Leader Of The Pack

by Karen McInerney

  “Am I properly dressed, at least?”

  “You look ravishing,” he said, leaning down to kiss me. Heat shot all the way through me—as always, Mark’s body temperature seemed to be running a few degrees above normal. “Perfect. And even if you weren’t ‘properly dressed’,” he continued, “would you really want to go back upstairs to change?”

  “Excellent point.”

  As the elevator doors slid open, Mark slipped an arm around my waist. “Now, for the rest of the evening, I want you to forget all about Luc Garou and enjoy yourself,” he murmured into my ear. His lips brushed my earlobe, and I shivered. “I’ve got all kinds of things in store for you,” he said.

  “Like what?” I asked.

  “You’ll just have to wait and see,” he replied. The lobby doors slid open, and a moment later, we swept past Frank the Doorman, who was avidly taking notes on sponge painting, and escaped to the luxury of Mark’s limousine.

  The limo hadn’t even left the curb before Mark had a glass of Conundrum—my favorite white wine—in my hand. “To relax you,” he said, walking two fingers up my leg.

  “If you’re trying to relax me, that’s not going to help,” I said.

  “But I can’t resist.”

  “Good things come to those who wait.” I squeezed his hand, halting its northward progress, and glanced at the back of the chauffeur’s head. As hot as Mark was, I wasn’t sure I was ready to strip down with nothing but a pane of glass to shelter us from Ben’s eyes. Besides, as much as I hated to admit it, the little tête-à-tête with my father had dampened my ardor. How long ago had he taken over the Paris pack? How many other werewolf relatives did I have? Did they all look like me? If I visited Europe, would they really welcome me with open arms? Stop thinking about it, Sophie.

  I turned to Mark and banished thoughts of European fur-balls from my mind. “So, where are you taking me?”

  “I thought we’d try something new tonight.”

  “I guessed as much,” I said. Usually we went downtown—it was close to home—but tonight, Ben was headed west, away from central Austin. “Like what?” I asked.

  “If I told you, it wouldn’t be a surprise. Just relax,” he said, refilling my wineglass—even though I’d only had two sips. I leaned into him, enjoying the heat of him through my suede jacket. His fingers stroked my arm, and as I took another sip of wine, the moon ring he’d given me flashed in the reflected headlights.

  “What exactly is this ring you gave me?” I asked, holding my hand up to admire it. “It’s not silver. And it doesn’t come off.”

  “You don’t like it?”

  “I think it’s beautiful,” I said. “I was just wondering what it was, and why it seems to be stuck to my finger.” I glanced from the ring to Mark, who was staring at me from those deep blue eyes. “My mother isn’t a big fan of it, to be honest. She thinks it’s got some kind of magical properties.” What I didn’t tell him is that she was so anxious to get it off me that she’d tried cutting it with hedge clippers. It hadn’t gone well; once the two metals touched, there had been some kind of weird explosion. We hadn’t tried a second time.

  “Your mother doesn’t like me, either.”

  “Maybe because you’re a bit on the possessive side. You know, the whole ‘you belong to me’ thing?”

  He grinned at me. “Who wouldn’t want to possess you?”

  I sighed. “That’s not the point.”

  “Actually,” he said, staring at me with those smoky blue eyes, “I think it’s that she considers me a bad influence.” He leaned down, pushed my wine aside, and kissed me, his fingers plunging into my lacy camisole.

  “She may be right,” I gasped a moment later, pointing to the glass partition, through which I could see the back of Ben’s head. “Is there any way to get one of those that’s black?”

  “I’ll have one installed next week,” he said. “But can you ignore it—at least for now?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “I’m not much of an exhibitionist.”

  “Will this help?” he asked, reaching over me; a second later, the interior of the limo went dark.

  “Subtle,” I said, but I didn’t have a chance to say anything else, because Mark’s arms were around me, and his hot mouth pressed down on mine.

  A half hour later I had reapplied my lipstick, arranged my clothes to make sure everything was covered, and sat down at a table across from Mark. His surprise destination turned out to be Hudson’s on the Bend, an Austin institution in an old farmhouse about twenty minutes west of town—and a perfect choice, since it specialized in wild game. After all, there’s nothing like fresh feral pig to get a werewolf’s salivary glands going.

