Leader Of The Pack

by Karen McInerney

  He looked back at me. “The buck killing?”

  I nodded.

  He sighed. “It was an unfortunate occurrence.”

  “Was it bad enough that I won’t be able to go back as Inga?”

  He hesitated. “I’m not sure. What you did was a breach of etiquette, to be sure, but it is not a punishable offense. You may return as Inga, certainly—you were successful in cloaking your true identity—but your reception may not be warm.”

  “So my odds of getting people to talk with me are pretty much slim to none.”

  He nodded. “I wish it were otherwise, but that is probably so. Still, there is hope; tomorrow, I will apologize, tell them all of your embarrassment, and explain again that you come from a small town.”

  In other words, sorry about my girlfriend the hick. “What’s tomorrow?”

  “It is largely devoted to border talks; there will be some touring of Fredericksburg, but no major events. I will call you if anything comes up.”

  “You think I shouldn’t go?”

  He hesitated “I think it would be wise to take a day off. I will do my best to excuse your behavior as innocent enthusiasm; then, if tensions aren’t too high, you can attend the interpack assembly the next day.”

  “Great,” I said, feeling like someone had punched me in the stomach. “That’s like a third of the time I’ve got to get my father off, and I can’t use it.”

  “All is not lost, Sophie. I will smooth things over, and will ask what questions I can. As I said, the small-town angle may help explain your lack of familiarity with pack rules. And we all know what it’s like to be gripped by bloodlust.”

  If he meant that to be comforting, it wasn’t working. I bit my lip. “Oh, and by the way, on the small town thing? You might want to know I told someone I came from St. Paul.”

  He winced. “Really?”

  I nodded, and he sighed. “I will do my best,” he said, one hand on the doorknob.

  Tom was halfway out the door when I realized that although it was true that the evening hadn’t been exactly what I had envisioned—not only had I not found proof of my father’s innocence, but I’d managed to piss off the entire pack—I was being a tad churlish. The truth was, even though Tom had a long-standing feud with the Garous—my uncle had murdered his sister, for God’s sake—he was taking risks to help me free my father. And here I was, being grumpy.

  I closed the gap between us in three steps and touched his arm. “I’m sorry I’m so frustrated tonight. I’m really thankful for everything you’re doing to help me.”

  Tom turned to look at me, and I could feel the heat of his eyes all the way down to my toes. “You’re welcome,” he said. Then he leaned down and kissed my forehead, very lightly. His eyes burned with something—repressed desire?

  I was about to throw all caution to the wind and ask him to stay when the phone rang.

  “Better get that,” he said.

  “Oh. Yeah. You’re probably right,” I said, flustered.

  “I’ll call you tomorrow to let you know what I’ve discovered,” he said, and closed the door behind him.

  As I ran to get the phone, I felt an emptiness where he had been moments before. My breath was still coming in rapid bursts when I picked up.

  “Sophie?”

  It was Mark.

  “Mark,” I said, still eyeing the door. “Hey.”

  “Where were you? I tried your cell, but you wouldn’t pick up. I was worried about you.”

  “I was doing some investigating,” I said, collapsing on the couch. It had been a long night.

  “At the Howl?”

  “Exactly. I went with a fake identity.”

  “Ah. As Tom’s girlfriend?”

  A shiver went up my spine. “Sort of,” I said, wondering exactly how he knew.

  “What does Lindsey think of that?”

  “I haven’t spoken with her.”

  He chuckled. “I’ll bet not. Find out anything interesting?”

  “Maybe,” I said, running a hand through my abused hair. “Apparently Charles was with someone other than his girlfriend the day he died.”

  Mark clicked his tongue. “Naughty, naughty,” he said. “So you think the perpetrator was a jealous lover?”

  “I don’t know yet. I kind of made a little error tonight, so Tom’s going to try and smooth things over.”

  “What did you do?”

  “I killed a deer.”

  “You’re a werewolf,” he said. “Isn’t that what you’re supposed to do?”

