Burn Bright

  “Keep the weapon as pack-only information. I don’t want all the witches on the planet trying to figure out how to take out werewolves for fun and profit.”

  “What about Hester’s death and the attack on the Marrok’s pack?”

  Charles gave an involuntary laugh. “I’d have kept it quiet if I could have, but I suspect that people in your pack are getting calls from friends and acquaintances right now. It’s harder to keep things quiet than it was fifty years ago.”

  “I hear you,” agreed Boyd with feeling. “Talk to you if I hear anything interesting.”

  “Sounds good.” Charles disconnected. He started to get out of the truck, stopped, and picked up the phone.

  “Da,” he said, as soon as the message program picked up. “I don’t know what your game is, but let me lay out for you what happened today with all the important pieces that I know.”

  CHAPTER

  6

  Anna let herself into Bran’s house. She felt jittery and unsettled. She’d much rather have been walking into her own house so she could deal with the stir of old memories without witnesses. Despite the lateness of the hour, the whole house was abuzz with the chatter of voices and the smell of woodsmoke. She’d known by the cars outside that everyone had apparently decided to congregate at the Marrok’s house instead of going home to sleep, like sensible people.

  Even with a fair warning, she almost turned around and walked back out. Only the knowledge that Charles would think something was wrong kept her moving forward.

  She wondered how often Bran wanted to turn around and walk away from it all. Wondered if that’s what he’d done.

  The thought of Bran’s not coming back, of his leaving this pack and the wildlings—and, well, all the werewolves in North America—in Charles’s hands was almost enough to spark a panic attack. Of course he was coming back. He was a control freak. There was no way that he would stay away very long.

  Her quiet house would await her until he returned.

  Bran’s home was always teeming with people and noise; only the bedroom suites and Bran’s office were private. She knew that in most packs, the house of the Alpha’s second was nearly as busy. But most of the pack, dangerous as they were, were afraid of Charles. Having a house that was a haven rather than the pack clubhouse was a blessing she hadn’t fully appreciated until this week.

  She entered the large gathering space filled with pack members—who all quit talking and looked at her as she walked in. They knew. Someone must have overheard her when she told Charles about the dead werewolf she’d once known. They had added two and two and gotten four somehow—she could see it in their faces.

  There wasn’t a wolf here, not excluding Leah, who wouldn’t throw themselves between her and anyone who would harm her. Some of that was because she was Omega, but some of it was that they were her friends and family. There were compensations for living elbow to elbow with other wolves.

  The problem was that she didn’t need rescuing, except maybe from them. The force of their concern, of their knowing that she had been a victim made her feel like a victim again.

  “Hey, Anna,” said Kara cheerfully. Her rescuer appeared from the direction of the kitchen with a plate filled with peanut-butter cookies. “Leah and I made cookies.”

  The teenager’s face was nearly expressionless except for the wry laughter in her eyes. As the youngest werewolf in the pack, Kara had dealt with her share of overprotectiveness. “There was some dough in the fridge, but Leah said she’d rather have peanut-butter cookies.”

  Anna rolled her eyes. “Passive-aggressive” did not even approach describing Leah’s usual modus operandi. She regretted the gesture instantly—partially because she’d sworn to herself that she wouldn’t let Leah bring her down to her level. But mostly because, mid-eyeroll, Leah walked around the corner into the far side of the living room and caught Anna.

  Leah raised a superior eyebrow.

  Anna shook her head at Leah and took one of the cookies off the plate because they smelled good, she was hungry, and Kara had started to look uncertain. Kara liked Leah, but she wasn’t unaware of Leah’s games. She also knew that usually Anna was more inclined to laugh about them than be offended.

  There was no chocolate in the cookie, but it was good anyway. Especially since the whole cookie thing had broken up the way every wolf in the room had been focused on Anna’s history as a victim.

  “Yum. Thank you,” Anna said—and Kara gave her a relieved grin.

