by Laura Taylor
That got Baron’s attention, his head snapping up, his eyes promising retribution to anyone who threatened his Den, and it was that very protective instinct that made everyone on the estate respect him as much as they did. For Baron, the welfare of his Den came first. Every time.
“I don’t like keeping secrets from my pack,” he said coldly, “so you’d better have a damn good reason for whatever it is you’re about to say.”
Caroline sighed and rolled her eyes at his impatience. But she said nothing, and Andre reflected that if he hadn’t been in the room, she might have had a sharp retort for his complaint.
“It has been requested that I assess one of your shifters for service to the Council,” Andre explained, respecting Baron’s concerns and not wanting to exacerbate them. “Caleb Anderson. The Council has taken note of his abilities, and they’ve been justifiably impressed.”
At the sudden announcement, Caroline looked both surprised and delighted. For a member of their Den to be considered for service was a huge compliment to the alphas, and to the Den as a whole. But the look on Baron’s face was one of open disbelief.
“Caleb’s no assassin,” he said flatly. “Aside from the fact that he hates violence, he’s only got one eye, for Christ’s sake. How’s he supposed to go up against the Noturatii like that? Sorry, Andre, but you’re barking up the wrong tree with that one.”
“I don’t disagree with you,” Andre said, years of training in diplomacy and tact put to good use as he deliberately overlooked the rudeness of Baron’s interruption. “But there are other roles he could fill. Historian, perhaps, or scientist. We’re not all thugs and murderers,” he added, with a hint of irony. It was a rare shifter who made it through life without having to kill someone at some point in time, skirmishes with the Noturatii all too common. But not everyone in service to the Council was employed as a full time killer-for-hire.
“Caleb is ranked fourth in this Den. He has the battle skills to stand up to the harsher situations the Council faces, and a temperament well suited to refined study. An eye for detail. A quiet presence that people tend to find calming and reassuring. Exactly the sort of shifter the Council needs.”
“You’re most welcome to stay,” Caroline jumped in, no doubt wanting to head Baron off before he said anything else out of line. “And it would be an honour for Caleb to be assessed.”
“As I said, no one else must know about this,” Andre repeated. “Assessing a shifter for Council service requires careful observation, and I cannot have any interference along the way.”
“Understood,” Caroline agreed, and Baron nodded, perhaps not entirely happy with the situation, but willing to go along with it.
Andre nodded, satisfied with the outcome of the meeting. “Very well.” Then he turned to Caroline. “If you would be so kind as to excuse us, I have a few other details to discuss with Baron. So as to minimise my impact on the Den while I’m here.”
Caroline nodded, standing up smoothly, her body encased in black leather, half a dozen weapons visible as she headed for the door. “I’ll leave you to it.” She gracefully left the room, and Andre waited until the door had closed.
He turned to Baron, letting the weight of his gaze set the tone of the conversation to come, and when he was sure he had Baron’s full attention, he continued, careful to keep his voice low.
“As you’re no doubt aware,” he began carefully, “the situation in Italy is more complex than I’ve implied. With one of the Councillors dead, it is now necessary to select someone else for the position.” There was a strict set of rules regarding the Council. The office had to hold twelve members at all times, and when one of them was killed or died of natural causes, immediate plans were set in motion to fill the empty seat. Potential Councillors could only be chosen from those shifters who currently, or had previously held the rank of alpha, and emissaries had already been despatched to three other Dens to assess potential candidates, the Council being fortunate in that they already had enough operatives out in the field so as not to disturb the delicate political situation in Italy by sending any from there.
Il Trosa was not a democracy, the Council ruling with a firm hand and strict laws, but that wasn’t to say that individual members of Il Trosa had no say in their ruling body. To reach the rank of alpha, a shifter had to garner the support of their entire Den, had to be a skilled warrior, a seasoned strategist, and have a personality amiable enough to maintain support on a social level for an extended period of time. And, if an alpha was deemed appropriate as a Councillor, their Den would be given the opportunity to vote on their appointment. A vote that came back negative in the majority removed the alpha from consideration, regardless of how suitable the rest of the Council might think he or she was.
