by A. J. Colby
“You’re kidding, right?” I asked, unable to believe that I was the only were in the entire state who didn’t buy into the pack mentality.
A single shake of his head was Hank’s reply, his face contorting into something that looked an awful lot like pity. It instantly raised my hackles, and for a long moment all I could do was sit and stare at the scratches in the tabletop. I’d known that being a lone wolf was uncommon, but I’d always assumed there were others like me who preferred solitude to being part of a pack.
Looks like I’m even more of a freak than I thought.
Seeing the distress on my face, he reached out to lay a large, bronzed hand over mine. His fingers were warm and smooth, and I found myself studying the cluster of blonde hairs on each of his thick knuckles.
“You’re a rarity,” he said in a soft voice. “Wolves, by nature, are social creatures. We thrive on the solidarity and camaraderie of the pack. We need our brothers and sisters to support us, guide us, and protect us.”
As pretty as his words were, they weren’t anything I hadn’t heard before. He wasn’t the first wolf I’d met who preached the wonders of pack life hoping to win me over. Hell, practically every were I’d met had tried to lure me over to the pack way of life.
I guess now I know why.
Regardless of his softly spoken words, I wasn’t any closer to pledging my life to the pack than I had been a moment before, and, as much as I enjoyed the feeling of his warm fingers against my skin, I still hadn’t decided if I even liked the man. Withdrawing my hand from beneath his, I folded it in my lap.
Seeing that promises of love and support weren’t likely to win me over, he changed tactics. “Do you know why unbound wolves are so rare?”
Shrugging, I shook my head. “No. But I’m guessing you’re about to tell me.”
Ignoring my jibe he replied, “Unbound wolves are dangerous and unpredictable. We were not built to deal with extended periods of solitude. It can make us... unstable.”
I got the impression that another word had come to mind, and he was trying to spare my feelings. I wasn’t sure which pissed me off more—his handling me like a china doll, or the fact that he might be right.
“Are you saying that lone wolves go nuts?”
“Not exactly.”
I could have asked him what he meant, but I wasn’t sure I was ready to hear the answer. I’d been a were for almost a decade, but most of the time it still felt new.
Eager to move on, I asked, “So we’ve established it wasn’t one of your weres, and I sure as hell didn’t do it. What about the other packs? There are other packs in Colorado, right? Or is that some other weird were rule I don’t know about? ‘There can be only one’ or something.”
“There are a few other packs in the state—there’s a pack in Pueblo, another up north in Fort Collins, and one on the western slope in Grand Junction, but I can’t imagine any of them doing something like this. They’re generally older, smaller packs. Many of the younger wolves join us or move away.”
“And that’s it? A few geriatric packs, and yours?”
Hank seemed to hesitate for a moment, a crease appearing in his tanned brow, before he said, “There is one other pack.”
“And?”
“They’re trouble. You’re better off staying away from them,” he replied, his lips curling back in the beginning of a snarl, though from the distant look in his eyes his ire wasn’t directed at me.
“Could it be one of them?”
“If it was a were, it’s more likely to have been a Blood Brother than any other pack.”
“A Blood Brother?”
“That’s what they call themselves, their pack name.”
“Do you have a pack name?” I asked, trying not to laugh. It all seemed a bit juvenile, and I felt my laughter winning as I imagined a bunch of weres strutting around in matching Members Only jackets.
“We’re the Stone Mountain Clan,” he replied, confusion flickering across his face as I continued to fight to keep my amusement from showing, and lost. “Did I say something funny?”
Biting my tongue to keep from laughing in his face, I shook my head. “Nope. Not at all.”
Reluctantly, he nodded, though the crease in his brow remained.
At that moment Metembe reappeared, carrying two cups of coffee. The man had taken an instant dislike to me, and the sentiment was entirely mutual, but at that moment I was glad for his interruption. I felt like I was on a rollercoaster of emotions.