  Tag came up and picked a cookie off Kara’s plate. “Thanks, a leanbh, I’ll take another. Your cookies are always worth a second visit.” He was, Anna thought, deliberately unclear about whether his endearment was aimed at Leah or Kara.

  He took a big bite and looked down at Anna. He was taller than Charles, who was very tall, and outweighed her mate by fifty pounds of muscle—and still the most impressive thing about him was his hair. Bright orange, it covered his head and hung nearly to his waist in strands of dreadlocks. His beard was a shade darker and exploded exuberantly down his chest in a mass that the members of ZZ Top could only envy.

  “For the record,” he told her gently, in the light tenor that always seemed wrong for such a beast of a man. “We’ll not stand for any to hurt you.”

  And so he undid all the good distracting the peanut-butter cookies had achieved.

  Tag gave a nod to the rest of the room, and there was one of those low growls that, until she’d become a werewolf, Anna associated with groups of men watching their favorite football team when the official makes a bad call. Sage, perched on the back of the couch next to the fireplace, paused in eating her cookie to give her a grimace.

  Sage’s silent support allowed Anna to swallow the lump of cookie in her mouth, and say, with innocent earnestness, “For the record, Tag, I wouldn’t let anything happen to you, either.”

  For a moment, the tension held. Tag’s eyes widened for an instant, lightening as his wolf considered if she’d insulted him. Then he threw his head back and laughed like a coyote.

  When the room broke out in scattered snickers that had more to do with the break in tension than anything Anna had said, she considered them thoughtfully.

  Hester and Jonesy were dead. All the attackers who had set foot on pack territory were dead, but those men had been backed up by real money. Someone who could acquire a helicopter.

  And all that this bunch had to talk about was Anna, and what had happened to her in Leo’s hands—something that was over and done. She wasn’t sure what that said about them, but she was sure she wanted to redirect that focus.

  “This is not about me,” she told them. “This is about someone’s coming into our territory and killing Hester—which directly led to the death of her mate. We may have killed those who put foot on our land, but they went to a lot of trouble to try to take Hester. We didn’t kill them all. We don’t know that they won’t be back.”

  “Do we need to send a warning out?” asked Asil. “To the pack in general, but also to the wildlings—it seems like they may have targeted Hester because she was isolated.”

  Asil knew about that note. He was finding a reason to go out and talk to the wildlings. He skirted the truth of what he knew with the wussy words “may” and “seems.” Anna made a note to pay attention when Asil used those kinds of words.

  “I think warning the wildlings is a good idea,” Anna said before Leah could quash the idea. “If we’re being alarmist, there’s no harm done. If there is a second attack, being prepared would be useful. Leah? You know all the old wolves hunkered down in the mountains—how do you think we should do this?”

  Leah glanced around the room and frowned. “You know Bran doesn’t like to broadcast where they live and who they are. Too many of them still have enemies who would love to know where to find them when they are . . . less capable.”

  “Charles and I can do it,” said
Anna. “He knows them.”

  Leah frowned. “That will take several days. They are scattered all over our territory. I think we need to break this job down.”

  “I know most of them,” Asil said. “One way or another. And none of them is likely to want to attack me. Anna and Charles can take one group, and you and I the other.”

  That wasn’t going to work, thought Anna. Leah was scared of Asil. There was no way she was going to go with Asil. Or Charles.

  “Three groups,” said Leah briskly. “Even if some of them answer their phones, we’ll cover them faster.” She frowned, looked at Anna and Asil, then she smiled.

  Whoops, thought Anna.

  “They know me, and they know Charles. If they don’t know Anna, they will understand who and what she is when they meet her. Each of us will take a group. Anna, you take Asil with you, so I don’t have to explain to Bran how I let you go off and get yourself killed.” Leah gave Anna a smile to show she knew Anna could take care of herself. And because she was pleased with herself.

