said, as if that made a difference. “But it looks like a wedding gown to me.” He pointed to a spot on the skirt where the shiny, slippery fabric was bunched up and held in place by a fake rose. “See?”

  It looked like a mistake to Restin.

  “It’s very nice,” Lucy replied. “Thank you. Did you happen to pick up any jeans or T-shirts?”

  Luke shook his head.

  Omega strikes again, Restin thought.

  “I’m telling you,” Luke said, “this is perfect. It’ll add authenticity to the operation when we go to New Sinai.”

  Lucy shuddered, but Luke was right. The more they appeared to be a genuine wedding party when they arrived at New Sinai, the more believable their cover.

  “Did you pick up shoes or lingerie?” she asked.

  Luke’s face turned dark red. “Uh . . . I bought you something else.” He held up a bottle as if it were a trophy.

  The gold foil covering the neck raised a prickle of caution on Restin’s nape.

  “I’ve never seen this before, but it’s perfect. Sparkling blueberry juice.”

  Luke had Stoker’s full attention.

  “It’s like champagne, but it’s non-alcoholic.”

  “Blueberries are very nutritious,” Lucy said.

  “Offering berries to one’s mate–one’s wife–is a custom with us,” Stoker said. “They make her smell sexy.”

  Lucy’s brows rushed together, the skin between them furrowing into a deep vee. “Is that why you order blueberry muffins for my breakfast every morning? So I’ll smell sexy?”

  Stoker nodded, his gaze never leaving her face.

  She grinned. “Cool.” She held out her hand, and Luke released the bottle.

  “This,” she said, hefting the bottle, “is the price of admission.”

  “Huh?” Stoker said.

  “This is our ticket inside,” she explained. “What better way to bribe the hungry than with food, and what’s a wedding reception without a feast?”

  Intriguing concept, Restin thought.

  “And I wouldn’t even have to make that much,” Lucy continued, as if thinking aloud.

  “You?” Stoker asked.

  “Yeah. I’m a caterer. I cook for crowds.”

  “I’ll take care of it,” Stoker said, sounding insulted.

  Restin didn’t blame him.

  “The bride’s family pays for the reception,” Lucy said. “That would be . . . me.” She picked up a small pad of paper from the bedside table and started writing.

  “You’re not cooking for your own wedding reception.”

  “Of course I’m not cooking it.” Lucy sounded impatient. “I don’t have a kitchen here. But I can call my staff and . . .” She scowled. “Maybe we can overnight express the food from Boulder.”

  “It’s not a bad idea,” Restin said. The plan made sense, and he never would have considered something so . . . basic. “I can handle getting the food here.”

  Stoker scowled. “It’s a horrible idea.”

  Lucy looked up from whatever she was writing. “Why? We already told them we’d be there at noon for a wedding. Why shouldn’t we bring the reception with us? Food and entertainment.” She grinned. “That would be Toke Lobo and the Pack.”

  Restin knew he couldn’t have created a better scenario himself. Even if Butler didn’t let them inside, they would be closer than they’d gotten yet. Stoker’s liaison with Lucy Callahan was turning into a stroke of luck.

  “I’m not happy about this,” Stoker said, stating what was obvious to everyone who knew him. “I don’t want you anywhere near that place. I don’t want to feed or entertain my enemy.”

  Lucy went very still. “The women and children of New Sinai aren’t your enemies,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “They’re victims.”

  Stoker’s expression darkened.

  If Restin didn’t know him so well, he might have been concerned. But Stoker was predictable, which wasn’t a bad trait, because one always knew where he stood on an issue. It was one of the things Restin admired most about him. And Stoker adored children. Lucy’s words would bother him.

  “My sister is pregnant . . . and hungry,” Lucy continued.

  Oh, she knew exactly what to say to ensure Stoker’s full participation. Restin found his respect for her growing–reluctantly, but growing.

  Restin was finished trying to fight this particular battle. Stoker’s mating instinct wasn’t as defective as Restin had originally feared.

  Lucy just might be an asset to the pack.

  Stoker didn’t want to admit it, but Luke had done a great job when he’d bought the wedding dress.

 
Lucy looked like a cupcake heaped with his grandmother’s old-fashioned cooked frosting: white, fluffy, and delicious. She was so bright in the April sunlight it almost hurt his eyes to look at her.

  And she was his. No matter what Randy Butler or Bill Danby tried, Lucy Callahan Smith belonged to him. Forever and ever. What the Ancient Ones and civil law had joined together could not be undone by some phony general lording over a patch of rocky land inside a stockade fence.

  If he hadn’t promised to rescue her pregnant sister, they would already be in Loup Garou, trying to make their own baby.

  He tucked his shirt tail into the dress slacks he’d sent Luke to buy. He didn’t own a tuxedo, or even a suit, and Lucy deserved better than a groom wearing blue jeans. She deserved a real wedding reception after the sad little ceremony in the county courthouse yesterday. She needed that dress to go with her ring and a moment of looking and feeling extra special. After meeting Butler up close and personal, Stoker decided Lucy needed lots of pampering to make up for having to deal with him.

  She deserved only the best, which wasn’t going to happen in this corner of Idaho. New Sinai’s existence precluded any good for anyone.

  Reality check also meant admitting he would have to struggle every day for the rest of his life to be the best husband to Lucy, the husband she deserved. Funny. He’d never felt . . . lowly before. He’d always wallowed in being a middle-of-the-pack kind of guy. It had been good enough before Lucy; it should be good enough now.

  And suddenly the day wasn’t so bright. Resentment settled over him, shrouding his pleasure in the day with gloom.

