Quinn Security

by Dee Bridgnorth

  “I’ll definitely be your date to the wedding,” she smiled, holding him just as tightly as Conor was holding her. “I want a front row seat.”

  “I love you, Rachel,” he breathed.

  She kissed him then said, “I love you, too. With all my heart, I love the man you are and the wolf within you.”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  CONOR

  It was the last day of August. A bright beautiful day. Nothing but blue skies and warm weather. A calm feeling of peace had settled over Devil’s Fist, but Conor knew it was fleeting. Somewhere out there Dante Alighieri was lying in wait. The dark lord had yet to try to take the town, and the Quinns had yet to stop him from doing so once and for all.

  Conor suspended his anxiety and pushed the worrisome dread out of his mind. Today was supposed to be a happy day, after all, though it was definitely bizarre as well. Who knew that Sasha Quinn would have been destined to fall in love a second time?

  But that was the magic of it all. She hadn’t been destined to find Gaylord Geer III and fall in love with him. She had created her own fate. Love didn’t have to be written in the stars in order for it to find you. It was an important lesson that Conor himself had learned. When Sasha had met the professor, she’d followed her heart and was never deterred by knowing that they might not have been “meant to be.” It was inspiring. Nothing had held Sasha back and nothing could keep her and Gaylord apart.

  Conor had resolved to live his own life with the same fearless optimism.

  It was freeing and beautiful and he couldn’t be happier knowing that in a few months he would wed Rachel, the love of his life no matter what, out here in the same field where everyone was gathered for Sasha and the professor’s wedding.

  The Quinns had spent all week building an altar, laying down a dance floor, weaving ivy and flowers through the lattices they’d constructed behind the little stone house where their mother and grandmother lived.

  Sasha and Gaylord stood under the flowery arch, Troy standing before them to preside over their union.

  Like Rachel, Gaylord was happy being human. Sasha hadn’t pressured him to become a werewolf. She accepted him as he was, mortal and vulnerable perhaps. All she wanted was for the new love of her life to be happy.

  And that’s all that Conor wanted for Rachel.

  He’d never seen himself so clearly in his grandmother, but he sensed he would learn a lot from her. She was a brave, wise woman, who had made her fair share of mistakes. She’d birthed a monster that was now terrorizing the town, then she’d given centuries of her life to raising and serving her son, the former werewolf king, Xavier. She knew both joy and pain, happiness and regret, and the complexities that life often doled out. But throughout it all, she stayed true to herself, faithful in her convictions, and here she was, starting a brand-new chapter of her long life.

  Conor was seated next to Rachel in the front row. Kaleb and Shane beside him with their one true mates. Dean was sitting near the aisle, and though he was alone, Conor could feel his brother’s hope rolling off of him. His one true mate had yet to arrive in the Fist, but she would. And Conor was already happy for him. He wanted his brothers to have it all, because Conor himself had certainly found exactly what he’d been looking for.

  Troy pronounced Sasha and Gaylord man and wife and urged them to kiss.

  Grandmother Sasha beamed with elated joy, smiling out across the large crowd of friends, family, and residents that had gathered, and then pulled Gaylord in for a long kiss.

  Then the band struck up and began to play as Troy announced, “Stay for the reception! There will be dancing! Help yourself to the bar!”

  As the guests rose to their feet and disbursed for the makeshift bar Dean had built with Jack Quagmire’s help, others darting out onto the dancefloor with cheers, Conor and Rachel rose and neared Sasha and Gaylord to congratulate them on their nuptials.

  As they did, Conor felt eyes on him and turned. On the far side of the crowd stood Sheriff Rick Abernathy, his hat in hand.

  “I think someone’s here to talk to you,” Conor said to Rachel and she turned.

  “Let’s hope he isn’t here to arrest me for the self-defense shooting.”

  “I’ll come with you,” he offered.

  After he kissed his grandmother on the cheek and shook Gaylord’s hand, he started through the crowd with Rachel.

