Susie blew out a long breath. “Whew. He sure scared the daylights out of me. You look like you're about to pee your pants. Sit down before you collapse.”
“That's totally uncalled for and you know it.” Sorcha complied with Susie's order even as she protested. “You may be Miss Annie Oakley sharpshooter, but I've never held a gun before this last week.”
“Harold, come here,” the bird called in a perfect imitation of Grams's voice.
Tears misted Sorcha's eyes; she blinked rapidly. For a split pulse beat after the bird spoke, she'd opened her mouth to greet Grams.
“Goodness,” Susie said, raven eyebrows arched, eyes wide. “I've heard him imitate Aileen before, of course, but that gave me the heebie-jeebies.”
The cockatoo burrowed in Sorcha's hair and came up with a strand in his curved beak. An image of Kumar on one shoulder, Harold on the other, each bird nibbling on a lock, stained her pupils. Grams had brought the birds to the hospital a few days after her parents' deaths, but Sorcha couldn't even look at the pair, far less pet either animal.
“Whatever was here is gone.” Susie removed the kettle from a burner on the gas stove. “I can't scent any presence in the house. I think something or someone was trying to get in.”
“Do you know what it was?”
Susie shook her head. “No. My sense of smell isn't as good as a male's. I don't know about you, but I could use a cup of tea.”
“Please,” she replied. White curled up at her feet, rested his jaw on his front paws, and closed his eyes.
All kitchens should smell like Susie's, Sorcha decided. The aroma of baking perfumed the room. She spotted a pie under a glass dome, a half-eaten, chocolate-flaked round cake on a ceramic red plate, and a glass jar filled to the brim with oversize cookies.
A macabre sense of surrealism shrouded her mind at the contrast between made-from-scratch cookies and black wolves.
“What do you know of the black wolf, Susie?”
Sorcha listened as the other woman explained that the black wolves had broken away from the white pack three generations earlier, when the white wolf leader decided to eradicate shape-shifting from their powers through selective breeding.
“Why give up that power?”
“Two main reasons, or so I've been told.” Susie filled the stainless-steel kettle with water. “Firstly, only male white wolves can shape-shift, and during their adolescence they have little control over that talent. When the white man herded all Native Americans into reservations and restricted our movements, the other tribes became aware of our powers.” She set the kettle on the front burner. “Jealousy reared its ugly head, and both the white man and our fellow Native Americans hunted us. My great-great-grandfather was leader of the pack back then, and he reasoned that getting rid of the one power we couldn't control, which stamped us as white wolves, was our best bet for survival.”
Susie turned a knob on the gas stove, and after a series of clicks, flames erupted from the jets. Opening a cabinet, she reached in and produced a chintz teapot and two matching teacups and saucers.
“Do you have any of the wolf powers?”
Susie's lips curved. “You bet. There's not a single member of the female pack who can outrun or outjump me. But females never develop telepathic skills or night vision.”
Kumar tumbled from his perch on Sorcha's shoulder into her lap. The dazed bird's feathers ruffled in a wave motion from tail to crown; he flipped upright and wobbled on her thigh.
“Silly boy,” she crooned and fingered the spot below his head crest. The parrot closed his eyes, and his plump form went limp. Sorcha laid him on his side. “I'd forgotten how easily he falls asleep. When I first got the birds, they'd fall asleep on their perch. Harold always managed to sleep standing, but Kumar hit the floor the minute his eyes closed.”
“I remember he used to imitate your parents' old-fashioned rotary phone.”
“You don't know how many times we ran to answer the phone only to find Kumar was making the ringing tone.” Sorcha couldn't prevent the dizzy grin capturing her mouth. “Then Harold would answer in Dad's voice and none of us could figure out what the heck was going on.”
“Okay, girlfriend. What are your intentions toward my big brother?” Susie jumped up as the kettle whistled. “How about chamomile?”
Whaat?
Sorcha took refuge in the banal, opting to focus on answering the second query. “Very appropriate. My nerves are shot.”
While the other woman set the tea to steeping, Sorcha snatched a dry dishtowel from the nearby island and covered Kumar's sleeping form.
