I hope the Taylor girl is right.
The police radio buzzes. “White female in white Saturn, southbound, I-25, mile marker 208.”
I retrieve my car key from my torn jeans.
“What’d I tell ya,” Lauralynn says and the girls hang up.
“Malone,” LaFontaine addresses the investigator. “Stay put, keep searching the Dollhouse.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Call me immediately if you find anything.” The detective follows me down the hall.
Outside, I hurry to my car. “My phone is on, LaFontaine. Keep me posted.”
“Whatever.” He gets in his cruiser.
Opening the door to the Aston, I’m assailed by Shavone’s scent.
Mine.
LaFontaine pulls out of the parking lot with me close on his bumper. Lights flashing and sirens blaring, we race south.
My beast inhales deeply. The smell of her. The softness of her lips. The taste of her mouth. She cringed for just a moment when confronted with my angriest wolf. It was rather sexy the way she gathered herself and stood up to him. No, she did not cower for long.
Veering off the interstate, the detective bypasses her old street and continues on to Cherry Hills. Once through the community gate, he cuts the lights and sirens. I sigh a relieved breath. At least, she came to the wolven enclave. My witch is safest here.
The cruiser forks right at the roundabout. LaFontaine’s main drive is to the left, so she didn’t go there. Now the only question is did she go to the Santanas or home?
The detective waves off the marked cruiser parked outside his back gate. There her car sits just outside his garage. She went to the LaFontaine property. My beast rages at her, at them, but most of all at himself.
I will earn back her trust. I must. The first step is to rein in my still simmering beast.
The motor on his gate is old and slow. I idle impatiently. The gate slides from left to right, letting me zip by first.
Every single window on this side of the garage apartment is broken out. The door at the top of the exterior staircase sits open. Though my wolf senses nothing out of the ordinary, I’m out of the car as fast as possible. No scent of hunters, just the sweet aroma of her from driveway to the stairs. Nevertheless, I take the steps two at a time.
“What happened?” Shavone’s soft voice carries through the open door.
She’s okay.
The heaviest of weights lifts from my chest.
“Nash happened.” It’s her sister’s voice.
The inside of the apartment looks like a war zone — the drywall in the hall shredded, studs snapped in half. In the master bedroom, the mattress has been reduced to springs, stuffing strewn across the room.
The living area is the worst. Every wall has massive holes, kitchen cabinets yanked down, the stainless refrigerator dented like a tin can, every piece of furniture destroyed, the hardwood floor deeply gouged with planks thrown everywhere. The only thing left untouched is the built-in bookcase holding Shavone’s books and photos.
“Oh, don’t look so shocked, Shav. His wolf lost it when you” — Valerie, the bitch of a sister, stops speaking when she sees me. “Great.” She sighs, tossing debris into a plastic trash can.
Turning, the little witch’s eyes widen at the sight of me.
“Enrique. What happened to you?” Unafraid, she comes to me, gingerly touches my cheek, confusing my beast with her tenderness.
No, Shavone. He is not the smarter part of me.
My wolf is emotional and illogical. I’m embarrassed by his outbursts at the Dollhouse.
LaFontaine walks in casually. “Cruz attacked me. I fought back.”
Her mouth in a thin line, her gray eyes take in his scratched torso and arm. He avoids her angry eyes.
Her gaze returns to me. “Why?”
Valerie snorts.
“I thought” — determined to control my anger, I measure my wolf and my tone of voice — “Niña, why did you leave without telling anyone?”
“I wanted to get my camera.”
“If you would have answered your phone, I could have saved you the trip,” the detective barks.
Seems I’m not the only one embarrassed by his beast.
Her brow deeply furrowed, Shavone’s gaze moves around the space, shocked at the destruction caused by an alpha gone berserk. I’ve seen it before, created it myself before.
“My phone is dead. It was on since” — she shakes her head.
Since the night of the kidnapping. Of course.