  When they reached the sheriff, Rick informed her, “Larry Hardcastle and Ronnie McDowell are going away for a very long time. I should’ve nabbed those two after what they did to my Whitney. Better late than never, I suppose.”

  “I have to say,” Rachel returned, “I’m surprised. I didn’t think you’d turn on two of your own.”

  As she leveled her steely gaze over the sheriff, he softened greatly and Conor almost felt sorry for him.

  “You heard, huh,” said Rick. “I’m fighting it, Rachel,” he said, discretely referring to the fact that he’d gotten tangled up as one of Dante’s damned. “I’m fighting it like hell, I promise you.”

  “Awe, Sheriff,” Rachel sighed, feeling for him. “I’m so sorry.”

  “I’ve been trying to get away with hiding it. Last thing I want is for my little girl to find out what I’ve become. But I’ve been cowardly to think I could keep it a secret. I’m here to talk to Troy. If he could get Angel off Dante’s hook, then I’m praying there’s hope for me, too.”

  Conor told him, “Troy will definitely help you with that, Sheriff.”

  “Will he?”

  “He’s right over there,” said Conor. “I can bring you over.”

  “First things first,” he said, locking his eyes on Rachel. “You don’t have to worry about the shooting. I’m not going to let anyone pursue it. It was self-defense and that’s that,” he assured her. “But more importantly,” he went on as he pulled a flat, square box from his slacks. He opened it, presenting her with a silver detective’s badge. “I should’ve given this to you a long time ago, Rachel. You’ve earned it a million times over. Congratulations.”

  “Thank you!” she exclaimed, and if Conor wasn’t mistaken, she was happier about the badge than she’d been about the ring he’d given her. “Thank you, thank you, Sheriff!”

  “No need to thank me,” he said as Rachel threw her arms around him. “You have only your hard work to thank—and your ironclad determination. You done good, Clancy. And I’m proud of you.”

  As Rachel studied her shiny detective badge, smiling as brightly as Conor had ever seen her smile, he gave her a kiss on the cheek and then led Rick through the crowd to find Troy.

  But before he reached his brother, he stopped Rick and said, “I have another idea.”

  “Oh?”

  “We can definitely talk to Troy and I’m certain he can release you from Dante’s dark hold, but maybe we can try something else before he does.”

  “What are you thinking?” he asked, curious and intrigued.

  “It might be useful to have you on Dante’s side for the time being…”

  As Conor went on to explain to Rick how they might proceed and finally capture Dante Alighieri at long last, he glanced over at Rachel and felt his heart swell to what felt like ten times its natural size.

  She was his. All his. And he was hers.

  It was the greatest feeling in the world.

  ***

  That night, as Conor and Rachel joined the rest of the Quinn brothers at Libations for an after-wedding drink, a sleek black Mercedes flew down Main Street.

  Behind the wheel was a smart, glamorous woman who would never have been caught dead in a dusty old town like this one had it not been for the will resting on the passenger’s seat of her luxury car. Who in the hell wanted land in some ghost town called Devil’s Fist?

  She had gotten turned around for possibly the fourth time that night, and a hot stab of frustration hit her chest.

  Flustered, she pulled over in front of some bar that looked diseased and threw her Mercedes into Park. At the very l
east, she needed a minute to rest her feet that had been pinched inside a pair of Manolo Blahniks for the last ten hours of her miserable drive.

  As she plucked them off and massaged one foot after the other, eyeing the sad-looking bar and its even sadder looking little sign—Libations?—she was overcome with another swell of emotion for her loss.

  Her father had been a stern, discerning man who had rarely showed love. He’d been a business man, through and through, and had built an empire rather than raise his daughter. A real estate man who had worked tirelessly until his dying breath.

  But why oh why had he been sitting on a huge plot of land out in Wyoming of all places?

  Her father was a mogul, a tycoon. He developed city slums turning them into luxurious neighborhoods. He’d flown her out over the years to Los Angeles, Chicago, New York City, and Miami to boast to his only child all that he was capable.

  What in God’s name had he been planning in Devil’s Fist?

