“I should have known better,” he said. “You have always been driven by the good of the pack.”
She shrugged. “I never suspected Sage. That’s the nature of traitors, isn’t it?”
She stood up and strolled toward him, she leaned into him and kissed his mouth softly. “I accept your apologies—though I don’t need them. You look tired. Come to bed.”
He unbuttoned his shirt, and she took it from him to put in the laundry hamper. She came up behind him and put her warm, skilled hands on his shoulders and kneaded them as she kissed his spine.
“Come to bed,” she said again.
He did.
• • •
WHEN CHARLES GOT up—he checked his cell phone and found he’d slept thirty hours.
Charles showered, brushed his teeth, and braided his hair, listening to his da, Anna, and Wellesley in the kitchen—cooking breakfast if his nose was any judge. Charles left the bedroom, sauntered into the kitchen, and wrapped his arms around his mate from behind while she scrambled eggs. He kissed her ear.
Charles looked up at his da, who was leaning against the wall next to the back door with his arms crossed over his chest. Bran Cornick, the Marrok, leader of most of the werewolves in North America and some in South America as of a couple of months ago, looked tired.
“Morning, Da,” he said. “Wellesley.”
The artist smiled at him from the other side of the kitchen, where he was buttering toast. “Good morning, Charles. Your timing is excellent. Your father was just going to tell us why he was so certain it was Leah who was our traitor.”
“You were right,” Anna said. “It was in the files Boyd sent over.”
Charles glanced at his da—who gave him a rueful smile.
“There were interviews Boyd conducted with each of his pack members about Leo’s dealings with our enemy. One of Boyd’s people overheard a conversation about ten years ago. One of our enemy’s people said something about a female werewolf they were getting information from,” Da said.
“So not the financials?” Charles had been sure there had been something in the financials. Something more substantial than an overheard conversation that might or might not be relevant.
His da grimaced. “It was more damning than I made it sound. The information was something that only Leah and I knew.”
“And maybe Leah’s best … not best friend. I’m not sure Leah has a best friend. But best confidant, anyway,” Anna said.
Bran nodded.
“You didn’t make it to Africa before you set me up to kill Leah—and …” Charles hesitated, then shrugged. “… whatever happened after that?”
“I had plane tickets,” Bran said. “But the monster”—he tapped himself in the chest—“wouldn’t allow me to leave. My wolf decided we needed to protect Leah. I had a time keeping him contained in a hotel in Spokane. That’s as far as I could get.”
His da’s belief in Leah’s guilt had really thrown him for a loop.
“Do you know where Sage is?”
“Not at present,” said Wellesley, peacefully. “But I’m sure she will turn up.”
“You told me,” Anna said, “when we were running up the trail—that you remembered what happened at Rhea Springs.”
He nodded. “Yes.”
Anna made an impatient sound, and Wellesley grinned at her.
“So what happened to you?” she said.
“After my wife died, I traveled a bit,” he said, “as men did in that time. And I found surcease of a sort by helping other people. I garnered a reputation among the powerless and the poor.”
“He was a hero,” said Da. “He healed people. He killed people who needed killing. He saved people who needed saving.”
“You knew that when you sent me to him?” asked Charles.
Bran nodded.
“And I caught the attention of a woman who called herself Daisy Hardesty,” Wellesley said.
“Hardesty was Sage’s last name when she came to us,” Charles said softly.
Wellesley nodded. “Daisy owned Rhea Springs. Everyone who lived there was a member of her family. People came from all over the country to be healed of their disease. Some of them disappeared—including the brother of a woman I’d helped. She got word to me, and I went to investigate.”
He grimaced. “I thought I was walking into a den of murdering thieves, and instead, I found a town practicing blood magic. There was a battle. People died—some by my hand. I hurt her, and she cursed me. I think she assumed the authorities would take care of my continued existence for her, and she didn’t need to kill me herself to profit from it once her spell was in place.”
“Instead,” Anna said, “Charles came and spirited you away.”
“Indeed,” said Wellesley.
• • •
SAGE DROVE TO Missoula. She’d changed to her second spare set of clothing—Devon’s blood had made her look like the victim of a serial killer. So she stopped in a mall and bought two or three sets of clothing with cash. She had several credit cards and a hefty bank account under the name Samantha Harding. But she didn’t want to take chances.
She was certain no one knew about those accounts. Very certain. Still … Charles Cornick was good with electronic money. Better to wait until Grandma Daisy contacted her before she used credit under any name.
She stole a car from the airport’s long-term parking lot, after switching plates with another car of the same make and color. Driving a silver Toyota Camry was as close to invisible as she could get.
Deciding that she’d best avoid the bigger towns for a day or two, she pulled into a hotel in Deer Lodge. Not that Montana had many “bigger” towns. She’d get an apartment in Billings, she decided, getting out of “her” car.
The hotel wasn’t happy about the cash, but her spare ID and the fact that she didn’t fit any criminal or terrorist profile helped her—as did her story that she was trying to get away from her husband, running to her sister in Canada.
People always liked to feel like they were helping someone escape something bad—especially if they didn’t have to risk anything or make any effort to do it.
The water in the shower was hot, and the sheets were clean. She slept deeply.
And when she awoke, she was not alone.
“Hello, Hello,” said Asil.
TWO WEEKS LATER
Charles was following his mate into his da’s kitchen when his da grabbed him and pulled him into the office. And that was how neither he nor the Marrok attended the first and last pack barbecue and music social.
By the time Charles came out of the office, Leah was just wiping down the countertops, and no one was around.
“I know we were in there for a few hours,” he told Leah, but weren’t there supposed to be activities until dark?”
It was not dark yet.
She looked at him. “Tag took out his bagpipes and played ‘The Wild Hunt.’ The new one, by The Tallest Man on Earth.”
Tag had gone through a new-folk phase, and The Tallest Man on Earth had been one of his favorites.
“On bagpipes?” He tried to imagine it. The effect would have been a lot different than the original. Especially with Tag playing. Tag could play—but he liked to embellish.
“It wasn’t that bad,” she said. “Not that good, mind you. But not that bad.”
“It didn’t drive everyone away?” Bagpipes weren’t everyone’s cup of tea. Especially if most of the people here were werewolves—bagpipes were loud. His da’s office had some serious soundproofing if they hadn’t heard bagpipes.
“No,” she said. “It made everyone want to go for a hunt. My backyard is full of piles of clothing. Anna and I pulled all the instruments inside—and then we turned the sprinklers on.”
She smiled in satisfaction—and Charles grinned at the thought of the two indignant women plotting how to get back at the people who spoiled the musical part of their barbecue.
He and Leah happened to be looking at each other when they smiled. Leah looked startled, and he imagined he did, too. It had probably happened, but he didn’t remember the two of them ever smiling at each other.