Victoria flinched at the sound of her mate's name spoken aloud. "I've slain the undead and fulfilled my duty as Alpha to protect this territory."
More lies. Her honor reduced to tatters.
Mike looked away, scratching an itch behind his ear. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to..." He trailed off and then asked, "Are you all right?"
"I'm fine."
"What about the gunshots?"
"There's a hunter—" Her hands rose to stay his sudden alarm. "It's okay. He's only here to talk, and he helped me destroy the vampires."
Pursing his lips, the sheriff glanced toward the scene of the fight again. "What about the light?"
She exhaled. She'd hoped he'd let things slide once he found out the threat had been dealt with, but it appeared she had no such luck. "The hunter was hurt, so I healed him."
The sheriff stared at her. Dark swirls flickered through his aura, and his scent took on a sour tinge she associated with distrust. "Victoria, you saved my life. I don't want to seem ungrateful, but this is difficult."
Victoria closed her eyes, struggling with an unpleasant combination of weariness, nausea, and grief. "Look, Mike," she said, opening them again. "I'm tired, out of sorts over finding vampires in my territory, and I still need to deal with the hunter. If you could please cut me some slack and write this up without arresting or shooting me or him, I'd really appreciate it."
As Alpha, she would have been within her rights to make demands and order the sheriff to cooperate. Technically, Mike was her kinfolk through her deceased mate. However, their relationship was already uneasy at best. The last thing she wanted was to cause further hostility with a man she desperately needed as an ally.
Surprisingly, Mike nodded quickly. "Sure thing, I understand. Go ahead and take off. I'll see to it this gets cleaned up and provide a reasonable cover story for the papers."
"Thank you. I appreciate it." She smiled in gratitude, incredibly relieved. At the same time, she wondered if it could be that easy. Nothing, but nothing, ever went her way, so she had trouble trusting the break.
He cleared his throat. "Later, you and I really ought to get together and talk about stuff."
What stuff? Uneasy, she hesitated before she agreed to his request. "How about next week? Do you want me to come into the station?"
"I'll come by the house if that's all right. I'd like to meet the rest of your pack," he said.
The sheriff was out of his element, but Victoria gave him points for trying. She smiled. "That sounds good. We'll grill steaks. I'll call you to set something up."
The awkward exchange of pleasantries ended, cut short by the urgency of the situation. Victoria left Mike and his deputy to deal with the few remaining civilians. She avoided coming into contact with any of the girls or their mothers, hoping she hadn't been recognized or linked with the incident.
Leaving the shopping center, Victoria headed away from the crowd of people, sticking to the shadows. Close to the edge of the complex, she caught Sawyer's scent and tracked him to the park across the street. He stood in plain sight, leaning against a lamppost as though he were waiting for her.
Sawyer's eyebrows lifted as she approached. "That was fast."
"It pays to have connections." Victoria stopped three full paces from him, unsure of the polite social distance to maintain when speaking to one's former enemy, recently turned... Her mind stuck on the right word. Ally implied trust. Friend connoted familiarity. Dead lover's vengeful brother—accurate, but not catchy.
"I guess so." He stared at her, expectant, but she had no idea what he wanted from her.
"Did you talk to your father?" Victoria asked.
"Yeah, it's squared away."
Victoria's impatience aggravated her already short-temper. "What are you doing lurking outside a dance studio full of little girls, Sawyer?"
He flushed. "Put that way, it sounds downright perverted."
Victoria cocked her head, and pinned him with her gaze. "I'd hoped maybe we were past the point where you thought it was okay to stalk me."
He cleared his throat. "You were supposed to call me. It's been six weeks."
She looked down and sighed. "I know. I'm sorry. The last six weeks have been... hairy."
His lips curved in a smile. Laughter danced through his aura.
Victoria had no idea what he found amusing about the current situation. Either his brain was addled, or his sense of humor was seriously skewed. Maybe both. Either way, she wanted nothing more than to wrap up their conversation and send him on his way so she could go home and soak in a hot tub.
"Did you kill the witch?" Sawyer asked.