  That Leah would take great glee in sending Anna off with Asil, who would not stop flirting with Anna because it annoyed Charles, did not mean that her stated reason wasn’t also truthful.

  “Juste?” Leah looked around until she found the quiet man sitting in a chair in the corner of the room.

  Juste had been born four or five hundred years ago in France and tended to be reserved. He’d joined the pack after Anna, taking advantage of Bran’s offer to provide places for European wolves who wanted to move. Anna didn’t know much about him because he didn’t talk much—but he’d survived centuries of living in France without falling to the Beast of Gévaudan, so he must be tough.

  “I can go with Charles,” Sage said—and Leah just lit right up.

  Anna could see the thoughts rush through Leah as clearly as if she were speaking them aloud. Sage and Asil had something going on—something they’d been pretty private about. And if Leah could send her off with Charles while she sent Asil with Anna . . . well. If some sparks flew, it wouldn’t be her fault, now would it?

  Anna opened her mouth to say something, anything—though she didn’t know whether it would have been an objection or just an agreement. But Tag spoke before she could put her foot in her mouth—because anything would have been the wrong thing.

  “I’ll initiate the phone tree,” Tag said. “Because we don’t know what our enemy wants, we should make sure that all the humans in town know to be careful and to watch for strangers.”

  From Leah’s nonreaction, Anna was pretty sure that Leah hadn’t been going to do that. Leah shared Bran’s indifference to humans, and she did not make the exception he did for those who lived in his town. All of Aspen Creek was precious to Bran.

  “We should keep a pack member at the gas station round the clock,” suggested Asil. “If our enemies are running around the woods, they have to find fuel somewhere. I know that Troy and Eureka are both within a reasonable travel distance, but even so, it would be stupid of us not to keep watch.”

  “I can do first shift,” said Peggy.

  The whole pack turned to look at the dark-haired cheery little person who’d spoken. Peggy had a female human mate, the safety of whom was the reason she’d petitioned the Marrok to move to his pack. Female werewolves were relatively rare, and they were more or less (depending upon their pack) expected to find a male werewolf to mate with. Peggy’s former Alpha had begun harassing her and her mate—so she packed them both up and moved to Aspen Creek. Picking up and moving had been no big thing for them employment-wise—Peggy could carve beautifully and sold her art online, and her wife was a long-distance truck driver.

  “I live across the road from the gas station,” she said. “I know all the cars that stop there—and I’m a night owl anyway. When Carrie is out, I usually sleep during the day. She won’t be back until next week. The kids who work night shift know me, so I won’t scare them the way some of you might.”

  And the time for Anna to do anything about Leah’s plans passed without anyone’s noticing except her.

  * * *

  • • •

  CHARLES STOOD BEFORE the door to his da’s house, the witch gun in one hand and the basket of fruit that had been meant as a gift for Hester in the other. He centered himself, promising Brother Wolf that they would take care of business, then retreat—

  Retreat? Brother Wolf did not retreat.

  There were whole weeks when Brother Wolf was just a silent presence. Hester’s death had brought him very close to the surface. Which meant that Charles needed to guard his thoughts and keep control of his temper.

  Escort Anna into the peace and quiet of the guest suite, he amended.

  Brother Wolf knew Charles’s initial word was the one he meant, but he allowed himself to be pacified. Probably because Charles included Anna in the second version of his intentions.

  Anna was watching for him as he walked by the biggest of the three gathering places in his da’s home, now filled with restless wolves. She ducked out and followed him into the kitchen, which was unoccupied.

  The whole kitchen smelled of peanut butter, and there were plates of cookies sitting on the countertop.

  “We are going out tomorrow to warn all the wildlings,” Anna told him, taking the basket with a grimace. She stared at it a moment, looked around, then set it down on the nearest flat surface.

  A good idea, he thought. So why was Anna acting as if there was something he wasn’t going to like about the situation?

