Harlequin Nocturne May 2015 Box Set: Wolf Hunter\Possessed by a Wolf (37 page)

A rack of spices and flavorings stood at the far end of the room, next to an enormous pantry. Beyond that was a walk-in refrigerator large enough to park an SUV and leave room for a bike. Faran strode to the rack and began scanning jars and bottles labeled in a variety of languages.

Valois watched him, eyes narrowed. “You mean it's in disguise as another ingredient.”

“Or mixed with one. Something strong enough to mask the flavor and close enough to the taste of the dish that it wouldn't stand out. At least, that's what I would do.”

“Oh, really? Remind me not to eat at your house.”

Faran's hand skipped over the dried herbs and spices. A foreign substance would probably be too visible or else settle to the bottom. He reached instead for the bottles of flavored oils and thick, dark vinegars. And then, almost without thought, he moved on to the sauces and picked up a small, dark bottle. He unscrewed the top and smelled the concoction, and knew he was right. “This is it.”

Valois wrinkled his nose. “What is that?”

“Garum. It's made from fermented fish.” But the salty, pungent smell was only clinging to the scum around the cap. The liquid in the bottle bore the bitter scent he recognized as the toxin. “I'd say our evil cook emptied out the sauce and put the poison in the bottle. Garum isn't an everyday ingredient. He could have easily hidden this here for a few days.”

With a grim smile, Valois finally holstered his weapon and produced a plastic bag, holding it open. “Drop it in there before you smudge the prints.”

Faran did. It hit the bag with a satisfying plop. “I need to get that to Dr. Lemieux.”

Before Valois could reply, Faran felt a waft of air. He spun to see the pantry door swing open on silent hinges. He ducked on instinct, dragging Valois with him. A knife went crashing into the rack. A bottle of balsamic vinegar crashed to the tiles, releasing a nose-puckering scent. Valois stuffed the evidence in the pocket of his coat and drew his weapon.

“I think we found one of your missing suspects,” Faran said grimly. “His knife skills need work.”

Chapter 14

T
he door to the pantry slammed shut.

“Idiot,” Faran muttered.

“Crooks usually are.” Valois rose from his crouch and approached the door, gun at the ready. Cautiously he reached out and tried the handle. The lock was a dead bolt, the kind with a safety latch on the inside that prevented anyone from getting trapped.

Unfortunately, that meant their adversary could lock himself in and it would take a key to get him out. Or a werewolf. Valois nodded at Faran. “I'll cover you.”

Faran took a firm grip on the handle and twisted. The mechanism was good quality steel, so Faran had to lean into it. He braced his feet, muscles straining. He took another breath and tried again before he heard metal tear. The door flew open once more, the sudden release sending him reeling back.

Valois was there, scanning the opening and ready to shoot. Faran half expected to be pelted with food, but nothing came. They cautiously stepped inside. The place was ringed with shelves with deep bins beneath, but there was no one there.

Valois swore, lowering his gun. “Where is he?”

Faran finished his visual sweep of the room and began a second, looking higher. Still nothing. Was someone hiding in the bins? Unlikely. Still, they were on heavy casters so he pulled one out to look.

“What are you doing?” Valois asked.

“Looking for villains.”

“In the potatoes?”

Faran moved a second bin. “There. Look at that.”

There was a small door in the wall about three feet square. Valois crouched for a better view. “I heard stories of secret passages in the palace when I was a boy.”

“More likely a ventilation shaft.” Faran got down on all fours and tried the door. It wasn't even latched. An intriguing passageway beckoned. His first thought was to investigate, but he paused. Catching the poisoner was vital, but so was saving his victims. “I need to get back to the infirmary with the poison bottle.”

“Understood,” said Valois. “Just poke your head in and tell me what you see.”

Faran hesitated. It was hard to trust a man who'd been holding him at gunpoint.

Valois seemed to read his thoughts. “If you believe nothing else about me, believe I'm a cop. I want to see justice done. If you're not back in one minute, I will take the sample to Lemieux myself. You have my word.”

Still reluctant, Faran stuck his head through the opening. Then his curiosity caught. While the door was small and hidden, the passage behind it was man-size. Faran squeezed through and got to his feet. The space was only about four feet wide and a little higher than his head. The walls were made from the same stone as the rest of the palace, but roughly finished. He let his fingertips graze the cool surface, feeling a film of ancient grit. He had great night vision, but it was truly dark here, with only the light from the pantry creeping along the floor. Nevertheless, Faran suspected someone might have used this as an escape route. He pulled out his phone and switched on the flashlight app.

