Fate of the Alpha: The Complete Bundle (2 page)

G
race Kwan-Cortez
looked on as Landon Shepard surveyed his lunch with the kind of unspoiled delight reserved for men under thirty.

Good old-fashioned Pennsylvania fare covered the entire plate. Buttermilk pancakes, swimming in golden syrup, rose to a four inch tower. A slab of greasy scrapple sidled up to the stack, and a Spanish omelet oozed gooey cheese to compete for Landon’s satisfied gaze.

Grace glanced down at her own plate. Fluffy yellow scrambled eggs looked back at her placidly.

“How can you eat plain scrambled eggs?” Landon asked, mischief sparkling in his pale blue eyes.

“Believe me, I get enough food adventures with my abuela.”

She grabbed a half-empty bottle of Sriracha and squeezed the hot sauce liberally onto her eggs.

“Everything okay with your meal?” Their waitress, Cressida, managed to sound bored and rushed at the same time.

“Um, fine, thanks,” Grace said.

It was odd to have Cressida wait on them. Grace knew that Cressida was one of Ainsley’s Lieutenants, and a trusted companion. Few wolves held a higher place in the Tarker’s Hollow pack.

Grace had spent most of her life around wolves, and had never paid much attention to pack politics. It was easier that way. But then her best friend had swept back into town and become the alpha, which put Grace in an awkward position. As a human, she had no real say in pack business, but everyone knew she had the ear of the alpha.

And of course Landon was blissfully ignorant of the whole thing. Sometimes Grace wondered how so many people could live in this town and never notice anything strange. Maybe there was something to the theory that people only see what they want to see.

“Cressida,” Landon said, carefully reading the name on her tag. Grace tensed up, unsure what Landon was about to get them into. “I really couldn’t be happier.” His voice dripped more syrupy sweetness than the pancakes on his plate. “I love the food, I adore the presentation. How do you do it?”

Cressida’s expression wavered between confusion and hostility. True to form, she chose the latter, spun around and flounced away. The effect was only heightened by the flourish of the 1950s-style skirt and apron she wore.

The Barry White Diner had a small staff and a strict uniform policy - all waitresses wore white blouses, red skirts (the shorter the better) and white aprons. A few years back, some guy had threatened a lawsuit over their sexist hiring policies. The management had agreed to bring him on as a waiter, with the stipulation that he wore a white button down shirt, red pants, and white apron. He’d lasted about a day.

A town as small as Tarker’s Hollow was lucky to have a diner and Grace had drowned many a sorrow in their bottomless coffee - first as a teenager during late night study sessions, and especially now, as a Tarker’s Hollow cop, patrolling at all hours.

“Do you think I pissed her off?” Landon asked in a stage whisper.

He cocked his head, and the gesture was echoed in the movement of his mop of chestnut curls. Grace was tempted to tousle them, but this was only their third date.

“It wouldn’t take much.”

The diner stayed open twenty-four hours a day, three hundred sixty-five days a year. And any waitress who stuck it out more than a year or two had to be tough as nails for dealing with the drunk kids on weekends.

“Sorry,” Landon said. “Is she a friend of yours?”

Grace sighed. This was the problem with dating. How much of your life did you have to share with someone before you decided whether or not they were important enough to keep around?

“She’s sort of friends with Ainsley.”

“Ah,” Landon said, in a way that made it sound like he didn’t understand.

Which made sense, since there were probably no two people in the world less likely to be friends than Ainsley Connor and Cressida Crow.

“Ainsley’s got a lot of friends,” Grace offered.

“Of course she does.” Landon reached across the table, deftly avoiding the coffee and juice glasses, and took one of her hands in his. “She’s a nice girl with a hot best friend. What’s not to like?”

He traced a line on Grace’s palm with his index finger.

She smiled and waited for a shiver of pleasure that didn’t come. What was wrong with her? She pictured herself as a wizened old crone drinking a cup of coffee alone at this very table forty years from now, watching Landon come in for ice cream with his grandkids.

“And if my sources are correct,” Landon continued. “A hot best friend who is soon to be sheriff.”

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. Election’s still a long way off.”

“So?”

