by Lyra Evans
Instead of looking out the window, his eyes flashed back and forth between the clock on the dashboard and the phone in his hands. The screen told him the same time, but the signal marker in the corner was what concerned him. There was none. It was late in the day, he hadn’t checked in at all with his precinct, and he was unable to do so now. There was no connection to the Magical Network.
“You won’t get a signal,” Connor said after a while, never taking his eyes from the road ahead. “Not here. You’re out of bounds.”
Oliver glanced at him, then slipped his phone into his pocket. He was giving himself away, showing his tells. If Connor could read him that well after only a day in his presence, what hope did Oliver have of effectively playing the Wolves at Hunt? He needed them to believe he was Connor’s consort in order to give him the information he was after. Maybe, with it, he could finally piece together the mystery of Eloise Carmichael’s death. Something about it all was nagging at him, lingering at the back of his mind, like a loose thread causing an itch. He couldn’t quite pull it out.
“Once we identify the Wolf Eloise was meeting with,” Oliver began, measuring out his words, “I’m going to have to question him. Provided he actually exists.”
Connor exhaled a laugh, shaking his head. “You still don’t believe me?”
Oliver watched his profile, taking slow stock of Connor without Connor looking back at him. When he did, Oliver couldn’t think straight. Connor’s gaze was—intense, distracting. Without it, Oliver tried to think more objectively about the Alpha.
He was gorgeous, obviously, with white blond hair artfully styled to the side, only slightly ruffled. His jawline was sharp, strong, and the long line of his nose drew the eye to his lips. If ever there was a mouth made for smirking, Connor’s was it. Oliver suppressed the urge to kiss him, however constant that compulsion was. Connor was everything Oliver found attractive and had never allowed himself to pursue. Picking up random, nameless Wizards in bars was easier than facing a specific Wizard across a table, in public, at a restaurant. Or on the street. Or anywhere.
Life was easier without the complication of a partner, both at work and at home. And work was definitely easier without having to be out and vocal about his sexual interests. It was none of their business.
Only the excuse sounded more and more hollow to Oliver’s mind. He couldn’t quite keep up the lie anymore. It didn’t fit right.
“Some of these Wolves are your alibi, aren’t they?” Oliver asked, dodging Connor’s question. Connor nodded. “Then I can’t really say whether you’re telling the truth or not until I can corroborate it. And if we can find this Wolf you say Eloise was seeing—well, he’d become the next prime suspect.”
Connor frowned, glancing at Oliver. His expression was edged with frustration, but there was something else in it. Something Oliver pretended not to see.
“You still believe it was a Wolf?” he asked. “After what I told you?”
Oliver turned away, looking down the road at nothing. He shrugged and said, “I know what you said, but given you aren’t cleared as a suspect, I’m a bit hesitant to accept it. And you said it was a violence driven by recklessness or hate. Which doesn’t necessarily rule out a Werewolf entirely. You just don’t believe it was. But an animal did do this, and I don’t know any other sentient Wolves beyond those of your Court. Do you?”
Connor’s jaw tightened; Oliver saw it in the corner of his eye. “I suppose,” was all he said in response. He didn’t seem pleased by the answer he was given, but Oliver couldn’t rule out a Werewolf yet. He needed more evidence, more information.
“Speaking of which,” Oliver said, trying for offhandedness. “What are you going to do if it turns out this Wolf is responsible for her death?”
Connor’s expression didn’t change, his eyes trained on the road. They took a curve more sharply than Oliver thought was necessary, and Oliver felt himself tilting over into Connor’s space. “What do you mean?” Connor asked, inhaling slowly as Oliver brushed near him.
“If he is responsible, I’m going to have to arrest him,” Oliver said.
“You have no jurisdiction here,” Connor said immediately, without hesitation. Oliver chewed the inside of his cheek a moment.
“So you’re going to stop me?” Oliver asked, his words sharp. “Protect a murderer?”
