Threescore & Tequila (Toil & Trouble Book 4)

by Heather R. Blair

  Not that that was any excuse. Christ, I was a fool.

  “There’s a lot of those in the Old World.” I blink at Merry’s words, then realize he’s still on the royalty thing. He doesn’t push for a name. He wouldn’t know it anyway. Lev and his family were very minor royalty, distantly related to two thrones. One bruin, one not. I don’t know why I keep talking, but I do.

  “He pursued me.” The way bruins do, with that possessive, utterly focused energy that is oh-so-flattering and damn near irresistible. “And I fell for him. Hard. Just crazy, like you get at that age.”

  Merry snorts. I get the impression he thinks love is crazy at any age. Not that I loved Lev, not really. I know that now. But infatuation was devastating enough.

  “He took me to his parents’ castle. If you could call it that.” I force a laugh. “It was falling apart, even back then. Right at the edge of the Barents Sea. Hell, it looked like it was going to tumble right off the cliff. Kind of like that one castle in Game of Thrones, the one over—”

  “House of Greyjoy.”

  I blink at him. GOT is a personal weakness. Mostly, I eschew TV—being a bit of a literary snob—but Seph was watching the program one night and boom, I was hooked.

  Blood and violence and sex? Right up my alley. “Since when do gnomes get satellite?”

  He shrugs. “We don’t. That doesn’t mean we can’t steal cable. Peter Dinklage has more gnome groupies than satyrs have fleas. But go on.”

  “Well, it was even worse inside. Dark and dank and rotten. Then there was Lev’s family . . .” I shudder. “His dad wasn’t so bad. A little oblivious to his sons, typical blustery, old-school shifter. You know the type.”

  Merry nods shortly. He’s Old World-born, too.

  “His mother, though.” I shudder again, thinking of Caterina. “That bitch was something else. She was human but so damn cold. Hated magic. Every bit of it. So of course she loathed me on sight.”

  “She didn’t like witches?”

  “She didn’t like anything with a whiff of magic, Merry. Including her own sons. Rodolph hadn’t told her what he was before he married her. She’d heard the rumors but had chosen not to believe them. She’d been too excited about being a ‘lady’ and living in a castle, from what Lev said. Rude awakening for her. She despised everything to do with the FTC world. Thought her sons were little more than animals.” I take a breath before continuing.

  “She tortured Lev and Anton when they were little. Would bind them with iron so they couldn’t shift. Lock them in the dungeon for days. Weeks, sometimes.”

  He stiffens. You wouldn’t think it from all the stories about FTC types, but most of the old races are crazy about kids. Gnomes, fairies, shifters. Probably in part because most of them aren’t great breeders, so offspring are rare and cherished. In any case, fucking with kids is a surefire way to rile people in any world.

  “Their dungeon was special. The stones had been soaked in the Ren, so you couldn’t even heal properly. You know how it is with bears. They don’t have offensive magic, not really even defensive magic, unless you count their strength. Take that away and you are left with two scared little kids who couldn’t fight back. It broke Lev’s older brother, Anton. They were only a year or two apart, but Anton was still a little boy when I met him, stuck in this big bruin body. Frightened of everything that moved. Lev despised him.” I can still remember his sneer when he looked at his brother over the dinner table. The way he said Anton was soft in the head, not bothering to hide the disgust in his voice. It was the first of several inklings something was not right with my new man and his family.

  “What about their dad?” Merry looks pissed. “Didn’t he know?”

  “He had to know. C’mon, Merry, he had to. But for a shifter to accept his woman would do shit like that to their young?” I shake my head slowly. “My take is that he buried his head in the sand and kept it there.”

  “How did you find out about all of this? Doesn’t exactly sound like polite dinner conversation.”

  “Oh, Lev told me.” I take another gulp of wine. “After he threw me into the dungeon where his mom used to keep him.”

  15

  I’ve never seen the Den’s driveway so crowded. Especially with vehicles like these. I’m surprised some of them made it up our road. Like the silver Porsche Cayman, the red McLaren P1 and . . .

