Hunting Ground(39)

Charles yawned. “So, tomorrow is one more meeting. I’ll pull out some of the more creative things Da kept for last, then . . . perhaps an early end to the negotiations, which are useless now.”

“Sunny’s death,” Anna said. “It seems wrong to let her death be . . . useful to us, but Sunny’s death would be a good reason to close the meetings early.”

Angus nodded. “No one will be fooled—they know what Chastel has done—but it will allow us to save face.”





ANNA burrowed under him and grumbled when Charles laughed as cold toes made it to places cold toes should never hit an adult male. He rolled over on top of her, and she sighed happily, her eyes slitting open and glittering blue in the darkness of the hotel room.

“Well, hello,” he murmured to Anna’s wolf. “Werewolves,” he informed her solemnly, “are warm-blooded. Very warm-blooded. We don’t get cold and stick frigid toes and fingers into places cold things shouldn’t go.”

She blinked at him a couple of times. “Warm,” she said, her voice husky.

“Yes,” he answered. “But you could have pulled up the blanket before you got that cold.”

She arched up off the mattress and kissed him hard, gripping his jaw in her hands.

While he kissed her, he rolled over until she was on top. Anna’s wolf sometimes did things that Anna wasn’t comfortable with. He’d learned to make accommodations for that—and one of those things was to make sure that unless Anna was in charge, she got the top. If she woke up underneath him, she had a tendency to panic.

He couldn’t communicate with Anna’s wolf the way he—and Anna—could talk to Brother Wolf. She tended to come out when Anna was asleep and usually spoke in one-word sentences.

She nipped his ear, tugging on the amber earrings she’d gotten for him.

“Gently,” he told her. “I like those earrings.”

He ran his hands up the small of her back, and she arched into him with a happy sound. He let her play as she would for a while before catching her hands.

“Hey, lady wolf,” he said breathlessly. “We need to wake up your other half before we take this any farther.” He didn’t actually know how much Anna knew about what her wolf did at times like this—whether she was along for the ride or still asleep. But it didn’t seem right to do anything serious unless he was certain Anna knew what her wolf had been up to.

She stared at him, and he watched the change happen, just in her eyes. Blindingly blue eyes warmed to root-beer brown in a few heartbeats. She didn’t seem surprised to find herself braced on top of him, just smiled and flexed her hands on his shoulders.

“All right?” he asked.

In answer, she wriggled her hips and pushed herself down. He groaned at the unexpectedly aggressive move. Anna’s wolf did things like that—Anna was usually more temperate. She set a hard and rapid pace, and he let her do as she would.

“I’ll just lie back and think of England,” he huffed to make her laugh.

It backfired on him because she rose up—and then stopped, holding his hips down by tucking her feet over his thighs. “If you are thinking of England,” she said, “I must not be doing this right.”

And she did a few things that turned his brain right off.

Afterward, she lay across him like a sweet-smelling blanket—only blankets didn’t usually drop kisses down the side of his neck.

He said, “Do you remember when I told you that you were my mate—and you responded by telling me you didn’t like sex?”

She giggled at his smug tone. “I thought it only fair to warn you.”

“Rabbits like sex,” he said blandly.

She sat up and nipped his nose. “I’ll rabbit you. I know where your ticklish spots are.”

Someone knocked on the door, a quick, urgent sound. “It’s Angus. Let me in.”

Anna squeaked and dove out of the bed, putting on last night’s clothes. Charles pulled on his jeans and strode to the door. It was a little after 2:00 A.M.—something urgent must have come up. Especially since Angus hadn’t called.

As soon as Anna was decently covered, Charles pulled open the door and invited Angus in. The other wolf hesitated on the threshold but made no other comment on what Charles and Anna had been up to—though even a human nose would probably have picked it up.

“Brought sustenance. Take one,” Angus said. He had a cup holder with four steaming cups: two cocoas, two coffees.

Charles took a cocoa and Anna, who usually drank cocoa with him, abruptly grabbed the coffee.