  And Mark seemed to know it. “When I heard they served wild game,” Mark said after ordering yet another glass of Conundrum for me—and a scotch on the rocks for himself—“I knew I had to take you here.”

  I found myself swallowing back drool as I viewed the menu. Wild boar, American bison, venison sausages … it was a carnivore’s delight.

  “Appetizer?” Mark asked.

  “Why not?”

  “I think we’ll skip the salad, though,” he said.

  “Good plan. Although there is one with a hot pig vinaigrette.”

  The next hour was a gourmand’s fantasy. A meat-eating gourmand, anyway. I had worked my way through a delicious plate of venison wellington and was debating between desserts—a difficult decision, since raspberry chocolate intemperance, crème brûlée, and a yummy-looking chocolate-dipped caramel pecan pie were all on the menu—when my cell phone jangled. I checked the caller ID and flipped it open.

  “Who is it?” Mark asked.

  “Lindsey,” I mouthed. He rolled his eyes as I answered. “I’m debating desserts at Hudson’s on the Bend right now,” I told my friend. “This had better be important.”

  Her voice was oddly strained. “Sophie, I know you don’t want to go to the Howl…”

  “You’re right.”

  “But I think you’re going to have to.”

  “I can’t think why I would.”

  She took a deep breath. “Tom just called me from the Howl. There’s a guy there named Luc Garou—he says he’s your father.”

  “I know,” I said. “I saw him this evening. Is that the reason?”

  “I wish it were, Sophie,” she said. “But there’s a problem. They’ve charged him with murder.”

  I gripped the phone. “What?”

  “I just got off the phone with Tom. He said some of the Houston pack members found a werewolf with his throat torn out last night, on Fourth Street

  ,” Lindsey said. “They think Luc Garou’s responsible.” The venison wellington I’d just eaten turned over in my stomach. I knew Luc had been downtown last night; we had almost had dinner together. “It was a guy named Charles,” Lindsey continued. “He was pretty high up in the Houston pack, apparently, and someone saw him arguing with your father earlier that evening.”

  “But he was at my office,” I said, wondering why Tom hadn’t called me directly. “And then we went to dinner.” Of course, dinner hadn’t lasted more than ten minutes—and my father was late—but that was beside the point. He had had a scratch on his face, too, come to think of it. Was that because he’d just ripped someone’s throat out? I gripped the phone hard. No. He couldn’t have. My father might be a pretty crappy parent, but I was relatively sure he wasn’t a murderer.

  Or was he?

  “It couldn’t have been him,” I said.

  “You don’t have to convince me,” she said. “It’s the judges who need to hear it.”

  “What judges?”

  “Wolfgang, probably Elena, since she’s in line to be made alpha. And a few other muckety-muck werewolves from around the country, according to Tom.”

  “I’m pretty friendly with Wolfgang,” I said. “Maybe I can talk to him.” Elena, of course, was a different story—last time we’d met she’d been less than cordial—but I’d deal with that
as it came. Besides, now that she was about to be alpha, maybe she’d view me as less of a threat.

  “I hope so,” Lindsey said. “Because according to Tom, the penalty is kind of draconian.”

  I closed my eyes. “Do I want to know?”

  “Sophie … I’m so sorry to have to tell you.”

  That didn’t sound good. “Spit it out, Lindsey.”

  “Okay.” She sucked in her breath, then said, “They stake him to death.”

  I sucked in a breath of my own, feeling like somebody had punched me. Even though I wasn’t exactly on wonderful terms with my long-estranged father, I didn’t want to see him spitted on a wooden stake before we’d even had a chance to share a steak. “Please tell me you’re joking,” I said, all thoughts of chocolate raspberry intemperance dissolved. I’d just managed to get my mother off the hook for murder six months ago. Now I had to deal with my father, too?

  “I wish I were. Apparently the dead werewolf was a bit of a bigwig, which is why they’re taking it so personally. It doesn’t help that your dad isn’t overly popular with the Houston clan.”