“Why do you want your camera?” Bringing my wolf to the surface, I touch her hip.
Instead of calming her, her brow creases further at the sight of him.
“I remembered something about the attackers,” she says to me.
A lead!
“What?” The detective demands her attention, but doesn’t get it.
“The woman had on rings.” Her eyes stay on mine. “A lot of rings.”
“What does that have to do with your camera?” Valerie asks.
“I might have shots of the woman. If” — Shavone indicates the damage — “my camera is still in one piece.”
“Where did you keep it?” I ask.
“In the master closet.”
“I’ll get it.”
In the bedroom, I shove aside mattress stuffing and springs, shattered glass, splintered flooring and furniture just to get inside the room. The closet door has been ripped off its hinges. A corner of it is wedged into the far wall, flung into the drywall with a mighty force. The outer wall of the walk-in closet is gone. All that remains are snapped off studs.
The detective did a number on this apartment, his beast’s agony clearly demonstrated. He has the nerve to call me a hot head.
In the closet, the clothes on one side of the interior are shredded. Denim ribbons with LaFontaine scent on them dangle from hangers. My wolf snarls his jealousy. On the other side of the closet are Shavone’s clothes — a half dozen skirts, the same number of jeans, a few dresses, fewer blouses and a stack of ratty T-shirts. This won’t do. A shopping trip goes on my list.
All of her things were left untouched. His wolf’s rage, then, was inward, not at the little witch, unlike mine. I swallow another dose of guilt.
Among the rubble on the floor, I spot a lens snapped from what was a camera.
I scoop up both of the carcasses and return to the living room.
chapter 17
Enrique reappears in the hall and moves quickly toward me. I wince internally at the deep scratch on his cheek.
His bare rippled abs, sinewy arms and chiseled pecs are so perfect. The way he moves speaks to stealth and power, so sure on his feet. There is no doubt that he’s an alpha. But there’s confusion and uncertainty in his dark eyes.
His gaze locked on mine, the expression he’s had since he got here — one quarter beseeching, three parts livid — twists his brows together in ugly tension. As he gets closer, he searches my face for answers. Answers to what questions I’m not sure. But the rage he let loose toward me at the Dollhouse is still there. No matter how much he tries to hide it, that much is clear.
In his hands is my photography gear.
Oh, no.
My lungs deflate as he hands me the camera. The entire handgrip is smashed flat like a giant wolf crushed it under his foot. Nevertheless, with a sliver of hope, I pry open the door to the media card slot. The card is severely cracked.
“Damn it,” I mutter in frustration.
Nash rubs the back of his head. “I’ll get you a new camera. And one of those.” He points at the demolished high powered lens.
How ironic that I bought the lens to spy on Enrique when it was Nash who proved to be the untrustworthy one.
After Enrique left with Antonio, Nash and Jack cornered me in my Dollhouse dressing room to lecture me about mating Enrique. When I told them to back off, Jack had shaken her left index finger at me. The ring she had on looked remarkably similar to one the van driver w
ore. The shape and size also seemed similar to the one I felt under my kidnapper’s glove.
That the the van driver and my kidnapper could be the same person occurred to me. That epiphany was closely followed by remembering the photos I took of the van. All this came to me while Jack and Nash badmouthed Enrique. Silver linings, I guess.
I glance around at what once was a beautiful apartment. And Nash accuses Enrique of being dangerous?
“How is a new camera going to help me now?” I hiss at Nash, pitching the pricy lens into Val’s garbage tub.
“Jesus, Shav, stop with the melodrama.” Val scoops up a bent curtain rod.
I raise the media card. “I might have had a shot of the bitch who kidnapped me on here.”
“So what,” Val shrugs.
My jaw drops open another inch. “Who are you? The sister I knew cared.”
“Well, this sister doesn’t give a shit.”
I blink back a rush of emotion.
“Oh, now she’s going to cry.” Val rolls her eyes.
Enrique snarls at her. With my free hand, I take his.