Connor raised his head, looking straight out at the road, his back straight, his shoulders squared. It was the posture of an Alpha, if Oliver knew how to identify it. “No.” The answer surprised Oliver slightly. He leaned back in his seat, studying Connor. “Any Wolf who undertakes the murder of a member of another Court, without an Alpha’s express permission or instruction, is committing an act of Treason.” His eyes slid slowly over to Oliver, full of purpose and steel. “Treason is punishable by death.”
Oliver swallowed hard but looked back out at the road. There was silence between them, and the heaviness of what Connor said hung on the air. After a while, Oliver said, “That won’t be enough. For my Court. For the High Warlock Carmichael. I don’t think he’ll accept the punishment being handed out within your Court. He’s too—”
“Bigoted,” Connor said at once, and Oliver’s mouth hung open, speechless, for a moment.
“Angry,” was the word on which Oliver settled instead. “He just lost his niece.”
Connor raised his eyebrows but said nothing. He turned the car into a hidden pathway and slowed by a set of massive fir trees. “Then I suggest you hope, as I do, that this Wolf is not responsible. We’re here.”
Oliver opened the door and stepped out, the snow crunching beneath his boots. The air in the woods was still as a tomb, but he felt the forest breathing still. This place was not dead, not even close. The two firs that flanked the space where Connor stopped were larger than any tree Oliver had ever seen. They stretched heavenward in what seemed like an endless line, touching the very tip of the sky.
Beyond the trees was a pathway, shrouded in darkness and lined with more trees. Oliver looked down as far as he could but could spy no details. It just looked like an empty pathway in the snow.
He hesitated, recognizing the firs as sentries, marking an archway between two things. There was the forest, the space in which Oliver stood, and there was the wood, the place beyond the trees. That place was Hunt.
Connor appeared behind him, pressing into his back, one hand on his shoulder. Oliver wasn’t sure it was meant as reassurance or urging, but calm seeped into him from the palm of Connor’s hand.
Oliver shivered, the cold of the night reaching his exposed neck and face. He wore no coat, because Connor had told him he didn’t need it. He could already tell why. The air beyond the firs was warm. Even the edges of it brushed Oli’s skin, and he hadn’t passed the threshold yet. The warmth called to him, pulling him in, but still he didn’t raise a foot to move.
“Ready?” Connor asked, his voice ghosting over Oliver’s neck and eliciting more shivers. A coil of fire playing inside Oliver’s stomach, lighting the rest of him in sparks.
Oliver laughed a nervous sound. “Depends. How do I smell?”
He’d meant it as a joke, to feign more confidence than he felt, but Connor paused. It left Oli the space to panic. When he did speak, he breathed his answer.
“Delicious.” Oliver looked up sharply, searching Connor’s face, but found him smirking back. Connor waggled his eyebrows once and nodded down the path. “Don’t hesitate. You are mine, and I own this place, so you do too.”
Oliver nodded shallowly, his mind searching for a handle to make it through. He had never been good at playing a part. He wasn’t subtle. More like a bull than a fox, Oliver thought the comparison might be more dangerous in a den of Wolves.
“What do I call you?” he asked, suddenly realizing he didn’t know the culture or behaviour of a consort.
“Connor, of course,” Connor said with a laugh. “My consort would never use a title. We would be equals.” Oliver’s mind caught on the “would,” but
he let it go. He didn’t have time to ask. Then Connor said, “say it.”
Oliver’s lips parted, his mind blanking but for one word, and he whispered, “Connor.” The moment it passed his lips, a shiver ran down his spine, setting his every nerve alight. His senses still sharp, the smell of pine needles and crisp snow overwhelmed him. The feel of Connor’s hand on his shoulder, then sliding down his back to settle at the small of it, left Oliver more invigorated than any potion he’d ever taken.
“After you, Oliver.”
He took the step forward, passing through the threshold and into Hunt. The moment he did, the cold of the night disappeared, taking with it the smell of pine and snow. Instead, the air was warm, like crackling fire, and everything smelled of excitement and possibility. It was lighter, too, but only just. The pathway was a hall of arched trees, woven together to blot out the elements, and dotted only with a latticework of light. Oliver wasn’t sure if the light was manufactured or natural, coming from the sky or something else.
