Witch Wolf (13 page)

Arthur holstered his gun. A moment later, I heard the door click shut behind him.

"They don't know you're one of us, do they?" This time, it was Carver who smiled darkly.

"That's none of your business," I said. "Sit down."

Carver sat and smiled at me like a happy four-year-old who'd finally managed to find the stash of hidden lollipops.

"I'll tell them," he growled. "If you arrest me, I'll take you down."

I let the coldness I felt seep into my eyes and said, "I know."

Carver frowned.

I went to the kitchen, retrieving my neglected coffee. "Which is why I am going to tell you something that I rarely tell people, Carver."

"What's that?" he asked.

"Go to hell."

I went to the door. I couldn't arrest him. If I arrested him now, in front of the cops, he was going to spill my beans. Damn it. Damn it. Damn it.

Then again, I'm a licensed paranormal huntress and a preternatural investigator. Arresting isn't what we do.

We dig for facts. We hunt and execute.

Carver White had just made it to the top of my shit list.

I woke out of a dreamless sleep wondering why. Someone was touching my hair. The realization hit me with a rush of fear, and I rolled out of the bed in a fluid motion that had nothing to do with human grace. The pads of my feet landed on the floor with a soft thud and I looked up into Rosalin's honey-colored eyes.

Her hand stopped in mid-motion and she let it fall into her lap. "You're cute when you're asleep,"

she said and curled her legs up under her body. She leaned back against my pillows.

"Why did you wake me up?" I asked, sounding grumpy.

"Lenorre called. She wants you to meet with her tonight. She has a reservation at Francesca's."

I just looked at her. Francesca's was an Italian restaurant in the city. It was by reservation only, and they usually put a person on a weeklong waiting list. I'd been there only once and that was for a friend's birthday party. I never knew food could be so expensive. It was classy as all get-out. . . fine dining for the best dressed and the richest. I couldn't believe what Rosalin was telling me.

"You look shocked," she said. "You don't believe me, do you?"

"I would say no, that I think you're joking, but I'm afraid you're not."

"Lykos's honor." She grinned. "She wants you to meet her there at seven." Rosalin crawled out of bed and headed for the door. She stopped in the doorway, turning to look at me. "You'll want to wear something nice."

"What if I don't go?" I asked.

"Trust me, Kassandra. You don't want to test her kindness." The look in her eyes was very serious. I nodded. Surely, I could find something nice?

I looked at the clock. I'd slept through the entire day. The red numbers glowed brightly in the dim lighting. It was six o'clock.

"You're fucking kidding me!" I hissed at it. I had less than an hour to get ready. I still had to take a shower, find something to wear, and get there. I took the dress that I'd worn once to a witch's ball off a hanger. It was one of the few expensive outfits I own.

I grabbed everything I needed, trying to hurry.

Rosalin peeked around the corner of the door. "By the way," she said, "where'd you go last night?"

I'd gotten home just as the sun was rising. The note had still been on the coffee table. I'd thrown it away, thinking that she'd slept through the whole thing.

"Police business."

She nodded, turning to go.

"Rosalin," I said, catching her attention. She paused.

"Hmm?"

"Do you happen to know a wolf named Carver White?"

Her eyes widened. "Why? Was there another murder? Do you suspect him?"

"Answer my question first," I said, "and then I'll answer yours."

"Yes," she said, leaning against the door frame. "I know him."

"How?" I asked.

"He's the pack's gamma."

"Gamma?"

"Alpha, beta, gamma, delta, epsilon. . . "

"Ah," I said, "the whole pack is based on the Greek alphabetic numerals?"

"Yes."

"So, he's third?" I asked. "Just below you?"

She gave me a look. "I keep telling you more than I should," she said. "I can't tell you any more than that, Kassandra. Besides, you never answered my questions."

"Yes," I said, "there's been another murder."

"Do you suspect him?"

I wanted to tell her, yes, I did, but I didn't know how much to tell her, so I decided not to give her a yes or no answer.

"I don't know. What do you know about him?"

She looked thoughtful. "He's a nice guy," she said, "but he's got a horrible temper."

