by Sylvia Frost
I wish he wouldn’t. I need to be in the room in front of Lola. I need to know why she took Lawrence. And how. With whom. And what else is she responsible for?
I stew in my quiet fury and Orion lets me until we’re past the hidden entrance to the skyscraper and the empty parking garage. It takes the quiet hum of the maintenance elevator and the dinging at each floor to make me realize that if I want to talk about this before I speak to Lola, we’re running out of time.
“I’m going to make her tell me where he is,” I say. “And then I’m going to go with whatever agent is assigned to find him and bring him back myself.”
I don’t turn to look at Orion as I speak, but because the elevator walls are reflective, I don’t have to. Though the metal warps his haggard reflection, I have the suspicion that looking at him straight on, he would be just as unreadable.
“I know,” he says.
“You’re not going to try to stop me?”
“Stop you? After all you’ve shown me that you can do?” The elevator chimes, and his hand presses to the small of my back to guide me. “I’m going to be right behind you.”
I watch in the metal reflection as my face slackens into a startled grin as the doors part. I suppose there is less of a difference between hunting and following than I would’ve guessed. And while it does mean that Orion is more than just a commanding alpha, it also means that even when he’s helping me, there’s something dangerous about having him at my back. I have to remind myself that he’s not dangerous to me.
Orion presses a kiss to my neck as he herds me out of the elevator, inhaling my scent like a drug addict taking a hit. His nearness makes my insides twist in pain and pleasure.
At least I think he’s not dangerous to me.
The elevator door closes behind us, and I look around. This floor must be lower than the one we went to with Stefania. It looks only slightly less high-tech. While there are no screen faux-windows, like there were upstairs, there are transparent cubicles made of the same shaded glass. Inside of them figures manipulate 3D projections too intricate to parse.
A short man wearing a rumpled button-down, jeans and suspenders and a gun holster greets us with a nod. He has a red curly beard, even though the hair on his balding head is brown. “Agent North.”
“O’Mailey, this is Artemis Williams.”
He looks me over once, nods, then smiles, holding out his hand. “Henry O’Mailey, director of the New York branch of the FBSI. Glad you’re not really dead.”
I look at his hand with its close-cropped nails and calluses. I take it. “Me too.”
A smirk twitches on his chapped lips as he ends the brief handshake. “Good.” Then his face returns to a normal professional coldness, and he motions to a hallway between the walls and cubicles. “Follow me and I’ll take you to Stromwell.”
I rock up onto my toes and glance around, looking for Cal, but she’s not here. Maybe she’s gone back to the hospital to check up on Stefania. That’s the second time she’s ditched us on our way to headquarters. What is it about this place that she hates so much?
I trail after O’Mailey, Orion bringing up the rear. Much like the parking garage, the offices of the FBSI seem to go on forever, and I’m not entirely convinced that there aren’t mirrors somewhere, giving the illusion of infinity. But if there are, we haven’t run into them by the time we reach a nondescript door.
O’Mailey stops in front of it but leaves it shut. “There are three things you need to know about ex-Agent Stromwell, Ms. Williams.” He holds up his thumb. “One, her official position was as an undercover agent assigned to assassinate high-value targets for the Washington branch. But for an undetermined amount of time she’s been acting as a double agent for a group of werebeast rebels. The same group we believe kidnapped your friend. Two—” His pointer finger extends. “She’s well-practiced in the art of resisting werecalls. It’s unlikely you’ll be able to manipulate her in any way, and far more likely that she will manipulate you.”
“And the third point?” Orion growls from behind me. Nervousness radiates out from him in waves. It’s a mark of his trust in me that he doesn’t demand that I not go in, or that he’ll come with me.
“And three,” O’Mailey says, his face showing deep wrinkles as his patchy brows rise, “she’s interested in you. Interested enough that if we play this smart, I think you’ll be able to get some genuine intel out of her. If the way you’ve tamed this one is anything to go by”—he jerks his thumb at Orion—“then bending people who can’t be bent seems to be your specialty.”
