by RJ Blain
Alex woke as quiet and calm as Emily had, and neither resisted me herding them inside. James stood at the granite counter making coffee when we entered the kitchen.
“You’ve got a really well-stocked fridge,” James commented. “Coffee? Someone left a note on the table for you.”
“Please, thanks.” I snatched the envelope, recognizing Anderson’s neat handwriting on the front. “Sit, kids. Can I get you anything?” I yanked open the fridge, resisting the urge to whistle. James was right. It was stocked with enough food to feed an army for a week. “Juice? Milk? Water?”
Emily asked for water. When Alex spoke, it took the help of my wolf-enhanced ears to catch his request. I poured his milk and Emily’s water, setting the glasses in front of them. I ripped open the envelope. An inventory of the fridge and cupboards greeted me, along with a list of businesses, including several therapists, schools, and daycares.
After handing me a mug of coffee, James cleared his throat. “I’m going to check the rest of the house.”
He made himself scarce after I nodded my acknowledgment of his words. I sank into the chair across from the kids, repacking the envelope in order to give my hands something to do. “Has anyone told you what happened?”
They shook their heads. The unreasonable desire to head back to Baltimore and wring necks kept me silent for several minutes. “I’m no good at this, kids, so I’m going to just tell you the truth. Your mom isn’t coming home because someone killed her.”
To my astonishment, neither cried. They digested the news with solemn expressions. It reminded me of the calm before a pack howled its grief over a lost wolf. In the way of the wolves, they waited for the Alpha to utter the first sad sound before adding their voices to the chorus.
“Why?” Emily’s voice wavered. “Why would anyone want to kill Mommy?”
I set my elbow on the table and propped my chin up in my palm. The kids flinched at my movement. “That’s a good question, Emily. I don’t know. Your mother was a good woman, or she wouldn’t have been working for me. People do the wrong thing for a lot of different reasons. Perhaps they feared her.”
The Inquisition didn’t have any need to fear a werewolf working and raising pups, not in a workplace that encouraged employees to take one or two days each month for private matters. Werewolves could easily vanish near the full moon when it didn’t land on a weekend without fear of reprimand. Witches could go to their covens and be among their sisters and brothers.
Even wizards could flit in and out of the system, if they were careful. Most weren’t careful enough, though.
Why had they targeted Mrs. Peters? Not all werewolves were like me, trained to kill, trained to hunt, and at risk of running wild should the lure of the full moon be answered.
I doubted Mrs. Peters had been a rogue. Rogues avoided children. If they had them, they found new, stable homes for them.
“Aunt Dorothy blamed us,” Alex mumbled.
I straightened, unable to stop the low growling noise in my throat. “And why would she do that?”
“We’re different,” Emily whispered in the broken tone of a child who’d been told the same thing far too many times.
It hurt. Werewolf pups always were different. They were a little stronger, a little faster, a lot more aggressive, and a lot smarter than other children their age. But they had to be, not that it made it right or eased their anguish. Stupid young wolves died in the wild. I didn’t know if my parents had been werewolves or not. Having werewolf parents didn’t make one a werewolf usually.
I hadn’t been born a werewolf, but I had been different enough my mother had sold me, shipping me across the ocean to my new owners, all so she could live without my existence being known.
Then I had been changed.
I shuddered, fighting against the memory of the forced ritual that’d transformed me from a little girl into something no better than a rabid beast needing put down. So long as I had anything to say about it, I wasn’t about to let that happen to the two kids in front of me, who would always be burdened with the fact their mother had been killed just for existing.
Just because I could smell wolf on them didn’t mean they had been changed into werewolves.
I couldn’t help but wonder how their mother had resisted the need to change for nine months, buying their lives with her suffering. The change from human to wolf and back again killed the unborn more often than not. I respected their mother’s dedication and love for her unborn. In an age of instant gratification and taking the easy way out, I didn’t know many people who would’ve endured such painful lengths twice.