  She didn’t know and she didn’t care. She’d inherited the land and she had every intention to sell it as quickly as possible.

  The only reason she’d driven all the way out here to this dusty, dismal, God-forsaken town was because a man by the name of Dante Alighieri was eager to buy the one-hundred-acre plot.

  Elizabeth Halsey had one plan and one plan only. Find Alighieri, get him to sign, and get the hell out of Devil’s Fist.

  If only she knew where in the hell she was…

  DEAN

  Chapter One

  DEAN

  Dean Quinn was on edge. In fact, he felt like he’d been on edge all summer. Ever since Dante Alighieri had swooped into town with diabolical plans to take out the Quinns, their clan and the entire wolf pack that had occupied the Fist peacefully for centuries, brothers Troy, Kaleb, Shane, Conor, and Dean had been tangled up in knots of rage and anxiety. The dark, devilish werewolf who they’d been trying and failing to capture had thwarted them once again and it made Dean’s blood boil. It wasn’t simply that the plan they’d attempted to execute had gone almost fatally awry. It was that with their every mission, it had been proving more and more clear that Dante Alighieri could not be stopped.

  The Quinns didn’t know exactly which innocent, mortal residents had been turned werewolf at Dante’s hand. They had no way of understanding precisely how many victims he had or how large his army of the damned had grown. But he had gotten his hands on the sheriff, had turned him, and had been using poor Rick Abernathy to serve his horrible plan that threatened the very fabric of this small, Wyoming town.

  The walls were closing in. Dean could feel it. Complicating matters were all the tourists that had come to Devil’s Fist for their summer vacation. Dean wanted them gone for their own safety. Ordinarily, tourists rubbed him the wrong way when they ambushed the quiet, one-horse town from all directions. He didn’t especially like it when the sidewalks became crowded or when the streets became congested with traffic. It was nearly September and with the change of season, all of the out-of-towners should be heading back to wherever it was they’d come from. He felt like he was holding his breath for that to happen. Until it did, until every last tourist had left the Fist, each and every one of them were at risk of being recruited—against their wills—into Dante’s dark army of the damned.

  This thing could spiral out of control so fast it made his stomach twists with sour knots.

  He felt distracted to say the least. This was supposed to be a happy, celebratory occasion. His Grandmother Sasha had just wed Professor Gaylord Geer III, a spritely, elderly man who had been invited to town to help the sheriff and PO Rachel Clancy get a handle on the recent werewolf activity. Gaylord was an expert in such matters and it wasn’t lost on anyone that miracles could happen. Not only had the professor greatly helped the Quinns effort to attack Dante Alighieri but he’d also courted and fallen in love with Sasha. It should have been uplifting to see the two proclaim their vows. Dean should feel elated for his grandmother and be enjoying his drink here at Libations with his brothers and their significant others.

  But he just couldn’t.

  When Rachel smiled at him, perhaps picking up on his gloomy mood, he returned a friendly grin, but it felt heavy and forced. He was happy for her and for his brother, Conor. Rachel had been a police officer with the sheriff’s department for as long as anyone could remember. She’d finally made detective and was wearing her shiny, silver badge. The promotion had been years in the making and she’d finally accomplished it, having impressed Rick Abernathy time and again.

  Dean was proud of his brother’s maturity, too. It had hit Conor pretty hard when Troy had informed him that Conor wasn’t owed an eternal mate. Not every werewolf was entitled to one true mate, a strange, sad fact that hadn’t affected any of the other Quinn brothers. Conor had hoped that Rachel would be destined to become his one true mate, and when he’d learned otherwise, he’d had a big, difficult decision to make. He ended up following his heart and Rachel was with him now. A werewolf and his mortal. She’d decided to move in with him, but was still on the fence about whether or not she wanted to become a werewolf. It was inspiring and yet whenever Dean thought about the strength of his brother’s heart and what Conor had gone through with Rachel, he felt a somber twinge of remorse knowing that Conor would never feel the incredible, destined love that Troy, Kaleb, and Shane had received from their own true mates.