I was surprised, and more than a little suspicious, when Metembe set a cup down in front of me before resuming his watchdog position behind Hank. His face was a blank canvas, unreadable and devoid of emotion, but I watched him closely nonetheless as I lifted the cup to my nose and drew in a deep breath of the heavenly smelling brew. I’d been told several times that The Vine had the best coffee in town, and, in spite of everything else, was excited to finally have the chance to try it. The rich, almost fruity notes of the dark beans curled under my nose, making my mouth water.
I hummed in contented anticipation, delaying my gratification just a moment longer as I watched Hank take a sip of his own dark coffee. I was about to take a sip when I glanced up at Metembe looming as a surly shadow behind the pack master and felt my shoulders go stiff. What can only be described as a sadistic smile curved his full, wide lips and lent a cruel sparkle to his golden eyes. Inhaling again, I couldn’t smell anything off about my coffee, but, looking up at his smug expression again, I knew that I didn’t want to drink it.
With a sigh, and mournful look at the steaming cup, I set it aside untouched. Across from me, Metembe’s smirk deepened.
Fucking macho bullshit.
“So, if I wanted to track down the Blood Brothers, who would I talk to?”
“That’s not a good idea,” Hank said over the rim of his cup.
“You’re probably right, but I need to figure this out before a vamp decides to retaliate. I’m happy to try something else if you’ve got any ideas.”
“There’s a biker bar over in the industrial district called Hair of the Dog. Yakov Pitomi and his pack hang out there.”
“Great, thanks,” I said, rising from my chair. Hank didn’t seem like a bad guy, but I’d had just about as much macho antics as I could stomach for one day.
“Are you going alone?” Hank asked, the concern in his voice stopping me dead in my tracks.
“I’m a little light in the back-up department,” I admitted with a shrug. “But I’m sure I can handle it.”
“Let me send someone with you,” he insisted.
My gaze rose to Metembe’s face, and a felt a small pulse of vindication when I caught the alarm in his eyes. As much as having the muscled were tagging along would suck, I’d at least be able to take comfort in the fact that he was as unhappy about it as I was.
“Fine. I guess having some muscle won’t hurt.”
“Good. I’ll have my sister go with you.”
“Your sister?” I asked, not sure if I should be offended that he thought I wasn’t wolf enough to handle myself, but his sister was.
“She’s one of my enforcers and a hell of a lot tougher than she looks. Besides, I get the feeling that your mouth has a tendency to get you in trouble.”
I would have told him to go fuck himself, but it would only have served to prove him right.
CHAPTER NINE
LEAVING HANK AND his grouchy bodyguard at The Vine, I slogged my way back to my SUV, fighting to keep my coffee from ending up all over me or the sidewalk as I was jostled about by the foot traffic on 16th Street. I’d at least had the sense to grab a to-go cup of coffee before I bid farewell to the pack master, and although it was damn good, Cordova’s was still better. Approaching the SUV, I growled a curse when I spotted the parking ticket tucked under the windshield wiper. I hadn’t seen any no-parking signs, and didn’t see any tickets pinned to any of the other cars on the street, but given the infrequency of my visits to downtown Denver, I chalked it up to
some unspoken parking rule. Or a case of really shitty luck.
Stuffing the ticket into my jacket pocket, I clambered up into the monstrous SUV and dug out my cell phone. Ignoring the stab of rejection from Holbrook’s continued silence, I dialed in the number Hank had given me for his sister. I was relieved when she didn’t answer and I got kicked over to voicemail. I’ve never been chatty on the phone and always feel awkward talking to strangers.
Hank’s sister sounded far more chipper than any sane person should, and I cringed when she told me to leave my “digits after the beep!” Was I really that out of touch, or were some people just too cheerful for their own good?
Leaving as brief and non-rambling a message as I could, I shoved the phone in my jacket pocket, only to dig it out a second later when it chirped and buzzed like an agitated cricket.
“Hello?”
“Hi Riley, this is Juliet. Hank’s sister,” she greeted, sounding even bubblier than she had in her recorded message.
