Roaring Up the Wrong Tree (24 page)

“If everyone is done yelling,” Quinn spoke up. “We can go to the side yard and—”

“The Right of Preparation!” Trista blurted out and Keen sighed with relief.

There was his answer. A stall tactic, sure, but it gave them time. “As the mate of the accused, I claim the Right of Preparation on her behalf.”

Quinn sputtered. “You-you can’t do that. It’s not— You can’t—”

“He can.” Trista stepped to the side, revealing herself, but still clutching his shirt. “When a Challenge, or sentence, could result in death”—her voice wavered and he heard the hint of tears clogging her throat—“the Challenged’s mate is able to require the Right of Preparation.” She swallowed hard and he wrapped his arm around her shoulders, giving her his support. “It is the mate’s choice and
cannot
be denied.”

Quinn narrowed his eyes, glaring at him, and then centered his rage on her. He felt Reid’s simmering anger as well and he wondered if his brother Van held the same emotions. Battered on three sides and supported on one. At least, he hoped.

“And how long does this ‘
right
,’” Quinn spat, “last?”

Trista was firm and clear in her response. “Twenty-four hours.”

Twenty-four hours. He had twenty-four hours to figure a way out of this cluster-fuck and if all else failed, they’d run. He’d run far and fast and with Trista at his side.

Trista stared at the people surrounding the table, Ty and Mia, Van—
Van
—and Lauren, George and Anna. Even Parker had grudgingly apologized for trying to eat her, which was news to Keen and she’d winced at his glare. Then there was Gigi, the clan house cook, who cuddled her close, told her she was a precious little thing.

They welcomed her with open arms, if not open hearts in Van’s case.

George had gruffly, and roughly, escorted the wolves along with Quinn and Malcolm from the clan house despite their protests. Quinn spouted something about being welcomed to reside at the host house. At that point, the ex-Itan reminded him that Keen was the accused and didn’t have a clan anymore and Trista’s relatives were dead, there was no host. The motel was fifteen minutes away and he and Malcolm wouldn’t be welcome until five p.m. tomorrow evening.

The subsequent slam of the door shook the house and the heavy stomps of the retreating males vibrated the floor.

And still, Keen’s father hadn’t appeared the least bit upset at having thrown part of the Southeast inner-circle into the cold. Well, heat.

Now they surrounded the large kitchen table, mates sitting on laps to give room to the others. Trista even ended up snuggled against Keen, uncaring if parts of his family didn’t like her presence. Van’s gaze landed on them for a bare moment, but he quickly shifted his attention away. Amazingly, enveloped in Keen’s embrace, his dislike didn’t affect her. She didn’t need Van’s approval, or love, just Keen’s.

Oh, shit. Love. She’d thought of the word, let it blossom in her head, and she realized she really, truly wanted that with him. Even with their differences, the species ties that kept his family from liking her, she craved that.

“Well,” George sighed. “What’s our plan?”

We don’t have one.

Keen voiced her thoughts aloud. “We don’t have one.”

The ex-Itan shook his head and pinched the bridge of his nose. Anna ran her hand down her husband’s back and George sighed. “Okay, walk me through all the garbage he spouted.”

Keen looked at her, nodding as if encouraging her to talk, so she cleared her throat and took them through the logic of the laws and how they would apply to her and Keen’s situation.

The way the rules of over ten years ago applied today and then how it all rolled into her presence. When all was said and done, yes, Quinn could require Keen be marked and banished from a clan, and yes, Reid could force her into a deadly situation with Adrienne. The worst of it was, yes, Adrienne could shift for their fight and there were no clear instructions as to the fighter’s forms during a Challenge in association with violations of the laws of visitation. Which sucked.

But what her recitation truly amounted to was a roomful of people staring at her with wide, pained eyes.

“And what’s the Right of Preparation?” Van actually participated in their conversation and
of course
he had to ask about that, about the one thing that’d bring tears to her eyes and remind her of the timer counting down.

“After a sentence is passed down, and if it involves a punishment that may result in death, the mate of the offender can demand the Right of Preparation.” She fell silent, the words writhing inside her like a thousand snakes, twisting and turning in her gut.

“But I don’t know what that means,” Van tried again and the snakes rose, snapping at her stomach.