The unexpected question blindsided her, opening the floodgates to her dammed-up grief. Stunned, she blinked back tears and inhaled sharply. "Yeah, we killed the witch," she said, her voice hoarse. "My mate died in the fight."
Sawyer's mouth opened, and a slight growl rumbled in his throat. He took a quick step, fists clenched, and then halted. Brilliant hues painted his aura, and he stank of anger and regret. Thankfully, he held his tongue and kept whatever smart remark he'd been about to make to himself. He must regard her taking a mate mere months after his brother's death as a betrayal of Daniel. He wasn't wrong, but desperation had driven her decision. Arik had offered security and stability for the surviving members of her small pack. Theirs was a union rooted in practicality—a modern marriage of convenience.
Sawyer grimaced, and his scent altered as he lied. "I'm sorry to hear that."
"Thank you." She let the deception slide away unremarked. Social niceties required white lies. At least he had enough courtesy to acknowledge the proper forms. "Sawyer, can we just cut to the chase? Why are you here?"
His voice grew flinty. "I need to know what happened to my brother. You're the only witness."
Victoria rubbed her temple, seeking to alleviate the pressure building in her head, the beginning of a headache. For a moment, she considered telling him what the Norns had said about his brother's soul being tormented. But she had no proof and plenty of doubt, so sharing such an inflammatory possibility with Sawyer served no practical purpose.
"I explained how the Spaniard murdered Daniel. What more do you want from me—graphic details about how he died?" Victoria asked.
His gaze smoldered. His posture bristled with pent up aggression as if he were spoiling for a fight. "Daniel's death must be avenged."
She arched her brow and pinned him with a pointed stare. "A lot of people, mine and yours, have died because of your bloodthirsty quest for vengeance."
He glared. "Are you saying that you don't want to rip out the heart of the evil bastard who murdered Daniel with your bare hands?"
Anger shot through her, scorching hot, and she surged closer so they stood toe-to-toe. She flashed her teeth just to remind him her bite could shred a throat. "I want his death. I thirst for it with my entire being. But I have responsibilities, people who are counting on me to keep them safe."
His jaw jutted. "Daniel was counting on you to keep him safe."
Victoria punched him square on the chin. The blow sent him staggering backward, but he kept his footing. Fist poised to throw another blow, Victoria strode toward him. "Say that again. I dare you."
Sawyer rubbed his jaw with one hand, and the other rose in a staying gesture. "Damn, you hit like a linebacker."
Confused, she stopped and lowered her fist. "You provoked me on purpose."
"I needed to be sure you want that vampire as much as I do."
Her teeth ground together. What was it with aggravating males who refused to listen? "That was stupid. You can't go around provoking wolves and expect to live long."
He shrugged. "If you'd intended to kill me, you'd have done it in Montana."
He made a valid point, but she didn't have to like it. Her lips compressed with displeasure. "I have a duty to my pack. I can't just take off on a vengeance quest."
"The way I see it, you don't have a choice."
"How so?" she spat ou
t.
"The Spaniard got away, and he knows you and your pack are here. He'll be back with more minions..." His head adopted that stiff-necked tilt Victoria associated with Daniel at his most stubborn. "If you want real safety, then we have to end this war and repair the alliance."
"What are you proposing?"
"Meet with my father. Tell him everything you've told me."
"Hell no."
He blinked and paused, then his brow arched. "Why not? We can restore the treaty. We can avenge Daniel."
Victoria laughed, a broken sound. "There can be no alliance. My pack is all but gone. What's left are females—an old woman, a teenage girl, a mother wolf and her pups. Rand and Paul are dead. My mate..."
Prior to her arrival in Sierra Pines, Sawyer and two other hunters had ambushed her pack in a Montana warehouse. Rand Scott, her second-in-command, had died in the confrontation. Her comfort was Rand died a warrior's death, making it possible for his soul to reside in Valhalla with her parents and many of her other deceased pack mates.
Sawyer had too much blood on his hands to ever wash clean. She'd never forgive him, nor forget all he'd done.