A hush broke over the kitchen as she pondered the question. “I'm not sure how to answer that one, Susie. I feel like I'm in a tornado funnel and it hasn't spit me out yet. Did Gray tell you what triggered my memories?”
“No. Why? Does it relate somehow?” Susie removed the tea cozy she'd placed over the teapot earlier and poured the steaming liquid into Sorcha's cup.
“In a roundabout way.” As she added a packet of Splenda to the liquid, Sorcha told Susie about Grams's letter and her suspicions.
“Call me dumb if you want, but I don't get what the fact that your parents might have been murdered has to do with your feelings about my brother.”
“How would you feel about yourself if you grew up believing your father had killed your mother and tried to kill you?” Sorcha stirred her tea and set the tiny spoon on the saucer. “If my father could try to kill me, what's to prevent me doing the same to my children? Do you think you'd be able to commit to someone living under that black cloud?”
“Sweetie, there's no way you'd ever do that.” Susie's arms surrounded her head, and the other woman squeezed her tight. “Don't ever let me hear you say that again.”
“I can't breathe,” Sorcha protested, her voice muffled by Susie's thick cotton apron.
“Sorry. But you can't live your whole life thinking about that night. You have to move on.” Susie released Sorcha and then untied the protective clothing. “Get that stubborn look off your face, Sorcha McFadden. You know I'm right.”
“Logically, I know that, but here,” she said, tapping a forefinger to her head, “here, it doesn't compute. Look, we're going to have to agree to disagree on this. To answer your question as best as I can, I care a lot for Gray, I just don't know if we have a future together.”
“I'll let the topic rest for a while.” Susie draped the apron strings on a hook on the opposite wall. “That reminds me—you never told me about your recurring nightmare.”
“You're going to think I'm nuts.” Sorcha sipped the tea. “It begins with me asleep, and I'm dreaming, and I want to wake up, but I can't. I can hear shouting coming from the living room.” Sorcha bit her lip. “This all happens in our old house on the hill. I get out of bed, but I'm not really awake. I creep down the hallway, and I see my mother lying on the carpet. Blood pumps from her throat. Here.” She touched the main vein on her neck. “There's this awful gurgling sound, and I look into her eyes. Her fingers move. Her gaze shifts to a spot above me, and I try to turn to see what she's looking at, but I can't. I'm frozen. Then my head explodes with pain, then nothing.”
The room spun. Only once before had she ever vocalized the nightmare, and she'd fainted before she could finish. Sorcha gulped the rest of the cooling tea and realized recounting the experience had acted as a piecemeal catharsis.
“You realize you're reliving the night your parents were killed?”
“That's more than obvious.”
Susie shot her an annoyed frown.
“Sorry, it's a sore point. For a long time, I refused to acknowledge the nightmare was in any way related to that night.” Sorcha fiddled with the teaspoon.
“Oh, sweetie.” Susie reached over and covered Sorcha's hand with hers.
“One shrink suggested I needed to commit myself for observation.” Sorcha's lips quivered.
“Stuff and nonsense, as Aileen always said. Sweetie, you went through a horrendous experienc
e at a crucial point in your life. Not only did you witness your parents' murder, you were shot and left for dead.” Susie poured another cup of tea. “I started having dreams about you around the same time your nightmares began. I wish I'd been more cognizant of the exact date now. At any rate, the dreams are all mundane, images of us playing together, the time I showed you the barn Gray used to work at.”
The barn where I saw him screwing Tonya.
Sorcha's pulse accelerated. “Tell me. Maybe it'll trigger something.”
“When your parents gave you Kumar and Harold, you spent hours trying to teach them to say your name and hello and bye-bye. I came over the next day and we played Barbies. Before I left, Harold said, 'Bye-bye, Susie.'” Susie flashed her an impish grin. “You were sooo mad at me.”
“I remember. Harold called everyone Susie for two weeks. That darned bird never said my name until I turned twelve.”
Susie burst into a fit of giggles. “Your mom had taught him. He and Kumar sang 'Happy Birthday' to you at the party. Wasn't it a tea party?”