  But then the deeds were already done, and what was about to happen was a sham. A ploy to get them inside New Sinai, maybe rattle Randy Butler’s nerves a bit. Not a time for reality checks, but rather to focus on the job at hand. Stoker’s mission: rescue Michelle. Maybe Restin had other motives, but Stoker had his own agenda—snatch Lucy’s sister and flee.

  He just wished he didn’t have to drag Lucy along to New Sinai to do it. She wasn’t his cover; she was his mate.

  The rhythmic beat of the departing helicopter’s blades swatted the air around them. Restin had used his so-called authority to order a military escort to bring the food from Boulder, which impressed Lucy, but apparently disgusted the other band members. Stoker muttered something about Restin taking his role far too seriously.

  “What are those guys doing?” Lucy asked as she watched the roadies load huge black cases along side the oversized red cooler containing her food into the luggage compartment of the band’s bus.

  “Stowing our gear,” Stoker replied. He stood too close, towering above her like a skyscraper stealing her airspace.

  “Gear?” Her voice squeaked as if from disuse. “You mean like speakers and stuff?”

  He looked down at her, onyx eyes narrowed, his lips curled into a sneer. “You told Butler that the band would play at our wedding reception,” he reminded her. “You convinced Restin it was a brilliant idea.”

  She brought a finger to her mouth and gnawed on her cuticle. “Uh, yeah, but . . . there’s no electricity in New Sinai. Do you have batteries? A generator?”

  The grim line of his mouth twitched. “Sounds like we might have a problem.”

  Lucy couldn’t tell if he was irritated or amused. “I never thought about electricity. I mean, guitars, keyboards, drums, and fiddles . . .”

  “I can’t haul a piano around,” he said. “They’re too big.”

  She knew that. He didn’t need to rub it in. Besides, he was the groom. He shouldn’t play perform at his own wedding reception any more than she should cater it.

  “What about the other instruments?” she asked.

  “Do you honestly think Butler is going to let us inside?”

  Okay, he had a point. A good point.

  “We need to make it look real,” she said.

  He shrugged. “I think your dress does that all by itself.”

  Lucy looked down at the satin and tulle gown. The fullness of the skirt threatened to overwhelm her. She felt ridiculous in the get-up, but Luke had been like a little boy, so eager to please, and a wedding dress was a nice touch. Plus it fit perfectly, a fact that had deepened Stoker’s scowl. Now, if Michelle didn’t take one look at her and burst into laughter, they might be able to pull this off.

  “Let’s surprise ‘em,” Stoker said, taking her hand. The crystal on her ring fractured the sunlight as he brought her fingers to his lips.

  His mouth was hot on her skin, which raised goose bumps on her arms. Her pulse quickened.

  She wished they could call off this mockery and lock themselves in their room to continue their exploration of each other. If not for Michelle, she would have suggested chucking the whole idea.

  When he finally raised his head, his gaze smoldered, his eyes glowing with the same heat banked in her chest. “Ready?” he asked, offering his arm like a lifeline.

  Lucy grabbed it.

  The Toke Lobo and the Pack band bus lurched to a stop outside the weathered wood of the stockade fence Randy Butler and his merry mercenaries had erected around New Sinai.

  Lucy gripped Stoker’s hand. Each mile seemed to leech the color from her face until she now appeared nearly transparent. He wanted to kiss her, to assure her that everything would be okay, but he didn’t want to lie to her, and if he started kissing her now, he might not be able to stop.

  “And is the happy couple ready?” Restin asked, overly loud in the tense silence.

  “The happy couple wants this over,” Lucy snapped.

  Stoker exited the bus first then helped his bride disembark.

  A dry wind rustled her skirt, whispering in the folds of fabric. Stoker paused, catching the faintest of melodies in the movement of the cloth. He committed the rhythm to memory.

  Lucy squared her shoulders, lifted her chin, and inhaled deeply. Her breasts seemed to swell in the clinging bodice. Emotion dulled the usual brilliance of her eyes.

  For one wild moment, he was tempted to once again hoist her over his shoulder and take off at a run, abandoning everything unpleasant and demanding.

  “Ready?” he asked in a low whisper.

  She hesitated before nodding.

  He raised his fist and pounded on the gate.

  Behind the wooden barrier, he heard movement and snippets of conversation. Hank could probably interpret the near-whispers, but Stoker didn’t care enough to request his help.

  “What do you want?” someone whose voice carried finally asked.

  “It’s Michelle’s sister,” Lucy called back. “I told the General I’d be back today so Michelle can attend my wedding. And I’ve brought the band to play at the reception.”

  Not a single warble marred her words. His mate was strong.

  A moment later, the gate creaked open wide enough for two weapon-wielding men to emerge.

  Stoker stepped in front of Lucy, knowing the rest of the pack would surround her, protect her.

  “Only the woman comes inside,” the taller, uglier of the guards said.

  “The wedding is at noon,” Stoker said. He recognized the guard from the brawl. “Can’t have a wedding without a groom. Can’t have a reception without music or food.”

  “The groom is already inside.” The guard gestured with his gun.

  “Really?” Stoker made a grand show of looking around. “I think I’m standing outside the fence.”

  Butler strode through the gap. “Is there a problem?”

  A true leader wouldn’t face the barbarians at the gate himself, Stoker thought, but would send minions to ask the questions then develop a tactic to deal with whatever needed to be done.

  Not very smart for an alpha.

  His breath hitched for a molecule of a second. Randy Butler was th
e alpha male of a pack?

  Whoa. Serious scat there, stuff he didn’t have time to ponder just then. Proof that thinking was bad for you–thoughts intruded at the most inopportune times.