  “I didn’t know Jaguar made an SUV.” Ajax looks somewhere between annoyed and envious.

  “It’s the F-PACE. I don’t think it’s supposed to be out yet.”

  “Where the hell do you rent cars like this?

  “They probably bought them.”

  “For a day trip? What the hell kind of shifters are these?”

  Ajax is a New World bruin. He never went with Georg and I the few times we had to make appearances at various functions in Europe. Georg wasn’t much for court and the only visitors he hosted at the Den were bits and pieces of his own family. The Kivistös haven’t held the actual crown in Europe for a few centuries. They’re still close to the inner circle, though.

  This circle.

  “They’re not like you and I, that’s for sure. I grew up around the type, though. Don’t piss them off, but don’t fucking back down for shit, you got me? One drop of blood in the water is all it takes with these people.”

  Ajax nods shortly, his lips pressed together.

  Two guards are loitering around the fancy cars in our yard. I can tell their type even without the benefit of the insignia they wear on their arms. The wide red and gold bands are emblazoned with a blackened tree, the symbol of the bruin branch of the royal house. They’re in our way and make a show of staying put as we approach. One’s about Ajax’s size, the other a little bigger. Blond and brown-eyed, like most Russian shifters, with cold, impassive faces. These guards are meant to be intimidating, but the effect is rather lost on us. They don’t know that, though they’re about to find out.

  The bigger one folds his arms and looks down his nose.

  “Declare yourselves.”

  “That’s the king of the Americas you’re addressing, asshole.” Ajax’s fury is palpable. “On his own land.”

  The guard spits at the gravel before continuing in his thickly accented English, pretending ignorance. “How the fuck vas I supposed to know? You look like peasants.”

  Ajax takes a threatening step toward him, but I raise a hand. Then I step forward and snarl.

  Just once.

  The other guard’s knees buckle and he hits the deck, bowing his head without a word. I turn my gaze to the mouthy one. We lock eyes. He has grit, I’ll give him that much. But the struggle is short. There’s a hiss of liquid splashing on dirt, then the sharp stink of urine as he skitters back on his heels. An instant later, he’s on his knees, too—kneeling in his own piss next to his friend—the nape of his neck exposed.

  “I guess you know me now, huh?” I say quietly before skirting them both to head up to the house.

  “Glad to see you can make an impression, Stephen.” Ajax smirks as we head up the steps.

  I don’t share his amusement, because pulling that shit inside isn’t going to be an option. I’ll have to find more diplomatic methods of persuasion. I look down at my black T-shirt, worn jeans and mud-splashed boots and then shrug. They want to come unannounced, they can take me as I am. There’s a guard at our door, too, which puts my back up. Either they’re just stupid or they’re purposely trying to piss me off.

  At least this guard is properly respectful, either because he saw our exchange with his buddies or because he’s a few watts brighter than they were. He opens the door without being asked, managing a low bow at the same time.

  Ajax raises an eyebrow but doesn’t say anything. When we pass over the threshold, he curses softly. I resist the urge to echo his sentiment. This may be the Den, but there are way too many bruins in here. Did they bring the whole damn court?

  Then I realize a good portion of the crowd is familiar. Our people. Way to go,
Dom. He must have called everyone he could pull in on short notice. Tucker Cote and a couple of his guys from up by Thunder Bay. Jill Boyd from the Black Hills. No idea how she got here so fast. She flashes me a white-toothed grin before tossing a gleaming black braid over one shoulder.

  Jill’s talking to a Russian. One that looks disturbingly familiar. Well, shit. It’s worse than I thought.

  Cyril. He’s a duke, one of the youngest living ones. Gleaming dark blond hair, a smile like a shark and impeccable manners. For a Kodiak. He was eleventh in line to their bruin throne last time I paid attention. Which isn’t that far away at all, considering the inherent dangers of Old World politics. Plus, he’s smart. Not a dandy like some of the weaker royals. Nobody but the most powerful pulls this one’s strings.

  Next to Cyril is a hanger-on I vaguely remember from my last visit to the palace. No name comes with the swarthy face, no matter how long I stare. Dammit. I also pick one of Georg’s cousins out of the crowd. Darla is her name. She’s talking to Dominic, who looks over as Ajax and I close the door.