  “Not before the alphas have a shot at it.” I shuddered, remembering that awful moment—the deer hanging from my mouth, Elena staring at me with utter disdain, the rest of the werewolves looking on in scorn …

  “Oops.”

  I sighed. “Anyway, Tom’s going to try to smooth things over for me at the Howl tomorrow, and see what he can find out about Kayla’s boyfriend.”

  “Just give me the word, and I’ll break your dad out. Then you won’t have to go through all of this charade.” He was quiet for a moment. “Assuming it is a charade.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Tom is an attractive male werewolf.”

  “So?” I said, glad Mark couldn’t see the blood burning in my cheeks. I took a deep breath. “He’s my friend’s boyfriend. And we’re working together to save my father.” This jealousy issue—even if it wasn’t entirely unfounded—was starting to bug me. Mark, as attractive as he was, was exhibiting some serious symptoms of controlling boyfriend. And I didn’t like it one bit.

  “You know he’s not serious about her.”

  “How do you know?”

  His voice was calm, but it had an edge. “I know many things, Sophie.”

  A shiver ran down my spine. “You know, Mark, sometimes you’re kind of spooky.”

  “I prefer to see myself as mysterious and intriguing,” he said playfully.

  “What exactly are you?” I asked, feeling goose bumps rise on my arms. “You were going to tell me the other night, but you never did.”

  “If you’ll let me take you out tomorrow night, and if you’re, very, very good,” he said seductively, “or maybe very, very bad … perhaps you’ll be able to wring it out of me.”

  My first instinct was to refuse—after all, every hour was precious right now, since there weren’t very many of them between my father and his appointment with a sharp wooden stake—but the truth was, since I was unofficially banned from the Howl, what else was I going to do? Besides, as usual when I was around Mark, my body was overruling my brain. He just seemed to do something to me. “Okay,” I said, feeling totally conflicted.

  “Such enthusiasm.”

  “It’s been kind of a rough week,” I said.

  “I’ll distract you for a few hours. Where would you like to go?”

  “I don’t know.” I closed my eyes and leaned up against the wall. A little diversion—particularly a diversion that involved my tall, dark, and very handsome client—might be just the ticket right now. Besides, it might give me a chance to bring up some of his rather medieval attitudes toward dating. “Surprise me,” I said.

  “Always, Sophie,” he purred in a voice that made me almost instantaneously moist. “Always.”

  As it turns out, Midnight Satin did not wash out in ten shampoos. Nor, in fact, did it wash out in twenty shampoos. I would have kept going, but was afraid if I did stop, I’d be dye-free but bald. I tried to look on the bright side. My hair might look like crap, but at least I no longer looked like I’d been frolicking in a slaughterhouse.

  After staining yet another set of bath towels with streaky black dye and putting the kettle on for a mug of wolfsbane tea, I grimaced at a strand of my blotchy hair and thought back to Tom’s departure. His masculine, wild scent still filled the loft, even though he’d left more than an hour ago, and I felt a pang knowing he was probably with Lindsey right now.

  Mark had said Tom wasn’t serious about Lindsey. And Kayla seemed to think he
was a bit of a playboy. Should I warn Lindsey?

  It’s not your business, Sophie. I mean, if Lindsey didn’t know Tom was a werewolf, that would be one thing. But she was well aware of his animal nature—in fact, she was rather anxious for him to pass some of it on to her. And as far as his dating history was concerned, it wasn’t like she was naive; the streets of downtown Austin were littered with her discarded lovers. So why was I so bothered by their relationship?

  Because you want Tom for yourself, something inside me whispered.

  No, I told the voice. He’s a werewolf with a spotty dating history, and he doesn’t even live here. Besides, I would never betray my best friend that way.

  Oh no? the voice replied. What about that kiss?

  A moment of weakness, after a traumatic experience, I thought, trying to banish the memory of how he tasted, how his body felt pressed up against mine … Besides, I have a date with Mark tomorrow night. He’s a much better option.

