Deadlock: Southern Arcana, Book 3

by Moira Rogers

  “You want to do paperwork?” Franklin smiled at her, though the tension in the room didn’t dissipate. “Did Mahalia hex you?”

  She had to tread carefully. “Is there a reason I shouldn’t be here right now? More trouble with my uncle?”

  Franklin’s shallow smile vanished. “He took advantage of Alec’s absence to make his presence felt. He’s not happy that I won’t tell him who pays the bills, and we’ve escalated from threats to legal attacks.”

  “Damn it. What the hell is he trying to accomplish?”

  “Beats me. Maybe it’s about the money, or maybe it’s about putting me in my place. Wolves don’t tend to think much of the rest of us shifters.”

  “Will John Peyton intercede if he knows Cesar is harassing you for no reason?”

  “John Peyton doesn’t have that luxury. He’s taken all the chances he can afford, right now. Going against one of the old wolf families on behalf of a coyote? He can’t do a damn thing unless Cesar crosses a line that puts the rest of the wolves in danger.”

  Carmen hated the feeling of helplessness that assailed her. Franklin—and by extension the clinic—had no ready recourse. “I’ll fix it.”

  Franklin shook his head. “It’s bigger than you. And it’s not the first time something like this has happened. The old leader of the Southeast council used to mouth half-hearted threats once a month or so. They can smell the money.” He sat back and tilted his head, regarding Carmen thoughtfully. “You’ve seen the equipment we have. Haven’t you ever wondered?”

  “Of course I have. But I figured you’re a stand-up guy with decent funding and a good head for money management.”

  “Not quite.” He checked his watch. “Do you want to know?”

  As far as she knew, no one at the clinic but Franklin himself was privy to that information. “Only if you want to tell me.”

  “You’re the closest thing I have to a second-in-command, Mendoza. I’ve been thinking about making it official for a while. Your relatives aren’t going to change that.”

  “Even if they’re causing serious problems for the clinic?”

  “Rule number one of the supernatural community in this town? We don’t hold each other’s families against one another.”

  “That seems fair.” Carmen held out both hands. “Lay it on me. What is it, the Conclave making secret donations? A cabal of wizards?”

  Franklin shook his head. “Sit here another five minutes and you’ll get to meet our benefactor.”

  Surely he didn’t mean that the way it sounded. “You say that as if there’s only one.”

  “Mysterious, isn’t it?”

  He was enjoying himself. “Franklin…”

  But Franklin didn’t budge, instead engaging her with small talk about what had gone on in her absence, until a rattling knock set his door dancing on its hinges.

  He raised his voice. “Come on in, Wesley.”

  The man who walked in had been in a recent altercation. Contusions and scratches marred his face, along with a nice-sized laceration over his right eyebrow. His leather jacket was worn and had a very distinct grass stain on the shoulder.

  Carmen forgot about Franklin’s words as she rose and stepped away from her chair. “Jesus, are you all right?”

  “I’m fine, I’m fine.” The newcomer waved her off and peered at Franklin. “Finally, I get to meet her.”

  “And you’re making a great first impression.” Franklin sighed heavily and leaned forward. “Who was it this time? You weren’t in the casino again, were you?”

  Wesley snorted, then winced and prodded at his swollen lip. “Casinos won’t let me back in. Could head up to Biloxi or something, but I don’t like to drive.”

  “Might as well sit back down, Carmen.” Franklin waved a hand. “Meet Wesley Dade. Our illustrious benefactor, and a degenerate gambler.”

  “Not really gambling if you know what’s coming,” Wesley said, his voice light and careless. He managed a half-smile for Carmen, even with his growing bruises, and sank into the chair beside her. “Nice to meet you. Officially, I mean.”

  “You too.” She tried to make sense of his words, and the situation. “You’re a precognitive psychic?”

  Wesley tapped his temple. “I knew you’d be a smartie. Too bad you’re not going to have time to help Franklin run this place.”

  The words would have frightened her, except that he didn’t seem to deliver them with any sense of foreboding. “I just got the job, and you’re telling me I can’t do it?”