  His expression doesn’t flicker from its smoothly polite mask, but the relief in his eyes is evident. I give him a nod. It’s considered rude to mind talk in formal company, so I don’t try to communicate, but I’m damn pleased with his foresight.

  He did good rounding up some friendlies. With only myself, Ajax, Dom and Syana living here at the moment, padding the numbers in our favor is just plain good sense. I fervently hope no one catches Sy’s scent. With this place as crowded as it is, maybe the faint odor of werewolf will be overlooked. That was part of Ajax’s reason for coming to get me personally, so he could leave his woman at the bar with Seph. We are in complete agreement that now is not the best time to announce my chosen second has taken a werewolf as a mate.

  I count heads, mentally tallying. Three guards visible outside, plus two in the woods I can smell but not see.

  So seven for us, eight for them. A fairly balanced dynamic.

  Then a familiar scent wafts over my shoulder. Dammit, I forgot one. And I don’t really know what side she’ll come down on should shit turn sour. I don’t allow myself a frown, but I know she can sense my displeasure even before I turn. Agatha. The woman of the hour.

  I pull her into a hug anyway.

  “Why are you doing this, Aggie?” I say quietly in her ear.

  “Because someone has to see that justice is meted out.” She pulls away, her spine stiff, her blond hair tightly braided around that arrogant head.

  I sigh. “Georg wouldn’t want this.”

  Her face looks pale, pinched. “Maybe not. But as my nephew’s in pieces in the ground, he doesn’t get a say, now does he?”

  She doesn’t wait for my reply, striding across the room to put a hand on Cyril’s shoulder. He didn’t need her to know I had entered the room, his senses are just as keen as the rest of us. But it’s all appearances with these people.

  His eyes lift to mine. Something flickers there, something that I can’t place but that makes me instantly uneasy. Smooth politeness covers it before he pats Agatha’s hand solicitously and heads my way.

  “Your Grace.” He bows. I resist the urge to roll my eyes. Taika’s gentle respect was appreciated and welcome. This fake, formal bullshit doesn’t sit well with me. It’s not just because I’ve been away from the Old World so long either. My dad used to say bruin royalty had adopted airs that were unnatural to our kind.

  “It’s all well and good to have a leader. But never forget, our fealty is to the land, boy, never a crown.”

  I try to be the type of royal my dad could stomach. Unlike this joker.

  I get right to the point. “Why are you here, Cyril? And skip the niceties. It’s not really my style.”

  “I can see that.” His lips curls ever so slightly. “You Americans and your blunt ways.”

  “I’m German, Cyril. I would expect you’d remember that.”

  It’s a not-so-gentle reminder of our shared heritage, as his mother was half German. A fact he tries to keep quiet around his Russians ‘friends.’ Another thing I have little patience for, the Old World’s obsession with bloodlines.

  His eyes narrow, his smile suddenly tight. “I guess the locals have rubbed off on you so thoroughly that I forgot. What has it been, ten years now?”

  My own smile is easy. “Closer to twenty, actually. I already sent a response to Samuel’s offer of sympathy and congratulations, but do tell him I appreciate his sending you personally to offer his respects.”

  Cyril’s nostrils flare and just like that, I know. The bruin king of Europe is not behind this little visit. So who the hell is?

  The duke doesn’t look it, but my deliberate misinterpretation of the reason for his visit has him off-balance. Not to mention my lack of deference or concern. The royals rely on intimidation; it’s practically their calling card. Was he expecting me to be shakier in my new role? More accommodating, perhaps? Surprise, Cyril. Georg didn’t groom me to be a kiss ass.

  I wait him out, one eyebrow raised.

  Finally, he gets to it. “Actually, Your Majesty, I am here on a more delicate matter.” He inclines his head at Agatha, expecting me to make the connection.

  I play dumb. “And what would that be?”

  His jaw tightens. “It has come to our attention that your predecessor’s death may need further investigation.”

  “How so?” I say, folding my arms over my chest. “Herne is dead. And I am sure you heard how I dealt with the wolves.”