“The Council has asked me to assess Caroline for the role.” There was no hiding the surprise on Baron’s face, though it wasn’t possible to tell whether he thought the idea was a profound compliment, or a hideous mistake. “I realise that removing her from this Den would cause no small disturbance. You have no other females immediately capable of taking over the role of alpha, and bringing in a foreigner to lead always causes a certain degree of resentment. So as a courtesy, I’m making you aware of the potential for complications down the track. But more than that, I’d like to request your cooperation in her assessment. And an absolute guarantee of secrecy regarding this part of my duties.”
“You think Caroline should be a Councillor?” Baron asked sceptically, ignoring the request for secrecy.
“What I think of the idea, one way or the other, is irrelevant. The Council has given me an order. I am duty bound to carry it out to the best of my ability.” Was Baron jealous? Was he about to protest the Council’s choice? He had been alpha for longer than Caroline, after all, he had brought his Den through some of the worst circumstances imaginable and emerged on the other side with a stronger, more skilled and more disciplined team than most alphas could ever dream of.
But then Baron snorted. “Well, I’d rather her than me,” he said with a chuckle. Andre must have looked surprised, because he went on, “I don’t have the patience for all that political crap. And the responsibilities they have to deal with on a daily basis would drive me insane. But Caroline? There is no shifter I would rather see be given that honour than her. My lips are sealed. And if you need anything at all, any time… don’t hesitate to ask.”
“I appreciate your cooperation.”
“On a personal note though… tell me honestly. Do you think she’s got what it takes to be a Councillor?”
It was a question Andre had been steadfastly avoiding since he’d been given the order by Eleanor, and he found himself surprisingly reluctant to face it now. Amedea’s death had been a stark reminder of the risks that the Council faced every day, and he found it hard to think of Caroline being put in that kind of danger. “I think,” he said carefully, “that she’s managed to come through some extremely difficult circumstances, and has displayed remarkable strength of character throughout. The requirements for a Council member are strict and rigorous, and she’s up against some stiff competition from other alphas across Europe. But knowing her as well as I do, I can say without a doubt that she’s in with a fighting chance.”
CHAPTER FOUR
Three days later, out on the manor’s back lawn, Andre faced off against Caleb, both of them sweating despite the cool, foggy day. Caleb came at him again, a smooth, lithe attack that feigned left, swung right, and then grazed past Andre’s jaw as he whipped his head back just in time. He countered, moved right, lashed out with a leg that Caleb spun to avoid, then jumped to avoid a well aimed kick. It was invigorating. Caleb was an expert, that much was certain. Especially considering he was fighting with only one eye, the other a puckered mess from an injury sustained years ago.
But even so, Andre would have had to admit that he was taking it easy on the man, not hitting too hard, not making use of some of the more advanced moves that could, at times, make it seem like An
dre was flying, the laws of gravity simply not applying to him.
But Caleb was a fast learner and a willing student, and after half an hour of training, a few pertinent tips thrown in along the way, he’d already made some notable progress.
They had a small audience for the session. Silas was standing to the side, already having completed an hour of training with Andre, now observing his techniques as he trained Caleb. Baron was sitting on a stone wall a short way off, watching with no small degree of interest. John was loitering near the formal garden, an expert in going undetected, but despite the attention he was giving the weeds, Andre was sure he was watching, learning, analysing each move.
And Tank was over by the memorial wall in wolf form, as he often was these days after his captivity with the Noturatii, a grim expression on his wolf face.
“How about it, Tank?” Andre called, stretching his muscles ready for the next round. It hadn’t been a huge surprise when Silas had approached him this morning to ask for extra training, the man a dedicated soldier who was not likely to pass up the opportunity of having an assassin on the estate without trying to improve his own skills. And then a few others had joined in, watching, asking questions, and Andre was happy to take advantage of the opportunity to assess Caleb’s fighting skills without being too obvious about his intentions.