Don’t blow up again, please.
He laces his fingers through mine and squeezes tenderly.
Nash frowns at our hands. “Back off, Val. Shav’s been through a lot.”
“Yeah, I know.” Val fake sniffles and wipes at a pretend tear. “Since the day she showed up on our doorstep, it’s been poor little Shavone this and poor little Shavone that.”
Nash gapes at her, incredulous at her callousness.
“Oh, god, Nash. Wake up. Look at what caring got my mom.”
“My dad died in the same fire. I don’t blame Shav for that.”
“That’s because you’re pussy-whipped.” She laughs. “You were pussy-whipped even before you got in her pants.”
Nash growls at her.
With a curled lip and glowing eyes, Enrique’s wolf seethes.
Val wisely shuts up and steps back from both wolves.
“You are a vile person,” Enrique snarls.
She didn’t used to be a vile person. She believes, and I do, too, now, that the hunters who killed Mom were looking for me. And she was my mom, too, the only mom I ever knew.
I know why they wanted me dead — I killed one of their members. But, I have no idea how they found me and I certainly didn’t light the fire.
None of that changes the here and now. Staring into Val’s cold tawny eyes, I feel the loss of her all over again.
You’re my sister.
“Enough of this.” Enrique unwinds his fingers from mine and moves his hand to the nape of my neck. His thumb strokes his mark on my throat.
Val’s inhale is deep and loud. “You mated?” An awed smile breaks her mean facade.
Oh my gosh! There’s my sister! And she’s actually happy for this important step in my life. For a moment, I think she’s going to hug me. But no. The light in her eyes dims, a scowl replaces the smile and she’s gone.
Am I imagining things? I study her face for a clue.
“What?” She leans away from me disgusted.
“Let’s go,” Enrique murmurs.
Shaking my head, I drop my broken Canon into the garbage next to the lens and palm the broken card. Maybe Garrett can get something off of it.
Just as I turn to leave with Enrique, I spot the white feather perched on an upturned table leg. I snatch the gift left for me by my kidnapper on our way toward the hall.
“You'll have the new camera at your ritual tonight,” Nash murmurs in a tone of voice I’ve heard only one other time — at our parents funeral. I feel an unwanted twinge of sadness for him.
“What ritual?” Val hurries after Enrique and me. “Is our coven meeting?”
“My coven.” I keep walking.
“Where and what time?”
She grabs my arm, but quickly lets go on Enrique’s low growl. He ushers me toward the door and down the exterior stairs.
Val tries to follow us down the steps, but Enrique blocks her.
“Rose wouldn’t cull me from the coven without notifying me!” Val bellows over the top stair railing.
After mom’s death, the coven chose Rose Valentine, Cherie’s mom, as our high priestess. She was wonderful for years. This summer, though, she stepped down with some vague mumbles about time for the next generation to take over.
“Rose isn’t the HP anymore,” I say.
“Then, who is?”
You’d know that if you would’ve called home.
“You’re looking at her.” I turn toward my Saturn where Enrique opens the driver’s door.
“It’s my coven, too” she murmurs. In her voice I briefly hear the real Val, again.
I freeze and look up.
Her eyes are glassy with tears.
The real Val.
I was ensorcelé. What’s to say she hasn’t been, too? Could someone be funneling the dark through her? That makes more sense than Val suddenly turning away from her heritage. Maybe everything that’s happened has to do with Gentil girls as much as it does Soft witches — whatever those are.
Nash appears in the threshold. Over her shoulder, he stares down at me. How did he know we’re planning a ritual, anyway?
“Are you sure you want to come?” I ask her softly.
Enrique looks at me as though I’m crazy. Maybe I am. But if I can get Val into a circle, I might be able to find out once and for all what’s going on with her.
“I wouldn’t be asking if I didn’t.” Snarky Val is back.
The wise thing to do is use the strongest circle available to the coven. I lick my lip and push through the repugnancy souring my stomach.
