Shadow of the Wolf(10)

"Annabelle Evans."

The frown lightened. "Oh. Grammy." He took a deep breath. "Still, I'd prefer it if you remained here."

"I wouldn't." She looked around the workroom. "You have a phone in here?"

"Alannah."

"I need to go home, Chris."

"You are home."

"No. I'm in your home. I need my people around me, my things, my protections."

"Why?"

Poor guy. He sounds so frustrated. Still, she wasn't about to back down  on this one. If he thought he'd get his way every single time, they'd  have a horrible time of it.                       
       
           



       

She tried to ignore the little voice that quivered inside her, pointing  out how she'd just accepted what he'd been telling her all along. No way  was she ready to deal with it yet. "Witches and wizards, remember? I  need to know what's being done to defend me."

He had the nerve to look offended. "You'll have me to defend you."

"And since you're a wizard I'll understand very little of what you're  doing. Defend me all you like, but I'll be in Philadelphia while you do  it."

His eyes narrowed. "Compromise?"

She stepped back warily. "What kind of compromise?"

"You want to go to Philadelphia, where your family can protect you?"

"Yes," she drawled, wondering what the catch was.

"Then Philadelphia it is, where your family will protect you." And he  gave her a smug male smile that raised every hair on the back of her  neck.

Lana groaned. "Why do I have the feeling I just lost?"



* * * *

Christopher shut the hood of Lana's car and smiled. It was truly and  sincerely dead. From the looks of it, the funeral was long overdue, too.  "Sorry, I don't believe I can fix it." "Damn." She bit the tip of her  finger. He gave in to the urge to pull it from her mouth and kiss the  small hurt. "Anywhere around here I can have it towed?"

"Leave it. I'll call my brothers and have them deal with it."

She stared at him.

"All right. You call my brothers and have them deal with it." He could  tell she was still trying to stare him down, but it wasn't working. She  wasn't going to get her way all the time, or they'd have an awful  relationship. He handed her his cell phone and placed his hand at the  small of her back.

"Call Gareth, he's the eldest. Speed dial three." He began to guide her  back to his SUV, the sleek black Equinox looking completely out of place  next to her old, battered beige Volkswagen. "He'll make sure your, um,  car is taken care of."

She glared at him and dialed the phone. He knew the exact moment when  Gareth's voice mail came on. He'd helped his brother record it, after  all. "Hello, you've reached Gareth Beckett. If this is important, then  you know how to reach me. If it's not important, don't bother leaving a  message."

Beep.

Lana blinked. "Uh, hi. This is Alannah Evans. Um, your really weird  brother has kidnapped me and he wants me to ask you to deal with my  broken-down car. I totally understand if you want to call the cops and  tell them where I'm at, which right now would be in Christopher's black  Equinox heading towards Philadelphia, Pennsylvania license plate number  six one five …  Damn, it hung up."

He snorted, amused. "I did not kidnap you."

"What would you call it?"

"Giving my fiancée a ride to her grandmother's house." Whether she liked it or not, she was his.

The sex in his workroom just confirmed it for him, but until she accepted it, the spell would remain incomplete.

"Will you stop with the fiancée stuff?"

He smiled. "All right  …  mate."

He laughed, delighted, when she snarled at him. She waved her finger at him. "I still haven't accepted that, you know."



"You will, sweetheart."

She ignored him, turning on the radio and staring out the window.

It was a two hour drive from his house to Philadelphia, and almost all  of it was spent in silence, listening to the radio. It wasn't until they  were on the outskirts of the city that she spoke again, giving him  quiet directions to a section of the city known locally as South Philly.  The brick row houses were well maintained, with wide steps or pretty  brick front porches with metal railings. The occasional tree had been  planted in perfect holes cut into the pavement, then surrounded by  decorative bricks. The neighborhood had a very homey feel to it despite  the fact that, not that far away, several stadiums had been built for  the major league sports teams.

The only problem he had was the old trolley tracks that slicked up the  road. He found himself driving more to the left than he was really  comfortable with. "Why don't they cover those?"

"Cover what?"

He gestured out the front windshield. "The trolley tracks."

