The Problem with Promises (22 page)

Though every time Anu shivered, I wanted to kill things.

A lot of things.

If Trowbridge had felt any measure of this implacable need to destroy something when faced by Ken Newland, then I owed him an apology. He’d pulled back from finishing off Fatso. If I got the opportunity to kill Liam, or Whitlock … I’m not sure I could.

Ryan got out of the SUV to open the gate. Simon yawned.

I bit the inside of my mouth again. It kept me awake.

I needed to be alert, not dopey.

Gate dealt with, Ryan slid back behind the RAV4’s wheel. The private drive was long, flanked on either side by a line of scrubby swamp cedars. Signs bristled along the rutted road. Beyond the restaurant, thirty-foot peach, and bakery, the place had a near-empty petting zoo (
MEET DUSTY OUR NEW ALPACA!
), a mini-golf, and a miniature train (
FUN FOR THE KIDS!
).

Liam tapped on his passenger window toward a parking slot behind the restaurant. “Over there.”

“Holy shit,” Ryan murmured.

In an area that boasted no natural scenic attractions other than a stagnant pond, the owner had spread concrete. Any place where a path could be poured, had been. What made it weird was the proliferation of statues. I couldn’t help but think of Narnia. The place was full of frozen animals—beavers, squirrels, and bears. Wherever he could reasonably plunk one statue, he’d squeezed in two. All of them oversized and none of them to scale.

Also—in a piece of irony that did not escape me—a grouping of wolves had been staged inside the miniature train track’s path. I counted six. Five with snouts lifted for group howl. One set in a playful pose, head slightly cocked. Its gaze forever fixed unseeingly on the frost-fence that enclosed his pack.

Nice touch.

“That’s weird,” said Ryan, his gaze fixed on the wolves.

I scanned the area, hoping for a tombstone repeat. Forget the statues, the wolves were the size of one of the bikers’ Harleys. Everything else that could have served as a useful projectile—picnic tables, litter cans—had been bolted down.

Not very trusting people, these Peach Pitters.

My gaze roamed. I could toss bunnies at them. The place was alive with free-roaming rabbits. They nibbled grass, both lazy and indifferent, until the wind shifted. Little pink noses lifted, a twitch of whiskers, and then stupid with fear, they darted for undergrowth and disappeared. I could hear their little hearts, under the sound of the vehicle’s engine. Tiny little hip-hops of terror, pinpointing their exact location.

Their own hearts betrayed them.

An uncomfortable topic, betrayal. Biggs had done so—I knew that in theory, though I couldn’t explain how his texts to his girlfriend, Brenda Pritty, had led to Trowbridge being sealed in the trunk and me being brought to the Peach Pit.

Why?

What was so important about Knox’s things? It couldn’t be the phone. From what Liam had said, Brenda had shared the contents of her texts with Whitlock. If he was privy to those, he’d likely received a copy of the video Knox had taken and sent to Brenda.

If the NAW had wanted evidence to bring to the Great Council, he already had it. He didn’t need Knox’s phone.

It would help if I knew what Whitlock wanted. He’d sent Itchy and Gerry to kidnap me. That suggested he didn’t want to outright kill me, but it didn’t preclude the possibility that my body would have eventually been found somewhere other than Creemore after he’d extracted whatever he wanted from me.

But now I’m here.
Alive at the Peach Pit. I glanced at the clock. At four in the morning. With a wolf behind the wheel, my niece trembling beside me, and Trowbridge …
Goddess, please come back.

“What does he want?” I asked out loud.

Liam leaned on his hip to twist around. I returned his gaze, hoping that he was seeing something that few save a dead Were called Dawn had ever seen. Hatred, of the coldest type.

That amused him. “What’s it like? To have that magic inside you?”

“Busy.”

“Even now? It’s not…” He paused to choose a word. “Sick?”

“It’s getting angry,” I replied.

“And what will it do when it gets really angry?”

“It likes to kill things.”

Liam gave me a smile, before swiveling back in his seat.

Another pair of lights turned into the parking lot. “There’s Whitlock,” said Ryan.

*   *   *

The leader of the NAW didn’t fulfill my private expectations at all. Yes, Whitlock drove the obligatory Navigator. Check: it was black and had tinted windows. But he came alone, not with a bevy of fawning wolves. And I’d envisioned someone old like Mannus, but the head of the NAW was a spare, lightly muscled, blond man of indeterminate age. He had a flat mouth, bracketed by deep grooves that went all the way down to his stubborn chin.