The hunter's head bowed, and his shoulders slumped. His scent took on the sharp taint of guilt. Anguish coalesced in his aura like broody storm clouds. "Victoria..."
She held up her hand. "Don't say it, Sawyer. I really don't want to hear it, especially from you."
"Don't you want to end this? To have revenge?" he asked in a hollow voice.
Heat flushed her body, and she braced for violence. "Of course I do, which is why I can't meet with your father. Do you remember the boy who died in Albuquerque? Jasper was only fifteen years old, and he was my responsibility."
"Oh." His mouth snapped shut.
Unable to stop the flood of words, Victoria kept talking, determined to make him understand the vast depths of her grief and rage. "If I came face-to-face with your father, I'm not sure I could stop myself from killing him. Or from trying to anyway."
Certain death awaited any foolish attempt to kill the unkillable.
She winced and continued, "Even though I know that I can't without dooming the few surviving members of my pack. Your father is too powerful. He has too many allies who'd avenge him." Her eyes narrowed, and she pointedly stared at Sawyer, leaving the "including you" unsaid.
He didn't correct her.
"If what they say about him is true, he wouldn't stay dead anyway," she muttered. "Seeking revenge on him is the same as committing suicide."
"My father didn't kill Jasper," Sawyer said, his tone brusque.
Her heart thundered, and her mouth went bone dry. "I know he didn't pull the trigger, because we were talking on the phone when it happened. But I hold him responsible. He took a child hostage. He allowed it to happen."
"You're blaming the wrong man."
Victoria rushed toward him. She placed her hand over his mouth, silencing him before he said anything else. Her voice dropped to a soft hiss. "Think really carefully about what you say next, Sawyer. If you feel any loyalty at all to the man who pulled the trigger, then keep your mouth shut, because I won't hesitate to kill Jasper's murderer. Do you understand?"
He swallowed so his Adam's apple bobbed, then nodded.
"Good." She removed her hand. "Still want to tell me?"
A cold stone mask settled over his face. He remained silent for a full minute before he spoke. "A lot of people are dead because of me. I just want to fix this awful mess." He ran a hand through his shoulder-length hair, shoving it back from his face. "I need to make this right."
As impossible as it sounded, she believed he meant well. Pity swelled her heart to aching. "I know you do, Sawyer, but some things can't be fixed." With a sad smile, she raised her hand and brushed his wrist, a feather light touch, seeking to offer some degree of comfort.
Energy buzzed in the air, building as a single harmonious note, creating indescribable sensations—warm sunshine on bare skin, music in color, a moment of perfection—the manifestation of her pack bond. She caught a glimpse of his emotions—enough guilt, grief, and rage to drive a man insane.
Victoria snatched her hand away. Simultaneously, Sawyer gasped and took a step back. To her immense relief, the rudimentary link between them fizzled.
Sawyer's tone hardened to steel. "You have to meet with my father if you want this to end. This affects more than just us. It's crossed state lines. Other packs are openly hostile or refusing to cooperate with us. And there are still a thousand hunters out there who consider it open season on the Storm Pack."
An ironic smile twisted her lips. "Of course there are."
"Be practical. It's for the good of your pack."
She sighed. "Isn't it always? Fine, I'll think about it. Can you give me a day or two?"
His jaws clamped, but he grunted. She interpreted his posture as one of begrudging resignation. "Yeah, I can hang out, but don't take too long. I'm not going to wait around for you forever."
A genuine smile lit her face. "Yeah, yeah, that's what all the hunters say."
CHAPTER FIVE
Fólkvangr, Freya's hall in Sessrúmnir
"They lied."
"They are not the ones well known for their lies. Thor himself boasted of your capture." Freya watched him with narrowed eyes, attempting to discern even a fragment of truth from the Trickster's expression. Loki was darker than she remembered. Before his punishment, the Trickster had been more mischievous than evil. Now, his manner oozed menace.
