The Thing About Weres: A Mystwalker Novel Page 8

  The combined scent of those assembled was enough to choke a sewer rat: a nose-twitching layer of the sharp spicy musk in the night air; body level, thick as soup, as pleasant as day-old sweat. It didn’t seem to bother them, but then again, they were in that place between human and not. They may have appeared mortal, but their body language had subtly altered, as if their minds were already infected by the moon’s glow, and their brain cells were changing, mutating well before their muscles.

  A few of them weren’t even looking at me. They were looking upward.

  Bastards.

  I tilted my head way back. Above me, the man in the moon was laughing, mouth wide open. His celestial vehicle was still on its ascent, an imperfect circle above the ragged tree line. He knew what would happen in the next twenty minutes. The youngest would change first—while the moon was low and the sky was indigo blue—and the oldest would hold off until the night sky was a black canvas for the stars and moon. It was a sign of strength—who had the guts to act the most indifferent to the moon’s song?

  Usually, Cordelia and Harry made it a point to be the last to change. Harry because he was older than dirt and naturally dominant, while Cordelia held out because she was too proud to bend, too insecure and remote to want to join the pack in their communal let’s-get-doggy strip-a-thon. Biggs would inevitably change earlier than he should, given his rank. But he was younger than the other two, and his hold on his prestigious rank was not a natural extension of his inner toughness—his rank had been bestowed on him. A gift from me, who remembered him charging down the hill, gun held in his hands. Enforced by Harry. Tolerated by Cordelia (providing she could bitch and snipe to me about the poor wisdom of letting a Chihuahua be part of the inner circle). Our divisions and fault lines we’d tried to keep private. We’d made an effort to appear four strong.

  That will make four on the run.

  I started mapping out potential escape routes.

  The pack’s customary moon-run gathering place was enclosed by a horseshoe of trees—woods to the north and east and the cemetery’s living fence of evergreens to the west. The open part of the shoe was south, right on the edge of the cliff that overlooked the pond—one of many lookout points found along the ridge on the Trowbridge land, almost as if the first Alpha had decided danger would come from there, not the woods.

  My head swiveled as we crossed the old cow pasture. Forget the woods. I was too slow. Cordelia could outrun me in a pencil skirt and a pair of stilettos in the bush, never mind a wolf. Nor did the pond offer much hope—I’d never get my Were friends to willingly leap off a cliff into pond water. I hadn’t met a Were yet who could swim.

  The cemetery was the ticket.

  I looked over my shoulder. Predictably, my personal Casperella had drifted to the gap in the cedar hedge to watch me. But this time, she wasn’t coyly half hidden by a tree. Nor—for the first time in memory—was she mostly translucent. In the passage of a few hours, she’d grown a body. A darn firm one. If I hadn’t known she was a spook, she might have passed as one of those supermodels with foreign names that frown fiercely from the covers of Italian fashion magazines.

  She stood in the open space I’d carved in the cedar hedge last spring; her long hair floating around her triangular face; the gauzy material on her robes streaming behind her like she was standing in front of her own personal wind machine. Glowing. I could pick out the details of her face—expressive eyes, soft chin—and her clothing. What I’d taken for a shroud was really a very tattered pearl-gray gown.

  Hauntingly lovely fit her.

  There was definitely an anticipatory quality to the way she was watching me. Had she gotten a memo from the Goddess above? “Dear Jane Doe, please meet Hedi Peacock-Stronghold at the Pearly Gates at moonrise and escort her to her final resting place.”

  Oh hell, no.

  And then she did something I hadn’t expected, and really, at that point, my imagination was wide open to suggestion. She made a quick sudden gesture with her white hands, as if she were squeezing the air between her hands, or maybe not that, maybe more like she was trying to contain something. And then … oh my word … bits of green light started to glimmer in the space between those cupped hands. Just tiny little sparkles. She bent her head and frowned over them, and then appeared to put more elbow grease into whatever she was doing. Something started to take shape. The glitter bits glowed brightly and then—bam!—well, not bam, but in my head, a definite wham-bam, because with a sudden burst of brilliance, the pieces of light coalesced into one sphere of green Fae magic—a damn near duplicate of the ball of light I’d disintegrated the night before.