“And where will we be watching from?” Orion says through grinding teeth.
“Oh, ‘we’ now?” O’Mailey says, a hint of an Irish lilt slipping through. He turns his counting finger and points it at Orion. “You are under suspension until we get this bloodbinding mess sorted out.”
“I won’t do it without him.”
I’m not sure who’s more surprised, Orion or O’Mailey. O’Mailey’s brows remain perched on his frown lines, which I’m beginning to guess may be his default expression of disbelieving exasperation. Orion’s expression is closed, eyes narrowed, until I grab his clenched fist and undo it with my soft fingers.
“We’re a team.”
“Fine. I’m sure she’ll tell you anything she gets out of Lola anyway.” O’Mailey swears something in a language I don’t know under his breath, shaking his head. “I have to say, I do see the appeal of the Stromwells’ old method. Just kill all of you. Damn my ethics.”
Then he opens the door and motions me inside.
10
The tigress’s presence is a sudden gust of fresh, cold air. Literally. A few seconds after she bangs on the glass with her fist, I open the cabin door. The temperature is unseasonable for May.
Cal stays standing on the threshold. She looks different in her generic FBSI blacks, her wild curly hair pulled back into a strict bun, the scratches of fur ripping across her skins seeming more like scars than ever. But her eyes gleam with barely suppressed wild fury.
My heart sinks. “Lawrence. Does Lola know where he is?”
She doesn’t thank me for letting me in or even look at me at all. “Williams is required at headquarters.”
Orion steps between Cal and I. “On whose orders."
“I don’t think you get a fucking say on orders.” Her lip curls her nose flaring. “Stefania is in a coma because of you.” “Stefania is in a coma because of her own paranoia,” Orion says blandly.
“I saw what was on that USB stick. Matemarking must be done by a member of your pack. And it's not like any of your family is still alive,” Cal leans in closer, her sarcasm spikes into a snarl. “Or do you tell yourself it’s not your fault. Like you do with your mother."
I feel the blow land on Orion as if it had landed on me. Hard and brutal. I may not know the context, but I know I’m fed up with Cal’s bullshit. “Shut up.”
She ignores me, and although I think my hand on Orion’s back keeps him from lunging toward her, it doesn’t keep his mouth shut. “Like it was your fault with your mate.”
I flinch before Cal does, preparing my werecall in case this gets anymore hairy than it already does. But Cal just throws her head back and laughs, a hollow rattling thing. When she stops her hair is even more wild, a strand of it covering her eyes which glisten strangely. “You think you know me, North. You think I’ve shared something with you, but you have no fucking idea what life is really like for me, let alone what I’ve really lost and why.”
Orion strides right up to Cal close enough she could bite him, if she wanted to and says, “Transform then and fight me, if you really think I could’ve killed her parents and lived with myself.”
I dig my thumb into the dive below his shoulder blade, as if that single push could unravel all of his tension. You know me. I know you. And I love you anyways. I love you because of it.
Cal wipes away her eyes. She can’t be actually crying though. She can’t be. “Fuck. All I know is
that you’ve fucked things up, and you don’t seem to care. She… ”
Cal shakes her head, and then grins so broadly it must hurt. There's not even the pretense of happiness in her eyes, or satisfaction or even anger. Her facade is as flimsy and transparent as cellophane. “Well, I suppose you’ll get your reward. Lola isn’t talking. You’re mate’s friend is as good as dead.”
“No.” My gentle touch on Orion turns to a painful squeeze, and I’m grateful for his relative invulnerability. It doesn't matter how desperate I become. I can't hurt him. He can more than handle me. “She has to know something.”
“I’ll talk to her,” he promises darkly. And I know he’s not referring to a conversation, at least not one with words.
“Oh, I tried that,” Cal says. “But that bitches mouth is so closed we wouldn’t get anything out of her even if we sliced her throat open.”
