The Rainmaker (Saga of the Chosen Book 2)

by Petra Landon

  “No, he asked for you, not the Alpha.”

  “Is Atsá still at the Lair?” Duncan inquired.

  “Yes, he’s in the Café.”

  Duncan turned to Hawk. “Take Atsá with you and escort the leech upstairs. Make sure you have Atsá with you, Hawk” he reiterated. “Leeches can be canny, and I don’t want one running astray in the Lair right now.

  “I’ll take care of it, Duncan.”

  When Hawk returned with the Vampire emissary, both Atsá and Maartje accompanied him. Hawk shut the door to exit the room, leaving the Vampire facing the three Were-Alphas.

  The leech emissary was a tall, thin man of indecipherable age whose pasty complexion hinted at how rarely he allowed the sun to see his face. He zeroed in on Duncan.

  “You’re Were-Alpha Hawthorne?” he inquired.

  “I am” Duncan confirmed.

  “I have a message for you from my Mistress, Were-Alpha.”

  Atsá and Maartje seemed to straighten behind the leech.

  “The Mistress would like to offer our support to the Pack, for Russian Hill.”

  Duncan arched an eyebrow. “Support?”

  “There are whispers about an attack on the Pack. The Mistress would like to assure you that none of our Pure Bloods are involved. She’s making inquiries to confirm that neither Rafaelo Bianchi nor his Pure Bloods have slipped back into the city in violation of the local Chosen Alliance. She will let you know as soon as she has confirmation.”

  Duncan studied the leech. “The Pack appreciates her efforts.”

  The leech’s midnight dark eyes searched the Shifter’s face. “I am to let you know that our Pure Bloods are at your service if there’s anything we can do. The Mistress values our relationship with the Pack and the Alpha. We will stand with the Pack when it punishes those who dare to attack Wyrs on their own turf.”

  Duncan acknowledged the Vampire. “My compliments to your Mistress.”

  Later, after the leech had been escorted away, and Luis had returned to the Lair, Atsá, Maartje, and Luis huddled together with Duncan.

  “We have the name of the man who rented the house. We’re tracing his whereabouts as we speak.” Luis gave them a brief rundown. “We’ve canvassed the neighborhood — there’re no signs of Wizards or any Chosen. We’re starting to fan out further.”

  Duncan glanced at his watch. “I’m hoping to have something from David Hamilton soon.”

  Maartje frowned. “What does the Mistress want?”

  “She fears being isolated in San Francisco, Maartje” Atsá responded. “She knows the Chosen Alliance is not one merely in name.”

  Luis seconded Atsá. “The Alpha is her best bet to join the local Alliance.”

  “You’re sure she’s not hiding her leeches’ involvement in the attack, Duncan?” Maartje looked skeptical. While Vampires and Wizards did not make particularly pleasant bedfellows, she could not rule it out. Even Lady Bethesda had joined hands with the Clan, a seemingly enduring pact that had survived decades.

  “This was very personal, Maartje.” Duncan shook his head, his expression grim. “Personal, and targeted specifically at Raoul. To ruin a Shifter by reducing him to a desperate elemental struggle for his psyche is abhorrent. But to attempt this on Raoul is particularly heinous. His past is not a secret, though details are scarce. Whoever this is, he went after what he assumed to be Raoul’s Achilles’ heel. It’s not a coincidence that he picked Tasia as Raoul’s intended victim.”

  “Because she’s a Wizard?”

  “The world know how Raoul feels about Wizards.”

  “But why pick a Wizard he allowed into his Pack? After the San Francisco Registry, it’s no secret the Pack will go to Tasia’s defense, Wizard or not. She’s not an enemy.”

  “What better revenge than to have Raoul attack the very Wizard he has sworn to protect, Maartje? Diabolical, if you ask me.” Duncan’s expression hardened.

  “Duncan has a point, Maartje” Luis said thoughtfully. “This man, whoever he is, hates the Alpha.”

  “Franciszka’s leeches don’t possess such animosity towards Raoul. This is someone else” Duncan reiterated.

