Gray Bishop (12 page)

Jillian snarled, the stink of half-breed blood all around her. Blaming every half-breed for the sins of others wasn’t fair, but in that moment, Jillian had no sense of fair left. All she had was grief and anger and fear, and no time to indulge in any of them.

Her people needed her more than she needed to feel better. She would not fail them a second time.

Disorientation and a throbbing headache greeted Knight when he woke up in the quarterly cage, head on a pillow, fully clothed. The headache wasn’t unusual, but the clothes and pillow were, and his quarterly was weeks away, so why—Springwell.

He sat up, head spinning, fury blazing through him. His father knocked him out and had him locked up. “Son of a bitch!” His voice bounced around the basement. The overhead light blazed in its single-bulb glory, casting striped shadows all over the cage. The finished room had a bare cement floor and no decorations on the plain plastered walls. He used the iron bars to haul ass to his feet, then leaned against them until his brain stopped being stupid.

“Winston! Where the hell are you?”

Footsteps thundered down the stairs, then paused to unlock the basement door. Winston burst inside, cheeks flushed, keys to the cage in one hand. He didn’t come any closer.

“Swear to me you won’t shoot the messenger?” Winston said. “I was following the Alpha’s orders.”

“I promise, just let me out.”

He hesitated. “Bishop called a few minutes ago. He said that he’s nearly home with some wounded, and to let you out, but the Alpha said I wasn’t to release you until he returned.”

“If Bishop said I could be let out, then let me out. His word is the Alpha’s word.”

Winston finally shoved the key on the lock. Knight blasted through, not caring he’d pushed his friend aside. He charged upstairs, glad to be free of that damned cage. His skin crawled with the phantom terror of being tied up, held down, imprisoned in another way. He breezed past Brynn in the hallway, then Mrs. Troost. He stopped on the front porch, grateful for the fresh air—even more grateful when Winston paused just inside the house, giving him some space.

He’d been unconscious for hours. He opened up his empathy, taking the pulse of the town. Anxiety. Fear. Anger. So word had spread about the latest attack. He palmed his phone, ready to call Bishop for an update, to find out what had happened in Springwell.

Across the street, Dr. Mike’s front door flung open. He exited with Rachel Kowalski in tow. The pair had a bag of medical supplies, as well as blankets that they began spreading out in the grass. Preparing for incoming casualties. Bishop would only bring the most critical the first round. Rachel must have some kind of medical training, if she was hanging around with Dr. Mike. Knight wanted to go help them, but Father had demanded he stay in the house.

Being on the porch was pushing his luck with his father’s temper.

The screen door opened and shut, bringing a calming waft of spring grass. “Please don’t be angry with your father,” Shay said.

“I’m angry at myself for pushing. I knew he wouldn’t let me go, but I hate being left behind all the time.”

“I know. So do I.”

He met her steady gaze, surprised. “You do?”

She smiled. “Of course I do. I’m a Black Wolf, and the daughter of an Alpha. I’m not this wilting flower, afraid of her own shadow, not in my heart. The hybrids turned me into a farce of myself when they slaughtered my town. I should be out there with your brothers, fighting for Springwell, but I can’t even make myself walk across the street and help Dr. Mike.”

Shay had never opened up to him about her experiences during the attack, or how they affected her. He accepted she was scarred, inside and out, and she accepted the same from him. But in her today, he saw a strength that had been forced deep down, into darkness, and was fighting to rise again. Fighting to be the warrior she was born to be.

“You’ll get there one day, Shay. Your spirit is too strong to break permanently.”

“Thank you.”

Two vehicles turned onto the street—one of their SUVs and a sedan with no front plates. Probably Delaware. Devlin climbed out of the SUV’s driver’s side, and the wrongness of that hit Knight in the chest. Bishop preferred driving, always had, and he wasn’t driving the sedan, which suggested he was hurt. Knight bounded down the steps, vaguely aware of Winston on his tail, attention firmly on the SUV.

Devlin helped a stranger out of the front seat, while the back passenger door opened. Bishop swung his legs out. Knight ran, his fear diminishing a bit at the lack of red bandages or gaping wounds. Bishop had some blood streaks on his clothes, and a bruise on his face. His right arm was swollen and turning odd shades of red and purple. Winston went to help the other wounded.

“Christ, what happened?” Knight asked.