Trying to move with purpose down the hall, Oliver walked with Connor close behind, his hand still playing at the small of Oli’s back. He assumed it was another sign of their relationship, a way to claim him without question, but Oli didn’t care just then. The hand at his back was a tether to reality, a lifeline to the reason he was there in the first place.
Murder.
Steeling his resolve and focus, Oliver came to the mouth of the club. The hall of arched trees opened here, into a large, circular room. The structure was still much the same; trees both old and young were shaped and woven, living, into the walls and ceiling of the club. But instead of closing fully to the sky, the branched stretched inward, toward one another, then out again and up to the sky. The result was the look of a blooming flower, open to the moonlight.
Around the circumference of the club there were alcoves in the trees. Small pockets of space, fitted with tables and chairs, or sofas, or other furniture, where people could seclude themselves from the main action.
Oliver had never been in a club like this, and he began to think that Nimueh’s Court needed to take some architectural cues from the Werewolves, because Hunt was beautiful. And as he stood admiring the environment, so too was he being watched.
The moment he stepped out of the entry hall, hundreds of eyes turned on him, glittering dangerously in the starlight. As though they breathed as one, the Wolves of Hunt inhaled the smell of him, and everything stilled.
“I really hope you were joking about smelling delicious,” Oliver whispered to Connor. Connor, in response, leaned in, pressing his lips to Oliver’s ear. Oli leaned into the gesture without thinking.
Connor whispered, “No fear. You’re mine. Own it.”
Exhaling a low breath, Oliver shut his eyes a moment. When he opened them again, he held the gaze of every Wolf in the room, his jaw set, and weaved his arm around Connor’s waist, settling against his hip. Oliver looked up at Connor, purposefully ignoring all the eyes on him now.
“So if you own this place,” Oliver said, a smirk of his own drawing up the corners of his mouth, “I take it that means free drinks?”
Chapter 13
The club was eerily quiet as Connor guided Oliver toward the bar. Oliver worked hard to maintain the façade of disinterested confidence as he settled himself against the bar, still uncomfortably close to Connor. His senses were fraying, taking in as much information as his brain could reasonably handle and trying to sort through it all at once. There were at least a hundred Wolves in Hunt, and that was only counting the ones Oliver could see. It was possible there were more rooms elsewhere. The edge of panic underlying his confident exterior made him scope out the exits and find every avenue of escape open to him.
Unfortunately, it looked like there were really only two options. Either he went back out through the front entrance, the way he came in, or he jumped forty feet into the air and escaped via the open roof. Oliver made a show of leaning against the bar, his back to every Wolf in the room, as though none of them mattered to him. Then, when he was sure it wouldn’t be viewed as defensiveness, he turned his back to the bar, leaning against it, legs spread out in front of him. Tilting his head back, Oliver exposed his neck and chest to the room and took in the ceiling in full view.
His improved senses helped, but his magic was what gave him the edge on everyone else in the room. Studying the open ceiling closely, Oliver found the edges of the circle glinted in the starlight. It wasn’t natural, not for wood. Connor had built in a set of spells to his roof, which meant that the opening wasn’t an opening at all. It just looked like one.
So one exit it is, Oliver thought to himself.
“What do you think?” Connor asked quietly, but not so quietly no one could hear him. He handed Oliver a glass of amber liquid as he did, pressing himself close to Oli again. Oliver melted into him, trying to maintain as much physical contact with Connor as possible while the other Wolves still watched.
He took the drink and sipped it. The whiskey was mixed with another amber liquid—a potion meant to stave off the effects of drunkenness. It sharpened the mind, allowing partiers to drink more before getting drunk. Oliver silently thanked Connor for it and took a longer sip.
“Perfect,” he said, looking up into Connor’s eyes. Oliver nearly forgot what he meant to say, finding Connor’s eyes dark and strangely full of fog. He looked at Oliver with such a yearning it scared him. He’s a brilliant actor, he told himself, then added, aloud, “reminds me of the chandelier in your bedroom. I’m seeing a pattern.”