“So you’re different. So what? I don’t care about that. What I do care about are the things you choose to do. Your Aunt Dorothy can kiss—”
James cleared his throat from the other room. For a fleeting instant, I almost wished I could let my wolf out and change so I could pin my ears back and bear my fangs at the bloody traditional Brit in the living room.
“—my ass,” I concluded.
The kids giggled, watching me with wide eyes.
“So, there are house rules,” I announced.
Both of them winced.
“But we’re going to decide them as a group. Alex, there should be some paper and a pen in the drawer over there. Would you please be so kind as to get it? Emily, can you write?”
Alex slid off of his chair and scurried across the tiled floor to fetch the items I’d asked for. Shame darkened Emily’s eyes, and she shook her head.
“Can you write, Alex?”
Like his sister, the young boy shook his head.
Different indeed. I couldn’t blame Mrs. Peters, though. Raising children couldn’t be easy, and children with at least one werewolf parent likely didn’t mesh well in public schools. “I’ll teach you myself. You haven’t been to school, have you?”
Once again, they shook their heads. I took the paper from Alex’s trembling hands.
Well, I didn’t know children, but I did know werewolves, and structure was an important part of pack. Maybe if I restored structure to the children, the rest would fall into place. If Samantha were here, she would’ve known what to do. I blinked away the burning in my eyes. Samantha wasn’t, so all I could do was my best, for better or worse.
“We’ll start with chores. Everyone in this house—yes, me too—is expected to clean up after themselves. Dishes go on the counter if you can’t reach the sink. You’ll each be expected to make dinner one night a week. Help will be given if you ask for it. Any questions?”
Their eyes widened in a painful mix of horror and hope.
“Can we use the stove?” Emily whispered, awe in her voice.
“After I show you how, yes.” The stove, I’d learned, was an induction stove, after experimentation and wondering why it wasn’t heating up in the same fashion as the glass-topped and gas stoves I was more accustomed to. Kids and fire weren’t an ideal combination, but they had to learn some day.
“Cool!” Alex straightened, beaming a smile at me. “Will you actually teach us how to cook?”
“In the interest of not being poisoned, you better believe I’m going to teach you how to cook.”
From the other room, I heard James trying to choke back his laughter.
“That means you too, smart ass,” I called out.
The children erupted into a fit of giggles.
“You’ll teach us how to cook using the stove?” Emily asked.
“Yes, with the stove. If you’re good, I’ll even teach you how to use a barbecue and fire pit, too.”
“Can we have turkey?” Alex chimed in.
Emily sucked in a breath, staring at her brother with eyes so wide I feared they’d pop right out of her head. I filed that away. Turkey, apparently, hadn’t been something Mrs. Peters made often.
Hope truly was a dangerous thing, but if turkey was enough to make them at ease, it was the least I could do. “Yes, we can have turkey sometime soon,” I promised.
They bounced in their chairs, their
small hands slapping against the tabletop in excitement.
“Bedtime,” I said, clearing my throat to warn them to settle down. Obedience was immediate. “Bedtime is at ten.”
The complaints I expected didn’t come. They squirmed, but kept silent. “If you have a pressing need to stay up later, we can discuss it.”
Emily made a soft noise, not quite a whine, but close.
“What is it, Emily?”
“How often will we be left home alone?”
“Did your mother leave you home alone a lot?”
Neither one of them looked me in the eyes. Voicing a disconcerted hum in my throat, I grabbed my cell and dialed Anderson.
He picked up on the third ring. “I’m bothering you again,” I announced, watching the kids for their reactions.
“Uh oh. What can I do for you, Ms. Hanover?”
“Vicky,” I growled.
“Sorry, Vicky.”
“That’s better. I want you and Amelia to pull up all of the companies under Marrodin and start looking into the logistics of attaching daycares to all of our facilities. Look into tutoring, too. Get back to me with an estimated cost of operation. Try to have that for me in two weeks. While you’re at it, get a tally of the number of kids our employees have.”