I had to give the wolf one thing: he had presence. It was there in his body language and his scent. Thick as newly churned earth, his personal signature grazed my throat and touched my hair. “I will be King,” it said. “I shall be obeyed.” Anu must have felt the impact of his dominance too—she flinched and sucked in a sharp breath.

Smiling hopefully, Ryan got out to greet Whitlock. His Alpha gave him a terse nod as he approached, but his focus was on me and Anu.

“Why are there two girls?” he demanded.

Unruffled, Liam took time for a stretch and a yawn before he replied diffidently, “I may keep the younger one.”

No you won’t.

“That’s not part of our agreement,” snapped Whitlock. “I said total containment. No witnesses left, everything tidied up. Every single detail’s got to be tied down before I meet with the Great Council tomorrow.” He tested the air. “Where’s Robson Trowbridge?”

“In the trunk.”

“Dead?” said Whitlock sharply.

“No,” Liam replied. “But he took a few hits from Ferris’s semiautomatic. I didn’t want him bleeding all over the upholstery.”

Whitlock’s mouth tightened. “Have you got it?”

Liam leaned on one hip to extract the bag he’d tucked inside his waistband. He passed it to Whitlock. “All of Knox’s crap. Phone, wallet, watch, and the bottle you wanted.”

The blond man bent to study the contents under the glare of the headlights. “This has been a nightmare,” he said, breaking the seal. Gingerly, he removed everything except the bottle, placing each thing on the hood. He opened the wallet, riffled through it, then tucked it into his back pocket. The keys didn’t interest him—he pitched those into the garbage.

Knox’s cell worked a growl loose from him. Mouth turned down, he keyed it to life, then quickly worked his way through the menu. “This night has been a total clusterfuck,” he said. “We’ve lost Brenda.”

“I thought your people had picked her up.”

His thumb stilled. “They had. She managed to escape.”

“You want us to find her?”

He shook his head in irritation, never lifting his attention from the glowing screen. “You trying to hint that your bikers can find her faster than my wolves, Liam?”

Liam chose not to reply.

“She’ll show up,” said Whitlock. “She’s got nothing. No money, no credit cards. She’ll head for the meeting place and wait there.” His lips moved as he read the messages on Knox’s cell. “Nothing new here, except messages from me and the texts between Brenda and Biggs.” Whitlock’s mouth curled. “What is this shit? It’s all abbreviations and cutesy emoticons …
C u last place we partied. Bring coin.
”

He shrugged. “Well, she’s broke and shit out of luck. Biggs won’t be coming. She’ll wait for a while, then bolt again. We’ll find her once she does. She’ll need money, and we know her friends.”

“What now?” asked Liam.

Whitlock pocketed the phone, then opened my door. He studied me for a beat, his lids lowered in calculation. “Get out,” he told me.

When I didn’t leap out, he said, “I’m on my last nerve, Fae, so don’t piss me off.”

“You’ve been trying to kill me all night.” I drooped, shoulders rolling forward, head sinking so that my hair fell in a curtain around my face. The iron had sapped me. The night had drained me. “If you want me standing, tell him to ditch the cross.”

“I haven’t been trying to kill you,” he muttered, reaching for my upper arm. “But I could change my mind.” One haul, and I was out, standing on unsteady feet.

“I’m going to puke,” I warned him.

“She’s no good to me like this,” Whitlock told the biker. “Take that thing off. Put it in the glove compartment.”

“Not a good idea,” replied Liam.

“Do it,” snapped Whitlock. Before I got my sea legs, he half dragged, half carried me to the rear of the Toyota. “You’ve caused me a lot of problems. You’re going to make things right.”

He banged his fist on the rear hatch. “Pop it.”

Ryan jumped to obey.

Be okay, Trowbridge.

Whitlock lifted the lid. Impotent fury roiled in me as I realized Liam had lined the inside of his trunk with a blue plastic tarp prior to tipping my mate into the hold. Trowbridge was folded up inside it, partially covered. His long legs were drawn up close to his chest and one arm covered his face.

Don’t puke.

“At least he’s subdued,” Whitlock said.

Liam let out a low whistle. “You guys heal fast. His body’s already getting rid of the slugs.” He reached for a flattened bullet by Trowbridge’s hip. “If I had more Weres in my club, we’d wipe out the competition.” His eyebrow rose as he silently counted the pieces of metal. “He’s pushed out three, looks like he’s got another three to expel.”

