“Then take me to Wolfgang,” I said. “I need to talk to him.”
“Unfortunately, I can’t do that right now; you’ll have to wait until after the opening ceremonies.” He tugged harder at his earlobe and nodded toward the fire, where the werewolves were now doing something that sounded like a cross between singing and howling like sick dogs.
“I understand Luc Garou has been accused of murder. So I need to talk to Wolfgang. Now.”
There was a murmur of voices behind Franco and Boris; a second later, Tom emerged from the crowd, the flames glinting off his long blond hair. His shoulders were broad in a black leather jacket, and even in the dim light, his golden eyes shimmered. I felt a tug of longing deep within me. Stifle it, Sophie. This was definitely not the time to indulge my repressed werewolf crush. Or to think about that one illicit kiss we had shared …
“Sophie,” Tom said in a quiet voice. His golden eyes might make me quiver inside, but the tone of his voice made my blood run cold.
“Where’s Wolfgang?” I asked, sounding a bit strained even to my own ears.
“He’s conducting the opening ceremonies right now,” Tom said, glancing at Mark.
“Can you take me to Luc Garou?” I asked.
Tom glanced at the two werewolves who had come to greet me. “Ms. Elena said it wasn’t possible,” Franco started.
Tom cut him off, focusing on me. “I’ll take you to him.”
The Oompa-Loompa pulled his earlobe so hard I was afraid it was going to pop off. “But…”
“Enough,” Tom said shortly, and beckoned me to follow him.
Franco spluttered for a moment, and Boris the pleather boy looked kind of huffy, like he was considering telling Tom where to get off, but he must have had second thoughts. Instead of trying to stop us—or come with us—the two of them scuttled off, to report to Elena, no doubt. I just hoped she was too busy conducting the werewolf choir to be disturbed for a few minutes.
“Why the death sentence?” I asked as I hurried after Tom, whose long strides ate up the narrow trail. Mark was at my side, emanating heat, like always. Tom was headed away from the bonfire, but the howling still grew louder. But not, alas, more in tune.
“The victim was high up in the Houston pack,” Tom answered. “And the murder happened during the proscribed time.”
“The proscribed time? What the heck is that?”
“It’s the period of time surrounding a major werewolf assembly. From three days prior to three days following the Howl, the penalties for attacking another werewolf are far more serious,” he said. “Werewolf packs have a natural tendency to engage in rough play,” he went on to explain. “Without harsh consequences for infractions, an inter-pack meeting would be a bloodbath.”
“That would make one heck of a party,” said Mark. “Nothing like a supernatural dogfight to liven things up.”
“So any fighting is a capital offense?” I asked, ignoring Mark.
Tom shrugged. “Only if somebody ends up dead.”
I didn’t have a chance to ask anything else, because Tom had stopped at a small wooden house, the perimeter of which was absolutely devoid of vegetation. I could only guess that the “garden cottage” title heralded from an earlier, more botanically diverse era on the Graf Ranch.
In place of the rose bushes I had been expecting, the door was flanked by two large, unpleasant-looking werewolves who evidently shared both a fondness for the gym and an aversion to dentists. I could tell because they were baring their teeth.
“We’re here to see Luc Garou,” Tom said quietly.
“No entry allowed,” said the larger of the two, giving me a full view of his brownish canines. “Elena’s orders.”
“Elena is not an alpha,” Tom said. “Do you really want to argue with an enforcer?”
Enforcer? I knew Tom worked on contract to help packs deal with problem werewolves, but I had no idea he had a title. “Unlock the door,” he continued in that soft but deadly voice. “Now.”
Evidently the word enforcer had an impact, because the werewolf with the brown teeth acquiesced, and a moment later we were face-to-face with Luc Garou.
My father was dressed in the same embarrassingly tight jeans I had seen him in earlier that evening, only now, he was chained to a chair in the middle of a room. Mark stuck close behind me; his smoky aroma was comforting.
“Sophie!” Luc said, gold eyes lighting up. His hair was a bit rumpled, as was his jacket, but other than that he looked undaunted. Like he was waiting for somebody to bring out another bottle of Château Lafite. “How sweet of you to come and visit!”