  “So I gather,” I said, remembering our little discussion about Strasbourg, and my Aunt Marguerite. “He told me a little about it yesterday.”

  “I think you should head out there, see what you can do. You know, like you did with your mom.”

  “I don’t know if I’ll be able to do anything,” I said. “But I doubt anyone else is going to be leaping to his assistance, so I guess you’re right.”

  “Tom seems to think he’ll need all the help he can get.”

  I let out a long sigh and looked at Mark. “How far is Fredericksburg from here?” I asked.

  He shrugged. “An hour, maybe?”

  “We’ll head over now,” I said. “Do you know exactly where it is?”

  “Tom gave me the street address,” she said, and I jotted it down on the back of an old receipt.

  “What’s wrong?” Mark asked as I flipped the phone closed a moment later and tucked it back into my purse.

  “I’m afraid we’re going to have to skip the crème brûlée,” I said.

  “And the port?” he said, looking mournful.

  “Yup.” I took a deep breath. “My father’s been arrested for murder.”

  He raised his eyebrows. “By the police?”

  “Worse. The werewolves.”

  “So you’re running to his aid?”

  “What else can I do? If I don’t,” I said, “there’s a good chance he’ll end up dead.”

  “You know, whatever happens, you’re safe with me,” Mark said as the limo hurtled west toward Fredericksburg. His finger traced the crescent-moon tattoo on my shoulder.

  “Even if a pack of pissed-off werewolves decides I’d make a nice midnight snack?”

  “I’ve protected you before,” he said. He was right; he had come to my aid once. “You’re mine, remember?”

  “I appreciate the thought,” I said, “but I like to think I belong to myself.”

  Mark just smiled enigmatically.

  “You’ve never told me exactly where this … . power of yours comes from,” I pointed out.

  “I kind of enjoy being a man of mystery.”

  “Even my mother isn’t sure what you are,” I said.

  “She doesn’t like me much,” he said.

  No, she didn’t. Which was a bit unsettling, because in general, my mother was nothing if not open-minded. I mean, she ran a magic shop, for God’s sake. “I think she just wants me to be with one of my own kind,” I said.

  “With someone like Tom?” he asked. I felt an involuntary shiver just thinking about Lindsey’s Nordic werewolf boyfriend.

  I shrugged.

  “I’m right, aren’t I?”

  What, was he psychic, too? “Maybe.” I looked up at him. “But I’m still not sure I should be involved with someone who won’t tell me what he is.”

  “You weren’t exactly forthcoming, either,” he reminded me.

  “Forgive me if I don’t make a habit of announcing that I’m a werewolf. Besides,” I pointed out, “you already knew.”

  “True.”

  “So, don’t you think you should come clean?”

  He reached down and removed the wineglass from my hand, then lowered his mouth to mine. The heat of his kiss pulsed through me, and I could feel my body straining to meet his. Some time later, he released me, and I gasped for breath.

  “Do you really want to know?” he asked, staring at me intently.

  “Yes.”

  He paused for a moment, and I braced myself for his revelation. But all he said was, “I’ll think about it,” which was an incredibly unsatisfactory answer. The limo was slowing down, though, so I didn’t get a chance to hound him about it further. Not then, anyway.

  The glass partition rolled down two seconds later. “Are we there?” I asked.

  “This is the address,” Ben said. The headlights illuminated two massive limestone pillars flanking a big-ass gate. GRAF RANCH, read the wrought-iron sign arching up between the pillars. Ben pulled into the short drive, stopping next to the intercom, and looked back at his boss. “What do you want me to tell them?”

  “Tell them Sophie Garou has arrived,” Mark said. Ben nodded and rolled down the window, letting a gust of chilly, smoke-tinged air into the limo’s plush interior.

  “At least I’m arriving in style,” I murmured to Mark, trying to still the butterflies that had taken up residence in my stomach.

  Ben said a few words into the intercom, and a moment later the heavy gates swung open. As the limo purred through them, limestone chunks pinged off the undercarriage. I winced at the clunks, but Mark seemed unconcerned by the damage. Having ready access to a gazillion dollars will do that for you, I suppose.

