I walked around the side of the cabin, thought enough to stop and flick the light toward the ground. The tracks we’d seen earlier had been mashed and covered by others, probably clan members curious about Connor’s story. I didn’t see any other evidence, so I turned to the shutters.
The grooves were obvious in the sharp circle of light made by the penlight. Striped grooves where something with claws—very large claws—had gouged the metal. Not just scratching at it—although there were scratches, too—but actually trying to rip it apart with claws. Not the smartest tactic.
On the other hand, they were smart enough to try to remove the shutters. Punishment by sunlight.
I moved the beam of light around the rest of the shutters, but didn’t see anything else unusual. Or at least not any more unusual than unique Supernaturals making a go at the real estate.
But then I stepped closer.
Near a shutter’s top right corner, in a spot I had to stand on tiptoe to see, was a scratch in the metal that didn’t look like a gouge. And it didn’t look accidental. It looked like a symbol: two capital Rs standing back to back, the first letter reversed so their spines were aligned. I wondered if I was imagining it, my brain seeing a pattern in marks that were actually scattered and random. But the letters looked intentional. There were even little serifs along the bottoms.
So who was “RR”? That didn’t match the initials of the shifters we believed were involved.
I pulled out my screen, took a photo, and sent it to Petra. SYMBOL AT SIGN OF ATTACK, I messaged. CAN YOU FIND ORIGIN?
It was a challenge, I guessed, that she wouldn’t be able to resist.
ON ASSIGNMENT was the message she returned. RESETTLING RIVER TROLL DUE TO CONSTRUCTION AND HE IS PRESENTLY TRYING TO PUSH SUV INTO RIVER.
I stared at the message for a moment, trying to figure out if Petra—of the dry wit and sarcasm—was joking, or if I should contact Theo and have him send help.
JUST KIDDING, she said, before I could ask for clarification. IT’S ONLY A SEDAN.
She had a unique sense of humor.
NINETEEN
I was flipping through the cabin’s former guest book, which had been tucked among outdated travel guides and Minnesotan recipe books—heavy on the cranberries and wild rice—when there was shuffling at the back door.
I put down the book—having just read an entry about the owl that kept the Peterson family awake all night—and picked up my sword, then unsheathed it.
I was taking no more chances.
I crept to the door and, as it swung open, extended my katana against the neck of the person who entered.
Connor lifted his hands, grinned at me. “I’m at your mercy?”
I liked the sound of that more than I was willing to admit. I lowered the sword, tugged a lock of his hair with my free hand to pull him forward, and pressed my mouth to his. He wrapped his arms around me, then shifted our bodies so I was against the wall, his mouth hot on mine.
“Is that a sword,” he asked after a moment, “or are you glad to see me?”
“Both?”
He humphed, glanced down at the katana.
“You usually come through the other door,” I pointed out. “I was being careful.”
“Back door was closer. And I’m glad you were being careful. It made for quite a welcome home.”
“I’m feeling more myself.” I searched his face. “How was the memorial?”
“Surprisingly uneventful.” We walked back through the cabin. I sheathed the katana, put it back on the table.
“That is surprising.”
“It’s customary for all clan members to attend,” he said. “But that wasn’t going to happen here, and Cash knew he wasn’t going to win that battle. So the elders got the memorial they wanted, and the haters got to skip it. Attendance was low.”
“Interesting,” I said. “Mostly Loren’s generation?”
“Nailed it in one. The eulogy was about respecting your elders.”
“Also unsurprising,” I said. “You talked to Georgia? Gave her the update?”
“I did. She didn’t like it. We had some hard words, but she said she’d talk to Cash about a search. And how was your evening?”
“I found something interesting. Come here.” I took his hand, tugged him toward the patio doors.
“Why am I going outside again?”
“Because I want a second opinion.” I led him to the shutter, posed him in front of it, used the penlight to direct his attention to what I’d discovered. “What do you see?”
“One of many reasons that someone is going to get their ass very handily kicked?”
“In addition to that. Be more specific.”
“I don’t know . . . ,” he began, but then trailed off, leaned closer.
“Do you see it?”
“I see something. A symbol? A logo?” He traced it with a fingertip. “It’s scratched in, by the creature that tried to rip off the shutter.” He paused, looked back at me. “They left a goddamn calling card. Do you know what it means?”
“Not yet. I’ve asked Petra to take a look. I assume it doesn’t mean anything to you? Nothing wolf related?”
“Such as?”
“I don’t know. Realm of Regal Canines?”
“Yes, you’ve cracked it. It stands for the Realm of Regal Canines.” His voice was as dry as toast.
“I knew it. I guess we can report to the elders now and go back to Chicago.”
“Theoretically,” he said. “But maybe first let’s go check with Georgia.”
* * *
* * *
She opened the door with a dish towel in her hands. “Right on time. Come in. Sit down. We’re just about to eat.”
We exchanged a glance and Connor shrugged, and we followed her into the dining room. The table had been set for four, but Traeger was the only other person in the room. Dinner was apparently a stack of butter-topped steaks, foil-wrapped baked potatoes, and a gorgeous baguette that would have been perfectly at home in Paris.
“Are you expecting company?” Connor asked.
“Yes,” she said. “You and Elisa.” She pulled out the chair at the head of the table. “I figured you’d be by. Family needs family in a crisis. And allies. I figure we’re both. Sit down, and let’s eat while it’s hot. Then we’ll talk.”