  Wesley hummed cryptically.

  “Ignore him,” Franklin advised. “Sometimes I think he says that shit to stir us all up. If Wesley does know something, he’s not going to spill unless it looks like the apocalypse is nigh.”

  The psychic’s smile grew. “Happens more than you’d think around here.”

  She believed it. “You fund the clinic? By gambling and subsequently getting the crap beaten out of you?”

  He touched his bruised cheek. “People don’t like it when you win all the time. But no, back-alley poker games don’t pay the bills. The stock market does.”

  “Wesley’s a little superstitious,” Franklin said, dry amusement lacing every word. “He can’t seem to stop testing his luck, but he’s convinced God will strike him down if he uses the money on himself.”

  As a basic personal philosophy went, it was similar to what Carmen’s mother had raised them to believe. “My mom used to tell us the same thing about our abilities. That we’d be punished if we abused them.”

  “Fire and brimstone and a big angry devil tormenting you all day long.” Wesley shrugged and gestured to his face. “Or a beat down because you tempted fate. Wherever our powers come from, someone doesn’t want us using them to get rich quick. Unfortunately, I have a compulsive personality.”

  “So you make this place possible, and warn everyone when an apocalypse is on the way. That seems like a pretty big chunk of good karma.”

  “It would have to be. I really like gambling.” Wesley slanted a look at Franklin. “I know when to hold ’em. And when to fold ’em. Even when to walk away.”

  It sounded like a long-standing joke. Franklin certainly groaned like it was and rubbed at the side of his face. “And someday we’re going to teach you when to run. Carmen, take him to one of the exam rooms and fix his face up, would you?”

  He’d need stitches, at the very least. “Beats paperwork. Follow me, Mr. Dade.” She led him down the hall, but hesitated at the exam room door. “Does Franklin give you a chart, or does he keep this stuff off the books?”

  “There’s probably one floating around somewhere.” He gave her a half-grin that utterly failed to be rakish. “You sure you want to find out how many times I’ve been punched in the face this month?”

  “Pretty sure I don’t, actually.” She ushered him in and gestured toward the exam table. “I think you know the drill.”

  Wesley stripped off his jacket and settled in like an old pro. “This is nothing, really. You should see what happens to card counters if you cross the line in the wrong casino.”

  “Broken fingers?”

  “And then some. Too bad, because it’s an art. Not much skill in knowing the future, but card counters can guess it.”

  “Isn’t it more about memory?” Carmen grabbed some gloves and gauze. “Remembering what’s been played and extrapolating the rest?”

  “Remembering what’s been played, keeping the count, knowing the odds…” He raised one eyebrow at her. “If you stitch me up so pretty I don’t have a scar, that’s an art too. Not less of one just because you learned it like any other skill.”

  It sounded like Wesley Dade was trying to impart a life lesson, not talk about repairing facial lacs. “I’m a big fan of knowledge earned and hard work.”

  “Of course you are. Franklin respects that, and he respects you.”

  Honesty, Carmen. “I’m also a big fan of directness. I’m even okay with people being on the blunt side.”


  Wesley smiled and held out both hands. “Just talking about counting cards. I like to talk to distract myself when needles are about to become intimate with my face.”

  Whatever he was trying to say, he wanted—no, he needed her to listen. So Carmen dabbed at his eyebrow and smiled. “All right. Not everyone can do it, right? Count? Calculate the odds on the fly?”

  “No, they can’t. But even the best… If you do it by yourself, it’s easier to get caught. You have to play the table, you know, and for that you need partners. If they’re good, they can watch how you change your betting strategy and figure it out.”

  “There’s another option, you know—don’t do it. Find another hobby. Take up watercolors or knitting. Parasailing.”

  “Lady luck’s a fickle lover,” Wesley admitted, “but some of us can’t keep from crawling back to her time and again. Funny thing about this instance, though, is that lady luck favors you if you bring a friend. Or two. Spotters keep count, and the big player drops in to strike while the iron’s hot.” He sighed. “Too bad none of my friends are good at counting. Alec Jacobson offered to make buttons out of my teeth if I tried to lure his mathematically gifted secretary off to a life of adventure and mystery.”