  “Yes, yes.” He waves that away, his voice growing strained as conversations around us go quiet. “But we’ve heard that other parties may also be at fault. Herne’s ‘family.’”

  “Family? Who do you mean?”

  Cyril gives me an incredulous look. “The Gosse witches. Surely you’ve heard about the connection by now.”

  “Connection?” My voice is low, quiet. A less arrogant man would know now is the time to mind his words. But Cyril, while clever, has always been too arrogant for his own good.

  “His daughters. It sounds as if they were complicit in Georg’s death. At the very least, they should be questioned. I am surprised you haven’t seen to it already.”

  “I haven’t seen to it, because it’s all bullshit.”

  The swarthy man next to Cyril smothers a low chuckle. The duke gives him a sharp look, then his eyes come back to me, his expression frigid.

  So much for diplomacy. But this asshole just questioned my loyalty to Georg, however indirectly. “The Gosse sisters had nothing to do with their father’s schemes. They barely knew he existed. And Persephone was the one who killed him. In a way, we are in her debt.”

  “We think the situation might be more complex than that.” Cyril smiles, but it doesn’t touch his eyes. And his tone is far too mellow for a man seeking justice. There’s no fire here, only ice. “We’d like an inquisition. Not just with Persephone, but all of them.”

  This situation is exactly what it looks like—a witch hunt. But Cyril doesn’t believe Seph is responsible for Georg’s death any more than I do. So why is he really here? And for who?

  16

  “Wait, what?” Merry looks at me in disbelief. “Why didn’t you kick his ass?”

  “This was pre-sword.”

  “But not pre-magic. Come on, Jett. I can believe lovesick girl makes a mistake, but weak girl just lies down and takes it? You? Not a chance in hell. I don’t give a damn how old you were.”

  I sigh. “Like I said, when the castle was built, they laced the Ren into its foundations, worked it into the mortar and stone like poison. It wasn’t powerful enough to take away my magic forever, not even enough to keep a bruin from shifting, but it . . . smothers. I couldn’t cast and my innate magic was reduced to nearly nothing. Only soul magic was left and he was very careful not to give me a chance to use that. He threatened to cut off my hands at one point, but I think the idea of fucking a girl with two bloody stumps was unappealing enough that he gave it up.”

&nb
sp; Merry winces. He has no idea. It was the thirteen most terrifying, depraved days of my life. I’d never felt helpless like that. It does something to you, takes part of your soul and twists it into something you don’t even recognize.

  “What does all this shit have to do with your mom, though?”

  “When I met Lev, I was crazy about him. Thought it was love at first sight and all that nonsense. Mom took one look and told me he was trouble. Forbid me to see him, to have anything to do with him ever again. She was very clear. Said if I went anywhere with that shifter, my life would never be the same.

  “I thought she was being dramatic. Flighty. Like my mom can be.” Especially back then.

  Mom has never been quite right in the head since we left Herne. Then the stress of managing a family across time, especially in the early days . . . yeah, she was a bit of a basket case. I mean, I never stopped loving her, but I didn’t exactly trust her at that age. The woman had torn my family apart. My way of punishing her wasn’t to turn shallow and vapid, like Ana had for a time. My way was your more traditional defiance.

  Lev had just been the latest excuse.

  It’s rather ironic when you think about it. My mother fell for a monster.

  So did I.

  “You didn’t listen to her.”

  “Not a bit.” I shake my head. “I thought he was the best thing that had ever happened to me. He was funny, sexy as hell and that attitude—you know the one bruins have, where the woman they are with is their sole focus? I’d never had so much attention in my damn life. I reveled in it. Soaked it up like a greedy little flower in the sun. When he asked me to come away with him for the weekend, I was beyond excited. Mom said no. Flat out no. She’d never been one for ultimatums, so you’d think that would’ve gotten my attention. Not a bit. I was determined to go. Mom had been planning one of her walkabouts to check on Carly. She was wary enough to lock me in. But not tight enough. As soon as she was gone and Ana was distracted, I . . . took off. Right into hell.”