  She dropped her hands. My rejected Fae magic rose on its own accord—a rather beautiful and deadly sphere—until it found a place of comfort, a foot beyond her shoulder. And there it stayed, lofting in the wind like a well-tethered, miniature air balloon.

  “Fae Stars,” I breathed. That’s how she got her body back. She’d stolen my fairy mojo. “That’s mine!”

  “Shut up,” said my guard.

  “I need that!” I hollered to Casperella.

  She tilted her head in inquiry—is that gnat speaking to me?—and turned toward the pond. My magic bobbed behind her.

  “Give it back!” I yelled.

  “Save it for the trial,” Fatso said.

  She’d stopped within feet of the cliff. Maybe because she’d reached the edge of the crumbling stone wall, or maybe because she was rightfully afraid of my ire. That was my magic, and I intended to whistle it back home.

  Some of the pack moved toward me—more in the way of “hey, it’s a car wreck, let’s gawk,” than to offer any support—and I lost sight of her for a few seconds as they made a ring around me. “Move aside,” Fatso said. He planted his meaty palm on my shoulder blades and began to push me through them.

  Most did, except the freakishly tall guy that works the cash register at Cash Corners. He chose to stand his ground, planting his daddy long legs so that I either needed to move out of his way or bounce off him. Really? I faked a stumble, and delivered a knee in the general direction of his belt buckle. He collapsed over his nether regions with a surprised and pained “wuff.”

  That cheered me up a little.

  I went to meet my judge and jury with a faint smile, chin up. Okay, maybe I did turn around and give the wheezing Cash Corners jerk an FU smirk. And perhaps I did slant one last-ditch “call 911” appeal toward one of the marginally kinder bitches. But for the most part, I cut my way through the pack like a stoic Joan of Arc, heading for her funeral pyre. Hell, I was freakin’ Marie Antoinette with her nose turned up at the peasants.

  I am a Stronghold.

  The Danvers bitch’s eyes widened as I favored her with a toothy smile.

  Then the last of the crowd parted.

  For a second, my left eye didn’t believe what it was seeing.

  A trio of battered Weres—Cordelia, Harry, and Biggs—were tightly bound to three adjacent sugar maple trees by a series of chains and padlocks. They’ll die trying to change into their wolves, chained so tightly like that. There’ll be no room for the transformation. Already, Biggs looked the worst of the lot—the slump of his shoulders radiated more resignation than his bloody lip. Harry’s battered face was set, his dark eyes shrewd. No one had righted Cordelia’s wig, but her spine was beauty-pageant straight. The only trace of blood I spotted on her was across the knuckles of her bruise-mottled hand, but then again, there’s only so much detail you can take in when you’re got a red and white bandana obscuring part of your vision.

  But I’d seen enough.

  I’d led them to this: with every decision I’d deferred to Cordelia’s wisdom, with every dispute I’d asked Harry to solve, with every social occasion I’d dodged and sent Biggs to instead.

  As lightbulb moments went, it was a little dim and a whole lot late.

  My Were-bitch whined as the teenager closest to Harry let out a groan and sank to his knees. A young Were pulled off his T-shirt an
d lifted his head to the moon. Still human, he snapped his mortal white teeth in the air.

  My fingers itched for some magic.

  “They’re stronger than us,” my wolf moaned. “They don’t like us. They’ve never liked us.”

  Goddess, Cordelia was right, I thought, listening to my inner-bitch’s whimpers. I’m not the girl I was.

  I need to find her again. I need to mend her.

  Come back, magic-mine.

  * * *

  The murmur of conversation dried up on cue as Knox held up his hand for attention. Those most happy about my change in fortunes had pushed their way to the front of the throng. I studied their stony faces. It was easy to read the Scawens and Danvers families; for them the dice had long tumbled down the green felt.

  It was much harder to judge the mind-sets of those who milled behind them because the magnetic lure of the moon had left them all with the focus of a junkie overdue for his fix. Is there any leeway in the verdict? Any way I could talk them out of hurting my friends, too? Hard to tell. Their attention bounced from me, to Knox, to that rising silver orb; the same sequence playing over and over in a restless shuffle. A teenager yipped and was quickly shushed by a sweating adult.