  “Perhaps to do with his work for Faoladh on the investigation?” Atsá suggested. “Someone ruthless enough to stop the Alpha in his tracks before he gets too close.”

  Duncan nodded. “It’s a possibility. There are still Wizards who believe in the Lady’s innocence.”

  “What about the Guardian at the San Francisco Registry, Duncan?” Luis pointed out. “He was publicly humiliated.”

  “Anderson” Duncan murmured. “Yes. I’ll give Jason a call. He can help investigate the Anderson angle. And, keep his ear to the ground — the Guardians are unhappy with the investigation and Raoul’s offer of sanctuary to Sienna.”

  “When is Guardian LaRue back from San Diego?” Maartje asked.

  “In a few days.”

  “Will he be willing to help us go after a fellow Guardian?”

  “For Raoul, yes” Duncan said confidently. “Jason owes him, and from what I know of him, Jason will be just as outraged once he learns of the attack. He’s not your typical Guardian who parrots the GCW line blindly. He’s been receiving serious blowback, for working with us and accepting our hospitality, yet, so far, he hasn’t let that deter him at all.”

  Tasia hummed softly, chopping marjoram leaves finely to toss them into the simmering pot. The process and mechanics of cooking, creating a culinary concoction, had always brought her pleasure and helped soothe and calm her. Her father had helped inculcate this love in her. Some of her earliest memories were of watching him transform the simple vegetables they grew in their backyard into tasty meals. The artistry and skill required to transform what they grew in the ground into dishes that tickled all her senses had marveled her. When it had looked like a brief possibility, she had enrolled in culinary school to sharpen her talents. But then the reality of her circumstances had intruded again. Now, she indulged herself occasionally in Caro’s swanky kitchen, cooking up lavish meals that her friend downed enthusiastically with plentiful compliments. The Lair Café, which stocked meat-heavy ready-made meals with a few fruit and salad ingredients, allowed Tasia no outlet for her creativity.

  “Hi.”

  Lost in her own world, the husky greeting served to startle Tasia. The large spoon she’d been using to stir the soup slipped from her hand to fall back into the pot with a splash. Tasia made a grab for it, only for her forearm to hit the heated stainless-steel pot. She jumped back, with a soft yelp, as a burn mark scorched itself onto her arm. The collision, infinitesimal as it had been, slid the simmering pot on the stove, leaving it precariously close to the edge.

  Before the hot liquid could splash on her, Tasia found herself swung out of harm’s way by a band of steel around her waist. From the corner of her eye, she watched a long arm reached out to grasp the pot by its heated handle and straighten it before its boiling contents could spill over. It happened so quickly that Tasia had little time to react. She knew, of course, which man with the lightning reflexes had come to her aid.

  It had only been a day since the cage — she could still recall his soft hisses of pain as the silver bars burnt his skin while he kicked down the cage door in a desperate bid for freedom. Driven by instinct, she pushed against his shoulder, a silent demand to be let free. He complied, the band around her waist loosening, giving her the leverage to reach for the hand that had just righted the heated pot. Bringing his hand up to check the damage, she cradled it carefully in her smaller palm. When the voice in her head reminded her that this was eerily reminiscent of the night of horror, she shoved it away. The welts on his palm from the pan were very faint already. She used a finger to trace it carefully as the last one winked out of existence. Her eyes flashed up to him, finding the gold eyes too close for comfort. This close, the flecks of dark gold stood out brightly, the effect of the gold around the darker iris very stark. The eyes were back to their usual opaqueness, the wildness and e
motion from the night gone as if it had never been. But through the coldness and reserve, she thought she detected something else. A hint in the gold depths that awakened something buried deep in her. It brought Tasia to her senses, conscious that she stood within the loose circle of his arm with one large palm clasped in both of hers.

  She let go of his hand to step away hurriedly. The hand around her waist fell away as she moved back from him. For a moment, they stared at each other, the weight of the cage between them. It was his turn to reach for her arm, slowly and with deliberation, the gold eyes holding hers. A dark welt marked the spot where the pot had burned her skin. He skimmed his thumb over the burn, his touch careful and feather-light.