“I'm going in,” he said. “Start counting your one minute.”

“Go.”

Faran moved silently, his feet barely scraping on the sandy floor. The air here was musty. Whoever had passed before had left a trail of perspiration and food smells. About twenty seconds along, the passage branched, but he turned right with confidence, using his nose as a guide.

He could see the tunnel ended abruptly a stone's throw ahead. He stopped, scanning the walls with his flashlight for another door. Nothing. It was narrower here, with barely enough room to walk without hunching.

A noise made him flick off the light to hide his presence. He remained frozen for a long moment, the sudden close darkness making him twitch. Such thick walls muffled and distorted sound and he searched his memory, unsure if the scrape he'd heard was a footfall or the scurry of a mouse. He could smell rodents, too. Eventually, skin prickling with apprehension, he turned the light back on.

It fell on an object at the end of the passage. Faran approached, unsure what he was looking at until he got close enough to see it was a bundle of pale cloth. He shone the light straight at it. A cook's white jacket lay crumpled into a corner. It was the source of the scent he'd been following. Faran kicked it in disgust and immediately doubled back, cursing himself for wasting time.

The door to the pantry was still open, but Valois was nowhere in sight. Had he left for the infirmary to deliver the bottle of poison? Undoubtedly. The police captain wasn't the type to lose interest and wander off. Faran left the pantry for the kitchen and stopped. There was nothing more to keep him here but he didn't want to leave. His instincts were waving a red flag.
There's something I should be paying attention to.

The cook's jacket in the dead-end tunnel bothered him. It was as if someone had wanted to confuse Faran's sense of smell. To lead Faran down one tunnel while he went somewhere else? Had the knife-throwing perp been listening the whole time he'd been talking to Valois?
In that case, the noise I heard was a person, not a mouse.
Someone had used the opportunity to give him the slip.

A muffled crash made him spin around. He couldn't see anything, but another thump drew him to the walk-in fridge. Faran picked up one of the chef's knives from the counter and pulled open the fridge door. A gust of cold air turned to fog.

A figure in black had the captain trapped against the shelves. Valois's face resembled the raw meat on those shelves. In the brief time he'd been out of Faran's sight, he'd taken a beating, maybe broken his nose.

Faran lunged forward, nearly tripping on a frozen chicken that skittered aside like a bowling ball. He grabbed the back of the man's hooded jacket, hauling him off Valois. But as the man wheeled, he grabbed Valois's gun and shoved it into Faran's face. Faran sliced upward with the knife, slashing the gun hand. Recoiling, the man dropped the weapon but ducked under Faran's upraised arm, darting away from both him and Valois. In a flash, he was out the refrigerator door.

The police captain scooped up the gun, eyes flashing with rage. “He came out of the tunnel before you got back. You have to catch him. He took the evidence.”

Faran bolted for the kitchen. The man was heading for the back door but spun at the sound of Faran's running feet. For the first time, Faran saw his face. He was wearing the same type of flesh-colored balaclava as the man who had tried to scale the wall to Lexie's window. In a flash, the man had turned and was running again. Anger shot through Faran. This time he wasn't going to worry about witnesses. Using his inhuman agility, he sprang to the top of the table, scattering plates and bowls, and then leaped for the culprit, a snarl ripping from his throat.

The man slammed against the door in his panic. Faran grabbed him, letting the tiniest bit of claw rake the man's shoulders as he dragged him to the tiles. The man fell with a scream of protest and kicked out, slamming one foot into a mop bucket that toppled over, spewing dirty water over them both. Faran grabbed him more tightly and they rolled, crashing into the work table and raining more plates on the floor. Broken china stabbed into Faran's back, and then his knees, but he finally trapped the man facedown on the floor.

He heard the clink of Valois's handcuffs. Faran held the man down as the police captain cuffed him. Then Faran ripped off the balaclava. The face looked vaguely familiar, but he couldn't place it.

Apparently, neither could Valois. “And who are you?”

The young, dark-haired man snarled and spit but would not speak. Even so, Valois sat back on his heels with a look of satisfaction despite the blood streaming from his nose. He reached into the young man's jacket pocket and pulled out the evidence bag. The bottle was mercifully intact. Valois held it out to Faran. “Take this and go. I've got this, werewolf.”

Faran didn't need to be asked twice. He sprinted for the infirmary at wolf speed.

* * *

The next morning, Lexie perched on the examination table, her arms folded across her chest. It was the only place in the infirmary where she'd been able to stretch out for a bit of sleep, and that had only been a few hours ago. Her silk jacket and slacks were too thin for the air conditioning and the cold made her light-headed.