“Huh. Okay. What happened?”
“Illiteracy happened.”
“I see. I’ll get to work on this right away. I can have a rough estimate in a couple of days. Anything else?”
I hesitated. Part of me didn’t want to know. If I knew, I’d have to go, and I’d have to bear the stares, the pitying glances, and the politics surrounding my existence. “When are the funerals?”
Anderson inhaled from surprise. “Alan’s is tomorrow in Washington. The funeral for Ms. Williams will take place the next day. They buried Mrs. Peters the day before yesterday.”
Had Dorothy Lane even bothered telling the children about their mother’s funeral? It wouldn’t have surprised me if the old woman hadn’t bothered. I hadn’t seen much of her treatment of the kids, but what I had witnessed had been enough.
“The morgue hasn’t yet released Samantha’s body,” Anderson whispered.
“She needs to be buried at Arlington.”
One day, Donnie would join her there. I’d see to that. Neither one of them deserved to be alone.
“Arlington?”
“I’ll forward her enlistment and discharge papers to you tonight or tomorrow,” I promised.
“She hadn’t mentioned she was a vet.”
Poor, poor Samantha. Her recruitment into the military had happened as a part of the aftermath of Saigon. It had been the only way she could stay in Vietnam after I had taken the brunt of the grenade’s detonation. I doubted she’d mind my revealing the painful past if it meant her spirit could rest among those she had fought beside as a consequence of keeping me human. “She didn’t want people to know. I’ll have a copy of her will sent to Amelia.”
Tonight would be a busy night. I sighed.
“Are you all right?”
Was I? How could I be? Samantha was gone. I lifted my chin. “No, but I will be.” I hung up.
I couldn’t help Samantha anymore. She couldn’t help me. My grief would have to wait until its sharp edges no longer cut at my chest. Until then, I could begin searching for a real family for the two kids sitting in front of me. Until then, I’d give them all of the comfort, security, and safety children deserved.
~*~
After hearing Emily’s fear of being left home alone, I decided the children would have to come with me to Washington. I didn’t look forward to Alan Oleran’s funeral, but I consoled myself with the fact I didn’t know him. In a way, I felt like I was about to return to the scene of the crime, although I hadn’t been the one to kill the man. Nervousness upset my stomach, but I did my best to hide it from the children and James.
If I wanted to go to the funeral, I would have to tap into my witch’s powers and try to do as Samantha and Mrs. Livingston had done, wearing a mask to make people believe I wasn’t as young as I looked. The werewolf in me rejected the idea of the unnatural change, insisting there was nothing wrong with my ageless face.
When I booked a private plane to the capitol, I struggled to keep my voice even. James glared at me, his arms crossed over his chest, infusing his stare with his refusal of being left behind. The children’s fear scent served as a secondary motivation to let the trio have their way.
A young man answered the phone.
“I’d like to book a private plane for four passengers to BWI,” I said.
The first available flight was in the morning, and would land us in Baltimore several hours before the funeral. I confirmed the reservation, gave the man my credit card number and information, and hung up.
“We leave early in the morning,” I growled at the lot of them. “Now, bath and bed. All of you. Yes, I know it isn’t ten yet, but if you’re coming with me, you’ll march right upstairs and do as you’re told.”
All of them fled my presence, even James. The children, however, giggled as they ran. “And you can make sure they get cleaned up properly, James!” I called after them.
I wish I had the luxury to join them, but I didn’t dare. I dug out the documents I’d recovered from my Mustang after fleeing Detroit, sorting through them until I found the sealed envelope with Samantha’s will in it. I left it closed, setting it on the counter so I could send it to Anderson in the morning. It took about an hour before quiet descended on the house, leaving me downstairs to stare out into the darkness beyond the kitchen window.
