Kelly Meade - Black Rook

The job was the same as before—accept and tag merchandise, prepare for the auction, and act as a runner during the auction—with the additional task of flirting. Knight had zero interest in any of the human women he flirted with week after week, and he wasn’t susceptible to their emotional feedback, so it was a task he fell into easily with no emotional fallout. He donned his cowboy boots and hat, slung his jeans low, and smiled.

Bishop and Father thought it was good business sense. Rook teased him constantly. Knight did his job, then left the boots and hat at the end of the night and went home. Home to his father’s house and an empty bed, just as he always had.

Butch called for the next lot.

Knight carried his tray of ceramic liquor decanters forward, careful to balance the weight. They’d been working through a two-hundred-piece collection for the last ten minutes, dividing it into lots based on theme. The last tray had held eight different duck-shaped decanters. They’d sold choice first, then the rest for one money. His tray of six horse-themed decanters would go the same way, so he began a slow trek down the center aisle so folks could see what they were bidding on.

Halfway down the aisle, his skin prickled as a loup temper flared nearby. The auction house was usually his respite from the emotional battery of his people, because the majority of their buyers were humans. This interruption of his peace annoyed him. He scanned the room for the source. Few Cornerstone locals attended the auction as buyers, but a dozen or so worked there for any given auction, either as cashiers, runners, or behind the concession stand. No one seemed particularly irritated, though.

He did his job more woodenly than usual, no longer able to get into the role of the good-looking, flirtatious McQueen brother. The temper flare distracted him. His mind was also otherwise occupied with thoughts of Rook and Brynn Jones and her mysterious vision. Rook wasn’t the most patient or subtle person in town, and leaving him to question Brynn wouldn’t have been Knight’s first choice. But he hadn’t argued Father’s decision. That wasn’t his place.

His skin prickled again, just as the same bidder who won choice on the duck decanters won first choice on Knight’s tray. Knight went over to the man and waited as he selected four of them.

“Four times the money,” Butch announced over the mike. “Two left, folks.”

Knight returned to the front of the house so they could start over for the final two, and he took that opportunity to glance up at Father’s office. In the wide window, Rook grabbed Brynn by the shoulders and gave her a firm shake.

Alarmed—and now certain Rook was the source of the agitation—Knight made a fast decision. He peered down the line of waiting runners to the last person—his best friend, Devlin. He jerked his head; Devlin understood immediately. He came forward without question and took the tray from Knight.

Knight ignored Bishop’s curious look and prickle of concern as he slipped past, too concerned about what was happening upstairs with his younger brother to pause and explain, and hurried toward Father’s office.

No, no, no, please, no.

Time seemed to slow down, drawing every second out for the length of an eternity. Each ragged breath Brynn took rattled in her ears, and her blood pounded in her temples like mallets on a gong. She’d brought the ring as a last resort—a protective measure, a hidden weapon, and Rook had poisoned himself with it. She couldn’t move, couldn’t answer his questions. Nothing seemed to matter beyond her sudden awareness that she’d just signed her own death warrant.

Rook grabbed her shoulders and the touch sent a shockwave of awareness through her body unlike she’d ever felt before. It lasted only a split second, because he shook her hard, and Brynn’s head snapped painfully forward. She blinked at him, horrified by the anger and fear she saw in his face.

“What. Did. You. Do?” he asked, each word a verbal assault that broke down the haze around her mind.

“I didn’t want to.” The words tumbled out like a burst dam now that she was talking. “I had it for protection, but then I met you and you convinced me, and I know you probably don’t believe me, but it’s true. I don’t want to hurt you, I swear, it was an accident—”

“Brynn.” He shook her again, more gently than the first time, but enough to shut her up. His copper-flecked eyes caught her with their intensity, and she couldn’t look away. “Tell me what was in that ring.”

“Poison.”

A muscle beneath his left eye twitched. “Go on.”

Her insides twisted painfully, and she swallowed down the intense need to vomit. “It’s engineered to attack the loup garou nervous system and cause status epilepticus.”

“Which is what?”

“A type of persistent seizure that, in loup garou, will cause death within minutes of onset.”

He released her and stumbled backward several steps, his face a mask of surprise and confusion. He looked at his infected hand, then back at her. Brynn didn’t move, too afraid of startling him into attacking her, even though she knew she deserved it. She had created a complete and utter disaster. One of his brothers would burst in at any moment and kill her.

The only sounds in the room came from the auction floor—the faint bass of a voice over the microphone, the murmur of conversation from various parts of the building. Brynn wanted desperately to break the spell, to force Rook to say or do something—anything—to end her agonizing anticipation of his reaction. And of her own death. The loup garou were animals. They wouldn’t forgive this.

Face pale and shoulders shaking, Rook inhaled a deep breath, held it a moment, then blew out hard through his nose. “How long?”

Assuming he meant the poison’s reaction time, she forced air into her lungs and replied, “It’s slow acting. From first exposure, it takes about thirty minutes before the seizures begin.” She’d chosen this particular poison because of the lag time between exposure and death. If she’d believed Rook a murderer, she would have needed the time to shake his hand, and then get far away before he died.

“I’m going to assume that, at this point, washing my hands won’t help?”

“No.” Tears stung her eyes and nose. “I’m sorry.”

“Is there an antidote?”

She stared stupidly for a moment as the question sank past her shock and fear. He should be ripping her apart for what she’d done, not calmly asking her questions. The loup were emotional beasts, according to her father, but Rook was being so logical—

“Brynn!” The sharp snap of his voice jerked her back. “Is there an antidote?”

“Antidote?” Knight’s voice surprised her into pivoting toward the office door. He stood just inside, paused in mid-step, as though Rook’s question had stopped him short. “What the hell’s going on?”

Brynn shrank back, moving as far from both brothers as she could get—which wasn’t very far. All hope of getting out of this fled with Knight’s arrival. Would her father ever know how she died?

Foolish girl, coming here alone .

Rook ignored Knight, and his anger seemed to fill the room. “Is there one?” Rook snapped.

“Yes,” Brynn said, and the word spurred her mind back into proper working order. He didn’t have to die. She could save him, despite being responsible for his being poisoned at all. “Yes, in my car. I can get it.”

“You’re not leaving this room.” Cold fingers crept down her spine at the ice in his voice. “Tell Knight where it is and what it looks like.”

“Rook?” Knight said.

“Tell him!”

Brynn jumped, her heart hammering against her ribs. Knight’s gaze shifted between them, as frustrated as it was suspicious. “It’s a white Dodge Neon, third row. There’s a black case in the glove compartment that looks like a fountain pen holder.”