Pictures danced in her head: their backyard, circular tables decorated with fine china, three-tiered centerpieces laden with miniature cakes and scones. “You started a food fight. And when your mom found out, she made you come over and apologize, and you had to weed our flower beds for a full month.” Sorcha reached across the table, captured her friend's hand, and briefly pressed her fingers lightly. “This is good. Tell me more.”
A long beep pierced the cozy quiet of the kitchen.
White sat up and swished his tail; his ears twitched. Kumar snuggled closer.
“The guys are back.”
Torn between wanting to run to Gray and not disturbing the cockatoo, Sorcha chewed on her lower lip and focused on the doorway. When her mate strode through the entrance to the kitchen, his hair damp and slicked back from his face, she stopped breathing, and a waterfall of joy pinned her limbs.
Gray made a beeline for her, dropped to one knee, framed her face with palms chilled from the crisp spring air, and kissed her. He tasted of paradise and fairy tales and happy endings. How long their mouths melded, Sorcha didn't know, but when he finally lifted his lips from hers, all her doubts and fears had evaporated.
“You okay, honey?”
“You took my line.”
His infectious smile and twinkling black eyes teared her up, and then she remembered the river. “What happened, Gray?”
He pulled out a chair and sat.
“Where's Joe?” Susie asked. “Here, Sorcha, let me make a sheet nest for Kumar in the laundry room. I'll lock both doors; the cat won't get in. He'll be safe.”
As Sorcha transferred her cockatoo bundle into Susie's cradled arms, Gray answered, “He and Chad are stowing the gear we used to fish the SUV out of the river in the barn.”
“Gray,” Sorcha said, stroking the bunched muscles of his forearm resting on the table. “How did you end up in the river?”
“It was dark, I wasn't paying attention, and an animal ran across the road. I swerved to avoid it and ended up in the river.”
“You're not hurt?” She raked his form, searching for cuts and bruises but found no evidence, save his damp hair, of his encounter with the river.
“Bruised ego, that's about it.”
“You must be starved, Gray,” Susie said as she reentered the room. “I set aside a plate for you. I'll pop it in the micro.”
Sorcha slipped sideways in the wooden char; she hadn't even noticed Susie'd left the kitchen. “Do all of you Whites move so silently?”
“White wolf talent,” the other woman quipped.
“What? Scaring the heart out of mere mortals?” Sorcha shot Gray's sister a glare.
Susie grinned as the microwave dinged.
“Thanks, sis,” Gray said as Susie set a dish loaded with food in front of him and handed over a knife and fork.
Susie had served rack of lamb for dinner. The gamy aroma of the meat and rosemary and garlic curled on the steam rising from the plate.
“What do you want to drink?”
“Sweet tea.”
Gray attacked his meat and potatoes while Susie filled a glass with ice cubes from the refrigerator door.
Chad and Joe entered the room, their boots clomping loudly on the stone floor.
The taint of manure mingled with the outdoors wafted to Sorcha's nose as Joe strode past her chair.
“I'm heading home,” Chad announced. “Lizzie'll be waiting. Later.”
“Night,” Susie said to the man's retreating back. “Do you want a beer?”
“Sure thing, sweetheart,” Joe answered. “But first things first.” He drew his wife into his arms and planted a passionate, openmouthed kiss on her lips.
Heat rolled across every inch of Sorcha's skin. It would take some time before she became accustomed to these public embraces so prevalent among the wolves.
As if reading her thoughts, Gray tipped her chin with his forefinger and said, “You'll get used to it, honey. Until then, I'll enjoy your reaction. It gets me all hot and bothered when you blush. Let's make a move.”
“There's something I want you to hear before you go.” Joe's tone did squirmy things to Sorcha's nape, and she glanced from him to Gray. Were they communicating telepathically?
“Mike left a voice mail on my office line.”
“The study?”
“Yeah. Back in a few, girls.” Joe's long legs consumed the distance to the entrance in three steps.
Gray dropped a kiss on her forehead. “Get Susie to pack a couple of slices of her peach pie for us.”
