Fair Game (3 page)

She’d decided to try something else.

She stayed in the music room Charles had built in the basement while he stood upstairs. Instead of using words, she let her cello speak for her. Rich and true, the notes slid from her bow and up the stairway. After a moment she heard the stairs squeak under the weight of his feet and let out a breath of relief. Music was something they shared.

Her fingers sang to him, coaxing him to her, but he stopped in the doorway. She could feel his eyes on her, but he didn’t say anything.

Anna knew that when she played on her cello, her face was peaceful and distant—a product of much coaching from an early teacher who
told her that biting her lip and grimacing was a dead giveaway to any judge that she was having trouble. Her features weren’t regular enough for true beauty, but she wasn’t ugly, either, and today she’d used some makeup tricks that softened her freckles and emphasized her eyes.

She glanced at him briefly. His Salish heritage gave him lovely dark skin and exotic (to her) features, his father’s Welsh blood apparent only in subtle ways: the shape of his mouth, the angle of his chin. It was his job, not his lineage, that froze his features into an unemotional mask and left his eyes cold and hard. His duties had eaten away at him until he was nothing but muscle, bone, and tension.

Anna’s fingers touched the strings and rocked, softening the cello’s song with a vibrato on the longer notes. She’d begun with a bit of
Pachelbel’s Canon in D
, which she generally used as a warm-up or when she wasn’t sure what she wanted to play. She considered moving to something more challenging, but she was too distracted by Charles. Besides, she wasn’t trying to impress him, but to seduce him into letting her help. So, Anna needed a song that she could play while thinking of Charles.

If she couldn’t get Bran to quit sending her mate out to kill, maybe she could get Charles to let her help with the aftermath. It might buy him a little time until she could find the right baseball bat—or rolling pin—to beat some clarity into his father’s head.

She deserted Pachelbel for an improvised bridge that shifted the key from D to G and then let her music flow into the prelude of Bach’s
Cello Suite No. 1
. Not that that music was easy, but it had been her high school concert piece so she could practically play it in her sleep.

Her fingers moving, she didn’t allow herself to look at him again, no matter how hungry she was for the sight of him. She stared at an oil painting of a sleeping bobcat while Charles stood at the door and watched her. If she could get him to approach her, to quit trying to protect her from his job…

And then she screwed up.

She was an Omega wolf. That meant that not only was she the only person on the continent whose wolf would allow her to face down the Marrok when he was in a rage, but also that she had a magical talent for soothing wolfish tempers regardless of whether or not they wanted to be soothed. It felt wrong to impose her will on others, and she tried not to do it unless the need was dire. Over the past couple of years, Anna had learned when and how to best use her ability. But her need to see Charles happy slipped over the barrier of her hard-won control as if it wasn’t there at all.

One moment she was playing to him with her whole self, focused solely on him—and the next her wolf reached out and calmed Charles’s wolf, sent him to sleep, leaving only his human half behind…Charles turned and walked purposefully away from her without a word. He, who ran from nothing and no one, exited their house by the back door.

Anna set down her bow and returned her cello to its stand. He wouldn’t come back for hours now, maybe not even for a couple of days. Music hadn’t worked if the only thing holding Charles in its spell was his wolf.

She left the house, too. The need to do something was so strong it had her moving without a real destination. It was that or cry, and she refused to cry. Maybe she could go to Bran one more time. But when the turnoff for his house appeared, she drove past it.

Like as not Charles was headed to Bran’s to tell his father what he’d done for the wolves of the world—and it would be…awkward to follow him, as if she were chasing him. Besides, she’d already talked to Bran. He knew what was happening to his son; she knew he did. But, like Charles, he weighed the lives of all of their kind against the possibility that Charles would break under the strain of what was necessary, and thought the risk acceptable.

So Anna drove through town, arriving at a large greenhouse in the
woods on the other side. She pulled over and parked next to a battered Willys Jeep and went in search of help.

A lot of wolves called him the Moor—which he disliked, saying that it was a vampire kind of thing to do, take a part of who a person was and reduce him to it with a capital letter or two. His features and skin showed traces of Arabia by way of North Africa, but Anna agreed that certainly wasn’t the sum total of who he was. He was very beautiful, very old, extremely deadly—and right now he was transplanting geraniums.

