Necromancing the Stone (17 page)

“People like you?”

“Sort of. If all goes well, I’ll be back out to get you in a moment. If not, I’ll buy you a drink for your troubles.”

Dunaway shoved his hands into his pockets. How was he wearing jeans in this heat? Then again, I was wearing a suit jacket and slacks. Summer weight, sure, but still not the best for this temperature. It was a little scary how quickly I was getting used to being dressed up all the time. Well, all the time in comparison to before, when it was never.

“I’m not guaranteeing that I’ll do … whatever it is you think I’ll do.”

I shrugged. “Fair enough. All I ask is that you keep an open mind.”

He agreed, and I pointed him to the empty stool between James and Ramon. I saw the detective shake hands with Ramon and introduce himself to James as I walked into the back. It was amazing how comfortable he looked there.

*   *   *

I’d never addressed the Council before, having only been to a few meetings. I still didn’t really feel like I belonged. I was younger than everyone in just about every way possible. You know how occasionally there are ten-year-old geniuses so smart that they jump ahead to college? Imagine that kid’s first week on campus, and I think the feeling is pretty similar. Except minus the genius part. I’m more like an idiot savant, really.

We didn’t have a podium or anything, but standing in front of everyone made me wish we did so I’d have something to hide behind. No use thinking about it now. I ignored my sweaty hands and tried to address the group with what I hoped sounded a little like confidence.

“Am I correct in assuming that we all know what has happened to Brannoc Blackthorn?”

Everyone nodded to varying degrees, but I gave them a sketch anyway, because they might be missing some key facts. It was hard to do, especially since my eyes kept being drawn to Brid sitting in Brannoc’s chair. I tried to just give them the details, black and white, because if I thought about it too much, I’d choke up. We sat in silence after I finished, all of us lost in our own thoughts. Finally, I cleared my throat and shifted nervously. This is where it was going to get tricky.

“I think we can all agree that Brannoc went above and beyond for the Council.” I smiled self-consciously. “Even I could tell that, and I’m new.”

Kell chuckled, and a few others nodded.

Best get to the hard part. “To that end, I want the pack to know that we’re doing everything possible to figure out what happened. I brought someone here today, someone I think can help us. But … he’s human.”

Pello laughed, and I got raised eyebrows from Kell and Ariana. Aengus kept a blank face. I couldn’t tell what Ione was thinking—she was hiding behind her hair again.

Kell tapped a finger to his lips in a thoughtful way, then leaned forward slightly. “Explain.”

I summoned in Brooke, thinking it might be best if they heard about him from two sources, even if those sources were connected. I told them how Dunaway had handled Brooke’s case and how he hadn’t tried to destroy me even after he saw Brooke’s talking severed head. Brooke went over Dunaway’s presence at her “reinterment ceremony” (as she put it) and how he had listened to her carefully, even though it had to have been the first time he’d talked to a reanimated head.

“Look, I know this is a big leap of faith, but he knows about our world already, and he hasn’t tried to kill me in my sleep yet or tell any tabloids,” I said.

“He could be biding his time.” Ariana leaned back in her chair as she said this, all coiled, deadly grace. She was beautiful in an I-can-literally-rip-out-your-still-beating-heart kind of way.

I shook my head. “He strikes me as the type who would face things head-on if he wanted to. I have no doubt that if he thought I really was responsible for Brooke’s murder, I’d be in jail by now. He’d find a way.” I shoved my hands into my pockets. At least they were thinking about it and not laughing my idea away immediately. “Look, I know this is a big risk, to all of you, but I think he can help, and … I let the pack down. They asked for assistance, and I failed—I know that. Please help me do something to set that right.”

They talked about it for a while. Kell made some phone calls, apparently checking with sources on Dunaway’s character. After about twenty minutes, surprisingly, they let me bring Dunaway in.

The detective walked into the Council room like he met supernatural creatures handing out secret missions every day. I introduced him to everyone, not mentioning what they were. If they wanted to tell him, they could, but for now, first names were enough. Dunaway nodded and half smiled until I was done. Then he grabbed an empty chair and flipped it around so he could be right next to the table. He pulled out a pen and a notebook and said, “Now, how can I help you?” When he noticed a few of them staring at the pad and paper, he gave a rueful half smile. “If I decide not to help, or if you guys change your minds, you can rip up my notes, but it doesn’t make sense to not take them and then make everyone repeat themselves later.”

