Lucky Break (8 page)

“Why would that matter?” Vincent asked, the question as remarkable as it was sad. It was telling that a man engaged in a centuries-old feud knew so little about those he feuded against.

“Shifting heals shifters,” I said. A shifter's transformation from human to animal form—a magical whirlwind I'd been lucky enough to witness—had the side benefit of healing any wounds suffered in human form. The reverse, oddly, wasn't true.

“Thank you,” Ethan said. “Perhaps,” he said, nodding toward the darkness on the other end of the shaft, “we should focus on the present and get the hell out of here?”

“That,” Damien said, “is my kind of plan.”

***

Another fifteen minutes of moving and the shaft took a sharp upward turn. It was tough going, but we kept walking, with quiet footsteps and occasional grunts when we slipped in dirt or tripped on unseen rocks.

Slowly, gradually, the tunnel ahead of us began to softly glow.

“Moonlight,” Ethan said quietly said, his relief obvious at seeing something so familiar. “That's moonlight.”

Seconds later, we burst into the world, as if the earth had found us lacking and spit us out again.

We emerged onto a small plateau scooped from a hill at the head of Elk Valley. The view was nearly worth the trouble. Moonlight poured into the valley's basin, collected there, illuminating meadows and trees and the silver ribbon of the stream.

“It's a beautiful place to be so full of hatred,” Damien said.

Vincent nodded. “It is,” he said, his words grim. I hoped he was taking stock, considering whether more drama, more deaths, more close calls, were worth whatever Pyrrhic victory the McKenzies and Marchands had hoped for.

Ethan sighed heavily, put a hand at my back. “If cats have nine lives,” he quietly asked, “how many do vampires get?”

“That's a question for the ages,” I agreed, glancing at him. “How's your arm?”

He gently lifted it up and down, winced at the action. “Sore, but no longer as sensitive. I suspect the bone is knitting.”

“You need blood,” I said, equally relieved and disturbed that I was giving the instruction, not receiving it.

“What do we do now?” Nessa quietly asked.

“On it,” Damien said. He pulled out his phone, must have had some success getting reception. With military precision, he put in the request.

“Gabe, use my GPS ping and send the vehicles. We need an evac.”

***

By the time we trekked down the hill to the nearest road, the vehicles were waiting—several trucks and several shifters.

Gabriel leaned against one of them, arms crossed. He kicked off as we approached, looked us up and down, taking in the dirt, the mud, the scrapes and blood.

Ethan took several determined steps toward him, magic filling the air with an astringent buzz. He was pissed, and all his frustration, fear, pain, and fury were spilling now.

“I thought you intended to get your people under control,” he spat.

Gabriel uncrossed his arms, and his shifters' expressions turned wary. “My people? You're going to want to watch your tone, Sullivan.”

“Your people shot at us and, when that didn't work, attempted to burn us out of the Marchands' retreat because they believe Nessa killed Taran. We had to resort to a decrepit mine shaft for escape, were nearly killed in a cave-in. They're members of your Pack. That makes their actions, their attempts at murder, your responsibility.”

Magic flashed across us and swirled in Gabriel's eyes. “You wanna take a shot at me, Sullivan? You think you can land one?”

Ethan's eyes flashed silver. He leaned forward. “Never, ever forget who we are, or take that for granted. You are an Apex. I am a Master. We may be allies, but I am not a member of your Pack. You are not my alpha.”

For a long moment, they stared at each other, two prime predators facing down, bodies stiff and alert, fists clenched and ready for battle.

They could have gone for it. They could have thrown down then and there, pummeled each other into the dirt to prove their superiority.

But wasn't that precisely the problem in Elk Valley? That both shifter and vampire, convinced they were in the right, had refused to communicate, to discuss what had happened to Fiona and Christophe—had probably refused to cooperate in finding her—and the anger and fear had festered over generations. They'd been too entrenched in their own positions, too convinced the other was the enemy, to consider any other possibility. That's precisely why we stood on a gravel road in the Rocky Mountains, tired and dirty and screaming at each other.