“Tonight at midnight, in the circle behind this house.” I flick my gaze to Nash. “That is, if it’s okay with the home owner.”
Nash nods with a triumphant smile. “Any time, baby.”
The anger that Enrique has been barely suppressing bubbles to the surface in violent ripples. His wolf snarls.
“Get in,” he says to me while glaring at the pair at the top of the stairs.
With his left arm, Enrique indicates which spot I should pull into in his garage. It’s the one closest to a door that I assume leads into the house. Showing off his speed, he’s opening my door just as I turn off the ignition.
In silence and without touching me, he ushers me inside, down a short hall and into the kitchen. The wattage of his bottled up anger crackles all around us.
“Enrique.”
He simply shakes his head and walks to the sink to pump soap into his hands.
“Stifling emotions is bad for your mental health, remember?”
The tension centers in his jaw, tightening as he clenches his teeth. He closes his eyes, washing the crusty blood from his hands and scraping under his fingernails by feel.
“Talk to me, please.”
“Not now, Shavone.”
“When?”
Again, he shakes his head, scrubbing his hands so roughly, I expect to see bits of flesh wash down the drain.
I’ve confronted a wolf’s anger before — mostly Nash’s. Just seconds ago, I responded to the aftermath of his destructive rage with my own anger. Fighting anger with anger was a vicious cycle that we fell into. Those situations with Nash were nothing like what I sense from this wolf, my wolf, right now.
Enrique is more than mad. Misery laces through him in a painful anguish that tears me to pieces. I feel it in my cells. Because his venom flows through my veins?
A modern method for dealing with anger is getting rid of it — deep breathing, meditation, framing the issue in a different way. Maybe I can help him do that.
The candle stash in Enrique’s house is in the pantry. I take out a few votives and find a lighter in the junk drawer.
“What are you doing?”
I fill a bowl with hot water from an electric kettle kept plugged in by the stove.
“Prepping a healing spell.”
Leaning his sexy backside against the counter, Enrique
dries his hands. “That isn’t necessary. The wounds will be gone by morning.”
He looks and sounds exhausted. Anger will do that to you. And, fighting Nash. That will wear anyone out.
True. Maybe Enrique’s physical wounds will heal on their own, but the internal ones won’t. I seem to be the one causing those, and those are the ones I want to help him with.
“You want me to practice my craft, right?” I pull out a stool and pat the seat. “Come sit and let me practice.”
He doesn’t move, just stares at me like he’s afraid to come anywhere near me.
I try a small smile. “It felt so good healing you before.” I try to keep my mind focused on the task on hand, but it veers off remembering our extensive lovemaking session.
His wolf glimmers in his eyes. Oh, yes. He’s remembering, too. Rather than relaxing him, it’s making him angrier.
I swallow a flicker of apprehension and push on. “Please.”
With tight squinting eyes, he rubs his bottom lip with a knuckle.
For long moments, he says nothing as he considers it. Is he breathing? Finally, he inhales and shakes his head no.
“Not this time.”
Oh.
His rejection twists my heart, wringing the shock through my eyes.
“Touching one another right now isn’t a good idea, little witch.”
“I’m not afraid of you,” I whisper.
“You should be,” he murmurs sadly.
The battle for control between man and beast is visible in his eyes — glimmering then darkening, and in his jaw — tensing and then opening to lick his lips. I sense his wolf fighting to get out. He shoves off the counter and moves to the fridge for a bottle of water.
“Why is your wolf so mad at me?”
“Leave it be.” His growl is ominous.
Getting rid of his anger is the priority, and if I am the cause of said anger, I need to leave.
“Okay,” I whisper.
I back away and turn, headed for the garage.
In a flash, Enrique wraps an arm around my waist. His touch is firm, but despite the anger, it’s gentle.
“Where are you going?” He snarls.
“You said leave it be.”
Soft Fate (Wolven Moon Book 2) Page 14