  But he’s your client, the voice whispered. He sprouts wings, and flames, and gives you weird jewelry that won’t come off. And you don’t even know what he is.

  I’ll find out tomorrow, I told the voice. If you’ll go away and leave me alone, I’ll find out. I promise.

  Just to make sure I didn’t have any more split-personality moments, I poured myself a small glass of wine and then hit the sack. The day had been long enough already. I’d deal with my hair—and that annoying little voice that kept bringing up unpleasant topics—tomorrow.

  “There’s another French guy in your office,” my assistant Sally informed me as I passed her desk the next morning with my skinny latte in hand.

  I stopped short, almost spilling my latte, and whirled to face her. “Why is he in my office?” I asked.

  “He said he was a friend.” She adjusted the lapel of her sober black suit, and again I found myself wondering what had prompted her wardrobe transformation. I hadn’t seen either her rather ripply midriff or anything made of spandex in two weeks.

  “Name?” I asked tartly.

  “Don’t know,” she said, shrugging and giving me a funny look. “What happened to your hair?”

  My hand shot to my blotchy-looking locks. I’d tried pinning them up, but it only seemed to accentuate the uneven, and frankly unflattering, discoloration. “My hair is … well, it doesn’t matter what happened to my hair. We’re talking about the guy in my office.”

  “What about him?”

  I let out a long breath. “In the future,” I said, “would you mind waiting until I’m actually in my office before you escort strangers in? And, perhaps, if it’s not too much trouble, finding out their names? I’ve got sensitive documents in there, you know.”

  “Okay, chief.” She glanced at her watch. “It’s almost nine. You’re late.”

  “That’s not the point,” I said.

  “You’ve been coming in late a lot lately. Adele mentioned that the other day.”

  “I’m a partner now,” I reminded her, glancing at my office door and taking a deep breath. Yup. Werewolf. Probably Georges, who was not on the list of people I really wanted to see today.

  “Junior partner,” she reminded me.

  “Look, Sally. We’ll talk about this later. For now, do not let anyone in my office without talking to me first.”

  “Whatever,” she said, and returned her attention to her computer.

  I did not, I am proud to report, dismember her right there in the middle of the office. Instead, after privately resolving for about the four hundredth time to talk to Adele about finding better help, I straightened my shoulders and prepared myself to prevent my father’s assistant from calling in the French werewolf army. Which, unlike the human version, apparently was a force to be reckoned with.

  I steeled myself and opened my office door.

  When my father had visited me, he had made himself at home behind my desk, but Georges was sitting respectfully in my visitor’s chair, looking kind of like a boy who has been sent to the principal’s office. Only with thinning hair and a rather natty double-breasted gray suit.

  “Hi, Georges,” I said, closing the door behind me.

  He shot to his feet. “Ms. Garou.” His eyes flickered to my hair, but unlike Sally, he was polite enough not to mention that I looked like I was wearing a calico cat on my head.

  “Sit down,” I said, rounding the desk to plop down in my own chair. I set my latte down and stole a glance at the hike-and-bike trail, which beckoned greenly from twenty stories down. For a brief moment, I found myself wishing I was down there watching the ducks that were tooling around the lake’s green surface. Or chasing them. Although in truth, I would have been glad to be just about anywhere but here right about now.

  “Have you heard from Mr. Garou?” Georges asked, leaning toward me, his thin face drawn.

  “When was the last time you talked with him?” I asked.

  “Two days ago. I escorted him to a bar on Sixth Street

  —Shakespeare’s, I believe it is called. He told me he would be back at the hotel that evening, but he never returned.” Dark circles ringed his gold eyes. “Of course, at first I imagined he had met with a lady friend, but now …” He opened his hands.

  Always the lady friends. Dad was quite a Casanova. Just like Tom. “You haven’t heard from him since then,” I confirmed.

  “No. And without him, I am not feeling comfortable attending the Howl. There is bad blood there, you see …”

  “I know,” I said, taking a fortifying swig of latte. “I’ve heard all about the family history.”