There’s just something wrong with people that happy.
“Umm... hi.”
“So, my big brother thinks you need someone to play bodyguard, huh?”
“I guess so...” I replied, still reeling from her exuberance. “It’s no big deal if you’re busy, I’m sure I can manage,” I added, leery of accepting help from the pack master.
“Oh, it’s no problem at all,” Juliet said, and I envisioned a bleached-blonde cheerleader type beaming on the other end of the line.
“I’ve got class today, but tomorrow would work for me. We can meet at The Vine for lunch and then go hassle the old dog. Sound good?” she asked in a rush, her sunny voice sweeping me along like the raging waters of a river. I got the impression that whereas Hank’s display of power and authority had invoked my anger, his sister’s peppiness might be harder to stomach.
“Umm... sure.”
“Great! I’ll see you around 12. Ciao!” The line clicked off before I could say goodbye, and for several moments I stared at my phone wondering what the hell had just happened.
Are all weres that bossy? I thought, running a hand over my face.
I was suddenly exhausted, wanting nothing more than to crawl into bed with Loki curled up beside me. But instead of starting the two hour drive back up the mountain, I retrieved the manila folder sitting on the passenger seat. Chrismer had provided dossiers for each of the victims that included far more information than I would have been able to track down on my own, as well as pictures from each of the crime scenes.
Looks like Chrismer did her homework, I thought, once again unsure why the Shepherd had me traipsing around the city looking for a killer when no doubt his Day Servant could figure out who did it and why in five seconds flat. I despised the woman with every fiber of my being, but there was no denying that she was one hell of an investigative reporter.
Since I was currently driving a gas guzzler from hell, I figured I’d better make my trips into the city as productive as possible.
Hell, I’ll be lucky if the rate we agreed on covers the gas bill I’ll rack up thanks to this beast, I thought, appalled that my short trip from Asylum to Alyssa’s and then to The Vine had already sucked down more than a quarter of a tank. Taking another sip of my coffee, wishing the caffeine would hurry up and kick in, I settled back into the driver’s seat and flipped open the folder.
Not quite ready to stomach the grizzly details displayed in the crime scene photos, I scanned the first bio on the stack. The last victim had been a two hundred year old vamp named Patrick Kensington. He’d been turned during the Revolutionary War after suffering what would have been a deadly injury at the Battle of Plattsburg in New York, and had later settled in Denver during the Great Depression. Except for the breadth of his history, the details Chrismer had provided painted a picture of a man about as exciting as a can of beige paint. The photocopy of his work I.D. showed a smooth faced, middle aged man with short, light brown hair and a sweater vest. If not for the colorless corpse eyes, he’d have looked like your average, run of the mill tech guy.
Kensington had been attacked in the parking lot of Blossom Market, an organic grocery store favored by supes, hippies, and gluten-free obsessives. He’d just finished up a 24-hour shift and was making a quick pit-stop before heading home to his Day Servant. That was one of the great things about some of the older vamps—they didn’t need to “sleep” during the day like their newly turned counterparts. A couple of century old vamps could easily do the work of six mundanes, and their mental acuity made them well-suited for most technology related jobs. In the eyes of the whackos, it was just another reason for them to hate supernaturals: supes stealing the jobs of the working man had been one of their favorite propaganda platforms for years.
As with most older vamps, his Day Servant was listed as his only next of kin. Formerly an E.R. nurse, Jennifer Whitlow had been Kensington’s daytime guardian for almost a decade and stood to inherit the few assets tied to his estate. As a vamp, he hadn’t been eligible for life insurance; after all, you couldn’t insure someone who didn’t have a heartbeat, meaning that Whitlow would only receive about $50,000 from their joint savings account.
So I’m guessing she didn’t hire someone to off him for the money.
Glancing over the bios for the other victims, I was disappointed to see that there wasn’t an immediately obvious connection between any of them.
But then, I suppose that’s why I’m here. If it was obvious, they wouldn’t need me.