“It means that my punishment is delayed for twenty-four hours to give Keen a chance to say goodbye,” she murmured and Keen cupped her cheek, brushing away her tears. She hadn’t even realized she’d begun crying, but she supposed it was fitting. She’d sobbed when her mother disappeared, had begged Quinn—Keeper Foster—for assistance, but he said there were casualties in war. Now she was devastated at the prospect of being without Keen.

No one else said a word, the oppressive silence capturing them in a bubble of dread and heartbreak. Her emotions were mirrored in the others’ faces. Varying degrees, and yet the same.

Regret was the most prevalent, the one that overrode grief and sorrow.

“There has to be something…” Van again, disbelief filling his voice.

“What do you
care
?” Keen spat, new tension filling her mate, and Trista laid her head on his shoulder, hoping her touch would help calm him. “You tried to kill her when she was under the Itan’s roof, when she was under his protection. What the fuck do you care now? Suddenly she’s part of the family? Suddenly she’s welcome because
Dad
and Mom
are supporting us? Fuck you very much, Van.”

The quiet was oppressive, charged with emotions, and her mate’s body vibrated with renewed tension. They didn’t need this, didn’t need the anxiety driven squabbling between siblings when so much more hung in the balance.

Van shoved to his feet, dislodging Lauren. “I care—”

“That’s enough.” George spoke with a firm tone that brooked no argument. He might be the ex-Itan, but Trista saw a hint of the man’s strength. He stared at Van. “Sit down.”

Van faltered, but finally lowered back to his seat and reached for Lauren except this time, she stepped out of reach. “Lauren?”

“Van…” Tears swam in the woman’s eyes. “It’s all…”

It was all too much. Too much heartache and drama and pain all in one. She couldn’t do this
kum ba yah
work together and figure shit out bullshit.

Trista shrugged off Keen’s hands and pushed to her feet, unwilling to be at the center of this cluster of madness. “George, Anna, Mia, Lauren.” She tilted her head slightly. “Thank you for welcoming me into your lives. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’d like to spend some time with my mate.”

With that, she reached for Keen and sighed when he slid his hand into hers.

“So, what, you’re just going to give up?” It seemed Van had become the spokesperson for the group.

Trista, plagued with heartache and tears brimming in her eyes, turned to face him. “I’m going home to the first real home I’ve ever had, and I’m going to spend time with my mate. Tomorrow will bring what it brings, but right now I’m going to revel in the gifts I’ve been given. I earned them, I fought hard my entire life and it may all be taken from me tomorrow. So, tonight, I’m going to enjoy what I have.”

Anna grasped Trista’s hand and gave it a gentle squeeze. She found answering moisture in the woman’s gaze. Part of her pined for what could have been if she had spent time with the Abrams family. She’d lost her mother seven months ago and she had a feeling Anna Abrams would have been happy to add Trista to her family.

Too late…

Releasing Anna, she continued her way down the table, forcing herself not to look at others in the room. She took strength from Keen’s touch, from the power he held inside himself. She knew it looked like she was giving up, that she was lying beneath a blade and simply waiting for it to be thrust home. But she wasn’t.

No, she needed a minute to breathe, time to simply restore a tiny bit of peace with Keen, and then she’d think about the hell of tomorrow. She just was desperate for a hint of heaven today.

They made it to the kitchen doorway before someone spoke, before George rose from his chair and took a step toward them. His brow was furrowed, eyebrows scrunched.

“Trista, something has been pricking my mind. Your mother was human and your father was a hyena, right?”

She internally winced. The family didn’t need a reminder about her parentage. “Yes.”

“So, if you had nothing to do with the bears, why did you turn to
them
for help when your father died? Why did they keep a leash on the wolves? Why didn’t you appeal to another hyena pack?”

Memory Lane. Joy.

Trista went back to that time, to when she was scared and bleeding as they raced home, as her body fought to heal itself and she couldn’t see past her blood-soaked tears. She remembered her mother screaming into a cell phone, begging, desperate for help from… someone.

“I don’t know. Mom was begging for help and…”

“You have your father’s last name, but what was your mother’s? Maybe she was known to a clan. I don’t remember her from when I was Itan, but perhaps we can appeal to—”

“She was human. She didn’t shift. She was just normal and ordinary and…” Her mother. That’s all she was and Trista’s heart clenched as the loss hit home.