  “You seem distracted,” Conor commented, leaning across the table.

  The brothers and their significant others were seated around their favorite table in the back of Libations. Conor held his light eyes on Dean and then lifted one of the many pitchers of beer from the table to refresh Dean’s pint glass.

  Dean wasn’t sure alcohol was helping his dark mood, but what the hell, right?

  He angled his empty pint while Conor filled it, and took a large gulp.

  Nope. It didn’t do the trick.

  Dean raked his fingers through his thick, brown hair, feeling the texture of every cowlick as if doing so might anchor him. He’d been drifting off, deeper and deeper into worried thoughts and felt entirely at sea.

  Dean was the youngest Quinn. He appeared to be roughly thirty years old but was closer to seventy mortal years. Being a werewolf, as he was, meant that he didn’t really age. He probably wouldn’t look fifty until he was two hundred years old, and his elderly years were a good six or seven centuries away. But for some reason, tonight of all nights, that fact only made him feel lonely and alone.

  He needed to get some air.

  Rising from the table, he sucked down more beer, placed his pint on the table, and offhandedly mentioned that he was going to step outside for a minute or two.

  Troy and Shane were engaged in what appeared to be pleasant conversation. Kaleb was canoodling with Lucy Cooper, his arm draped around her, his mouth whispering something sweet into her ear as she giggled. Reece and Whitney were talking as well. And Conor was the only one who really acknowledged Dean excusing himself from their area.

  Libations was hopping. Most of the patrons had come from Sasha and Gaylord’s wedding, though there were definitely a significant amount of tourists throughout the bar.

  He squeezed through the clusters of people, weaving his way to the door, and when he stepped outside, he finally felt like he could breathe.

  Autumn certainly was around the corner. He could smell it in the air. Crisp, fresh, cool breezes streamed along Main Street but weren’t strong enough to rustle his hair. The sidewalks were desolate, the street lights softly glowing, but not so brightly that the twinkling constellation of stars couldn’t be seen overhead in the dark, dome sky.

  He leaned his 6’2” frame against the brick siding of the bar and flexed his heavily tattooed arms for a quick stretch. Dean wasn’t former military like some of his brothers, but he was still built like a tank. His gray tee-shirt and weathered jeans could barely contain him.

  After drawing in a few deep breaths and willing his racing mind to calm, he noticed
that one of the cars parked along the curb was idling with its headlights off.

  A fancy car. Sleek and black. It looked like it had been waxed ten times over.

  Dean didn’t have many pet peeves, but he tended to despise wealthy tourists who came to town and threw their money around as they turned their noses up at the simplicity of Devil’s Fist. He had a feeling that whoever was behind the wheel of that Mercedes, choking up the fresh air with exhaust fumes without a moment’s consideration for the environment, was probably deserving of his animosity.

  The longer he stood outside of the bar, the more the idling vehicle bothered him. What the hell were they doing in there? Why did they need to keep their engine running? He could smell exhaust now. He was itching to approach the Mercedes, pound on the passenger’s side window, give whoever was behind the wheel a piece of his angered mind.

  No, making a scene would be a terrible mistake. It was probably just some idiot, lost in the wrong town. If anything, Dean should go back inside the bar and put the poor son of a bitch out of his mind.

  But as he turned for the entrance door, impulse took him over and the next thing he knew he was doing exactly what he’d warned himself not to.

  Incited that the Mercedes’ windows were tinted so dark that he couldn’t see anyone inside the car, he pounded his fist against glass and barked, “Turn your engine off, asshole! You’re polluting the air!”

  There was a click and then the darkly tinted window began rolling down.

  He snorted a laugh and shook his head that this jerk hadn’t pulled the key from the ignition. Rich people were so damn stubborn, sitting up there on their high horses, it made him sick.

  He leaned down, damn near ready to give this guy an even louder piece of his furious mind, but as the glass pane disappeared into the door and he stooped, he saw that the “jerk” behind the wheel wasn’t at all who he’d expected to find.