Orion reaches back to cover my hand with his own. “Why do they want my mate at headquarters? Who gave the order, O’Mailey?”
“O’Mailey gave the order, but he’s not the one who wants her.” Cal’s grin reaches her eyes, but it still doesn’t feel anymore pleasant. When I look at her teeth I half expect to see blood on them. “Agent Stromwell does.”
“What?" I ask. Now I’m not holding Orion to steady him, but to steady myself. My head whirls.
“She says that she’ll only speak to glassface,” Cal offers a nod toward me that’s so small, it’s as if she doesn’t even think I’m worthy of the motion. “And that she knows where her little friend is.”
“Lawrence?” I push through the barricade of Orion’s body, and to my surprise he lets me. Then I’ m face to face with Cal. She’s taller than me, especially still wearing her combat boots. “How, how could she know?”
“Because she says she was the one who ordered him to be taken.”
11
The history of the werewolves’ werecall can be traced back to the inception of the Roman empire. Some say it is the melding of human and werebeast society that gave birth to the wolves’ unique power to command others. However, the werecall wasn’t completely infallible. Certain humans, if they trained long enough, could resist. And worst of all, when their opponents on the battlefield had lost their minds to bloodlust, the werecall’s power had no effect at all.
Beasts, Blood & Bonds: A History of Werebeasts and Their Mates
By Dr. Nina M. Strike
The room is bigger than I would’ve guessed and older too. There’s no fancy tinted glass, just a metal table, three concrete walls and a two-way mirror. Lola is sitting at the table, staring down at her hands, which are knotted together with handcuffs. An angry purple bruise is painted across her left cheek.
I close the door behind me, feeling my pulse jump into my throat as it clicks shut.
Lola doesn’t look up at the sound. I wonder if she’s even conscious. Her dark hair, once pulled back into a bun, has fallen over her face. It reminds me of the teased style she wore when she was my boss at the bar.
“Why don’t you sit down, Artemis? I’m sure you’re tired.” She tilts her head, revealing a split lip.
“I’ll stand.” My hand trails off the doorknob, but I don’t step closer. She looks less like she was in a car-crash and more like she got into a fight. “What happened to you?”
“Your cat friend tried very hard to get me to talk before she brought me back.”
“Why?” I ask.
“Why what?” For the first time I get the sense that I’ve surprised her, and she looks up.
It’s not just her lip and cheek that are banged up. The fluorescents do the scratch across her neck no favors. I know a claw made it.
It should make me sick. My stomach feels hot with satisfaction instead.
“Why would you refuse to talk to Cal, and then talk to me?”
“Sit, please.”
I glance up at the two-way mirror. I know that Orion is behind the glass, but all I can see is my own face. My blonde hair isn’t much less wild than Lola’s, and bruises lurk underneath my skin, too. They’re healing no doubt because of the completion of the bond, but they’re not gone. My Cupid’s bow lips aren’t set in an “oh” of surprise anymore, and the gentle, soft curves of my body are the only features I still feel are mine.
I can do this.
Lola’s resistant to the werecall, which is how she fought back in the cabin. She’s a manipulator and not the manipulated. But if there’s one thing I know, it’s how to give away just enough control to hold on to myself while peering into someone else’s soul. That’s what I did with Orion.
I press my fingers against the glass, wondering how close he is to the other side of it. I imagine that he’s smiling that startled half-smile of his, his fingers reaching out too. Even though I know he’s probably as impassive as ever.
I exhale through my nose. Yes, I was able to get close enough to Orion that now I haven’t completely lost myself. But I fell in love with him in the process.
Lola doesn’t deserve to be loved or understood. She deserves every bloody wound on her body for what she did to my mate. And, if what she says is true, what she may have done to Lawrence.
Shit. If he’s alive, if there’s even a chance of me being able to help him, I have to take it. I turn, stride over to the table, pull out the chair so fast its metal legs screech against the floor, and fall into it more than sit.