The room relaxed visibly, and I suddenly knew that Dunaway would be helping us. For some reason, it made me feel a whole lot better.

15

TAKE IT EASY, DON’T LET THE SOUND OF YOUR OWN WHEELS MAKE YOU CRAZY

Brid ran through the forest, the warm evening air burning in her lungs as she jumped over rotting logs and ducked under hanging branches. Nothing like the sharp smell of pine and the angry cawing of crows to remind you that you were alive. And yet Brid felt like she was dead. Oh, she knew she wasn’t. Her blood flowed and her breath whistled and her muscles moved, the picture of life and health.

But that wasn’t what told her she was still with the world. She had to look inside for that, past her hollow core, beyond that center of nothingness, to her brittle edges. A bundle of nerve endings exposed to the cold, that was what she felt like. Those disconnected nerves, the pain floating, with nothing to filter or transfer it away. And every time she considered this, she remembered it was because her father was dead, and her heart tore all over again. That was how she knew she was alive. Not the sunshine, not the sound of her feet hitting the ground, but the pain.

She should cry, shouldn’t she? An image of herself bawling while curled up on her bed emerged in her mind. Yes, that seemed right. Maybe curled around a pillow, clutching it painfully to her chest. That was what grief should be. Not this dead thing.

Was this what it was like? Did her father feel this now, this terrible, empty, static space? She couldn’t ask him. Sam had failed her there.

Brid came to a stream. It was hot enough out that she wouldn’t mind swimming or wading through it, but she didn’t want to slow down. She felt like running. She wanted the earth under her feet, the sound of long grass whispering as she flew by. More than anything, she wanted some part of herself to remember what it was like to move. Not stalled down in negotiations, not stuck handling the grief, and not chasing her tail trying to find her father’s murderer. If she ran, at least her body still had motion, even if her brain was mired under responsibility. Brid turned along the stream and followed it deeper into the trees.

Sweat dripped down her back and along her hairline, but she ignored it, wiping it only when it came close to her eyes. She wasn’t ready. She had to face that fact. When her dad had made her the next in line, it wasn’t meant to happen for years. Instead it had been months. Years—time enough to learn what she was supposed to do and how to handle problems like these. Maybe after her father gracefully stepped down or died from old age. Not like this. Never like this. She could almost hear his voice in her ear. “Things seldom go the way we plan, girl.”

But she didn’t know what to do! And the pack expected results. They wanted blood, and she had nothing to give them. They had scoured the scene and could find no weapon, no sign of any other person, no smell except of forest and of her father’s blood. Nobody had said it out loud yet, but they were all thinking it: it was like a ghost killed him. If there was another explanation, she couldn’t think of one.

Which made Sam’s performance all the more troubling. If it was a ghost, he should know, right? Ghosts must leave … something. She growled in frustration. No one knew. Her father’s gentle voice surfaced again: “You’ve got to give him time, little one. He’s new to this, remember?”

That wasn’t the point, she wanted to argue. But you couldn’t argue with the dead. Unless you were Sam.

How could he have given them nothing? Anger boiled up in that empty place inside her now. The first time she’d counted on Sam in her new role as
taoiseach
, and he’d let her down. It hurt.

The soft crinkle of a leaf gave her brothers away. They flanked her without a word, matching her pace as she flew along the stream. Sayer and Roarke ran a little behind, though the dark-haired Sayer soon pulled up on her left. She had always enjoyed their quiet strength and the way they seemed to be able to communicate more in their silence than most people could with their words. The twins were like a buttress to her, holding her straining self above the darkness.

Sean stayed on her right, but it was strange to see him quiet. Out of the corner of her eye, she watched him as they ran. His mouth held a straight and stubborn line. She didn’t realize how much she’d counted on his easy smile over the years until she saw that grim expression on his face. His eyes were dark, and he hadn’t shaved. She realized that what was disturbing her most wasn’t Sean’s lack of levity, but the reflection of herself that she was seeing in him. Her hair might be longer, her features more delicate, but that same determined look of grief was there.