“So…I’m pretty new to police work, and pretty new to the Tarker’s Hollow force…”

“Everyone loves you, right? And they know you know your stuff. What was your major again?”

Grace smiled. Landon had a gift for getting people to talk about themselves. He would be good in the interrogation room.

“I was a double major,” Grace said. “Criminal Justice and Forensics. Not that there’s a lot of call for forensics when your biggest cases involve who stole some change from an unlocked car, or which kids egged houses on mischief night.”

“See. You’re overqualified.”

“That’s not how it works.”

“Can I ask you a question?”

Grace wondered if he was even capable of opening his mouth without a question coming out. That was what you got when you dated a reporter, she supposed. At least he was a good listener.

“Shoot.”

“What really happened to Sheriff Warren?”

Grace sighed. She hadn’t been ready for that one. Her parents had always hammered into her that a relationship couldn’t go anywhere without honesty. On the other hand, she couldn’t tell anyone outside the pack a damned thing about what happened to Clive Warren - especially a reporter.

“It’s very sad. Sheriff Warren suffered a mental breakdown.”

Which was mostly true. He had been so insane with rage after he challenged Ainsley for control of the pack, that he’d shot her, with a silver bullet. Grace had arrived on the scene a moment too late to stop him. It was the only time she had ever fired her service weapon at another living person.

“Is it true he actually fired a shot at Ainsley.”

Grace only nodded. The memory of cutting the bullet out of her best friend was still too raw to talk about.

“Wow. What happened to him?”

“He ran. No one has seen him since.”

Which was also true. Grace’s gun hadn’t been loaded with silver. She’d taken him down, but in the confusion, he’d slipped away and fled.

“Why do you think he did that?”

“Why does anyone have a mental breakdown?”

“No, I mean why did he shoot at
Ainsley
in particular?”

“Um… I don’t really know. He wasn’t in a sound state of mind.”

“And how did he miss, aren’t you guys trained?”

The buzz of Grace’s cell phone cut through the bevy of questions - a welcome excuse from answering any more.

“It’s work - sorry.”

“Aren’t you were supposed to be off tonight?”

She shrugged.

For better or for worse, things were a mess without the sheriff. Now Grace reported to Dale Evans, who acted as the interim sheriff. Dale was a good man, but he wasn’t as sharp as he used to be.

“This is Officer Kwan-Cortez,” she said as she scooted out of the booth.

“Gracie, thank goodness you picked up!”

She winced at the nickname. Dale had known her since she was a girl, and sometimes he still treated her like one.

“What can I do for you, Dale?”

“It’s about Sadie Epstein-Walker, her daughter called from Boston. Said her mom wasn’t picking up the phone. She was worried sick.”

Sadie’s daughter from Boston was a pain in the ass. She had them over to check on her mother at the house on Princeton Avenue every other week. Sadie probably didn’t pick up the phone because she didn’t want to talk to her daughter any more than Grace did.

“Is Dylan over there?” she asked.

“Yes, he is. She didn’t come to the door but he says the lights are on and Camilla Parker Bowles is barking like crazy.”

That was something different. Sadie Epstein-Walker didn’t leave lights on, and she never went
anywhere
without Camilla Parker Bowles.

The King Charles spaniel accompanied her all over Tarker’s Hollow, and was allowed in many places that normally frowned on dogs. Sadie had buried both Misters Epstein and Walker, and it seemed to be understood that her line was drawn at being separated from the dog.

“Tell Dylan I’m on my way.”

“Gracie, you’re an angel from heaven.”

She turned to head back and almost jumped out of her shoes. Landon had been standing right behind her.

“Whoa, are you okay?” he asked.

“You just startled me. I thought you were still inside.”

“You seemed worried. I wanted to be there for you.”

She looked up at him. His face was so kind. The afternoon sunlight made a halo around his head.

Before she could think the better of it, she put her hands on his chest and went up on her tiptoes to kiss his cheek.

He turned his head at the last moment and took her face in his hands. His mouth was warm on hers and the gentle kiss felt just like she’d imagined it might. He tasted like maple syrup.

When she pulled away, he kept his arms around her.

“That was nice,” he said simply.

“I have to go check on an old lady.”