  Carmen bit her lip to hold back a laugh. “Except for that part about Kat, I have to say, Mr. Dade…I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “That’s the point, Dr. Mendoza.” He smiled, just a little. “God’s busy. He can’t smite us for bending the rules. Someday, it’ll make sense.”

  “Like when the iron’s hot.”

  “Smart girl.”

  She hummed as she opened a suture kit. If she were a little smarter, maybe she could figure out the gambling precog’s cryptic words, and whether they were a promise…or a warning.

  Chapter Fifteen

  There were definite advantages to having a girlfriend.

  Carmen’s skin was smooth and warm under his fingers, and he’d discovered he liked the feel of it. Tracing idle patterns on her back was better than any ritual when it came to quieting his mind. Granted, the soft sheen of sweat and the way her heart still beat too fast didn’t hurt. Alec was honest enough to admit that regular, enthusiastic sex with a woman who always knew exactly what he needed was enough to make a man drunk.

  It seemed to have done wonders for Carmen’s mood too. She hadn’t unraveled whatever psychic trick it was that brought him inside her shields, and her emotions tickled over his skin, a gentle pressure he was slowly becoming used to. Understanding those emotions had been tricky at first, but now he was learning to separate frustration from anger, and desire from happiness.

  All of them were present now. Anger struggling to reassert itself, though happiness seemed to have taken over. Alec let his fingers drift in another lazy circle before speaking. “I like this thing you did. Letting me feel what you’re feeling. Different way of seeing the world, huh?”

  “Mmm, I thought about rebuilding everything, but I was dragging my feet.” She propped her head up and smiled at him, her expression one of satisfied, sleepy pleasure. “I like it too.”

  Tenderness stirred inside him. He liked her. Not just the hot sex, or the admittedly unusual pleasure of being fed home-cooked meals on a regular basis. He liked her, especially when she had that lazy smile that was nothing but naked, open trust. “You look happy, but you still feel a little pissed off.”

  She groaned. “My uncle’s a jackass. While we were gone, he mounted a legal attack on the clinic, all because Franklin threatens his manhood, or maybe his authority. Or both.”

  “Or because Franklin’s been my friend for years, and I support the neutrality of his clinic.” Not a pleasant thought, but he’d had it before.

  “Whatever the reason, I’m starting to wonder if anyone is ever going to make him stop.”

  It wasn’t where he’d expected the conversation to lead, and some of the warm, pleasant afterglow faded. “It’s not that easy.”

  “Right. Because everyone else on the Southeast council is busy trying to figure out how they can snatch power for themselves.”

  “Not that. If you stop Mendoza today, then tomorrow you’ve got to stop Reed. And the next week, Hopkins will be banging down your door. It never ends, Carmen, and the person who tried to stop it would get himself killed, eventually.”

  She sat up and ran her hands through her hair. “I don’t believe they’re all as corrupt as my uncle. Maybe they’re as corrupt as they’re allowed to be. Maybe all it would take to stop them is one strong person standing up to them.”

  It was naive. Sweet. It would get her heart broken. “Maybe they’re not all that corrupt. But enough of them are. The majority.”

  Her eyes shadowed. “I may not understand being alpha, but I understand taking care of people. Responsibility. Some of the council members have to remember that’s why they’re there.”

  He’d spent more than his fair share of time thinking about the Southeast council and the men who ran it, their strengths and weaknesses. “Alan Reed’s not terrible, though he’d like to kick your brother’s ass more than a little. William Levesque is a decent guy. But Hopkins and Hughes… They make your uncle look reasonable.”

  “Reed and Levesque, that’s two. And it’s something.”

  She didn’t get it. “They’re decent, but they won’t stop Hopkins and Hughes from tearing apart anyone who manages to take on your uncle. Or stop your uncle from doing the same to someone who took out one of the other two.”