Gabriel seemed to realize that truth, and his dawning grin broke through the tension. “Thank sweet Christ Chicago's vampires never cause trouble, Sullivan. Oh, wait—isn't that why you needed a vacation in the first place?”

The tension faded from Ethan's face immediately. He might have been pissed, but Gabe had a solid point. “Fuck you, Keene.”

Gabe's smile widened, and he clapped Ethan on his broken arm. “Fuck you, too, Sullivan.”

I believe that's what most called a compromise.

***

The shifters drove us back to the guesthouse where Orangesplosion waited, now slightly less orange than she had been. The Pack had gone back to the retreat, found the McKenzies gone—replaced by volunteer firemen—and Orangesplosion intact. Her paint was singed from proximity to the flames, but our katanas were safe inside.

We took turns in the shower while Nessa found suitable clothes for the other Marchands, ensured they had blood and food.

I was one of the last to shower, and I scrubbed hair and skin until I was certain I'd gotten rid of any arachnid trespassers. But I guessed I'd probably feel the creeping of tiny feet over my back for a few nights yet.

When I was clean and I'd shaken out my leather jacket half a dozen times to unburden it of any final creatures, I found the living room full of shifters and vampires. They didn't speak to each other, but they weren't at each other's throats, either, which was something.

I walked into the kitchen, found the leaders of the various cabals in there.

“You look cleaner, Kitten.” Gabriel and Ethan sat on stools, blood and beer in front of them.

“I may never feel truly clean again,” I admitted. “I am, however, ready to get the hell out of Dodge.” I glanced at Ethan. “Are we ready to go to the house?”

“We are, and I share your sentiment exactly.”

Gabriel rose. “I'll go with you this time. Damien, babysit the children, will you?”

Damien grunted but knew when to hold his peace.

***

The main house was apparently far enough away to necessitate vehicles. So we walked outside and climbed back into the trucks—Gabriel, Ethan, and I in one; Vincent, Nessa, and two more NAC shifters in the other. The rest of the vampires and shifters stayed at the guesthouse. There was no point in having all of us contaminate the crime scene.

After a drive through bumpy darkness, Gabriel pulled into a long, sweeping drive, the main house situated perfectly at the end, so guests could watch it grow larger as they flew down the driveway.

It was an obvious parent of the guesthouse—the same mix of steeply pitched roofs and heavy logs, of stone and glass, but on a substantially larger footprint. If the guesthouse would have made a lovely home for a big family, the main house was undoubtedly a mansion. Nessa and Taran had plenty of money.

The cruiser was parked in front of the house, Tom and a deputy reviewing paperwork as they waited. We pulled up beside it and climbed out into the night again.

“Hello,” Tom said, voice careful as he looked over Gabriel.

“Gabriel Keene,” Ethan said. “Apex of the North American Central Pack. Gabriel, this is Tom McKenzie, the sheriff.”

Tom nodded. “Of course. Good to meet you.”

There was no apparent recognition of Gabriel's authority in his voice. Just a little uncertainty, as if he wasn't entirely sure of his steps.

Gabriel inclined his head, and there was plenty of chastisement in his eyes.

“Well,” Tom said, looking at the rest of us, “glad to see you're all in one piece. We saw the smoke, got the call when the fire department hauled out.”

Ethan didn't pull his punch. “Considering the McKenzies attempted to burn us out, yes.”

Tom just stared at him. “Burn you out? The department didn't say anything about arson.”

“They brought torches,” Ethan blandly said. “You may find Niall and Darla are surprised we're alive.”

Tom blinked. “Niall and Darla? She's just a wisp of a thing.”

“She's strong enough,” Ethan assured him.

“They think I killed him,” Nessa said. “They learned I'd had divorce papers drafted, and she saw a fight Taran and I had at the college. She thinks I killed him in anger.”

Tom's eyes darkened. “You were going to file for divorce?”

“We were working it out,” she said, and sounded as exhausted as I felt.

“What was the fight about?”