The Den had, for the most part, reacted well to the announcement that Andre was to stay on a little longer, some people choosing to avoid him, others welcoming the extended visit, Heron among the latter. Andre had grown up on this estate and Heron had filled the role of aunt perfectly, playing with him as a youngster, then becoming one of his tutors in his teenage years, and after more than two decades apart and with Andre an adult now, they had the growing beginnings of a firm friendship.
Tank shifted, sighed, and marched over to where Andre waited.
“How are your injuries?” Andre asked, in case there were any lingering issues he needed to be aware of. Extra training was all well and good, but not if it reopened fresh wounds that would better be left to heal.
“Good enough,” Tank said, stripping off his sweater and limbering up as he prepared himself for a fight.
The first round went well, Tank a solid fighter, but he had significant strength and weight behind him, and he was inclined to use that in preference to style and speed.
In the second round, Andre made a point of exposing a few weaknesses in Tank’s technique, offering pointers throughout, and he was a little surprised when Tank responded with more aggression, anger bleeding through his usual focus. And it wasn’t hard to figure out why. After being tortured in the Noturatii lab, he was likely to be carrying a grudge or two, with Andre becoming a convenient target for that anger. It was one of the reasons Andre was keen to fight him, to assess not just his physical recovery, but his mental one as well.
It wasn’t until the third round that Andre began to get worried. Tank was eyeing him with all the predatory intent of a wolf stalking a deer. Poised. Focused. And lining up for the kill.
“Maybe we should take a break,” Andre suggested, after fending off Tank’s next attack. But Tank wasn’t listening. He lunged for Andre again, and it was at that point that Andre realised he might have underestimated the man’s skills. He wasn’t paying enough attention to the blow, more focused on getting Tank to calm down, and it caught him on the side of the face, rattling his teeth and causing a spark of anger in return. Andre was a trained killer, after all, and his automatic response to being attacked was to respond in kind. He’d punched Tank before he’d even thought about it, the battle suddenly far more serious than a friendly training bout.
Tank registered the change in his opponent, heavy handed force giving way to lithe elegance, his body tightening, his stance drawing in to centre his balance, and Andre wasn’t entirely sure where Tank was right now, whether he was still aware of being on the estate, fighting a friend and ally, or whether he was, in fact, back in the lab, fending off scientists with syringes and guards wielding instruments of torture. Then Andre was deflecting a volley of blows, part of his mind suddenly paying attention to whether or not Tank had any hidden weapons on his body, cautious of a knife suddenly coming his way as he gave ground… which only seemed to enrage Tank more.
“Enough!” Andre yelled, shoving Tank away and getting himself out of range quickly. “Get a hold of yourself.”
Tank glared at him, not backing down an inch, and Andre was dimly aware of Baron standing up and stepping forward, looking uncertain as to whether he’d need to step in, and of Silas, still loitering nearby, ready to lend a hand if needed.
It wasn’t that Andre thought he would need help to take Tank down – he’d killed a Satva Khuli very recently, and Tank was certainly less of a threat than she had been. No, the real problem was to stop Tank without doing him any serious damage in the process. Training fights were, to a certain extent, quite stressful for a career assassin. Andre was far more accustomed to battles in which the stakes were real, life or death, and in which winning was the same as killing, and losing was the same as dying. In a training fight, he constantly had to remind himself to hold back, to pull that punch or not follow through with that strike, else he end up breaking a bone or blinding an eye when he’d really just meant to leave a bruise.
“Walk it off, Tank,” Baron barked from beside him, just as he was wondering what his next step should be, either aggression or capitulation equally likely to set Tank off, and thankfully, the huge man was more willing to listen to his alpha than to an outsider. With a growl and a show of teeth, he backed off, turned around and stalked off across the lawn, throwing a few angry looks over his shoulder as he went. Andre stood for a moment, taking a slow breath, a sideways glance at Baron conveying his gratitude for the intervention.