  “We are gathered here,” began Knox. He’d removed his hat, losing his cool factor. Now it appeared he was working on emphasizing the wolf hidden within. My accuser either brushed his hair to amplify his feral qualities or it grew that way—from his widow’s peak, it rose into a ridge that ran down his skull to the base of his neck.

  The Royal Amulet tensed against my breast as a trickle of sweat rolled down between my boobs. I’d expected a longer preamble from Knox, maybe a little back history about who he was and what gave him the right to chain up my friends and bring me forward to this kangaroo court, but after a relatively short intro, the Council’s boy pulled a bunch of papers out of his back pocket. He thumbed up his glasses. “Though you are known as Hedi Peacock,” he said, “your name is actually Helen Stronghold. You are the get of a denounced Were and his Fae whore.”

  “My mother was mated to my father, and I have not tried to hide who I am—”

  “Until six months ago, you were presumed dead or to be—” He paused, and then dropped the Fae-bomb. “In Merenwyn.”

  The crowd did the obligatory mutter.

  “Not true.” I cast a searing glance toward my magic. “I’ve never been out of Ontario.” Magic, return to me. Come back to me now. Casperella’s head reared back. Did she hear my silent plea? With cool deliberation, she lifted her hand to the sphere above her. At her touch, my magic ball sparked. A few glittering bits of it swarmed out of the sphere, did a quick circuit, and then dived back into the melee of magic.

  Oh yeah? I took a chance, and used real words and a forceful tone. “Magic-mine, return to me. Right now, right here.”

  Knox did that thing with his nose again. “Go ahead and say your prayers,” he murmured, flipping to the second page. “The Council’s charges are as follows. The accused, Hedi Peacock-Stronghold, conspired to end a century-long peace held between the Weres and Fae by sending an Alpha into the Fae realm through the forbidden portal.”

  He took a breath, and then said in grave tones that didn’t jibe with his ensemble, “This action constituted a deliberate violation of terms set by the Treaty of Brelland—an agreement that has kept the peace between our realm and the Fae’s for some hundred years. The consequences of this are real and significant—her actions have put the welfare of all Weres in peril.”

  The pack inhaled in feigned shock. Two-faced terriers. It was common knowledge among the wolves of Creemore that the portal to the Fae realm had opened up long enough for Cordelia and me to shoot Bridge past its gates. But now they had to look like it was all news to them, didn’t they? No one wants to be considered an accomplice to a Fae conspirator.

  Guess they are afraid they’ll end up chained to a tree.

  “Additionally, she is held accountable for the homicides of Mannus Trowbridge, Stuart Scawens, Dawn Danvers, and Robson Trowbridge. Covering up their deaths cost the pack, and the NAW, significant dollars.”

  More rumbles from the pratless pack.

  I searched for a comeback to the NAW’s charges—something brilliant along the lines of Winston Churchill—but my word pile was as low as my Were. So, I said the obvious. “I’m innocent.”

  “She murdered my daughter!” screeched Lucy Danvers.

  Well, besides that.

  “She’s bad luck! Nothing has gone well since she’s been here.” I swiveled my head to pick out the lout who’d said that, but the Hedi-hater had melted back into the crowd—clearly a stealth accuser, unlike Rachel Scawens and her daughter, Petra, who were standing near the front of the pack, their body language screaming “Burn her.”

  “I will eat your flesh,” Rachel’s eyes promised.

  And I hope you choke on it.

  Knox scoffed. “Are you saying that you’re not a Fae spy? That you weren’t sent here to make it look like one of us deliberately broke the treaty?”

  “I am not a spy!” I tore my gaze from the Scawenses and pinned Knox with my one-eyed glare. “Robson Trowbridge is not dead and I am his mate. In his absence, I have looked after this pack. This whole—” I would have thrown up my hands, but the guy behind me had me pinned fairly well, so I did an aggressive move with my chin. “Come-to-Jesus intervention is bullshit. I’m working for the pack, not against it. At any point in time over the last six months have I tried to run? Have I done anything threatening or hurtful to you people?”

  A soccer-mum Were shrieked, “You have been waiting for your people to come!”