Nessa crossed her arms and looked away, the breeze ruffling her tousled hair. “We were supposed to go into town for a date night. He was at the library, lost track of time, and stood me up. I wasn't happy about that, and I confronted him about it. It was not our proudest moment. He wasn't perfect,” she said, pushing fresh tears from her cheeks. “But we were working on it.”

“And Darla saw the fight?” Tom asked.

“I suppose. She's a student; I wasn't exactly discreet.”

That explained part of what Darla had known, but not the rest of it. “How did she manage to get a copy of the divorce papers?”

Nessa looked at me, blinked. “What?”

Tom frowned. “She had a copy of the papers? I thought you said you didn't file them.”

“I didn't.” Realization apparently struck Nessa. She'd thought about Darla's divorce revelation, but not how Darla had found out about it in the first place. “She had my copy—I remember seeing my name across the top. That copy came from my attorney.”

“Where was it?” I asked. “Your copy.”

“In my office.” Her expression changed, from grief to horror. “They were in my office. They were in my
house
.”

We looked back at it, the front door marked prophetically by a yellow X of police tape.

“No one was in the house today,” Tom said. “It's been under guard. It would have been before the murder.”

Or,
I grimly thought,
during it.

“Why don't we go inside and take a look?” Ethan suggested.

Tom pulled away the tape, crumpled it into a ball before pushing the door open.

“Ethan, Merit, Gabriel, Nessa,” Tom said, gesturing us inside. “Everyone else stay out here, please.”

No one objected to the instructions.

Considering the circumstances, I tried not to goggle as we walked inside but found it difficult. The house was enormous and opened into a gigantic living area with a kitchen and dining room along one side. The entire back half consisted of unshaded windows that overlooked the valley. The light was necessary for the palm tree that grew in the middle of the living room, set into the Spanish tile floor and surrounded by a small fountain of water.

Any blood that might have been spilled was gone, any sign of Taran's death erased, except in Nessa's mind. She stood silently, stoically, staring at a spot on the floor where she'd last seen her husband.

“I'm going to take Nessa into her office,” Tom quietly said. “We'll start there. Why don't you start in his office?” He gestured to the left.

The house might have been enormous, but the office was cramped, crowded, and utterly charming. To the left, a tall bookshelf, each shelf stacked with books, papers, tchotchkes. In front of it was a small desk, and on the right was a small and well-worn love seat of teal velvet that probably served as the site of afternoon naps.

Shifter or not, from the piles of paper, the assortment of globes, the collection of hats that hung on pegs on the wall, I figured Taran for the smart and quirky type. My bread and butter, at least before Ethan. I felt a pang of sympathy for his death, but pushed it down. The only way to help him now was to find the truth.

“Gentlemen,” I said, when I was sure my voice would be steady, “we've reached the office of an academician. You're going to want to let me handle this.”

I could all but hear their eyes rolling behind me, but I ignored them, walked inside, and took a look around.

I started at the shelves. The books were primarily about exploration in the western and midwestern United States. A complete set of Lewis and Clark's journals. A set of Prince Maximilian's journals. Countless books of flora and fauna. Histories of mining in Colorado.

I moved to the desk, trying to ferret out his organizational system, finally realized each pile was a category. Papers that needed grading were in one pile, already graded papers in another. There was a stack of research on Arapaho settlements, another on the Mormon Trail. And a third of brittle and yellowed paper.

They were notes, each page dated at the top and scratched with “CM” at the bottom.

Christophe Marchand,
I thought, blood beginning to race.

I grabbed a pencil to flip the sheet, careful not to touch the paper. The notes spanned several weeks. Most tracked the domestic details of his life with Fiona. Chickens fed. Ground cleared for a garden. A shelter improved for their donkey, Fred. Christophe loved art, and he noted that he'd brought to Colorado a book of famous pieces. He and Fiona would peruse it by candlelight, discussing the paintings, imagining the fantasy worlds. That, apparently, had inspired her.

Fiona is painting,
read one of Christophe's entries.
She isn't very good yet, but she is trying very diligently. I told her we must visit Paris and see the wonders there.