“Did you kill someone?” I asked. I wasn’t in the mood for small talk.
“Of course not. A little misunderstanding,” he said, shrugging. “I’m sure it will all be cleared up presently.” His eyes flicked to Tom, and hardened. “Why are you here with her? And where’s your little feathered appendage?”
“I am Sophie’s friend,” Tom said dryly, “and Hugin is back in Norway for the mating season. Thank you so much for inquiring after him.” I realized I’d missed seeing Hugin, the raven who usually accompanied Tom everywhere. Hugin was almost like Tom’s familiar; the two had a psychic connection, and were able somehow to communicate.
Luc turned to me. “You associate with this … this Nordic chien bâtard?” He eyed Tom with contempt.
I wasn’t sure what a chien bâtard was—it hadn’t made it into my French vocabulary lists—but I could tell by Tom’s reaction that it wasn’t flattering. God, my father was a jerk. If he ever got out of here, I was definitely investing in a fresh copy of Emily Post for him.
I could sense Tom’s irritation, and admired his restraint. Mark, on the other hand, appeared keenly interested in the whole scene. “Look,” I said to the chained-up werewolf whose face eerily mirrored my own. “Knock off the xenophobia, Dad. Without Tom, I wouldn’t even be here.”
“But…”
“But nothing,” I said. “Everything was fine until you showed up. You stayed out of my life for twenty-eight years. Now, within twenty-four hours, you’ve managed to get yourself accused of murder.” For a moment—just a moment—I wished Heath and I were still together. He was an incredible trial attorney. On the other hand, part of the reason we broke up was that he didn’t know I was a werewolf. It would have been a bit of a challenge asking him to help defend my father before an ad hoc werewolf tribunal.
Luc Garou shrugged. “It is a misunderstanding.”
“Well, you’d better start clearing it up fast,” I said. “They say you ripped some guy’s throat out on Fourth Street
.”
“It is a lie,” he said tossing his red mane like he was some kind of supermodel. “I would never … how did you say it? ‘Rip his throat out?’ So uncivilized.”
“Well, civilized or not, unless we can prove that someone else did it, I don’t think the powers that be are going to let you off,” I said.
“They cannot touch me,” Luc said, raising his chin. “I am the alpha of the Paris pack. I am above the rules of some petty New World werewolf pack.”
Great. My father was Marie Antoinette reincarnated. Only male, and with a lot of excess fur. Come to think of it, though, Luc Garou was probably already wooing helpless young women when Marie told the peasants to eat cake … “I don’t think it matters too much what you think of the Houston pack,” I said, eyeing his chains.
Luc surveyed the motley group around me: Tom, Mark, and the rather uncomfortable-looking guards. “Leave us,” he said in an imperious voice.
Tom gave me a questioning look, and I sighed. “Go ahead. I’ll be fine.”
“I’m not going anywhere,” Mark said quietly.
“Just stand outside the door for a minute or two, okay?” I raised the hand with the ring slightly. “You’ll know if I need you.”
To my surprise, they all acquiesced, leaving me alone with Luc. When the door clicked shut, I hurried over and examined his shackles, which unfortunately were
secured with three separate, very large, padlocks. I took a deep breath, and once again, the familiar animal scent of my father stirred up a host of long-dormant feelings.
Before I could begin to sort them out, Luc leaned forward and spoke in a quick, low voice. “Sophie,” he said. “I haven’t got long. You need to get in touch with my assistant, Georges. My brother—your uncle, Armand Garou—will come to my aid. I’m in the governor’s suite at the Driskill; if you go there, Georges will know what to do.”
“So you really did kill that guy on Fourth Street
.”
“Sophie,” he said, golden eyes warm. “I have done many things I am ashamed of, not least of which was abandoning you when you were nothing but a pup. But I did not kill that werewolf.”
Well, that was something. “If Georges does get in touch with him, what exactly is Armand going to do?”
“He can be very persuasive,” Luc said with a glint in his eyes.