“Broke my arm.” Bishop’s eyes burned with emotion, and so many hit Knight at once. Over all of the pain and anger and fear was grief. Grief that turned Knight’s insides to jelly, because he smelled blood. A lot of blood. Bishop’s, Rook’s, their father’s.

Father’s blood coated the air around them, the strongest of the three. “Who else was hurt?”

“Most of us took some licks. The triplets somehow convinced half-breeds and feral loup to attack Springwell. It was fierce and unexpected. They lost a lot of people. Their Alpha is pretty bad.” Bishop glanced over his shoulder.

Knight followed his gaze to the other car. A large, bandage-wrapped man was being removed from the backseat with great care. “Will he make it?”

“I don’t know. Jillian and Rook stayed behind to coordinate the evacuation.”

“They lost that many?”

“Yeah. About three-quarters.”

The wrongness of a previous statement finally tracked for Knight. Rook was coordinating the evacuation. “What about our father?”

Bishop’s face crumpled, then smoothed out.

Knight took a step back, his entire world telescoping in on that simple, telling reaction. Everything went very still. “No.”

“He killed one of the hybrids. He fought hard.”

“Don’t say it.”

Bishop slid to unsteady feet, then opened the rear compartment. The odor of blood—Father’s blood—wafted out. Stuck in Knight’s nose and throat and choked him. He took another step back, into the street.

“I brought him home,” Bishop said in a broken voice.

“No. Not him.”

“I’m so sorry. Knight, please.”

Knight didn’t want to see, didn’t want to make it real. Couldn’t let it be real. Not when the last interaction with his father had been in anger. Not when he hadn’t had the chance to tell him the truth. Not while this entire nightmare was still unfolding. Cornerstone needed its Alpha.

He needed his father.

“Should have been me,” Knight said, the words bitter on his tongue. He turned and fled for the house, needing to get away from the scene. From the smell.

Bishop shouted his name. Knight ignored him. Pounded upstairs to his bedroom and locked the door. Locked out the world.

He sat on the floor by his bed and rocked. Rocked and shook and raged for it to be a mistake. It couldn’t be true.

His father couldn’t possibly be dead.

***

Bishop ached for the disbelief and devastation he’d put in Knight’s eyes. It hurt more than his broken arm. Hurt more than holding their father’s hand while he died, because this might be the thing that broke Knight. The one loss he couldn’t bear.

Should have been me.

He wanted to chase after Knight and force him to accept it. To look at their father’s body with his own eyes, so he couldn’t deny it. But he was dizzy with pain, and the heat wasn’t helping. He allowed Devlin to lead him over to Dr. Mike’s porch and install him on the steps, until it was his turn. Rachel came by with a glass of water and some pills, ordered him to take them, then went about her business.

The pills took the edge off, but did nothing to ease the pain in his heart. So instead of sitting there being useless, he called Rook. “We’re home.”

“Does Knight know?”

“I tried but he won’t hear it. This is going to be bad, Rook.”

“I’ll be there in a few hours. Jillian wants us ready to evacuate completely by two. And we’ve sent another wave of wounded your way. They’re about thirty minutes behind.”

“Okay.”

“We’re collecting all of the supplies we can, but there are ninety-six people here. Where are we going to house them all?”

Ninety-six more people, on top of the Potomac refugees and the Joneses living in the boarding house. He didn’t want to mix the Springwell survivors with the half-breeds. That was begging for a fight, considering who’d attacked them. The auction house had toilets and a working kitchen, but no real privacy or comforts.

“I’m not sure yet,” Bishop finally admitted. “I’ll let the town know we have refugees, see who can take in how many people. Especially the children.”

“We’ve got six orphans.”

“Shit.”

“Yeah. Anything on Alpha Reynolds?”

“Dr. Mike’s with him now, I think. I’ll call with any news.”

“Thanks. I’ll let Jillian know.”

“Okay. Hey, make sure you bring back Victoria’s body. We can put her on ice, and maybe when this passes, Dr. Mike can tell us something about her.”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know. Just bring her.”

“On it. Hey, you know I’ve got your back, right? No matter what happens.”

“I know.”

“You’re going to make Dad proud as Alpha.”

Bishop squeezed his eyes shut against the sudden burn in them. “The other Alphas have to approve.”

“They will. You might be Gray, but you’ve been working toward this your entire life.”

“I never thought it would happen this soon.”

“None of us did.”