  “I have been waiting for my mate to return,” I hurled back. I matched my vehemence with a really savage head toss, which finally—finally—popped my blindfold off my brow. It sat on the top of my head, an ugly crown of red cotton. But now I could see everything: hatred, confusion, a smidge of ambivalence, aggression, mixed with a whole bunch of moon lust.

  “From Merenwyn!” someone screeched at the back. “We all know why she sent him there.”

  “Kill her!”

  I gave the ball of green hovering over Casperella a swift (but very earnest) look of entreaty. Come home, I implored. I’m sorry I sent you away.

  “Wait,” someone yelled, as he shoved his way through. “Stop!”

  I groped for the insurance broker’s name. John? Jason?

  Nameless skinny guy demanded, “Who’s going to lead the pack of Creemore if she’s torn apart by our wolves? No males of age have shown the gift of blue light.”

  They couldn’t just shoot me?

  “The Council has investigated the situation.” Knox stuffed the papers into his back pocket. “That is true. No male—”

  “Or female,” interjected Rachel, with a significant glance at her daughter, Petra.

  “So far no one in your pack—male or female—has shown any definitive ability to flare.”

  “As yet,” said Rachel firmly.

  Knox paused to give her a glare that should have melted her. “The NAW knows that there are quite a few young Weres—male or female—who have the right lineage. Which leaves your pack in a problem, should you decide that this”—he ladled on some scorn—“Alpha-by-proxy is guilty of these charges. In that case, the NAW will step in and appoint a Regent.”

  Slowly, the insurance guy asked, “And this Regent … Would he be chosen from our pack?”

  “No.” Knox’s eyes gleamed behind his glasses. “I was sent here to fulfill that responsibility. When I left, the NAW was not sure how many of the charges leveled in the letter of complaint were accurate, but now, looking at the evidence—”

  “What letter of complaint?” asked the insurance guy.

  “What evidence!” I howled.

  “I don’t believe he was ever mated to her,” Rachel insisted.

  “It’s easy enough to prove.” Knox’s brown eyes were calm and nerveless, shielded as they were behind the magic-coated lenses o
f his glasses. “If she’s truly mated to your Alpha, she will bear his scent, correct?” He pulled something out of his back pocket—black, plastic—a box cutter? No, not that, it’s too … I blinked as he hit a button and a knife blade flicked out.

  A switchblade. I took a half step back—but really, there’s only so far you can retreat when you have a tub of lard behind you.

  What is Knox going to do with that knife? Peel my skin off?

  The thought flashed—it would be a good time to turn into Buffy. Maybe lean back against Fatso, lift my legs, and deliver a Jackie Chan double kick into Knox’s tight gut. But you don’t absorb that type of stuff watching reality TV or reading historical romances; you learn that in a dojo. Since I’d spent ten years either gazing out of an apartment window or reading yet another bodice ripper boosted from the bookstore, it wasn’t part of my first-response options. Instead, I did what felt natural. I cringed—shoulders hunched, chin tucked into my neck—as the knife-happy Were stepped forward for the kill.

  Try not to cry out.

  Knox sketched a smile, victorious and black hearted, and caught my chin with his fingers, forcing it to lift until we were nose to nose. His gaze roved over my face and then his brows knitted together. He visibly stiffened, intent—like a wolf’s sudden interest in a limping elk—on the heavy gold chain around my neck.

  “She wears a fairy amulet.” He reached for the necklace around my neck.

  Someone howled into the night. Eerily animal-like though not as yet changed.

  “You don’t want to do that.” I sketched a taunting smile.

  Knox ignored me, and started hauling the Royal Amulet upward: an extraction that turned out to be a little more difficult than he might have imagined because Ralph didn’t want to leave the valley of the boobs. Not that way, anyhow. Not because some dumbass wolf was yanking his chain. Furious—as anyone could see by the purple bleats of indignation throbbing from the center of his stone—he rappelled up his chain in a superblur, shortening it behind him as he did—don’t ask me how he did that, but I can tell you that Merry used to do the same weird maneuver when she was trying out different looks—until he’d morphed from a twenty-inch necklace to a too-tight choker. Then, with a savagery to match the most feral wolf, he went for the Were in Black’s fingers.