  The Graf Ranch was huge. The caliche road wove through at least a mile or two of scrubby oaks and cedar trees before we saw any signs of civilization, and I was beginning to wonder if there were any buildings at all when a large cluster of farmhouses appeared on the road before us. A short distance to the right of them, in a clearing, a group of people—correction, werewolves—was gathered around a bonfire that leapt toward the sky.

  “Must be s’mores night,” Mark quipped as I scanned the group around the fire. I didn’t see anyone I recognized, which wasn’t a big surprise, since I’d only ever met like ten werewolves. Where were they holding my father? Would they take their anger at him out on me?

  Not with Mark at my side, I realized, reaching over to grab his hand. As if reading my mind, he said, “Don’t worry—I’ll look after you.” Ben parked the limo at the end of a long line of BMWs and Mercedeses; a moment later, he held the door open for me, and I stepped out into the cool night with trepidation, trying to use my nose to get the lay of the land.

  The place was crawling with werewolves; the sheer number made it nearly impossible to make out individual scents. “Ready?” Mark asked, putting a proprietary arm around my shoulders.

  “I suppose so,” I said, and as Ben got back into the limo—lucky Ben—Mark and I walked toward the inferno, since that’s where all the werewolves appeared to be.

  Hundreds of them were clustered around the leaping fire, and although I was worried about my father—not to mention myself—I couldn’t help staring at them. Even though it was a werewolf get-together, everyone in attendance was in human form. For the time being, anyway. As we approached, a few werewolves turned toward us, shooting Mark appraising glances from their golden eyes. Other than Ben, who had stayed with the car, he was the only non-werewolf in attendance—at least according to my nose—so I guess I shouldn’t have been surprised. I straightened my back and put on my best confident look as two werewolves, one of whom topped out at just over four feet, detached themselves from the group and approached us. Both wore jeans and brown leather jackets, but that’s where the resemblance ended. Except for the gold eyes, of course.

  “Miss Garou?” the short, roundish one asked. I recognized his
rather taller partner from an unpleasant encounter in my loft; he was one of Elena’s henchmen. Last time we met, he and his partner, who wasn’t in evidence tonight, had been wearing pleather pants; ever since, I’d thought of them as the pleather boys.

  “That’s me,” I confirmed.

  The short werewolf, who reminded me of an Oompa-Loompa, glanced at Mark. “I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to leave,” he said in a low, rumbly voice. “This is a private gathering.”

  “I don’t think so,” I said. “He’s with me. Plus, Wolfgang knows him; he’s helped him in the past.”

  The short werewolf hesitated. “It’s against the code …”

  Mark’s smoky smell intensified suddenly; I glanced at him; his eyes appeared to be flickering. “I’m staying,” he said quietly.

  The two werewolves shot glances at each other, but something in Mark’s voice—or perhaps it was the almost literal fire in his eyes—convinced them not to press their case. Despite the fact that my father was being held on suspicion of homicide—or wolficide—I had to fight to suppress a smile.

  After one more uncomfortable glance at Mark, the Oompa-Loompa werewolf seemed to decide the wisest course was to ignore him. “I’m Franco,” he said with a polite smile and extended a hairy hand. I reached down to shake it, then turned to Franco’s partner, who had about three feet on him. “And this is Boris,” said Franco. Boris didn’t bother to extend a hand; he just gave me a curt nod.

  “I believe we’ve met,” I said, remembering how he and his werewolf boss Elena Tenorio—who was now about to be one of Houston’s alphas, I reminded myself—had broken into my loft and tried to intimidate me a few months ago. “Where’s your pal Dudley?” I asked.

  He didn’t bother to answer.

  “Where’s my father?” I asked, addressing the Oompa-Loompa. “I mean, Luc Garou.”

  Franco’s round little face tightened a little bit. “He is in the garden cottage.”

  The garden cottage? Well, that didn’t sound so bad. “I want to see him.”

  “I’m afraid I’ll have to clear that first,” Franco said, reaching up to tug at his earlobe.