I hadn't noticed. "How horrible? Horrible enough that he'd kill someone?"

Rosalin shook her head. "Honestly," she said, "I don't know."

"Rosalin, you can't tell anyone in your pack about this conversation." I walked toward her, giving her a hard look. "Give me your oath that you won't."

She laughed. "God, first Lenorre makes me give her my oath, now you. I'm beginning to feel like no one trusts me," she said.

Strangely, I did trust Rosalin, but for the life of me I couldn't tell you why. There were some people in my life that I'd met and trusted on an instinctual level. It happened very rarely, but Rosalin was one of those people. Being a witch could come in handy when trying to figure out if someone was likely to try and kill you. Lenorre I wasn't so sure about. Oh, I trusted that she would help me. I just didn't trust her motives for helping me.

"Rosalin," I said.

"You have my oath, Kassandra. You have the oath of the beta of the Blackthorne Pack. I will not tell anyone in the pack what you have told me here."

"Give me your oath that you won't tell anyone," I said, "period."

She shook her head. "I can't."

"Why?"

She gave me a look. "If Lenorre asks me then I am bound by my previous oath to her. I am not an oath breaker, Kassandra."

"Fine," I said, "but no one else. Promise?"

"I do so swear."

"Good," I said. "If you do, Rosalin, there will be hell to pay. I promise you that."

"Are you threatening me?" she asked, blinking.

"No," I said, "I'm simply stating fact."

*

The dress was a nice combination of medieval gothic and modern Goth fashion. The corseted bodice was lined with red trim. The same bright red material peeked through the lace that crisscrossed up the front of my torso. Two thin black straps were more for style, as the dress was tight enough it would've clung to my body without them. The off-shoulder sleeves looked like a splash of blood against my very pale skin. The rest of the dress flowed gracefully to my feet.

I knew it was inevitable that I was going to be late. If Lenorre hadn't made the reservations at Francesca's it probably would've been a different story. She had, and that meant that unless I wanted to stick out like a sore thumb, I had to look my best. It took two hours minimum to look my best.

I leaned over the counter by the sink and applied the kohl to my eyes. A light coating of black shadow added dramatic effect. The gray eye shadow in the crease made them smoky, and white beneath my brows made them stand out. I'm not one of those women who wear makeup like icing on a cake. Makeup is supposed to enhance, not cover. I put on mascara and brushed the ivory powder across my face, smoothing it out with the palms of my hands. A little bit of sparkling clear lip gloss and I was done.

I went to the closet door at the end of the hallway, pulling out a trench coat that matched the outfit. The trench was unmistakably feminine. The back of the coat cinched at the waist. The hood of the coat was lined in faux fur, as were the sleeves. I put it on and buckled the front straps.

"Meow." It was Rosalin's voice.

I spared a glance at her, tucking my hair behind my ear. "Aren't you portraying the wrong animal?" I asked with a hint of sarcasm to my tone.

"Would you prefer I bark? I'll bark if that's what you want."

She was still wearing the shirt I'd loaned her. I watched as her hips swayed. The muscles worked beneath her skin as she came to me. I froze with my hands hovering over the last buckle and closed my eyes, listening as she stopped in front of me. With a gentle touch she lifted the white streak of my hair. It slid through her fingers before falling back into place.

Her breath was warm against my lips. "You look beautiful."

I opened my eyes to argue with her when she leaned in. My entire body went rigid a second before her lips brushed my cheek.

"Have a wonderful evening," she said with a light in her eyes. She'd meant for me to think she was going to kiss me.

I grabbed the keys and put my cell phone in the pocket of my coat. There's one problem with wearing a dress, and that is there's usually no room for concealed weapons. I left my guns and knives at home and prayed to the Morrigan I wouldn't regret it. I stopped with my fingers hovering above the doorknob.

"There's a spare key in the cabinet above the sink," I said looking over my shoulder, "use it if you leave."

Rosalin sat down on the couch. "I will."

The clock in the car read 7:38 when I arrived at Francesca's. It was a large restaurant nestled in the heart of Oklahoma City. Stone steps led up to the entrance. The walls of the building had dim lights shining on it, just enough light to show it was a pretty cream color. A large patio was located several feet from the steps. The fence around the patio was made of curling wrought iron.