  He sighed. “Then you understand my concern. I am thinking that perhaps I should call Armand.”

  “No,” I said, almost spilling my latte.

  He looked puzzled. “Why not?”

  “Luc is fine.” Of course, “fine” was relative, and perhaps even extremely temporary, but Georges didn’t need to know that. Not yet, anyway.

  Georges’s eyes lit up—he looked a little like a spaniel who had just been offered a nice, crunchy Milk-Bone. “You have spoken with your father?”

  “I met with him just last night.”

  “Where is he?”

  “He’s …” Where? At a spa resort, having his toenails painted? I decided that honesty was the best policy. Partial honesty, anyway. “He’s at the Howl,” I said.

  Georges stood up quickly. “Why did he not take me with him? I must join him there immediately.”

  “No,” I said. “No, no. That would be a very bad idea. And not what Luc wants at all.” I gave Georges my most winning smile. “With all the excitement, I forgot to get in touch with you, so I’m really glad you’re here. Luc asked me to tell you to lay low for a while.”

  “Lay low?” he asked, a furrow appearing in his unwrinkled brow. How old was he? I wondered. He looked to be in his late forties. If my father was anything to go on, though, I was guessing I was talking to a werewolf who was at least 500 years old. I was still having a hard time getting my mind around that.

  “Wait for him to contact you,” I said firmly. “He is undergoing some delicate business.” Like being chained to a chair and pissing people off.

  “Without my assistance? C’est impossible. I must be with him. I am always with him.”

  “He forbids it,” I said.

  He blinked. “Pardon me?”

  “He forbids it,” I repeated. “He needs to be alone right now. And he needs you to be ready, so that when orders come …” I gave him a knowing look.

  “So you are in communication with him,” Georges said, looking slightly mollified.

  “Of course I am.” Or at least I had been. After last night’s fiasco, my chances of a second chat session with Luc Garou weren’t very good, but once again, that was more than Georges needed to know. What had the werewolves made of the broken window? I wondered. I was guessing they wouldn’t be leaving him unguarded again.

  “Oh,” Georges said, gold eyes glinting. “I think I understand now. You are plotting to ov
erthrow the Texas packs so that Paris will have a little southern colony.”

  “Something like that,” I said, thinking, over my dead body. Which was, come to think of it, entirely possible.

  “Please tell him to call me,” Georges pleaded. “I will act with the utmost discretion, as I always have. And certainly Mr. Garou will want his French cousins to come and assist with the coup. Do you have any idea when he is planning the action? I will call them and ask that they prepare …”

  “Wait,” I said quickly. “Let’s wait a day or two. I’ll talk to him … tomorrow. And when I do, I’ll get in touch with you immediately. You’re at the Driskill, correct?”

  “Yes,” he said. “Room four hundred and thirty-four. I will be there day and night, awaiting your call.”

  “Good,” I said, meaning it. Because if Georges was at the Driskill, that meant he wasn’t finding out all kinds of bad things at the Howl. Which bought me at least a little more time.

  “Now, if you will excuse me,” I said formally—he seemed to like the formal thing, found it comforting somehow—“I have a meeting to attend.”

  “Of course, Ms. Garou. Thank you so much for your time.”

  “My pleasure,” I said. “And don’t worry. I’ll be in touch.”

  He gave me a flourishy little bow. “I am at your command.”

  “Excellent,” I said, standing up and walking him to the door. He gave me another little bow before heading down the hall with a new spring in his step. I watched him all the way to the elevator.

  “Who was that?” Sally asked as soon as the doors slid shut behind him.

  “None of your business,” I said.

  “That’s not what you told me ten minutes ago,” she pointed out.

  I didn’t bother responding. But it was definitely time to talk with Adele about finding a new assistant.

  At six o’clock, I was putting the final touches on my outfit—a swingy little blue dress I’d picked up on sale at Nordstrom—and trying to do something with my hair. Four more washes had dimmed the splotchiness, but not eliminated it, and unless I wanted to wear a headscarf, there was no real way to hide it.