Loki clicked his tongue. Despite his studied casualness, coiled anger defined the lines and plains of his muscular form. "Don'tcha just love the irony? Tell me, did Thor also boast of how he murdered my sons? Both my boys were innocent of any wrong doing, but he killed them anyway. He used my children's intestines to bind me to that rock and left me helpless for centuries while the serpent's venom dissolved my face. Until my flesh melted from the bone."
Her stomach heaved at his vivid retelling. Such momentous rage... A shiver of dread clawed at her gut. Had he come to her seeking revenge? Did he blame her in some twisted miscarriage of reasoning?
"I had nothing to do with your punishment, Loki."
Midgard
Beneath the fluffy cloud of fragrant lavender foam, the water level reached the rim of the clawfoot tub, so Victoria twisted the faucet off. With a contented sigh, she settled her forearms and hands on the copper sides and sank to her chin. Her long hair, freed of her customary braid, floated about her, and the crackle of tiny popping bubbles filled her ears. Weariness overtook her, and she closed her eyes, luxuriating in the soothing heat on her sore muscles. As soon as she'd returned home, she'd alerted her pack to the new dangers. All members were safe and accounted for.
Leaning back, her mind drifted, releasing the pent-up stress of a day filled with shrieking six-year-olds and overbearing dance mothers, murderous vampires and relentless hunters. As a registered nurse, she was an overqualified ballet teacher. To obtain an appropriate position, she would have to put in an application at the local medical center. However, she had delayed doing so.
Sylvie, her best friend and pack mate, said Victoria was scared to put down roots for fear of losing everything that mattered to her again. Maybe the older woman was right, maybe not. Victoria preferred to regard her caution as good, old-fashioned common sense. The last several months of her life had been transitory, always on the run, always looking over her shoulder for the hunters hot on her heels.
Now she had vampires trespassing in her territory! Until the threat resolved, she needed to keep her options open and have an exit strategy ready.
Truth be told, she thrived on the conflict and preferred the onslaught of violence to little Tammy Turner's mother's constant complaining about why her daughter should be taught to dance en pointe years in advance of the child's training.
Victoria's mother, Katherine, had always called her a "danger junkie." Her mom expressed dismay when Victoria had given up years of ballet to learn how to
fight and hunt, competing head-on with stronger and larger males. Katherine argued that Victoria's preoccupation with combat delayed her development as a priestess and a healer.
Looking back, Victoria acknowledged that her mother had been right, but she refused to regret her unorthodox choices. Without her skill in battle, she would not have been chosen to become one of Odin's Valkyries. Her pack might not have survived those arduous months on the run from the hunters. Even her mistakes were fundamental to the woman and the Alpha she'd become.
"Victoria."
"Mmm?" Victoria turned her head toward the sound.
"Victoria."
The man's strained whisper penetrated her sleepy mind. Her eyelids fluttered, rapidly blinking as she groped her way toward consciousness.
"Victoria, wake up. Please. I need you."
There it was again. Harsh, pleading, and chillingly familiar.
Alert, Victoria sat up straight in the tub, searching the spacious ensuite bathroom for the intruder. She found nothing. No one. The water had grown cool, and she had no idea how long she'd been asleep.
A thick, eerie fog filled the bathroom. Her hot breath condensed into a visible cloud as she exhaled. When she rose from the water, a chilling blast of air struck her wet, bare skin, raising goose bumps.
Shivers coursed through her body. Her right hand rose, seeking the mystical dagger that hovered over her shoulder, invisible until drawn. A warm welcome, a murmur rather than distinct words, whispered through her mind as her fingers closed on the silken hilt.
The weapon appeared in her hand.
Vanadium—as light as a feather, as swift as the wind, as bright as moonlight on water. A product of Dwarven craftsmanship, a sword of prophecy said to be able to cut through anything.
The blade was a piece of Gleipnir, the ribbon that bound the great wolf Fenrir, made from six impossible things. A gift from goddess to priestess, Victoria wielded the weapon the same as her mother and her grandmother, going back over many generations. Someday, she would pass Vanadium on to her daughter.
Battle Cry (Loki's Wolves Book 2) Page 6