As one, they turned away from the stream and started to head deeper into the forest. She didn’t know how long she’d been running or how much longer she would have continued if Bran hadn’t stepped out from under one of the bigger pines. She wished she could keep going. Run until she hit the ocean. Then she would lope across the waves until she hit more land or sank trying.

But with Bran came the reminder of responsibility. She had to think beyond herself and past her grief. She was the
taoiseach
now. It was her duty.

Bran started to say something but stopped and shook his head, choosing to pull her into his arms instead. Since he was normally serious, Bran was the only one who didn’t seem completely ravaged by the loss of their father. This didn’t mean he didn’t feel the same way, only that he held his grief tight to him, a solitary pain. Her older brother wasn’t very demonstrative, especially for a were. Still, whenever Bran handed out one of these rare offerings, she remembered how comforting they were. An enveloping anchor of warmth, making her feel small and loved, reminding her of soothing moments after skinned knees and heartbreaks. Bran had done his best to fill in for their missing parent when their mother had passed. Now he was going to have to fill in for two. She squeezed him tight. Bran let her get what she needed, and for that she was grateful.

When she finally eased away slightly, he said, “Have you finished your run?”

“Never,” she said.

He nodded, understanding. They all did. Wolves were patient creatures for the most part, but they preferred running, given the choice. “The rest of the Council is here.”

“I don’t know what they’re going to find,” she murmured. “We looked already.”

“We looked as weres. Now they will look with their own eyes. It can’t hurt.”

Just the idea of seeing Sam again was painful. Earlier had been bad, but this would be worse. She’d have to stand apart from him here. No reassuring herself that he wasn’t really gone. With her pack around her, she had to remember she’d said good-bye.

“It can always hurt,” she said.

Her brother leaned back and arched his eyebrows at her. “I know you feel raw, and I know the pack is begging for swift retribution. But you must remember that you are
taoiseach
, not them. You’re the leader, and they are to follow what you decide, not the other way around. Don’t let your emotions sway you. The pack doesn’t need you armed with a torch and pitchfork screaming for vengeance.”

“I think that’s the most I’ve ever heard Bran say in one go, so you better listen,” Sean said. Bran reached out and cuffed him.

“It’s absurd that they think Sam has something to do with it. He’s about as bloodthirsty as a bunny rabbit,” Sayer said from his perch behind her.

Sean snorted. “It’s completely ridiculous.”

Brid turned her head so she could look at him. “Is it?”

“Yeah, it is, and I can’t believe you’re listening to their crap. You know better,” Sean growled.

Brid jerked back, shocked. Sean had never reprimanded her. Not ever. It stung. The pain might be less, she supposed, if her brother wasn’t dead-on.

“You’re right,” she said, “I guess.” She stumbled over the words. “I’m just angry, and Sam is, well, he’s … a convenient target.” And it was so much easier to be angry than heartsick. “So many of the pack are screaming for blood. There’s a lot of fingers pointing in his direction right now, and I can’t say that I totally fault their reasoning.”

Bran kissed the top of her head, ignoring the sweat. “Wolves are vilified for taking down a lamb, but the wolf doesn’t know it’s poaching. He just knows the grumble of his stomach and the whine of hungry pups. You can’t get mad at the wolf for being a wolf.”

“What are you saying?”

“Sam can’t help what he is, so it’s not fair to hold it against him.”

“Life’s not fair,” she mumbled into his shoulder. “If it was, Dad would be here.”

Bran loosened his hold and stepped back, his hands on her shoulders, his eyes on hers. “Our people are frightened and scared and focusing on the first culprit they can. Fear, left unchecked, can spread like a virus. You need to stop it and stop it now. Address their doubts, make a show of looking into Sam—doing your due diligence—but don’t let your imagination run off with theirs. There is no proof that he did anything to our father. When farmers fear for their livestock, they take down every wolf indiscriminately—don’t let the pack do that. Maybe someone like Sam did this, but not Sam.”