The other two victims were Gabrielle de Roissi and Suresh Singh. Singh had been one hundred and thirty years old, while Gabrielle was the oldest of the three, having been turned at the end of the 17th century. They had vastly different lifestyles: Singh had been a writer, while Gabrielle seemed to have been a lady of leisure. Apart from the fact that they were all vamps, the victims had nothing in common.
I’d barely started and had already hit a brick wall.
“Well, I’ve got to start somewhere,” I muttered to myself, turning back to Kensington’s bio.
Looking over the rest of his details I saw that he hadn’t lived very far away, and figured that his Day Servant would be less likely to tell me to piss off in person than over the phone.
* * *
Like most people who get the majority of their knowledge of the undead from Hollywood, I envisioned all vamps living in gothic castles and creepy manor houses. The upscale neighborhood of Park Hill was as far from my movie inspired imaginings as possible, but I suppose even the undead can have an appreciation for manicured lawns and white picket fences. The house that Kensington and Whitlow had shared was a modest beige and brown two-story Tudor devoid of crumbling turrets and bats in the belfry.
Considered to be one of the more liberal neighborhoods in Denver, Park Hill had seen an influx of vamps and fae in recent years, though it was still uncommon to see different supes living in close proximity. They typically preferred to carve out areas of town as their own. Just as Denver had Little China and Little Mexico, it also had Blood Alley, the strictly vamp neighborhood on the north side of the city—which was a lot more than just an alley; Green Mountain, the wolf neighborhood on the west side of town; and New Lórien, the fae suburb near Washington Park.
Pulling up to the curb, I regarded the quiet house with its gleaming windows and quaint welcome sign on the front step beside a mat that declared “Dog Lover’s Welcome!” Although the sun was shining bright, the wind was bitterly cold, making me glad for the heavy winter coat Alyssa had forced on me.
Where are the bats and cobwebs? I wondered, feeling a little disappointed that the house didn’t meet my horror movie expectations. After the heavy-handed design aesthetic of Asylum, I had expected the house Kensington shared with his human partner to show the same preference for historic decor.
Just as the house hadn’t been at all what I expected, Jennifer Whitlow was nothing like the image of a Day Servant I’d conjured up in my mind. I’d had plenty of experiences with Chrismer, but it hadn
’t ever occurred to me that she might not be typical of Day Servants. The woman who answered the door, accompanied by the shrill, frenzied yapping of a mop masquerading as a dog, could have been anyone. If she’d been the woman standing behind me in the check-out at the grocery store, I’d never have guessed that she was a convenient blood bag for a vamp. She just looked so normal.
Dark blonde hair framed a long face with a pointed chin that somehow balanced well with her slender nose. Brown eyes, red and puffy from crying, squinted against the sun at my back when she opened the door, wiping her nose on a crumpled tissue.
Holding back the furious ball of fluff with her foot, her eyes took on a wary gleam when she didn’t recognize me. “Yes?”
Struggling to find the right balance between empathetic and professional, I did my best not to give off the vibe of someone trying to sell her something. “Ms. Whitlow?”
“Yes?” she answered slowly, shrinking back further behind the door as her fuzzy little guardian tried to reach past her restraining foot to take a bite out of my ankle or whatever other convenient body part he could get his teeth into.
While I felt nothing more than simple annoyance at the yapping dog’s non-stop tirade, the wolf wanted to bare her teeth at him and let him know who the alpha was. Reigning in the desire to snap my teeth in warning, I concentrated instead on her defensive posture, and felt an instinctive pang of sympathy for her. I’d adopted the same stance countless times during the media barrage that had followed me during the trial nine years ago, and knew it was the look of a woman beaten down by life’s cruelty and then further tormented by people forcing her to relive the pain over and over again. Guilt was tight in my throat as I prepared to ask her to share her misery yet again.
“I was wondering if I could talk to you about your...” I trailed off, racking my brain to figure out what the hell I was supposed to call her former master.