“Asil,” she began.

“Hush,” he said. “Don’t disturb my plants with your troubles until they are safe in their new houses. Make yourself useful and deadhead the roses along the wall.”

She snagged a basket and started picking dead flowers off Asil’s rosebushes. There would be no talking to him until he’d accomplished what he intended, whether that was to calm her down before they talked, get some free labor, or merely keep the silence while he tended his plants. Knowing Asil, it could be all three.

She worked for about ten minutes before she got impatient and reached for a rosebud, knowing that he always kept an eye on anyone working with his precious flowers.

“Remember the story of Beauty and the Beast?” remarked Asil gently. “Go ahead. Take that little bloom. See what happens.”

“‘Beauty and the Beast’ is a French fairy tale and you are a mere Spaniard,” Anna told him, but she took her fingers off the bud. Beauty’s father had stolen a flower at great cost. “And in no way are you an enchanted prince.”

He dusted off his hands and turned to her, smiling a little. “Actually, I am. For some definitions of ‘prince.’”

“Hah,” said Anna. “Poor Belle would find herself kissing your handsome face and then, poof, there would be the frog.”

“I
think you are mixing your fairy tales,” Asil told her. “But even as a frog I would not disappoint. You came to talk fairy tales,
querida
?”

“No.” She sighed, hopping up to sit on a convenient flat table next to a bunch of small pots that held a single pea-sized leaf each. “I’m here to get advice about beasts. Specifically, information about the beast who rules us all. Naturally I sought you out. Bran has to quit sending Charles out to kill. It is destroying him.”

He sat on the table opposite hers and looked at her with the space of the narrow aisle between them. “You do know that Charles lived nearly two hundred years without you to take care of him, yes? He is not a fragile rosebud who needs your tender touch to survive.”

“He’s not a killer, either,” Anna snapped.

“I beg to differ.” Asil spread his hands peaceably when she snarled at him. “The results speak for themselves. I doubt that there are any other wolves with so many werewolf kills under their belt outside of present company.” He indicated himself with a modest air that was a tribute to his acting skills, since he didn’t have a modest bone in his body.

Anna shook her head at him, her hands curling into fists of frustration. “He isn’t. Killing
hurts
him. But he sees it as necessary—”

“Which it is,” murmured Asil, clearly patronizing her.

“Fine,” she agreed sharply, hearing the growl in her voice but unable to keep it down. Failing so spectacularly with Bran had taught her she needed to keep her own temper in check if she wanted to convince old dominant wolves of anything. “I know that it is necessary. Of course it is necessary. Charles wouldn’t kill anyone if he didn’t see that it was
necessary
. And Charles is the only one dominant enough to do the job who is also not an Alpha, since that would cause trouble with the Alpha of the territories he must enter. Fine. It doesn’t mean that he can continue like this. Necessary does not mean possible.”

Asil sighed. “Women.” He sighed again, theatrically. “Peace, child. I
do
understand.
You are Omega and Omegas are worse than Alphas about protecting their mates. But your mate is very strong.” He grimaced as he said it, as if tasting something bitter. Anna knew that he didn’t always get along with Charles, but dominant wolves often had that problem with one another. “You just have to have a little faith in him.”

Anna met his gaze and held it. “He doesn’t bring me with him anymore when he goes. When he came home this afternoon, I used my magic to send his wolf to sleep, and as soon as the wolf was quiet he left without a word.”

“You expected living with a werewolf to be easy?” Asil frowned at her. “You can’t fix everyone. I told you that. Being Omega doesn’t make you Allah.” Asil’s long-dead mate had been an Omega. Asil had taught Anna all that she knew about it, which he seemed to believe gave him some sort of in loco parentis status. Or maybe he just patronized everyone. “Omega doesn’t mean power without end. Charles is a stone-cold killer—ask him yourself. And you knew it when you married him. You should quit worrying about him and start worrying about how
you
are going to deal with accepting the situation you got yourself into.”