“Sorry,” Baron said shortly. “I thought he was dealing with it all better than this. I’ll have a word to him. After he calms down.”
Andre nodded, well aware of the often unpleasant consequences from run ins with the Noturatii, and not inclined to hold any grudges over it. But still, Tank was currently something of a loose cannon, and one way or another, he was going to have to deal with the trauma of his captivity.
But the next surprise in store for him was perhaps even more unexpected than Tank’s reaction to the fight.
Caroline stepped up in front of him, dressed for a work out, and she levelled a cool, if mildly hopeful look at him. “Do you have time for one more?” she asked flatly. “Or have they worn you out already?”
One of the things he remembered well about Caroline was that she didn’t take disappointment well, even in so small a thing as asking for help with her training, and so he didn’t take any offence at her almost disdainful request. She was likely just preparing herself for him to refuse.
He fought not to smile. There was no way in the world he was going to refuse her, even if he’d been exhausted to the point of barely being able to stand up. But he was actually still feeling quite fresh, invigorated by the work out, and though he wouldn’t say it to her, for fear of embarrassing her, this was a paltry effort compared to his regular training regime. It wasn’t uncommon for him to keep going for six or eight hours a day, running, martial arts, full contact sparring with one of his fellow assassins, then rock climbing, swimming, knife throwing, then more sparring in wolf form. The need to keep his skills sharp was relentless, and at times he did more training in a single day than the average shifter did in a whole week.
There was also no question that he would refuse her on the basis of her being female. Noturatii operatives weren’t picky about who they killed, and female shifters were just as likely to meet their demise at the pointy end of a knife as males.
“I’m game if you are,” he said, with just a hint of challenge, and Caroline almost smiled – as close to the expression as she ever seemed to get.
As Caroline prepared for the fight, she felt a cool thrill of anticipation that had nothing to do with combat.
When
Andre had first arrived at the Den several weeks ago, it had been like seeing a ghost. They’d met fifteen years ago in Italy, not long after Caroline had been converted, and it had been a traumatic time for her, and a trying one for him. Though they’d only spent eight weeks together, it had left indelible memories in Caroline’s mind that had come flooding back with Andre’s arrival – lost longings and hopes, regrets, and even a few threads of happiness, faint reflections of a time when both their lives had seemed far simpler. He’d aged since then, worries now lining his face, though he wore the years well, more handsome than ever.
“Hit me,” he said, adopting a fighting stance, and, as she had been taught since the day she’d been recruited, Caroline blanked her mind from all distractions, replacing the image of him standing before her with the image in her mind of a Noturatii soldier, with the knowledge that if she didn’t win this fight, she was heading home to the Great Hall in the House of Sirius.
And then she attacked.
Most of Caroline’s training had been done by Silas. Raven had helped back when she was a new recruit, a former alpha of the Den who had been killed ten years ago, and Tank had given her a run for her money a few times, but Silas had been the mainstay of her training.
When she’d started, he’d complained that she was too up front, too obvious about her intentions – ‘You fight like a buffalo’ was what he’d actually said – and she’d learned to duck and weave, to move fast, to dodge blows, to deflect them, and all in all, she had done remarkably well. After all, she’d risen to the rank of alpha, and held that position for the past six years. So while she expected to be taught some new tricks by Andre, shown some weaknesses in her defence and gaps in her attacks, she hadn’t expected there to be too big a difference in their ability levels, assassin or not.
So when she came at him, tried to tease out his fighting style, to land a few experimental blows, it came as quite a shock to realise that each time she tried to hit him, he was simply… not there. One of Silas’s first lessons for avoiding injury had been ‘get out of the way’, but Andre took that to a whole new level. He didn’t sidestep, didn’t duck or spin or dodge. He just… vanished, reappearing a split second later, behind her elbow, or landing a blow to her knee. She staggered, regained her feet and tried again, paying more attention to the way he moved, and trying to figure out whether this was pure physical skill, or if he was employing some kind of shifter magic to confuse her.