Too many places around the building were hidden in shadow. It made me uneasy. Probably not something most patrons were concerned about when they came for dinner here. But I wasn't like most patrons.

I was glad that the four-inch heels were the tallest ones I owned, since I likely would have broken my neck in anything higher trying to navigate the damn stairs.

"Kassandra." Her voice purred my name, sending a shiver of chills up my spine. I turned to find Lenorre bathed in the dim glow of an old-fashioned street lamp. She'd left her hair down so that it fell to her waist like a cloak of black silk. The wind stirred a few curls, causing them to dance.

We were both wearing trench coats, except hers was velvet and midnight blue. The pants she wore were tight and formfitting, highlighting every curve of her body to perfection. A line of lace strings crisscrossed down the length of her legs, disappearing into slender knee-high boots. I couldn't tell, but the boots looked like they were black suede. The shirt she wore was the same velvety material as her coat. The collar of the shirt was high, hiding her neck behind black velvet and white lace. My eyes followed the line of white lace to her cleavage.

A smile spread across her garnet lips. I looked down at the steps, hoping the appreciation hadn't shown in my eyes.

She was suddenly in front of me, offering her arm. "Shall we?"

I looked at her gloved palm. The silk gloves disappeared into the sleeve of her coat so that I could not tell just how high they went.

I walked past her and the arm she offered.

Her smile hardened slightly, but kept an edge of humor. As we walked through the door, she watched me intently. It took more effort than I'd like to admit to keep my knees from buckling.

Was it just Lenorre, or did all vampires have the ability to caress with a look? I really, really fucking hoped not. If so, I was going to stock up on vampire repellent. A lot of it. That is, once I figured out what would repel them, not kill them. Unfortunately, the whole garlic thing is a load of crap.

We made our way through the dimly lit interior to a table in an intimate alcove. Lenorre sat across the table. I fought against the urge to fidget under the weight of her gaze. Our coats had been taken at the door. The restaurant was filled with the soft murmuring voices of couples enjoying a romantic night out. I cradled my hand delicately around the stem of my wineglass.

When we ordered, Lenorre had told the waiter to bring her the usual. The usual had turned out to be a dark liquid in a long-stemmed glass. I didn't have to smell it to guess what it was. Blood in a champagne flute-who would have thought? I wondered if it was some type of vampire etiquette.

So far, dinner was turning out to be a highly uncomfortable experience. At least, it was for me.

Lenorre seemed quite content to just sit there and watch me. I'd never in my life been so aware of every move I made, every bite I took. It was unnerving. If I had hoped she'd reduce the tension with polite small talk, I had hoped in vain.

I tried to return her unwavering stare and failed, eyes flicking to the glass in her hand.

"Does every restaurant have that on their menu?" I asked, interrupting our silence.

I could see her smirk out of the corner of my eyes as I took another sip of my own wine.

"No," she said, "I've known the owner for some years. It's an acquired taste."

"I just bet it is," I mumbled. I was full after eating the manicotti, but Lenorre had insisted that I order dessert. I'd gone with the tiramisu. Tiramisu and Lambrusco were on the top of my

"orgasmic foods" list. Every woman I've ever met has had a sexy food that tastes so good they equate it with either foreplay or an orgasm.

The waiter returned bearing the gift of tiramisu and put it down in front of me. He looked like he was in his early twenties and I guessed he was working his way through college.

"Anything else?" he asked. The look in his eyes when he looked at Lenorre showed a certain curiosity.

"No, thank you." Her tone was reserved but polite.

He glanced at me and I shook my head. I picked up the fork and focused on my dessert.

The tiramisu melted on my tongue, coating my mouth in the taste of cream and coffee liqueur. I took a sip of wine to enhance its flavor. The wine was sweeter than before, mingling with the richness of the dessert. I licked my lips, savoring the sweetness it left behind.

When I opened my eyes Lenorre was watching me. Her stormy eyes seemed to glow with an otherworldly silver light.

"Would you stop staring at me? You've been watching me like a hawk all night," I said between bites.