“Be safe out there, Rook.”

“I will.”

Bishop put his phone away, his confidence shaken. Run politics made his head hurt. If a reigning Alpha died before officially naming his successor—as Thomas McQueen had—then other loup males could challenge him for the position. Outsiders.

No. Bishop wouldn’t allow that to happen. His people needed him, not some stranger with the ego to think he could lead Cornerstone better than the man who’d lived here his entire life. Who knew every name and face and story. Whose ancestors’ ashes had rejoined the earth and the forest for generations.

Bishop would be Alpha of Cornerstone. He would find and kill the two remaining hybrids. And he would make his father proud. Anything less was unacceptable.

***

Jillian filled a suitcase with clothes and toiletries, and little else. This life was over. She didn’t need constant reminders. She took only two photos—one of herself and her dad, and another of Derek mugging for the camera. She left behind the box of baby items still stored in the attic, the antique plates that had been in her family for four generations, the watercolor of the Market her mother had painted when she was a teenager.

After emptying the cupboards of non-perishable food and medical supplies, along with a pile of sheets and blankets, Jillian walked the rooms. Memorizing and saying good-bye. Not crying. She hadn’t managed any real tears yet. It was still too raw, too immediate. Resting on the surface without sinking in and making sense.

Rook came by with the blue Explorer and helped her load up. He passed on no news from home, beyond Bishop’s order to bring Victoria’s body. She understood the urge. Maybe they could use the body to lure her sisters out of hiding, too, taunt them that she was alive. Cornerstone would be ready for battle. The remaining triplets wouldn’t survive a direct attack on Cornerstone. Jillian hoped they were erratic enough to fall for such a trap if it was laid.

That was a plan for another day. Maybe another week entirely. Too much remained to be done. Cleaning up. Finding shelter. Tending to wounds. Easing the grief of children left parentless, spouses left alone, parents left childless. Jillian pressed her palm to her stomach, sick for all of her people and their pain.

“I still can’t believe this happened,” Jillian said. She closed the front door for the last time, out of habit. The structure would burn soon, anyway.

“I know.” Rook wore his pain on his sleeve, an open wound in his heart he didn’t bother hiding. It exuded from him in a cloud of rage and sadness.

“Is everyone else at the square?”

“Almost everyone. Mason and A.J. went looking for stragglers. We don’t want to leave anyone behind.”

“No, we don’t.”

Rook drove them over to the square. A long line of cars idled in the street around it, like a caravan of covered wagons about to head west. Only these weren’t wagons drawn by horses, full of people with hope of a new start. These were cars, full of damaged, heartbroken loup garou, leaving behind one devastated home for another, uncertain resting place.

They sent along a group of seven vehicles, mostly residents and their belongings, as well as a delivery truck packed full of supplies. A Cornerstone loup rode in the point car. All of the drivers had directions, in case they got separated. Rook texted Bishop that the group was on its way.

“Bishop says your father is critical and feverish, but holding on tight,” Rook reported.

Jillian’s heart fluttered. “Feverish?”

“Could be an infection. He had a lot of wounds.”

She shuddered at the memory of pulling those nails out of her father’s body.

By one o’clock, a full hour before her deadline, the last line of cars drove out of Springwell. Jillian, Rook, and Mason stood by the Explorer and watched until the taillights disappeared. Then they went to work, uncapping gas tanks on cars, knocking off gas lines in basements. Spilling gas cans from sheds and garages. Doing everything possible to make the town burn faster. Mason had volunteered for the dirty work of dousing the bodies in the square with gasoline.

Rook and Jillian drove out of town slowly, while Mason followed behind with a gas can, splashing buildings as he went. Leaving a trail on the road a hundred feet past the last structure. Rook idled. Jillian got out and joined Mason at the rear of the Explorer. He handed her a lighter.

Eyes and throat burning with grief, Jillian clicked the lighter. She stared at the yellow flame a moment. The single spark that would burn her town to the ground, destroy evidence, and leave the human authorities puzzled for a long time to come. They’d never know the real reason behind the fire. Never in a million years would they guess as to the loss of life and destruction of property.

She touched the lighter to the gasoline. It sparked and raced forward, a river of yellow. Faster than she expected, the fire hit the first structure. Flames spread, consumed, then jumped to the next home. Black smoke rose into the sky, thickening the air. The first explosion satisfied Jillian that there was no stopping the inferno.