Burn Bright

“No,” she said. “It’s Wellesley’s wolf.”

Interesting, said Brother Wolf. We never sensed any witchcraft about him. Is it new?

“I don’t think so,” Anna said. “I think it’s been here a long time. Asil said there might have been a witch involved in the business in Tennessee.”

“Rhea Springs?” Charles asked, frowning. “I didn’t find any signs of witches there.”

Anna raised both eyebrows and flung her arm out toward the thorn hedge and its distinctive scent of the blood and wrongness that was witchcraft.

“Point made,” he said.

“So how do I take down the hedge?” she asked him.

Blood, Brother Wolf said.

Anna held out her hands. “I bled here and—” She flushed “I accidentally dug claws into Wellesley in the real world. The more real world, anyway. And he bled. Nothing happened to the witchcrafting.”

“This is a fairy tale,” Charles said thoughtfully.

“Yes?”

“If not blood, then maybe a kiss,” he told her.

A lot of pack magic worked with blood—but there were a few very select offerings that were symbolized by a kiss. He had an idea about how that could work for this.

He reached out and took her hand—the one still bandaged, so he was gentle about it. “I kiss you. You kiss Wellesley in the real world.”

She pulled her head back in instinctive rejection, though her hand tightened on his. “Love’s first kiss?” It sounded like a quote. “I don’t love him.”

He put his chin on the top of her head and pulled her against him. Even in the Dreamtime, it felt good. She made him smile.

“No love necessary between you and him,” he told her. “But Bran holds him as pack as he holds you and me. If I kiss you here, and you kiss him in the real world, maybe we can work a little magic, you and I.”

Then he bent down and kissed her.

• • •

ANNA DIDN’T UNDERSTAND exactly what Charles intended, but she was willing to trust him.

She blinked uncertainly, trying to be aware both in the real world and in the inner vision. It felt awkward and distinctly uncomfortable.

Asil still had Wellesley pinned to the ground but not without a great deal of effort. He saw her focus on him and smiled grimly. “Whatever it is you are trying to do, it is working. I can tell by how much easier it has become to hold him down.”

She couldn’t tell if he was being sarcastic or not. And she didn’t have enough brainpower to puzzle it out right now. The angle Asil held him in was wrong to kiss Wellesley on the mouth. She could kiss his cheek, she thought, and felt a wave of relief.

On the mouth, love, said Brother Wolf, because in the not-real world Charles was kissing her and so could not speak. It is symbolic. We give our word, we communicate, we eat, we intake food through our mouths. Through his mouth, we can feed him power. Charles says that Wellesley has some abilities of his own. If we can feed him enough, he should be able to free himself.

“Can you move him around?” she asked Asil. “I have to kiss him on the mouth.” Even to herself, she sounded grumpy. She wasn’t sure that feeding him power with a kiss felt less intimate or more.

Asil paused with his whole body—and Wellesley struggled fiercely. He snapped at her hands—which she managed to keep on his face only by throwing herself forward on top of both Asil and Wellesley. She had a feeling that losing that touch right now would be bad.

Asil swore in Spanish, moved his grip a little, and jerked. Wellesley’s struggles became instantly less effective, though no less passionate.

“He’s under a spell,” she told Asil before he could say anything. “Witchcraft. Charles says I have to kiss him on the mouth.”

Incredibly, irritatingly, Asil’s own mouth, which had been tight with anger, suddenly blossomed into a grin. “Did he now? Told you that you needed to kiss the handsome prince. All right, let me think. You can’t break your hold, right?”

Anna nodded uncertainly. “I have no idea what I’m doing here, Asil. But if it’s working, I’m wary about screwing with it.”

Wellesley snapped his teeth together again, and Asil gave her a look. “You are certain about this?”

“Brother Wolf is.”

Asil rolled his eyes—Anna was afraid that she was teaching everyone in the pack bad habits. “And Brother Wolf could never be wrong,” he muttered. “Fine. Your job is to keep your hands on him, then, while I position him for kissing. For your kissing him.” He muttered something to himself and grunted.

She couldn’t tell exactly what he did, only that Wellesley moved, Asil moved—and she did her best to keep up with them. Eventually, Asil was underneath Wellesley, and Wellesley was faceup with his mouth accessible.

“Do it quickly,” said Asil. “This is not a secure hold.”

Anna leaned over, concentrating on the feel of Charles’s mouth on hers in that other place. She pressed her lips to Wellesley’s. It felt like she’d kissed an electric fence.

Wellesley’s eyes opened, bright gold laced with chocolate, and he drank down her power until she was empty.

• • •

SHE SWAYED IN his arms, and Charles growled. Stupid Wellesley, he thought. He could tell that Wellesley had a power akin to the gifts Charles’s mother had passed to him. The other wolf should have been able to use Anna as a conduit to the power that Charles held—the power of the Marrok’s pack.

Charles opened his mating bond as wide as he could, then opened the pack bond and drew upon it—shoving all of that power into his mate and through her. He wished he were physically with her, so he could explain, could tell Wellesley what to do instead of hoping that he saw …

• • •

ANNA’S SKIN WAS suddenly hot with energy that felt like Charles, felt like pack. She fed it into Wellesley as he writhed in Asil’s grip. He bit her lip, and blood welled.

Okay, she thought. Let’s see if Brother Wolf is right.

In that other place, where she was still kissing Charles, Anna reached out and grabbed a vine with her sore hand. It writhed and wriggled and struggled—but she was a werewolf, and she knew how to hold on. It burned her hand and whipped her wrist with thorns, and still she kept her grip.

She opened her eyes and saw the briarwood explode into flowers that reminded her of the flowers that had covered the valley when Jonesy died. For two breaths, the air smelled fresh and beautiful; and then she and Charles were wrapped in vines.

Thorns dug in, sharp pain followed by a dull ache. The flowers turned from bright yellow to gray, then died away. Around them, the vines tightened until she could barely breathe.

And Charles …

Something protected her, maybe it was Charles, himself. But her mate’s body was stiff against her as the thorns dug in and sent shafts of agony that she could feel through their bond.

Feels like silver, said Brother Wolf.

They weren’t going to be strong enough, she thought.

Brother Wolf howled.

• • •

IN HIS HOTEL room, Bran paced, fighting his wolf. He’d had every intention of going to Africa. Africa had sounded as though it was far enough. But Spokane was as far as his wolf had allowed.

He picked up his phone and listened, again, to Charles’s dry rendition of Hester’s death. Of Jonesy’s cryptic note. Of the connection between their enemy and the one who had been stalking them for years.

My fault, Bran thought. It was my fault that she died. She trusted me—and I failed her.

He set the phone down carefully and started pacing again.

Hester was dead, and he was no closer to knowing who their traitor was—or at least no more certain who their traitor was. He glanced at the computer on the fake cherry desk, but he didn’t dare touch it until he calmed down. He’d pulled out the financials on Leo’s pack and the much simpler financial data on Gerry Wallace and had been going through them, again, until his wolf had had enough.

Follow the money. The enemy had a lot of funding from somewhere. That much money should leave a trace, but he couldn’t find it. Nor had the much more capable accountants that the Chicago Alpha had turned the records over to. He should have given those records to Charles instead, Charles might have been able to find something … which is why Bran hadn’t turned them over to him. Because he was afraid of what Charles would turn up.