Kelly Meade - Black Rook

“No. And?”

“Just asking.” Her bristling over the simple question was kind of cute, and he couldn’t resist asking another. “Don’t they have auctions where you grew up?”

“Of course they did,” she replied to the window glass. “Auctions simply weren’t something my father was interested in, so I never attended one.”

“Too busy with his Magi friends to take his daughter on a field trip?”

“Exactly.”

Rook didn’t expect her to agree with his comment so fast, and it left him grasping for words. She hadn’t sounded angry or insulted by her father’s lack of attention—resigned was more like it. Coming in second was simply part of her life. Unlike Rook, who could always count on his father’s attention whenever he needed it (and often when he didn’t want it).

“Did you ever do anything fun with your father?” Rook asked.

Brynn flashed him a hard stare, and he realized her eyes were a striking shade of blue. “My father . . .” She looked down at her feet before returning her gaze to Rook. The scent of fear had faded. “He has time for little beyond the Congress of Magi, and that’s simply the way it is. It’s the way it’s always been. Perhaps my childhood isn’t to your liking, but I’d appreciate it if you didn’t make fun of me.”

“Hey.” Rook held up his hands in a gesture of surrender, impressed by the way she’d held her ground and snapped at him. Wilting flowers were not attractive, and without the others around, Brynn Jones was definitely coming out of her shell. “I wasn’t making fun of you. Swear. I’m just curious. I mean, you went to a lot of trouble to find me because you think I’m going to kill a man I don’t know, and who doesn’t seem to give you the time of day.”

She crossed her arms over her chest, and light glinted off the large blue stone of her ring. “No matter how you see our relationship, he’s still my father.”

Rook got that. No matter how many times he argued with Bishop or with his father, they were still his family and he’d do anything to protect them. Still . . . “He didn’t believe you about your vision.”

“All that matters is I believe it, and that you—” She snapped her jaw shut, then looked out over the floor, where Knight was holding up a tray of ruby Depression glass candy dishes.

Rook wasn’t letting her not finish that sentence. “That I what? Don’t go all loup-rage and kill your old man? Done. I don’t spend much time away from Cornerstone nowadays, so tell him to keep his Magus nose out of our town and we’re golden. Problem solved.”

“It’s not that easy, Mr. McQueen.”

“Rook. And why isn’t it that easy?”

“Because I don’t know if the vision is supposed to happen next week or next year, and the location is so unclear.”

His father’s request rang in Rook’s head. “Can you describe it to me? The place where you saw this happen?”

“The woods. All I can really see are trees and brush. No snow, so I don’t think it’s winter, but there aren’t a lot of fallen leaves, either.”

“Well, it’s August eighth now, so if the vision comes true this year, it’ll happen before October. That’s usually when the leaves change around here.”

“Right.”

“So what else?”

“I’m sorry?”

“What else can you tell me about the vision? I’m featured in it, so I’d like to know exactly what’s going on.”

Brynn looked away from the window and, for an instant, her guard was down. Her naked expression held confusion and grief, as well as something he’d bet was relief. Relief, maybe, to be talking about her vision with someone who believed her. She looked so young and twice as beautiful, and he once again fought the urge to reach out and touch her. Hug her. Hold her until she felt safe. An odd reaction to a woman who was, by her Magi blood alone, his enemy.

Rook had dated before, and he’d been attracted to different girls in college, but this pull he felt toward Brynn wasn’t like those other times. It was stronger, more focused. He didn’t understand the difference between then and now—only that anything beyond friendship with Brynn was hopeless anyway. She was a Magus.

As Brynn’s emotional guard went back up, she began to speak. “The vision only lasts a few seconds. It’s more like a snapshot of a moment than a show of action. I always see my father on the forest floor in a pool of blood, blood on his clothes and his face, his chest torn up.” She cleared her throat. “He’s pale and still, and the damage is so terrible that he must be dead. His skin is . . . flayed. And you’re kneeling next to him, bending over him, his blood coating your hands. I can only see the right side of your face.”

Rook’s stomach rumbled uneasily at the descriptions. He needed more details than that, though. “Did you see any sort of weapon?”

“Not that I noticed.”

The lack of weapon ruled out him murdering the man in his human skin. That sort of physical damage could be caused by a loup garou in beast form, especially if the loup was provoked into a rage, but skin needed a weapon to tear up flesh like that. Rook was strong, but he wasn’t that strong. And something else occurred to him. “This may sound odd, but was I clothed?”

Brynn’s eyebrows drew together. “Clothed?”

“In the vision. What was I wearing?”

She closed her eyes as though trying to summon up her memory of the event. “Jeans, I think. And a light-colored t-shirt that had some blood splattered on it. I could see your tattoos much as they are now.”

Relief floated through Rook like a wave of cool air, and he smiled. “Good.”

“Good? What do your clothes have to do with anything?”

“Timing. You didn’t see a weapon—”

“You could have tossed it.”

Rook rolled his eyes. “In the woods so close to the body? Even if I was to kill a man, I’m not stupid enough to leave the murder weapon behind.”

Brynn lifted her eyebrows, but didn’t reply.

“Without a weapon, I couldn’t have killed your father like you described without being in my beast form, not with those kinds of wounds. And even if I’d just killed a man as beast and shifted back to skin, there are two other things wrong with your scenario.”

“Which are what?”

“First, beasts fight more with their teeth than their paws, so I’d have blood all over my face, not my hands. Plus the wounds would have been around his neck, not his chest. And second, even if by some chance I actually had attacked him and was stopping to make sure he was dead, I probably wouldn’t have taken the time to get dressed first. I’d have checked, grabbed my clothes if they were nearby, and bolted.”

Brynn’s lips had parted as he began, and by the time he finished, her mouth was open, jaw working, trying to reply. Her eyes unfocused as she considered his words. Everything he’d said was completely true. Mostly. If he’d wanted to kill a man as beast, then the man would be dead; he’d have no reason to stop and double-check. He just couldn’t make himself say that to Brynn. It made him sound like a cold-blooded killer. And he wasn’t.

And he never would be, if he could help it. Loup garou killed for family and for the protection of the run, and always in self-defense. They did not commit murder. The last time a run of loup had lost its way and fought for other reasons, Andrea McQueen had lost her life.

“All right,” Brynn said after a brief silence. “All right, I can accept your explanations. And assuming you’re right, the fact remains that you’re there when my father dies. Someone kills him in a brutal, animalistic manner, and I need to know who.”

“I wish I could help you.”

“You have, and perhaps you still can. I owe you an apology.”