Patricia Briggs - Hunting Ground

“Not if he stayed in Montana. And he did stay in Montana, didn’t he? But then you chose to come in his stead-and you brought something with you that Arthur wanted more than he wanted your father’s death. I was to engineer matters so Chastel killed you. It would have accomplished two things: ensured that Chastel was not at his lethal best when Arthur’s assassins came to call-and your death would leave your mate free for Arthur’s claiming.”

Charles took a deep breath. He had no grounds to convict her of wrongdoing. She had killed no one, spilled no blood-not even Arthur’s. Intent was not enough for him to act against her nor was his dislike of her moral compass.

Suddenly, urgently, he wanted nothing so much as a shower to rinse off the blood, sweat, and dirty deeds of this night. He opened his hand until he held the sword’s hilt by two fingers and held it out to her. “This is yours-he admitted to the theft. Take better care of it this time.”

She took it with her left hand and her knuckles whitened as she sighed like a lover satisfied at last. She held out her right hand. “No hard feelings?”

He looked at the hand and felt no urge to take it. He had hard feelings aplenty.

“Please,” she said.

He took her hand. “My father will talk to you about this. You broke your word to him.”

Her hand tightened on his, and she looked down. “I know. I know. And I can’t have that. No one must know. If no one knows, it will be all right. You understand.”

For the second time that night Charles found himself on his knees with very little idea of how it had happened. He looked at his hand, still in Dana’s grip-blue patterns ghosted down his arm from her hand.

As he collapsed fully on his side, the pain began, but he couldn’t open his mouth.

“If you had been human, you would already be dead,” Dana said. She brushed a strand of hair that had escaped his braid away from his face. “This will take longer, but it will leave no traces that can be followed. Your father will suspect, doubtless, but as long as no one knows my part, it will be fine.”

She bent down and kissed him on the cheek. “I do like you, Charles. I would never have made a bargain with Arthur to slay you but that I owe your death to your father. He gave me a reminder of that which I can never regain-I only return the same to him, as I promised you I would.”

Brother Wolf growled, but the pain kept them motionless on the hard floor.

“TELL her we’re about fourteen minutes out,” Angus said as soon as he answered the phone. “And, as tempting as it is, I won’t be driving randomly around the block, so I suspect the next time she makes you call, we’ll be thirteen minutes out.”

Alan had been holding his phone out to make sure Anna heard it. “Yes, sir,” he said, and ended the call.

Anna knew she should apologize, but it was beyond her. Once they realized that the noise they’d heard a few minutes after Charles had closed the door was a locking mechanism-and that the room they were in was as secure a place to hold werewolves as she’d ever seen, they’d discovered Alan’s phone didn’t work. It had taken them a while to find the stupid black box that had kept Alan’s cell phone from calling out-a cell phone disrupter.

When they called Angus, he’d already been on his way, alerted by a text message from Charles. The Marrok was about thirty minutes out of Seattle. He’d had a bad feeling earlier, and when Charles hadn’t answered his phone, Bran had climbed aboard the jet and headed to Seattle.

At this rate, Anna thought, he’d beat Angus here. It had been ten minutes since the noise-identified as a sword fight by Alan-had stopped. Eight minutes since Charles had shut down their bond so tightly that all she could tell was that he was nearby and not moving.

Her wounds had closed, though there were a few itchy spots and a couple of sore places. She’d grabbed a sheet and wrapped it around her like an impromptu dress. As she paced, the short lengths of chains that dangled from her wrists and ankles made cheerful sounds that annoyed her. They probably annoyed Alan worse, but he didn’t say so.

Sixteen minutes after their last call, the door unlocked.

“Sorry,” Tom said. “We had a little trouble finding the electronic lock-it was in the room with Arthur’s body.”

“Charles?”

“Moira’s looking after him,” Tom said.

Anna found Charles lying on his side in Arthur’s trophy room amidst a scattering of steel shards, blood, and gore. Moira was kneeling beside him with both of her hands on his bare shoulder. “I have him stabilized right now, but it’s not going to stay that way. Someone put a death curse on him. He’s fighting it, and I’m helping.”

Anna looked at his face. He wasn’t unconscious, and every muscle of his body was tight, the veins standing out as if he were lifting weights.

“How do we stop it?” Anna asked, not recognizing her own voice. She knew enough about magic to keep her hands off.

“Find out who put it on him and make them take it off,” Moira said. “Or kill them.”

“Can you tell who did it?”

Moira shook her head. “This is a new one to me. I can’t even tell if it is witchcraft, fae, or some sort of werewolf trick-it’s too entwined with his magic. And his magic is something I’ve never encountered.”

“His mother was an Indian shaman’s daughter,” said Angus.

“And his father is witchborn,” said Anna without considering if it was something Bran would want bandied about. Witchborn meant Charles had a lot more magic than the average werewolf-maybe that would help Moira keep him alive.

She looked around the room, trying to put together what might have happened so she could figure out how to fix it: a broken sword, a kitchen knife, Arthur dead. Magic… the vampires had been able to use magic, and there was one vampire left. Or it might have been the fae woman.

“How long?” she asked Moira.

“Until I can’t hold it anymore,” the witch told her. “An hour. Maybe two.”

“The Marrok’s coming.” Angus sounded grim. “If anyone can fix this, he can.”

There had been only one fight in this room. Charles and Arthur’s. Whoever had taken Charles down was someone who’d taken him by surprise. Something the vampire would never have managed.

She needed to think. Needed to find whoever was hurting Charles and kill them.

“If Charles was right when he sent you that text, and Arthur was the villain-then Arthur had her killed,” Anna said. “His own mate.”

“Or the person who bespelled Charles,” Angus said.

She looked at the neat cut that had sliced through Arthur’s neck. Execution style, Charles style. She didn’t argue with Angus, but her wolf was certain: Arthur had killed his wife. “I’m going to see if I can find some clothes.”

“You and Sunny are about the same size,” said Angus. “I don’t think she’d mind you borrowing her clothes.”

She followed the scent of death into Sunny’s room. Ignoring the body laid out on the bed, she went to the chest of drawers and grabbed a pair of bright pink sweats and a T-shirt. After dressing, she slipped on socks and Sunny’s tennis shoes, which, wonder of wonders, fit like a glove.

Anna started out the door, paused, and looked at the dead woman. “My husband took care of your killer.”

Sunny’s mouth opened and sucked in air. Anna froze.

The dead woman said, “Anna Latham Cornick, mate of Charles Cornick, Omega of the Aspen Creek Pack. Wolf. Sister. Daughter. Lover. Beloved.”

Sunny’s eyes opened, filmed-over and dead, and her head turned until they looked straight at Anna. “She who was Nimue, Lady of the Lake, and is now Dana Shea has broken faith, broken her word. She must be punished, and you we have chosen as the instrument of our justice. We gift you with Finding and with this.” Sunny’s hand lifted, and in it was a dagger with a blade a few inches longer than her forearm. The handle was bone or ivory, it was difficult to tell. “Take Carnwennen as the means. Your mate’s life as the reason. Our geas as the cost. True love your reward. Remind her of the Wild Hunt.”