At least, she hoped that was all that was making her dizzy. Her mind grappled with the fact that she had nearly been fatally poisoned, but it was hard to grasp. Nevertheless, the place smelled of the tongue-shriveling medication—antidote, she supposed—that left her saliva the flavor of bleach and rotten orange peel. Nothing was going to taste right for days. She desperately wanted something ice-cold to drink and could almost see a frosty glass of iced tea.

Lexie closed her eyes, fighting a headache. Her nerves were jangled until she could barely sit still. She was alone for the moment and grateful for the chance to pull herself together. She'd been dreaming of her birth father. She could barely remember his face, but she did remember the time she'd been sick in bed and he'd sat by her side all day, telling her stories. But in the dream, her father's face had kept changing from the doctor to Faran to King Renault.

She jumped when she heard a footfall outside the flimsy door. The knob rattled and she opened her eyes, ashamed of being so jittery. Her visitor was probably the nurse, and she could ask for something to ease her headache. She had a feeling she was going to need her wits sharp for the next while.

“Lexie?”

“Faran!” Lexie slid from the table to greet him. He was holding—joy of joys—a glass bottle of iced tea. He always seemed to know what she wanted.

He set the bottle down and folded her in his arms, all his worry present in the fierce hug he gave her before he eased his grip. He hadn't forgotten her dislike of being held too tight. “Are you sure you're supposed to be up?”

She relaxed a moment, the sense of security washing back from her dream, if only for a moment. She knew Faran had found the poison, which had made it possible to administer the correct antidote. They all owed him their lives, including Princess Amelie and the young girl Lexie had been with on the bench in the infirmary waiting room. Her name was Mireille, and she was only fifteen.

Lexie had gotten off easy. Most were still very ill, and more than a few lives hung in the balance. They'd been transferring patients to the hospital all night, including Mireille, who would recover but was badly dehydrated. Lexie silently thanked her stars one more time. Another few seconds, and she'd have swallowed the poisoned fish.

“I hope they discharge me soon. My bed is just in another part of the palace. I want to be there, not here.” She kissed his cheek and then murmured a protest when he kissed her lips. She probably tasted like medicine.

Faran didn't seem to care, but shifted his arms so that she could lean against his chest. It felt so much better that she realized he was the only thing keeping her on her feet. Maybe she wasn't as recovered as she thought.

He was still dressed in the suit he'd been in all night, although he looked as if he'd been someplace dirty—and he'd clearly not slept. Haggard lines etched his face, making him look older. He'd spent much of the night at her side, but she knew from time to time he'd left to help Valois investigate. She wouldn't have wanted it any other way—it would be selfish to keep him entirely for herself at a time like this.

“Any news of Princess Amelie?” Lexie asked quietly.

“She ate more of the fish than you did, so she's in worse shape. But they think she'll recover in about a week.”

Lexie could hear worry behind the words. “I'm glad to hear she'll get better.”

“So am I.” Faran took a quick breath, as if commanding himself to the task at hand. “Are you sure you want to stick around after this? You'd be a lot safer if you went home.”

Lexie blinked, confusion adding to her pounding head. “Does that mean the wedding is canceled?”

“No,” he gave a wan smile. “At least, not yet. The more someone tries to stop this match, the more the royal families refuse to cave. Barring further misfortunes, the marriage will go ahead. But no one expects you to stick around. Prince Leo fed you rotten fish.”

She nearly laughed. The universe was mocking her. She was good at running and Faran was holding the door open for her, but she wasn't having any of it.

I'm fearless. I'm the one who lives without a care
. It had been her mantra for years, and now she knew how utterly false it was. Carelessness didn't breed courage—it bred, well, nothing much at all. “I, for one, don't want to give anyone the satisfaction of spoiling the wedding.”

“Your welfare comes first. Bravery doesn't count if you're dead.”

“I'm only brave because I care what happens. I can't leave now.” Chloe was counting on her—and so, in their own ways, were Kyle and Amelie. And Faran deserved her loyalty most of all. He was alone on this mission without Sam or the other Company agents. She owed it to him to watch his back as best she could.

He was hers to watch over, just as he'd spent the last night watching over her. This time when she straightened her spine, she felt the burn of conviction deep in her gut. “No, I'll stick around. After all this, Princess Amelie deserves the best wedding pictures ever, and frankly, that's what I deliver. You're not rid of me yet.”

Faran hugged her again and kissed the top of her head. “I'm glad.”

With her face hidden against his shoulder, Lexie let down her guard. It was one thing to be brave, but she knew they were far from safe.