  Despite his gentleness, Tasia winced and his eyes flashed to her in response. He swiped his thumb on the mark once more before letting go of her arm. Tasia stared at her arm in astonishment; the welt from the burn had disappeared to leave behind smooth skin. Gone also was the accompanying pain. When she raised her eyes to meet his, there was a hint of laughter in the gold depths.

  “Wizard magic runs in my blood too, even though I choose to ignore it most times” he retorted blandly.

  Startled and somewhat unnerved, Tasia wondered uneasily what he meant. He did not like to acknowledge his Wizard heritage. After Russian Hill and the Wizards’ amoral and vicious attack, his words confused her even more. Uncertain and thrown off kilter by his presence and the night in the cage, Tasia went on the offensive.

  “You startled me” she pointed out.

  The hint of admonishment in her voice had him arching a brow.

  “This is my kitchen you’re making yourself at home in.” The voice was sardonic. “Or have you forgotten that, witchling?”

  Before Tasia could counter that undeniable comeback, Sara reappeared in the kitchen.

  “You’re up, Alpha.” There was joy and pleasure in the words. “How do you feel?”

  With his attention diverted, Tasia grasped the opportunity to turn her attention to the soup still simmering on the stove, despite the near calamity.

  “Better” he responded to Sara.

  He looked it too, Sara realized, scrutinizing him carefully. Clothed, unlike before, he was moving lightly on his feet, with no hint of weakness. With his physical strength returned, gone too was the earlier vulnerability she’d glimpsed. He was back to the Alpha his Shifters were familiar with, the Wyr with the uber control and absolute confidence.

  “Tasia is making us soup. Would you like some?” Sara offered, while a silent Tasia stirred the soup as if her life depended on it.

  “Perhaps later. For now, I need protein.”

  He moved to the refrigerator to glance through the stocked shelves, picking a neatly marked package to place in the microwave.

  Satisfied that the Alpha was on the mend, Sara turned to Tasia. “That smells good.”

  Sara, who knew her friend well, had reminded Hawk to deliver fresh groceries along with a change of clothes for both ladies. The Alpha’s cupboards were bare and his Shifters had stocked his refrigerator with inordinate quantities of meat to help fuel his recovery, making the options for Tasia very limited. Much to Sara’s pleasure, Tasia had buried herself enthusiastically in the kitchen, once the groceries had been delivered. Her friend too was grappling to deal with the events of the past few days, Sara knew.

  They ate together at the kitchen table, casual conversation flowing between them. It was twilight, the sun having set for the day. The Alpha’s apartment, like the glass and steel building that housed it, was modern, new, and airy; spartan with furniture that tended to the traditional, yet appeared functional in the modern space. The apartment had been designed to maximize the sun during the day, and Tasia had noted the breathtaking view from the bay window in the living room. The décor reminded Tasia strongly of the Alpha’s Room — stark, functional, and somewhat sterile. The kitchen with its gleaming appliances was state of the art, but its spotless state and the bare cupboards and pantry made it clear that it was rarely used. He had put his stamp on the apartment, Tasia realized, but just enough to make himself comfortable. There were no personal touches — no photographs, pictures or mementos anywhere. She, who’d crowded her dingy apartment with bright knickknacks and flowers, wondered whether he thought of this as home at all.

  The Alpha glanced at Tasia, drinking her soup silently, while Sara updated him on affairs back at the Lair. He’d surprised her by using his magic to heal her burn, compounding that by confusing the heck out of her with the statement about Wizard magic. If this had disconcerted her, he wondered how she’d react to his use of magic to save her the night they’d met. That night long ago, he had known nothing about her except that she’d come to Hawk’s aid selflessly, to save him from a tight spot.

  The phone trilled unexpectedly, interrupting his thoughts. It was the landline. He excused himself to head into the master bedroom. Duncan’s voice came through clearly, his relief palpable.

  “Am I glad to hear your voice, my boy.”

  Raoul smiled. “I hear you have your hands full, Duncan.”

  “And then some” Duncan said placidly.

  “I’ve always said that you’d make a fantastic Alpha. Perhaps this will whet your appetite, Duncan” he teased, tongue in cheek. He knew Duncan’s views on this.