I wasn’t sure I wanted to know what that meant. “So you didn’t kill the guy on Fourth Street
,” I said. Just to be sure.
Luc shook his head emphatically. “I swear on my honor that I did not touch that despicable creature.”
“Despicable creature?”
He shrugged. “He was a traitor. I would not sully my paws with his like.”
“Traitor,” I repeated. “Care to elaborate on that?”
“It is a story for another day,” he said. “We do not have time now. But you must believe me; I did not murder him.”
“I want to,” I said. “But I’m having a hard time.” I glanced at the almost-healed scratch on his cheekbone. “Besides, if you didn’t kill him, where did the scratch on your face come from?”
Before he could answer, the door burst open behind me.
It was Elena, looking spiffy in a pair of designer jeans and a very expensive DKNY blazer. Behind her glowered Boris. “You are not authorized to be here,” she said, narrowing her golden eyes at me.
“I am the one who brought her here,” Tom said as he stepped in behind her. “Sophie is blameless.”
“I’m not so sure about that.” A wicked little smile played across Elena’s lips. “Dudley,” she barked. “Get another chair, and another set of chains. Since Miss Garou wanted a little quality time with her father, I think we should indulge her.”
“No,” Tom said quietly.
“No?” Elena said, arching a dark eyebrow. She straightened her back and tried to look down her nose at Tom, but since he was more than a foot taller than she was, it didn’t work out too well. Despite the obvious vertical challenge, she managed to inject a good bit of ice into her voice. “Mr. Fenris, last time I checked, you were not alpha.”
“Miss Garou has committed no infraction,” Tom said coolly. “According to the Code, you have no authority to hold her here.”
Elena’s nostrils flared a little bit, but evidently the code was on Tom’s side, because she didn’t pursue it. Even though I knew she was dying to. “Put it away,” she said to Dudley, who had managed to produce an uncomfortable-looking wooden chair and another set of chains. As he dragged everything back to wherever it came from, Elena turned to me. “Get out.”
“Why?” I challenged her.
“Only those with permission from an alpha may speak with the accused.” Her smile broadened. “And you don’t have my permission.”
“You’re not alpha,” Tom said quietly.
“The ceremony is imminent,” she said. “And it is merely a formality.”
“But a formality that has not yet been observed,” he pointed out. She pushed her lower lip out, but said nothing.
“I’ll talk with Wolfgang, then,” I said.
“Be my guest,” she said, shrugging.
I turned to my father. “I’ll be back. In the meantime, don’t do anything stupid.” Not that he’d be able to do much, since he was chained to a chair. On the other hand, he wasn’t gagged, so there was really no telling what he might manage to accomplish. Like further pissing off the people, or should I say werewolves, who were already selecting wooden stakes for his impending execution.
Luc Garou looked at me fondly. “You’re everything I hoped you would be. Comme pére, comme fille, I suppose.”
“Whatever,” I said. My eyes strayed to the now virtually invisible scratch on his cheek. I fervently hoped my father was wrong, and that he and I were nothing alike.
Particularly if the allegations about him were true.
“So what do I do?” I asked Tom as we traipsed toward the singing werewolves. Whatever they were howling, it wasn’t Kumbaya. It was in a language I didn’t understand, and the whole effect was kind of mournful and chilling. Funereal, really, which wasn’t the mood I was looking for just then, particularly with a death sentence hanging over my father’s head. Mark was a reassuring presence next to me, even though I could almost taste the tension between him and Tom. The smell of testosterone was enough to fell an ox.
“Well, this is certainly turning out to be an interesting evening,” Mark said.
“I think it would be wise to talk to Wolfgang,” Tom said.
“Luc called Charles a traitor,” I said in a low voice. “Do you know what he was talking about?”
“Charles used to belong to a Garou pack,” he said. “That is no longer the case.”
“He switched sides?”
Tom nodded.
I let out a low whistle. “No wonder Luc didn’t like him.”
“Now,” Tom asked, “do you want to speak to Wolfgang?”
“Do you think it will help?”
“I don’t know,” he said. “You probably aren’t aware of it, but your father has a rather stormy history with the Grafs.”