She looked at him like he'd lost his mind. "They're a historical  monument. Look up." He did, seeing the wires criss-crossing the road.  "Those lines are trolley lines, still intact. These tracks are some of  the oldest in the United States. You put a trolley down and it could  still run all over Philly.                       
       
           



       

Well, most of Philly." She waved her hand. "No way would we cover those up."

"Oh. So you have a trolley system like San Francisco?"

"Pfft. No, not like San Francisco. We don't have any trolley cars."

He blinked. "Tracks and lines, but no cars?"

She rolled her eyes. "Politics are a bitch. The cars were supposed to be  put into use, but things keep getting in the way." She shrugged and  pointed. "Turn left here."

He blinked, confused, but turned anyway.

"Okay, find a place to park."

He looked around. Half the potential spots had a handicapped sign right  next to them. The other half were all taken. "You're kidding, right?"

She smirked. "Just keep looking."

He eventually found a spot three blocks from where she'd told him to  keep looking. They got out and began walking. "Okay, we're close to  Oregon Avenue, which means lots of good food, some decent grocery  stores, and access to most of Philly. Front Street leads to I-95, so  that's not too far away, and Broad leads to Center City and more  shopping, with some theaters and stuff." She crossed the street, vaguely  checking for oncoming cars. "You ever been to the Gallery?"

He followed, wrinkling his nose at the smell of exhaust. This was one of  the many reasons he'd chosen to leave the family's home city of  Pittsburgh behind and move to a more rural area. "Can't say that I  have."

"Huh. I'll have to take you there."

He kept his smile to himself.

"Anyway, we can order in some cheese steaks tonight, maybe catch a game on TV. You like base-ball?"

"Not so much." He was more of a hockey fan, but saying he rooted for the  Pittsburgh Penguins might get him dead in this neighborhood.

"Oh. The Phillies are playing in town this week, so we'll see more  traffic than usual." She strode up some steps and banged on the door.  "Now play nice or I'll put you in the dog house."



"Woof."

She snickered, but before she could reply, the door opened. A small  woman with salt and pepper hair stood there in jeans and a T-shirt. Her  feet were bare, and a small frilly apron was around her waist.  "Alannah?"

"Hi, Grammy. Can we come in?"

Grammy? The five foot tall, barefoot woman was Annabelle Evans, head of one of the most powerful covens on the east coast?

"Of course! And you're Christopher Beckett." Annabelle Evans held out her hand. "Welcome to my home, Mr. Beckett."

He took her hand, shocked at the strength of her grip. "A pleasure, Mrs.  Evans." He ignored the tendrils of magic snaking up his arm. He knew  she was merely testing his strength and his ability to take care of her  granddaughter, and he didn't blame her. He might have done the same  thing himself if it was his granddaughter. Besides, if Annabelle Evans  wanted him dead, she really didn't need to touch him to do it. She was  one of the strongest witches in the United States, and had the council  seat to prove it.

He followed Lana into the house, prepared to see a home done in the  style of his own grandmother's, somewhat fussy but warm and welcoming.  Instead what he found was a remarkably eclectic looking home, with  bright colors, modern furniture and homey little touches. The dark  hardwood floors were counteracted by the traditional camel-colored sofa.  The sofa faced a Spanish style TV

armoire that was currently open, showing that Annabelle Evans apparently  liked to watch America's Next Top Model reruns. A coffee table, the top  done in a bright mosaic of tiles, was flanked by two bright, modern  turquoise chairs. The camel-colored curtains stood out against the wall  color, a lighter turquoise than what was on the chairs. Looking back  through an arch he could see the dining room, done in a much darker  turquoise, an ebony-stained Queen Anne dining set taking up most of the  space. Over the dining set was a multi-tiered sculptural chandelier made  of what looked like Murano glass. Beyond that was the kitchen, and what  little he could see of it told him it was done in the same mix of  styles as the rest of the house. The only indication that a witch lived  here was the small shelf on the wall. A plaque bearing a sun and moon  melded together in a seamless, yin-yang type portrait held pride of  place. It was flanked by two candles, one silver and the other gold. A  wooden burner held the ashes of what smelled like jasmine incense. He  couldn't tell if she'd done spellwork there recently or simply lit the  incense for the joy of it, but it still screamed "altar" to him even  without the trappings he'd often seen in books or on his own altar.