  “No, thank you. I’m content where I am.”

  There was a moment of silence and then Duncan asked “How are you, my boy?”

  There was a wealth of meaning in the simple question.

  “Almost fighting fit, Duncan.” Raoul’s voice hardened. “I’ll be at the Lair in the morning. Hold down the fort for one more night, if you please.”

  “Absolutely. I’ll see you in the morning, Raoul.”

  When the Alpha returned to the kitchen, the two ladies were cleaning up. Sara chattered easily, not normally gregarious but at ease in the company of friends. It was clear that Sara held the witchling in great affection, much like her twin. The thought had him gritting his teeth.

  He pitched in, helping to pack away the leftovers, the three of them working seamlessly in the kitchen on their respective tasks. But now that he was on the mend, Raoul’s intuition had kicked in, and it told him that something was wrong. He waited for his chance to ask her. Something troubled her. He knew it by the same extraordinary sixth sense that gave him flashes of her thoughts and emotions.

  Once done, as Tasia prepared to follow her friend into the living room, he detained her with a quiet word.

  She turned to him.

  “What’s going on with you?” The gold eyes were intent on her. “Are you injured?”

  “No.” Tasia shook her head, clearly puzzled by his inquiry.

  “I can sense it” he said clearly. “Something’s not right.”

  Shock flashed across her face. He’d never laid it out so openly before. Never admitted that he could read her, though she’d suspected it for a while now. It had only made Tasia more circumspect around him.

  When she said nothing, his expression closed up, suddenly and shockingly. “Is it me?” he asked.

  “You?” Her expression indicated her confusion.

  “In the cage.” He took a deep breath. “Did I injure you … harm you in some way?” His voice was grim.

  “No” she said vehemently, shaking her head adamantly. “No. Why do you ask?”

  “Something’s not right with you” he said slowly. “Or maybe just different about you — something to do with the cage.”

  His words compelled Tasia to ponder his question carefully. Yes, she did feel uneasy, but not for the reason he seemed to believe.

  “My body feels strange” she admitted slowly. “I think it has to do with whatever drugs they put in me. I had a similar reaction after the San Francisco Registry.”

  She hesitated, her eyes on the doorway Sara had just gone through. Sara, a Shifter, could hear this conversation clearly in the apartment. The thought was banished as quickly as it came; Sara would never betray her — she
was a friend.

  “I’m recovering, but my body doesn’t react well to drugs.”

  He contemplated her, the gold eyes piercing in their regard, not entirely convinced by her answer. There were no obvious signs of injury on her, but it had been over twenty-four hours and he knew how extraordinarily quickly she could heal.

  “You’re sure I didn’t injure you, under the influence of silver?” he asked again, blunt and direct.

  “Yes.”

  Or frighten you, he wanted to ask. He was pretty sure the answer to that would be different.

  “No, I wasn’t frightened of you” she said absently, the confession laced with another glance at the doorway.

  The heavy lids tamped down to cover his eyes. So, she could sense him too, he realized. This sixth sense was not a one way window. He didn’t know whether he liked the idea that someone could read him so easily, but then, neither did she, he reminded himself.

  “There are gaps in my memory from last night” he admitted.

  Gaps? What does he mean by gaps?

  Firm lips passionate in their demand, blind desire clouding his face, his hands in her hair and on her hips, urging her closer, so intimately entwined that she could feel every inch of him.

  Tasia pushed the memories away with an effort and tried to provide some solace. He’d suffered an experience far worse than her.

  “There was a camera on us in the cage” she reminded him. “Do you remember it?”

  He studied her, flashes of memory piercing him. The hand at his shoulder, frantic to get his attention. His reluctance to let go, in the grip of mindless passion, despite the danger.

  “Yes” he said briefly.

  “Duncan has the memory-stick from it. It might help jog your memory.”

  His eyes opened wide. He’d forgotten all about the camera and what it implied. Heck, he had forgotten a whole host of details. No doubt they’d come surging back, once the poison from the last of the silver in his blood became inert. Did he want to remember everything, he wondered. How badly had he terrified the witchling by his actions?