Oli’s remark did not go unnoticed. Several Wolves nearby exchanged glances and quiet whispers. Soon there were fewer eyes on them, with pockets of club-goers finally going back to their own business. Connor’s smile grew, and he sipped his own drink, which smelled of licorice and elderflower. They didn’t fool everyone, mind, and Oliver was sure that only the lowest ranked Wolves were the ones who turned away. It wasn’t their scandal to pursue, anymore.
Taking a slow breath, Oliver felt the weight of the obsidian collar around his neck ever more keenly. Drawing on his glass, Oliver scanned the room with a distant kind of interest, marking the most likely threats, the most prominent figures he could see. There were at least two other Alphas holding court, that Oliver could see. A woman, to the right of them, sat on a raised leather chair and was strung with chains of fine silver dotted with pearls. The shoulders of her dress were roughly-edged fur, and she wore a headdress woven into her hair made of finely wrought vines and thorns. The group of Wolves near her were watching Oliver and Connor with inscrutable interest. There was no judgment in their eyes, but neither did they look away.
On the other side of the club, a man stood leaning against the wall, his arms crossed over his chest. He wore black on black, a set of silver chains glinting around his neck as well. But his chains bore pendants of teeth, or what looked like teeth, and one necklace, even from far, clearly bore a silver-dipped bird skull. The Alpha watched Oliver, his stubbled chin angled upward as he surveyed them. His expression was alight with a mix of things—curiosity, disbelief, and contempt among them.
The Wolves around him were not looking on passively; they glared openly at Oliver, and not a few of them seemed visibly incensed by Oli’s presence. He wondered if the issue was that he was a Wizard or that he was Connor’s consort.
All around, as Oliver scanned, he found more and more Wolves. There wasn’t another Wizard in sight. No other kin from Nimueh’s Court. Neither were there any Fae of Maeve’s Court.
This is going to go well, Oli thought, finishing his drink and, for a moment, wishing he could feel the effects of the alcohol.
“Connor, what a treat,” a woman’s voice said from somewhere to Connor’s right. “We didn’t expect you at Hunt tonight. I was told you would be at Black Moon for a full week, preparing for your grand opening.”
Connor took a half-step away from the bar, opening Oliver’s line of sight to the speaker and effectively including him in the convers
ation. The woman, whose eyes flitted immediately to Oliver, a look of distaste marring her otherwise pretty features, clearly hadn’t wanted Oliver included. Oliver studied her closely. She had dark hair and dark eyes, and every single thing she wore was worth more than everything Oliver owned combined. Diamonds glittered at her throat, her hair pulled back with a platinum clip. Oliver could tell she was cut from the same cloth as Connor, at least in terms of family. Whoever this Wolf was, she was high society.
“Eevie,” Connor said, his tone aiming for pleasant but sounding slightly stilted to Oliver’s ear. Oli’s eyes flickered to Connor’s face. The smile there was stiff at the corners, not constantly pulling upward, the way it did when he smiled at Oli. Oliver found himself smirking at the thought. “It was the plan,” he went on, with a relaxed shrug, “But plans change. Oliver, here, has been asking to come to Hunt for ages, and what with the time off he was granted—” Here, Connor looked appraisingly at Oliver. “Well, I can never resist that mouth,” Connor said, and the smirk on Oliver’s face turned momentarily wicked.
Eevie, for her part, looked thunderstruck. She gave Oli a once-over too, but did not, under any circumstances, seem as though she’d have difficulty refusing him anything. But the moment Connor looked back at her, she slapped a forced smile on her mouth and hummed a laugh. Then, leaning into Connor, she forced him to turn slightly away from Oliver, her hand on Connor’s chest. A flash of anger blazed in Oliver, though he couldn’t account for it. If he were Connor’s consort, then certainly this Wolf putting her hands on him would upset Oliver. But Oliver wasn’t actually Connor’s consort.