“Are you kidding me?” Fingers glued to the door, I gawked down at her. “You could do that the whole time?”
She turned wide eyes on me, all innocence, and I wished for Bonnie the woman back. The four-legged version had my number and wasn’t shy about calling it.
Ford beat me to her, and she spun a quick circle, urging me to get a move on.
I joined them in the driveway, and we didn’t have to wait long for the Loups to roll out the welcome wagon.
Two men and one woman prowled down the marble steps leading up to a mansion tackier than a toddler’s fingers after a lollipop. They wore black leather, head to foot, and one of them must be breaking in new pants. They creaked when they walked like an old door whose hinges needed oiling.
“Are you lost?” the woman called, swinging a scarred bat in one hand. “I’m real good with directions.”
The shadow pretending to be mine curled its fingers with want and seeped toward her, a dark stain, and his hunger beat at me until my vision doubled with sympathetic pain.
“I’m Hadley Whitaker.” Blinking my eyes clear, I stepped forward to intercept the trio and was relieved Ford didn’t fling any misplaced chivalry at me while I was on the job. “I’m with the Office of the Potentate. This is my associate, Ford Bentley, and we’re here to speak to Garou.”
“You’re that skank Grim is training?” the guy next to her asked. “Heard you like to cut people.”
“I am that very skank,” I agreed amiably. “As to the rest… The POA trained me. What do you think?”
The third man rubbed a hand across his throat, confirming the POA’s reputation for decapitation via scythe was still holding strong on the street.
“Do you have an appointment?” The woman looked me up and down. “Garou is a busy man.”
“I bet he is.” I looked her up and down right back. “Criminal enterprises don’t run themselves.”
“Garou is a businessman,” the second man informed me. “A businessman with a clean record.”
“That’s the funny thing about dirty money,” I mused. “It’s good for washing the hand holding it clean.”
“I’m Lou,” the third and most timid of them announced. “That’s Lara, and he’s Landry.”
“Definitely sensing a theme here…” I whispered to Ford. “Nice to meet you. Where’s Garou?”
“Thing is, I’m second in the pack.” He puffed up at the title. “She’s third. He’s fourth. You don’t get through us, no one does.”
Lightning struck, and I grasped the reason for their unbalanced dynamic. “You’re Garou’s son.
Lou tipped his head down, like he had taken a hit on his chin. “So?”
“So, tell Garou I’m here. I won’t take up much of his time.”
“Forget it,” he snarled, pissed at having the reason for his spot in the pack hierarchy exposed to outsiders. “Dad’s in a meeting.”
Dad.
Yup.
I was working on his temper, and it burned hot.
Nepotism had no place within a healthy pack. The Loups might tolerate Lou, but they would rip out his throat the second his old man kicked the bucket if he didn’t show them he could bite back.
“You heard him.” Lara smacked the bat across her palm. “Hop back in your redneck limousine and drive.”
“Redneck limousine?” Ford clutched at his chest. “That’s my baby.”
“I have a show on in fifteen.” Langley rolled his shoulders. “Season finale.”
Change was slower for wargs than it was for gwyllgi, and it hurt. Worse, it left them contorted, exposed, and vulnerable. These goons weren’t going to risk shifting. That didn’t make them any less dangerous, but it evened the playing field.
“I’m a TV junkie myself.” I reached for Ambrose, dipped a hand into his black mass, and ice-cold leather wrapped around a carved pommel filled my palm. “I can respect a guy who prefers to watch live rather than DVR.”
“Lessens the experience,” he agreed, lips curving.
For the past nine months, I had been training with twin kopis blades. Linus tended to dispatch his justice at the edge of his scythe, but I vomited up my toenails the first and only time he let me hold his, and we never spoke of it again.
Two months after that humiliating debacle, he showed up with my two new best friends. I’m not sure why he opted for two over one. I never asked him. I was too grateful he hadn’t written me off as a loss. That was the thing about the POA. He enjoyed teaching—used to be a professor, actually—and was willing to invest in students he felt showed potential. Since he included me in that rarified few, I was determined to live up to whatever he saw in me.
“Oh, shut up,” Lara huffed. “No one cares about your stupid show or your idiotic viewing preferences.”
That was all the warning she gave before she cocked her bat and charged me.
The short swords sang as I retrieved them, one after the other, and she stumbled in shock at the trick. Or maybe at the fact I was now holding two swords like I knew how to use them. Possibly even at the snow-white ball of canine fury yapping at my feet. Definitely one of those things.
“Did you see that?” Lou’s eyes widened. “I thought only he could do that.”
The POA was a showman, and he had perfected the sleight of hand that made it appear his scythe manifested in his palm when it was held by one of his wraiths until he required it. It wasn’t some mystical weapon with magical powers. It was a symbol. The Grim Reaper schtick was no accident if you asked me, and no one had, since no one was dumb enough to critique the boss.
I may not have the death-incarnate thing happening—I was too blonde and too short to pull it off, honestly—but he had taught me the one trick that made it clear I was his chosen successor. If knuckleheads like these thought that meant he had bestowed some mumbo-jumbo powers on me, well, that would only help me build my rep.
“Are we doing this or what?” I asked Lara. “You heard Langley. He’s got a show coming on.”
“I’ll tell Dad you’re here.” Lou retreated up the stairs. “Just wait there.”
Lara didn’t back down, but she didn’t advance again either.
“Damn,” Ford whispered, his lips almost brushing my ear. “That’s hot.”
Bonnie turned her growl on him. He raised his hands and backed away.
About the time I was ready to stomp up the gaudy marble stairs to the gaudy marble foyer I could see through the gaudy gilded door Lou had left open, he reappeared with a man who resembled him down to the mole on his left eyebrow. Only the fan of wrinkles at his eyes and graying hair at his temples distinguished them physically, but Garou was an alpha to the bone while his son couldn’t fake it skin-deep.
“Ms. Whitaker,” Garou greeted me, all smiles. “What a pleasure to see you again.”
“I wish I could say the same.” I returned his fake bonhomie. “I need to ask you a few questions.”
“Of course.” Distaste pinched his features. “Might I ask you to put that away first?”
“Sure thing.” I passed them back to Ambrose, but the trick appeared to reassure rather than alarm Garou.