“No, I wasn’t aware of it, but I can’t say I’m surprised. He’s not exactly the Dale Carnegie of werewolves.”
He sighed. “No, he’s not. In fact, your father’s rather turbulent history is probably why Wolfgang didn’t automatically extend pack membership to you when you helped break up the Mexican alliance.” Tom was referring to a situation that had occurred about a month ago, when I’d somehow managed to … well, let’s call it neutralize … the leader of the Norteños, a Mexican pack that was trying to “reclaim” Texas. In exchange for my services—including enabling the rescue of one of their important pack members—Wolfgang had given me permission to live in Austin without any disturbance from the Houston pack. Which was all I really wanted, in truth. He hadn’t been overly effusive in his thanks, and certainly hadn’t gone as far as to invite me into the fold with open arms. I wouldn’t have taken him up on it anyway, though, so it hadn’t bothered me.
“What’s this history you keep referring to?” I asked.
“You’ve heard of the province of Alsace?” Tom said. Mark was still beside me, listening intently.
“It’s in France, right? My father was talking about it the other night.”
“It is now,” he said. “But it used to belong to Germany. And, at least as far as the werewolves are concerned, to Wolfgang.”
“One of the Garous has it now, right?” I asked as we paused about ten yards away from the ring of singing werewolves.
“One of your aunts,” Tom said. “Marguerite Garou. She recaptured the province from the Grafs, with your father’s help, well over a century ago. Which is why Wolfgang is now the leader of the Houston pack instead of the Strasbourg pack.”
Well, that certainly explained why Wolfgang hadn’t rolled out the red carpet for me. Still, I was having a hard time believing that my father had been involved in a battle for a French territory that had evidently occurred sometime in the 1800s. What Tom said made sense, though—and unfortunately didn’t look good for Luc Garou’s immediate future. Time might heal all wounds, but even after a century or two, I imagined Wolfgang must still be pretty sore about losing a whole province and having to pack up and move to Texas.
“So Luc’s family ousted Wolfgang’s family?”
�
�Yes. The Garous bested the Grafs, and your father was instrumental in making that happen. I believe Wolfgang still holds a bit of a grudge.”
“More than a bit, I imagine.” I could feel my stomach sink. “So I’m guessing begging isn’t going to help. No wonder Luc asked me to get in touch with his brother.”
Tom’s head whipped around. “Did he? Which one?”
“Armand.”
“I’m not sure that’s a good idea,” Tom said quietly. “If a French contingent shows up, it could result in a bloodbath.”
Great. “So you think I should try to talk Wolfgang into letting Luc go, instead?”
“You could try it, but I don’t imagine you’ll have much success. And even if you did, Wolfgang is only half of the equation,” Tom reminded me. “His counterpart was ready to slap you in chains a moment ago, if I recall.”
“But she’s not alpha.”
“Not officially, but she will be soon.”
I sighed. “Elena’s never been overly fond of me,” I said.
“She views you as a threat,” Tom said.
“I have no idea why. It’s not like I’m after Wolfgang or anything.” Both males bristled slightly.
“Well, that’s a relief,” Mark said. He’d been listening to our conversation intently.
“So there’s not much I can do to help my father, then,” I concluded. Other than getting in touch with his Parisian relatives, that was. Provided I was okay with potentially starting the War of the Werewolves, right here in central Texas.
“I’ll do what I can to intercede,” Tom said, “and it can’t hurt to petition Wolfgang in person.”
I groaned. “Why didn’t Luc Garou just stay in Paris?”
“At least you got to meet him,” Mark said.
“Great. Of course, odds are he’ll be dead in a week.”
I glanced back toward the garden cottage, where my father was chained to a chair—and probably finding new and creative ways of mortally offending his captors. “Thank God I’m nothing like him,” I said. “He’s kind of a pain in the ass, isn’t he?”
Tom made a sound that resembled choking as Mark pointed to the circle of werewolves. “Looks like the shindig’s breaking up.” He was right; the awful howling had stopped, and the werewolves were starting to mill around.
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