My body craved sleep, but I couldn’t repress my grief. It boiled over, emerging as tears I angrily wiped away with a fist.
The Inquisition had hunted Samantha as they hunted me, striking too fast. Where had I erred? When had her abilities as a witch been revealed?
Had Mark been Samantha’s killer? I shuddered. It made sense. He’d been there moments before her death. With the Wicked Witch of the West as his mother, I had no doubts he was at least somehow involved with the Inquisition. The ball, and the fact that he played along with Caroline’s death like everyone else in attendance, was part of the proof I didn’t want to accept.
If he had coordinated the party and was responsible for its success, there was no way he hadn’t known Caroline had died.
His side jobs and finances started making sense to me. If he was being hired to do the Inquisition’s dirty work, he’d be paid in large sums under contract, hidden under legitimate-appearing work to grant the illusion of legality.
I didn’t want to believe Mark was capable of murdering mothers and old witches who hadn’t hurt anyone. Shunting the thought aside, I considered Mark’s companion, Officer Marten. The cop was a likely candidate, too, and someone in a position to pull off a murder or two without suspicion. An officer’s training, coupled with the techniques of the Inquisition, would make Marten a frightening foe.
I didn’t know how old Marten was, but I did know how old Mark was.
Unless Mark had spent most of his childhood training, as I had been trained, I doubted he’d be skilled enough to pull off a murder in front of so many witnesses. I gnashed my teeth. Either one of them could’ve been responsible.
If the autopsy proved Samantha hadn’t died from natural causes. Samantha wouldn’t have let herself die from something as mundane as a heart attack, would she?
I wiped my eyes again, turned off the light, and headed upstairs.
Until I knew more about Samantha’s death, there was nothing I could do.
Chapter Sixteen
I was in dire need of a vacation and a lot of sleep. By the time the plane landed in BWI, fatigue weighed me down. Stifling a yawn, I tossed James the keys to the rental, taking the passenger’s front seat. “Keep it on the right side of the road, James. You do have a license, right?”
“I think I can handle it, Vicky.”
I snorted, stretched out my legs as much as I could, and ordered the kids to buc
kle up.
The next time I blinked, we were in Washington, and James was parking the car in some underground lot.
“We have a bit of a hike to the mall,” he said, getting out of the car. I grunted, untangling myself from my seatbelt. “How are we doing on time?”
“Thirty minutes. I booked us into a hotel on the way in, by the way.”
I managed to smile. “Thanks.”
The business suit I’d worn on the plane was more than a little rumpled, but I brought it back into order the best I could, smoothed my rat-nest hair, and situated the kids. James pulled a bag out of the trunk and tossed it over his shoulder. “I also took the liberty of grabbing some water bottles and munchies if the kids got hungry,” he said.
Too tired to do anything other than nod, I took the hands of the kids and let James lead the way.
There was one perk to exhaustion, at least. It took far too much energy to feel anything at all. I embraced the numbness working its way through me. I didn’t even bother trying to put on a witch’s mask to hide my age. With the dark rings under my eyes and haggard appearance, no one would notice how young I looked.
I doubted the witch’s trick would’ve worked anyway, not in my current state. If the wolf in me wanted control, she’d take it. I didn’t have the strength to fight her.
Emily held tight to my hand, and Alex kept a couple of steps ahead of me, pulling me along. Every now and then, he glanced back at me, as if trying to determine if his efforts would be enough to keep me on my feet.
Samantha would’ve laughed. I wasn’t taking care of the children so much as they were taking care of me. Little by little, I think I understood why Samantha had gone into so much debt for the sake of two children who weren’t really hers.
I didn’t regret a single penny of the money I’d thrown away buying Emily and Alex a house.
“Where are we going?” Emily asked, tugging at my hand.
“We’re going to a funeral,” I replied. “Mr. Oleran was a well-respected lawyer.”
“You were his boss lady, too?”
“Yes, I was.”