Anna stared at him. She knew that he and Charles weren’t bosom buddies or anything. She hadn’t realized that he didn’t know Charles at all, that Asil saw only the front he put on for everyone else.

Asil had been her last, forlorn hope. Anna levered herself off the table. She turned her back on Asil and strode to the door, feeling the heavy weight of despair. She didn’t know how to make him, to make
Bran
, see how bad things were. Bran was the one who counted. Only he could keep Charles home. She had failed to persuade her father-in-law. She’d been hoping that Asil might help.

It was still light out and would be for a few more hours, but the air was already stirring with the weight of the waxing moon. She held the door open and turned back to Asil. “You are all wrong about him. You
and Bran and everyone else. He
is
strong, but no one is that strong. He hasn’t picked up an instrument, hasn’t even sung a note for months.”

Asil’s head came up and he stared at her a moment, proving that he knew something about her husband after all.

“Perhaps,” he said slowly with a frown, rising to his feet. “Perhaps you are right. His father and I should speak.”

ASIL LET HIMSELF
into the Marrok’s house without knocking. Bran had never objected, and another wolf might think he just never noticed. Asil knew that Bran noticed everything and had chosen to allow Asil’s subtle defiance for his own reasons. And
that
was almost enough to make Asil knock on the door and wait for an invitation to enter. Almost.

Leah was on the living room couch, watching something on the big TV. She looked up as he passed by and didn’t bother smiling, while a woman screamed shrilly from the surround-sound speakers. When Asil had come to Montana, Leah’d flirted with him—his Alpha’s mate, who should know better. He’d allowed her the first one, but the second time he’d taught her not to play her games with him.

So she sat on the couch, glanced up at him and then away, as if he bored her. But they both knew that he scared her. Asil was slightly ashamed of that, only because he knew his mate, dead but still beloved, would be disappointed in him. Teaching Leah to be afraid of him had been easier and more satisfactory than just letting her know that her flirtations were unwelcome and would not gain her whatever it was that she wished.

Had he not expected the Marrok to execute him in short order—which was the reason he’d come to the Montana pack—he might not have done such a thorough job of it. But he was not unhappy that Leah ignored him as much as possible—and less unhappy that the Marrok
would not kill him than he had expected to be. Asil found that life still had the power to surprise him, so he was willing to stick around for a little while longer.

He followed the sound of quiet voices to the Marrok’s study, pausing in the hallway to wait when he realized the man talking to the Marrok was Charles. Had it been anyone else, he’d have intruded, expecting the lesser wolf—and they were all lesser wolves—to give way.

Asil frowned, trying to decide if what he had to say would play better with Charles in the room or not. Strategy would be important. A dominant wolf, such as him or Bran, could not be compelled, only persuaded.

In the end he decided on a private talk and continued on to the library, where he found a copy of
Ivanhoe
and reread the first few chapters.

“Romantic claptrap,” said Bran from the doorway. Doubtless he’d scented Asil as soon as Asil had walked by the study earlier. “As well as historically full of holes.”

“Is there something wrong with that?” asked Asil. “Romance is good for the soul. Heroic deeds, sacrifice, and hope.” He paused. “The need for two dissimilar people to become one. Scott wasn’t trying for historical accuracy.”

“Good thing,” grunted Bran, sitting down on the chair opposite the love seat Asil had claimed. “Because he didn’t manage it.”

Asil went back to reading his book. It was an interrogation technique he’d seen Bran use a lot and he figured the old wolf would recognize it.

Bran snorted in amusement and gave in by beginning the conversation. “So what brings you out here this afternoon? I trust it wasn’t a sudden desire to read Sir Walter’s dashing romance.”

Asil closed the book and gave his Alpha a look under his lashes. “No. But it is about romance, sacrifice, and hope.”

Bran threw his head back and groaned. “You’ve been talking to Anna. If I’d known what a pain in the ass it would be to have an Omega who doesn’t back down in my pack, I’d have—”

“Beaten her into submission?” Asil murmured slyly. “Starved and abused her and treated her like dirt so she would never understand what she was?”