  She continued without pause, explaining plans to tighten defenses, to make sure the rest of those under their care were as safe as possible. She finished by saying, “Tag says he’ll try to contact the wildlings, but it’s unlikely that we’ll be able to get more than one or two of them to pick up their phone.”

  Charles nodded at this. He sympathized with the general resistance that the older wolves had to modern technology. Da had insisted that everyone had to have phones in case of emergencies. Unless he was present, though, he could not insist that they answer their phones.

  And since the point was for Anna and him to meet with them all, the fewer wildlings who answered their phones the better.

  “A week is a long time to maintain high alert,” he said.

  “Shutting barn doors after the cows are already out,” agreed Tag, rounding the corner. “But it would be stupider not to shut ’em if we still have a few cows inside.”

  “Sometimes I’m glad I don’t know how your mind works,” Sage said, trailing behind Tag.

  If he were the opposition team, Charles thought, he’d wait two weeks—two months, assuming time wasn’t a factor—before moving again. Maybe Charles would get lucky, and their enemy was impatient, or time was a factor.

  Hopefully, in a week, Da would be back, and this would be his problem. The traitor would be his da’s problem. And the artifacts currently in the back of Charles’s truck would be Bran’s problem.

  But the dead bodies, also in the truck, were probably still going to end up on Charles’s plate.

  Figuratively speaking, he told Brother Wolf before that one could get any ideas.

  “Is that the witch gun?” asked Tag.

  Charles held it up—and when Tag reached for it, he handed it over.

  “Is that wise?” asked Sage.

  Tag aimed it at the fruit basket and pulled the trigger.

  “Possibly not,” admitted Charles ruefully. Though nothing had happened to the fruit basket.

  Tag pulled his hand off the grip, holding the gun by the barrel, and he shook the hand that had held the trigger. “Bites,” he said. “That’s how it’s powered? It doesn’t seem to do much.”

  “Don’t you think that setting off a weapon you know nothing about in the house is a little stupid?” asked Sage.

  At those words, there was a sharp exclamation, and Leah
bustled into the kitchen carrying an empty plate. Tag abruptly set the weapon on the counter and tried to look as though he had nothing to do with it.

  Leah snorted, but instead of berating Tag, she asked Charles, “Are you going to stay in here until the whole pack follows you?”

  Without answering her, Charles picked the gun back up, frowning at it. He took the basket outside and set it on the porch, aware that Tag, Sage, Leah, and Anna trailed behind him. He aimed at the basket of fruit.

  He pulled the trigger. Nausea rose in his stomach, a tingling ran through his body, and the fruit and basket dissolved into a revolting, stinking mass of grayish mud, leaving the cement it sat upon unharmed.

  They all stared at the result a moment. Charles rubbed his trigger finger, paying attention to the numbness that faded slowly.

  “Witch blood is apparently necessary,” said Leah coolly after a moment. “Thank you for experimenting in my kitchen with that thing, Tag. Oh, and I’m not cleaning that up. Come into the living room when you’re finished.”

  She left, pausing to collect the remaining two plates full of cookies. Sage and a grinning, unrepentant Tag followed behind her.

  Anna grabbed a garbage bag while Charles got a dustpan and a roll of paper towels.

  “So why didn’t it do that to you?” she asked, her voice tight as she snapped the bag out and opened it.

  “I’m tougher than a basket of fruit?” suggested Charles, going back outside to work on the mess.

  “Very funny,” she said in a broken voice that told him humor might not have been the best idea he’d had today. She put her hand out and touched the muck that smelled of fruit, rot, and blood magic. Her hand shook.

  Oh my love, he thought. Quietly, he said, “I don’t know, Anna.” He ripped off a paper towel and watched as she used it to clean her hand. “Maybe adding my mother’s magic alters the effect of the gun, my blood makes it more powerful than his did. My mother’s magic is close to witchcraft—but more attuned to the turning of the earth. Maybe her blood offered some protection. I don’t know why. But I am alive and unharmed.”