“When Joe gets that tone in his voice, it usually means there's something he doesn't want me to know.” Susie planted her hands on her hips and eyed the empty doorway. “I vote we barge in on them.”
“Will they let us?” Without any sort of punishment? She had deliberately avoided thinking about that night. Wolf or not, his behavior couldn't be excused, and she refused to agree to marry him until he vowed it would never happen again.
Where did that come from?
“Sweetie, the one thing you'll learn about these macho wolves is that they're suckers for their women. They'll rant and rave, but in the end, Gray will do almost anything you want. Unless it interferes with his ability to protect you.” Susie opened the fridge, took out a brown Sam Adams bottle, and uncorked the lid. “Come on. Grab Gray's sweet tea.”
When they reached the study, the door stood ajar. Susie hipped it open as Joe said, “I think Mike might be onto something. He found a common thread with the murders.”
“Here,” Susie said as she strode into the room and handed a startled Joe the beer bottle. She slumped onto a sofa under a long picture window, cocked her feet on a low coffee table, and asked, “So, Mike has a theory, does he?”
“This is men talk, Susan.”
“Don't 'Susan' me, Joe Huroq. I am not the little woman to be kept out of the picture, and you know it. And as for you, brother dear, you'd better smarten up and treat your mate as an equal if you want to keep her. She won't settle for anything else, and somewhere inside that stubborn noggin of yours, you well know that.” She dusted her hands. “Lecture over. Proceed.” A flourish of a wave punctuated her command.
No way could Sorcha stifle the hoot bubbling up her throat. She surrendered to mirth, and Susie joined in.
“Just you wait, Gray. From now on, you'll long for the premate days when you could do anything you wanted. Shush now, woman,” Joe said. “You do want to hear what Mike has to say?” He waggled bushy eyebrows at his wife.
Family. Sorcha loved the way the whole pack interacted, the easy familiarity, the ever-present humor. She let out a long sigh and offered Gray the glass of sweet tea.
“Put it on the desk for me, honey.” He softened the command with his lop-sided grin.
She set the tumbler down, then tried to hop over Gray's outstretched legs, but he caught her around the waist, sat up, and drew her onto his lap.
Joe stabbed a button
on the phone, and a beep sounded.
“Hey Joe, it's me.” Mike's low, scratchy voice reverberated around the study. “When I got home, I spent a couple of hours going through the newspaper reports about the murders. I found one common thread for all of them, with the exception of Miss L and the twins. Now, this may or may not be relevant, but it struck me as a little odd.”
“Get to the point,” Susie muttered.
“All of the murders involved interracial couples.”
“What the fu—” Gray shifted, sat up, and leaned forward.
Out of the corner of her eye, Sorcha winced when she saw his lips thinning, the angry scowl drawing his black eyebrows together.
“Schmidt was married to a woman from Ethiopia. Frank and her Canadian Native American boyfriend had tied the knot in a civil ceremony the week before their camping trip. Taunton had been separated from her African American husband, but they'd recently reconciled. Frank had just married an Egyptian-born construction worker, and Spring married an Asian woman while doing a short teaching stint in Lhasa, China.”
Gray's open palm connected with the chair's wooden arm.
“That's all I have for now. Call me when you get the bone analysis tomorrow.”
Joe jabbed Stop.
“Bone analysis?” Susie's glance swept from her husband to Gray. “More murders?”
“It looks like your grandfather didn't eradicate the black wolves from the face of the earth.” Joe leaned back in his chair while flipping a yellow pencil from one hand to the other. “Recently, there've been rumors of a satanic wolf cult at Leader Lake. We went up there today and found an oval clearing, three concentric fire circles, and charred human and animal bones, all essential to the old black wolf ceremony.”
“Ceremony?” Sorcha asked, every muscle tensing in dread of the answer.
“Human sacrifice,” Susie replied, her normally tan complexion sallow. “They believed it enhanced their powers.”
“It occurred to me on the way home that aside from us, only the Houndtrees know the detailed measurements of the three concentric circles,” Joe mused. “The circles we found today were five inches equidistant of each other.”
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