Wake up. Please. Wake up.

“Bring him out,” said Whitlock with a jerk of his head.

They extracted Trowbridge with the tarp and deposited him by our feet. I watched his chest and felt bittersweet happiness when it rose, slow and shallow.

Ralph lay dead center on my mate’s chest, positioned at the lowest edge of his chain, right over Trowbridge’s heart. His gold was dull, and the clear light in his stone had grayed. I knew then, just at the sight of him, that the Royal Amulet had been quietly transferring some of his Fae magic into the one man who held all the magic in my world.

Bless you, Ralph.

Whitlock sank down to his heels beside Trowbridge. Holding the base of the bottle through the plastic, he rolled down the sides of the bag until the vial was mostly exposed. “I need your help,” he told Liam. “Come here and get his hand. Wrap his fingers around the bottle.”

Liam cocked his head in inquiry.

“I need his scent on it. I can’t do that without putting my own on it.” Whitlock watched tensely as Liam squeezed Trowbridge’s fingers around the glass. Once done, he dragged the curled rim of the neck of the bottle across my mate’s lips. “That will do it,” Whitlock said with some satisfaction. “Try sliding out of that, Trowbridge.”

He rose and leaned on one hip to jam the bag down his front pocket. Then, letting out a huge sigh, he walked around the vehicle, kneading his back.

“Am I done here?” asked Liam. “You know I’m working on the clock now. Every minute I stay costs you that much more money.”

Whitlock exhaled, put a foot on the railroad tie that edged the asphalt, and said to no one in particular, “Who’s got a knife?”

Liam said, “Never carry one.”

Ryan piped up. “I got one.”

“Give it here.” The knife had a bone handle and a release button for the blade. “Nice balance,” Whitlock said, approvingly.

“Got it on eBay,” Ryan said.

“Uh-huh,” Whitlock said. “Everything’s done online now, isn’t it?” I held my ground as he approached. “Proof that I’m a reasonable man,” he said. “Hold out your arms. I’m going to free your hands.”

“She’s got magic,” warned Liam.

“And I’m an Alpha.” Lip curled, the leader of the NAW inspected the pillowcase secured by multiple bracelets of zip ties. Ryan had taken no chances. My wrists were circled with more plastic than a geek’s electronic cables. “For someone so young, you’re really on the road to developing a badass reputation,” he said, sliding the blade between cotton and plastic.

Not yet, but soon. Once my head cleared a little more.

A twist of the knife and the blade jerked upward. The zip tie broke. “The Weres talk about you. The Fae who can open the portals. Who’ll stop at nothing to keep her man alive. Sending him to Merenwyn took balls,” he said, stripping the pillowcase from my hands. “They say heads rolled when you came back to Creemore.”

“Just one,” I said, thinking of the former Alpha of Creemore. My fingers looked fat, not from magic but lack of circulation. I clenched my teeth as he inserted the knife’s tip deep into the tight crevice between my inner wrists. One hasty snick and I’d be spouting arterial flow.

“Mannus was a pimple on my butt cheek, and I, for one, am not sorry you dispatched him,” he said, making quick work of the last tie. “He needed to go.”

“Why?” I attempted to force my claws into a fist.

Epic failure.

“He was nosy and greedy.” With a glance toward Liam, he spread his paw on the small of my back and pushed me forward. “Let’s go visit Larry the llama.”

And leave Anu with Liam? I looked over my shoulder. Her face taut with fear, Anu stared at me through the back window. I worked up another smile, just for my brother’s daughter, one ripe with false hope, as Whitlock propelled me down the hill toward the Peach Pit’s attractions.

The owners had spent some coin on chain-link fencing, too. Both the miniature train course (a short snaking loop) and the fantastical world of the mini-putt were bounded by mesh and posts. Whitlock steered me down the short hill that led to them. Once we reached the cement path that bordered them, Whitlock turned right, following the trail as it led us down to the area shared by the petting zoo and the pond that smelled of oil and standing water.

We stopped before we reached the water.

Larry the llama slept on his side in the shadows of his shed. He was too long for the little house, his shaggy head stuck out of the doorway. One ear turned slightly toward us as we approached but he didn’t wake.

Whitlock smiled faintly. “Ever eaten llama?”

“No.”