“Me too.”

“What do you mean?”

“I drove, remember?”

The door to the diner banged open.

“Just cause you’re a cop doesn’t mean you get free stuff.” Cressida yelled after them, one hand planted on her hip defiantly, the other holding their check.

“Sorry,” Landon called back. “We weren’t pulling a dine-and-dash. Grace just got a phone call, but we’ll be right back in to settle up.”

His words seemed to placate Cressida, she turned to the door and went back in after giving Grace one last glare.

“I’ll take care of her,” Landon offered, handing Grace the keys. “You get the car started?”

“Perfect.”

Five minutes later, they pulled up to the old Victorian house on Princeton. Grace had made this trip about a thousand times before, since Sadie lived directly across the street from Ainsley.

Grace was out of the car and up Sadie’s front steps in a flash. On the other side of the door, Camilla Parker Bowles yipped in distress.

Grace looked around. Dylan Peterson, another deputy, came swaggering around the corner of the garage, his mirrored aviator sunglasses making him look like an extra in cheesy cop drama. Landon was just exiting the car. She had a few seconds.

She placed her palm gently against the door and closed her eyes, willing the magic to flow.

Immediately, her pulse sped up and her cheeks warmed.

She ignored the warning of what the magic might do to her, she would worry about that later, and was rewarded with a vision of Sadie, unconscious on the floor at the bottom of the steps.

Grace opened her eyes and focused carefully on the spot just below the bronze doorknob. With a swift exhale, she neatly kicked in the door on her first try. She felt bad about the damage, but at least the beautiful chestnut door was still in one piece. Only the frame had suffered.

Landon whistled in appreciation behind her, but she didn’t turn.

Sadie sprawled on the floor at the bottom of the stairs. A pool of dark blood congealed near her head. It didn’t look good.

Camilla Parker Bowles had taken up a post between them and Sadie. The King Charles Spaniel snapped the air frantically between barks, her tiny body quaking.

Grace studied the old woman’s prone body. Something wasn’t right.

She felt Dylan’s presence behind her and heard Landon’s footsteps behind him.

“Dylan, get the dog,” she said.

“Hey, there little puppy,” Landon cooed in a sing-songy way.

Camilla Parker Bowles stood her ground, hackles slowly rising.

“I don’t think she knows you’re talking to her, man, she’s used to the way Sadie talks to her,” Dylan explained, taking off his jacket. He turned to address the dog himself.

“Camilla Parker Bowles, you did just right. We’ll take it from here.”

The little dog seemed to waver.

“I know you’re tired, old girl, you earned your rest. We’ll take care of her.”

With quiet dignity, Camilla Parker Bowles stopped barking and curled up at her mistress’s feet. She didn’t fight it when Dylan wrapped her in his leather jacket and lifted her up to cradle her to his chest.

Despite an excess of false bravado, Dylan really was a good cop.

Grace dropped to her knees to examine Sadie.

There was a faint pulse and her chest was moving slightly. That was surprising but good.

“Landon,” Grace said, her voice exuding confidence. “Go get me some towels from the kitchen.”

He scampered off, and she turned her attention back to the injured woman.

“Mrs. Epstein-Walker, it’s me, Grace Kwan-Cortez, Eva’s daughter. I’m here to help you.”

No response.

“Dale called the ambulance same time as he called you,” Dylan offered.

Grace looked up the staircase and got another wave of wrongness.

“Looks like she fell down the stairs,” Dylan said, following her gaze.

At the top of the stairs, two of the sepia-toned pictures of Sadie’s family from the early 1900s had fallen and another was hanging crookedly by its wire.

“Let’s check the house anyway,” Grace said. “You know the drill, windows and doors,”

She took the towels from the returning Landon and used them to cover the nasty wound at the back of Sadie’s head, then instructed him to keep pressure on the spot while she searched the house. He looked a little squeamish, but Grace thought he would hold it together.

They started the sweep with the upstairs. Sadie’s home was immaculate, although a bit fussy for Grace’s taste; antique settees and vanity mirrors everywhere.

All the windows were intact.

Same with the first floor. Even the windows on the sun porch were closed and locked.

No signs of forced entry anywhere.