“Humor me.” George’s eyes were soft and sweet like a big teddy bear.

“Her name was Debra, Debra Cleary.”

“Oh, fuck.” That came from Keen and she looked at her mate, noting his wide eyes and pale face.

“That’s right.” George was just as pale and Ty looked like he was about to be sick.

“What do you know that I don’t?” Trista’s attention continued to swing around the room and then she focused on the man beside her. “Keen?”

“Cleary? You’re sure?”

Trista huffed. “Yes, Cleary. I know my mother’s last name.”

“Shit. We need to call Terrence. Dad?”

“I-I-I,” George stuttered and swallowed hard before speaking again. “Trista, I know you want to get out of here and spend time with Keen. I know this is hard and, dear Lord, this is one cluster fuck.” He took a deep breath. “Ty, grab a notepad and pen. Trista, you need to write out everything you know about your mother and her family.”

She was shaking her head before she registered the action. She didn’t want to go there, didn’t want to think about being alone and spending days hungry and nights cold. “I can’t.”

Large hands squeezed her shoulders and she was slowly turned until she was pressed chest to knees against Keen’s front. “You can because I’m here. Right here and I’m not leaving. This is important, Tris. I want you with me for a hundred years, and I think this will help. Please.”

The please did her in. He asked, nearly begged, and it was such a simple thing to do. And if there was even a chance she could get out of tomorrow’s confrontation without having to run with Keen and become fugitives, she’d take it.

Taking a deep breath, she spun to face the Abrams family. “What do you need to know? And why?”

Ty laid the pad and pen on the table then slid it across the wood surface. George intercepted the materials, focusing on her. “All of it and I’ll tell you just as soon as I’m sure.”

“I don’t want to get my hopes up, George—”

“Dad,” he interrupted.

God, she’d never had one of those, not really. “Dad. I don’t want to let them rise only to have them shatter into a million pieces.”

“Just jot everything down. Write it out and then you two can go. I won’t hold you here while we work things out, but give us this much so we can try and save you both.” He was so earnest and seemed to be holding enough hope for both of them.

So, Trista returned to their seat, settling on Keen’s lap and leaning toward the table as she wrote out the answers to question after question.

When was her mother born?
June 19, 1952.

What did she look like?
A little taller than Trista, maybe 5’5”, with dark red hair and green eyes. She was curvy, Trista’s size, but her mom always said baby weight was a bitch to drop, even after twenty years.

Did she have any birthmarks or scars?
One long scar along the right side of her face from temple to chin. It followed her jaw and was old, so it was easy to cover up.

Was there anyone from her past that she talked about? Any family?
Just Terry, but she didn’t talk about him often. Trista wasn’t sure who he was to her mom, but she loved him a lot.

What was her reason for staying in town?
Trista’s father wouldn’t let her go. The law said…

George, Dad, knew about that law.

Dad gently eased the notepad from beneath her fingertips and nudged it toward Ty. “Take a picture of her and then get on the phone with him.”

Ty dug into his pocket and grimaced at his father, obviously not liking the order. “Dad…”

“You’re the Itan,” his father growled.

“You’re his friend.” Ty was equally as annoyed. “He won’t kill you if you’re wrong.”

George pushed to his feet, rising to his full six-plus feet, and she watched as his body expanded, pushing his clothes almost to the point of snapping. “I gave you this clan because I thought you were ready to lead. Do I need to take it back?”

A tense silence swirled around them, ghosting each occupant until the room was buzzing with the tension. Finally, Mia shattered the thickness with a low grunt.

She levered herself out of her chair, glaring at both George and Ty in equal measure. “I swear, you two are like big babies. He’s hundreds of miles away. What’s he gonna do, growl you to death?” She reached out and plucked Ty’s cell phone from his hand while also snatching up the writing-covered pad. “Gimme that. I’ll call the fire trucking man.” She waddled away from the table, grumbling about stupid males and cursing and massive amounts of money in the swear jar because she’d been keeping track. It wasn’t until she was standing on the opposite side of the kitchen near the secondary door that she stopped and whirled on them. “I’m calling him. What am I telling him?”