Lola nods, withdrawing her hands from the top of the table and into her lap. The corner of her mouth twitches, like she doesn’t want me to see the handcuffs. As if that could make me forget.
“Cal doesn’t matter to me. God knows the FBSI doesn’t matter to me. But you…” She shakes her head ruefully. “I thought I might be able to save someone innocent for once.”
“How?” I snarl, then exhale and stop myself. Anger won’t get me anywhere, and neither will my werecall. She has to think I trust her. “How did kidnapping Lawrence save me?”
“You’re alive right now, aren’t you?”
I didn’t realize how much I wanted her to deny what she’s done until she didn’t. I’m glad I’m sitting down, because this time I feel a pulse of anger and disappointment with the same intensity as when my head slammed against the side of the SUV.
She leans forward enough that I can smell the faint echo of her candy-sweet perfume. It’s the same one she wore as Lola, my boss. “This is poison, Artemis. All of it. Trust me. Your mate. The FBSI. The rebel werebeasts. I’ve been protecting you from all of them.”
“Bullshit.”
“You didn’t flinch.”
I shiver. “What?”
“When you saw my face. When you saw what that bitch of a tiger did to me, you didn’t flinch.” She opens her eyes, and she winces with the movement. With every movement, really. “You wouldn’t have minded if she killed me.”
I unclench my fists, aware of how damp my palms suddenly feel. My pulse flutters in my throat.
Lola must sense that she got a hit because she stares straight at me, like she’s trying to get me to look back. “You would’ve minded. Before Orion. Before your parents’ murder. Before all of this. You would’ve felt sympathy for me, even if I did terrible things.”
I look away, toward the door. I can’t look at her or at the mirror. “You don’t know me.”
“I know you,” she says softly. “I followed you the moment you ran away from home. I was your assigned detail, briefly. And even after my official assignment ended after your ‘death’, I made sure to keep tabs on you.”
“Where’s Lawrence?” Suddenly, I turn back to face her, although I can’t bring myself to meet her gaze and instead look a few inches above her head.
“Did Lawrence ever tell you why he was kicked out of his house?”
I don’t answer. That’s my only option now. If I open my mouth, I’m going to yell at her or try to use my werecall. I’m not going to answer her question. She doesn’t deserve to know the truth, that Lawrence’s mother didn’t approve of his sexual or
ientation.
“He shot his brother,” she says conversationally. “Did you know that? Showing off with a gun. Threatening him. I’m not sure it was an accident. His brother was twelve.”
She wins. Not only do I look up into her eyes, soft and brown as ever, but as a shiver laces through my blood I realize that I believe her. I believe that Lawrence shot his brother. That explains his fear of guns better than his lover’s murder ever did. Our friendship has always been brief islands of intimacy in oceans of secrets, and this… this is his monster in the deep.
But I don’t hate him for it. I hate her. And my patience has run out. I propel myself up from the chair, grounding my stance as I take in a breath for my werecall. The next time I speak it isn’t to ask a question. “You’re going to tell me where Lawrence is.”
Her eyes narrow, and she leans back in the chair, lips twitching.
I slam my fist against the table and it rings dully, a percussive counterpoint to my werecall. “Now.”
“Letchworth State Park,” she answers finally. “By the falls.” Then it’s her turn to look away.
My heart feels like a stone. Letchworth State Park. The place where my parents were killed. My fist unclenches on the table, splaying open numbly. “Why? Why is he being taken there?”
“I thought that if I removed Lawrence from your life, you’d be afraid enough to run again. That you would stay out of sight of your mate, of all of this.”
I press my lips together, and I spit in her face. I wish I could pull a trigger instead.
Her mouth opens in shock, and maybe even hurt. With the handcuffs she can’t wipe the spit off her cheek. It lands right on her bruise.
“Well, you failed. All you did was hurt me.” I smile, although it feels more like gritting my teeth. “And that just made me stronger.”