  “Then I guess you’re right.” He felt the sting of dejection before he heard it in her voice. “The system’s change-proof, and it’s too late to fix it.”

  They could have been his words from her lips—and he wanted to disagree. He wanted to change it, for her.

  Stupid. The system was change-proof. The people in power had designed it that way. Still, he couldn’t stop himself from holding out a hand to her. “I’m sorry, baby.”

  Her hand trembled in his. “It’s not your fault, and it’s silly of me to get upset about it. I just don’t understand how they can not care.”

  “A little bit at a time.” He tugged at her hand, urging her to curl up beside him again. “Maybe they’re born into it, raised with it. Maybe they start out thinking they can change it and realize how much there is to lose. Once you’re on the council, losing a challenge can wipe out your whole life.”

  “Too much to lose, and not enough to gain.” Her breath feathered over his shoulder as she spoke. “That’s when it happens, isn’t it? When otherwise good people start to do nothing.”

  That stung a little. “I’m not doing nothing. I picked my battle. New Orleans is one I can win.”

  She tensed and lifted her head to look at him. “That wasn’t a dig, Alec, and I wasn’t talking about you.”

  He tried to laugh it off. “Guess I’m feeling defensive.”

  For a moment, he thought she might not speak. Then she said, “Maybe you think you should be doing something more.”

  “Yeah, well, no one ever said I was bright.”

  “I say you are,” she corrected, lifting a hand to his cheek. “I also don’t think you should feel guilty about this. You’re doing what you can.”

  It should have been enough. Reassurance. Instead it felt hollow. “So what lets me off the hook when all the other bastards are guilty for letting the world go to hell?”

  “Because you’re not letting things stay the way they are because it benefits you. You mean well, and you’re trying.” Her hand traced down until her palm rested over his heart. “I can feel how hard you’re trying.”

  Alec slid his hand over hers and closed his eyes. “I try. And sometimes it’s enough.”

  Carmen kissed his shoulder. “No, I shouldn’t judge. All I’ve ever seen is the worst part of any of it, so I don’t really understand. I can’t. But you live it, every day.”

  The words struck at the heart of the anxiety that had been building in him for months. “Seems like all we’ve got are worst p
arts, these days. I don’t think it was always like this. Or maybe I’m just tired.”

  “Both?” she whispered, pressing her forehead to his. “Shh. I want to show you something.”

  Pressure gathered, a low buzz he could feel in his bones. The brush of her power, curling around him. It rose in a gently cresting wave, passion twisted with infatuation, sparkling trust and a sweet kiss of longing. Her feelings, the way he made her feel, bathing the darkest, most jagged corners of him with something wholesome and beautiful.

  Alec closed his eyes and dragged in a shaky breath that smelled of sex and skin and Carmen. “Thank you.”

  “Don’t thank me.” She stroked his arms, a tender, soothing touch. “Just see yourself the way I see you.”

  “Don’t know if I can, honey.” He lifted a hand and touched her cheek. “But at least you let me feel it, for a little while.”

  “Whatever you need.” His own words, delivered as a promise instead of an echo.

  Alec tugged her down into his arms and rolled them both, until she was on her side and tucked back against his chest. “I’m just afraid it might come down to a showdown with your uncle,” he admitted. “That can’t be easy for you to think about.”

  “No,” she admitted. “But I know you’ll only do what you have to do. Maybe…I could talk to him.”

  His wolf snarled. He snarled. “If he hurts you, I’ll kill him.”

  “I wouldn’t put myself, or you, in that position.”

  Easy enough to say, but Carmen had a streak of glorious optimism. “I don’t care if this makes me an overbearing, irrational ass. Don’t go see him by yourself. Please, Carmen.”

  “I wouldn’t, Alec, I swear. Not without you or Julio.”

  Julio was an acceptable alternative. A strong enough wolf to face down his uncle, if he had to, and determined to keep his sister safe. “Good. Speaking of your brothers, I went to see Miguel.”

  “I know.” She turned her face to his. “He left a message while I was at the clinic. He said he’d talked to you.”

  Uh-oh. “Yeah? What else did he say?”