“Need to wake up,” she told him, so he must have looked surprised.

Angus set the holder on the table and took a seat, the other coffee in hand. “Chastel’s dead,” he said flatly.

“I thought his wounds weren’t enough to kill him.” Charles actually couldn’t remember how much damage he’d done.

“Not from the fight.” Angus took a swig of coffee. “Someone shot him with silver buckshot and then . . . It looks like they filleted him. Beat the hell out of Michel, poor bugger. Do you know him? Fractured skull, broken jaw, broken ribs, and other trauma. It’ll be a while before he’s in any shape to tell anyone anything.”

“Who killed him?”

“That’s the problem; your scent is the only one present besides Chastel’s and Michel’s.”

“He was with me all night,” Anna said indignantly.

Charles gave her a pleased smile. “I didn’t kill him, nor had I hand in it.”

Angus nodded glumly. “Figured so. But needed you to tell me.”

“Filleting a person takes time.” Charles supposed that was something he shouldn’t admit to knowing. “How professional was the job?”

“I couldn’t have butchered a hog as well,” Angus said. “And I worked as a butcher for twenty years.” He hesitated, then sat on the chair. “Look, I know it wasn’t you. This is . . . not your style of kill. Whoever did this was fricking crazy. You’d have just ripped him to pieces and been done with it. But that fae . . . she can’t recognize the truth when she hears it. Not like we can—the fae don’t accept our word as good enough.” He sounded a little bitter.

“As soon as Dana gets news, she’s going to be after you—who escaped her clutches before.” He gave a little nod to Anna. “I saw it, too, when she focused on Charles as her prey. Outside of truth saying, you look good for this. The fight. His stonewalling the conference. Stalking your mate. Tom’s been a policeman off and on for most of his life. He says that what she has on you would get you arrested in human courts—and quite likely convicted.” He raised his eyes to Charles, who allowed it. “She doesn’t have to convince us or your father, remember. The only higher authority among the fae is the Gray Lords—and good enough for human courts is what they’ll look for.”

He took a strong swallow of his coffee. “Her word. And she’s a Gray Lord. She’ll have every fae in the States on your tail. If you resist, if your father resists—and you know he will—it would be war.”

“Would she do that?” Anna asked.

“Yes,” Angus bit out without hesitation.

“We have to find out who killed him before she hears Chastel is dead, then.” Charles said it as if it was no big deal.

“Right.”

“Call your minions and have them cancel the dog and pony show for today,” said Charles. “Arthur’s mate’s death is a good enough excuse for now. We need to check out Chastel’s death scene, then I’ll talk to Michel.”





ANGUS was a good guide, stopping at yellow lights so Anna, behind him in the battered Corolla, didn’t have to run red lights or risk losing him.

He’d told them that the French wolves had stayed in a private residence, rented in the Queen Anne district, a neighborhood of well-kept houses on the side of a hill not terribly far from their hotel.

She saw the house before Angus turned on his signal. It was thoroughly modern, standing out from its more traditional neighbors like a sore thumb. And the reason she knew it was the right house was because of the werewolf drinking beer on the front porch.

Ian, their greeter from the airstrip, sat on a metal rocking chair with a can in his hand. The beer was camouflage, she thought. It was cold enough out that a man sitting on his porch at two thirty in the morning for hours was odd—and the beer can made it a little less . . . remarkable. Like he’d been kicked out and was waiting to be let in.

Anna followed Angus’s car and parked in the driveway instead of on the street. It was a tight fit—there were already two cars in it—but the Corolla was a tidy little car.

Anna opened her door, and she could smell blood. She glanced at Charles, but he didn’t show any sign of noticing. The hunger for raw meat was no new thing to him. He knew what he was and, usually, was able to accept it; accept it well enough that he and Brother Wolf could work together in a way no other wolf did.

At the top of the stairs, Ian held the front door open—while he stood a little to the side, protecting himself as much as possible from the smell of murder. He kept his attention firmly on his Alpha.