“Gabe, use my GPS ping and send the vehicles. We need an evac.”
***
By the time we trekked down the hill to the nearest road, the vehicles were waiting—several trucks and several shifters.
Gabriel leaned against one of them, arms crossed. He kicked off as we approached, looked us up and down, taking in the dirt, the mud, the scrapes and blood.
Ethan took several determined steps toward him, magic filling the air with an astringent buzz. He was pissed, and all his frustration, fear, pain, and fury were spilling now.
“I thought you intended to get your people under control,” he spat.
Gabriel uncrossed his arms, and his shifters’ expressions turned wary. “My people? You’re going to want to watch your tone, Sullivan.”
“Your people shot at us and, when that didn’t work, attempted to burn us out of the Marchands’ retreat because they believe Nessa killed Taran. We had to resort to a decrepit mine shaft for escape, were nearly killed in a cave-in. They’re members of your Pack. That makes their actions, their attempts at murder, your responsibility.”
Magic flashed across us and swirled in Gabriel’s eyes. “You wanna take a shot at me, Sullivan? You think you can land one?”
Ethan’s eyes flashed silver. He leaned forward. “Never, ever forget who we are, or take that for granted. You are an Apex. I am a Master. We may be allies, but I am not a member of your Pack. You are not my alpha.”
For a long moment, they stared at each other, two prime predators facing down, bodies stiff and alert, fists clenched and ready for battle.
They could have gone for it. They could have thrown down then and there, pummeled each other into the dirt to prove their superiority.
But wasn’t that precisely the problem in Elk Valley? That both shifter and vampire, convinced they were in the right, had refused to communicate, to discuss what had happened to Fiona and Christophe—had probably refused to cooperate in finding her—and the anger and fear had festered over generations. They’d been too entrenched in their own positions, too convinced the other was the enemy, to consider any other possibility. That’s precisely why we stood on a gravel road in the Rocky Mountains, tired and dirty and screaming at each other.
Gabriel seemed to realize that truth, and his dawning grin broke through the tension. “Thank sweet Christ Chicago’s vampires never cause trouble, Sullivan. Oh, wait—isn’t that why you needed a vacation in the first place?”
The tension faded from Ethan’s face immediately. He might have been pissed, but Gabe had a solid point. “Fuck you, Keene.”
Gabe’s smile widened, and he clapped Ethan on his broken arm. “Fuck you, too, Sullivan.”
I believe that’s what most called a compromise.
***
The shifters drove us back to the guesthouse where Orangesplosion waited, now slightly less orange than she had been. The Pack had gone back to the retreat, found the McKenzies gone—replaced by volunteer firemen—and Orangesplosion intact. Her paint was singed from proximity to the flames, but our katanas were safe inside.
We took turns in the shower while Nessa found suitable clothes for the other Marchands, ensured they had blood and food.
I was one of the last to shower, and I scrubbed hair and skin until I was certain I’d gotten rid of any arachnid trespassers. But I guessed I’d probably feel the creeping of tiny feet over my back for a few nights yet.
When I was clean and I’d shaken out my leather jacket half a dozen times to unburden it of any final creatures, I found the living room full of shifters and vampires. They didn’t speak to each other, but they weren’t at each other’s throats, either, which was something.
I walked into the kitchen, found the leaders of the various cabals in there.
“You look cleaner, Kitten.” Gabriel and Ethan sat on stools, blood and beer in front of them.
“I may never feel truly clean again,” I admitted. “I am, however, ready to get the hell out of Dodge.” I glanced at Ethan. “Are we ready to go to the house?”
“We are, and I share your sentiment exactly.”
Gabriel rose. “I’ll go with you this time. Damien, babysit the children, will you?”
Damien grunted but knew when to hold his peace.
***
The main house was apparently far enough away to necessitate vehicles. So we walked outside and climbed back into the trucks—Gabriel, Ethan, and I in one; Vincent, Nessa, and two more NAC shifters in the other. The rest of the vampires and shifters stayed at the guesthouse. There was no point in having all of us contaminate the crime scene.
After a drive through bumpy darkness, Gabriel pulled into a long, sweeping drive, the main house situated perfectly at the end, so guests could watch it grow larger as they flew down the driveway.
It was an obvious parent of the guesthouse—the same mix of steeply pitched roofs and heavy logs, of stone and glass, but on a substantially larger footprint. If the guesthouse would have made a lovely home for a big family, the main house was undoubtedly a mansion. Nessa and Taran had plenty of money.
The cruiser was parked in front of the house, Tom and a deputy reviewing paperwork as they waited. We pulled up beside it and climbed out into the night again.
“Hello,” Tom said, voice careful as he looked over Gabriel.
“Gabriel Keene,” Ethan said. “Apex of the North American Central Pack. Gabriel, this is Tom McKenzie, the sheriff.”
Tom nodded. “Of course. Good to meet you.”
***
By the time we trekked down the hill to the nearest road, the vehicles were waiting—several trucks and several shifters.
Gabriel leaned against one of them, arms crossed. He kicked off as we approached, looked us up and down, taking in the dirt, the mud, the scrapes and blood.
Ethan took several determined steps toward him, magic filling the air with an astringent buzz. He was pissed, and all his frustration, fear, pain, and fury were spilling now.
“I thought you intended to get your people under control,” he spat.
Gabriel uncrossed his arms, and his shifters’ expressions turned wary. “My people? You’re going to want to watch your tone, Sullivan.”
“Your people shot at us and, when that didn’t work, attempted to burn us out of the Marchands’ retreat because they believe Nessa killed Taran. We had to resort to a decrepit mine shaft for escape, were nearly killed in a cave-in. They’re members of your Pack. That makes their actions, their attempts at murder, your responsibility.”
Magic flashed across us and swirled in Gabriel’s eyes. “You wanna take a shot at me, Sullivan? You think you can land one?”
Ethan’s eyes flashed silver. He leaned forward. “Never, ever forget who we are, or take that for granted. You are an Apex. I am a Master. We may be allies, but I am not a member of your Pack. You are not my alpha.”
For a long moment, they stared at each other, two prime predators facing down, bodies stiff and alert, fists clenched and ready for battle.
They could have gone for it. They could have thrown down then and there, pummeled each other into the dirt to prove their superiority.
But wasn’t that precisely the problem in Elk Valley? That both shifter and vampire, convinced they were in the right, had refused to communicate, to discuss what had happened to Fiona and Christophe—had probably refused to cooperate in finding her—and the anger and fear had festered over generations. They’d been too entrenched in their own positions, too convinced the other was the enemy, to consider any other possibility. That’s precisely why we stood on a gravel road in the Rocky Mountains, tired and dirty and screaming at each other.
Gabriel seemed to realize that truth, and his dawning grin broke through the tension. “Thank sweet Christ Chicago’s vampires never cause trouble, Sullivan. Oh, wait—isn’t that why you needed a vacation in the first place?”
The tension faded from Ethan’s face immediately. He might have been pissed, but Gabe had a solid point. “Fuck you, Keene.”
Gabe’s smile widened, and he clapped Ethan on his broken arm. “Fuck you, too, Sullivan.”
I believe that’s what most called a compromise.
***
The shifters drove us back to the guesthouse where Orangesplosion waited, now slightly less orange than she had been. The Pack had gone back to the retreat, found the McKenzies gone—replaced by volunteer firemen—and Orangesplosion intact. Her paint was singed from proximity to the flames, but our katanas were safe inside.
We took turns in the shower while Nessa found suitable clothes for the other Marchands, ensured they had blood and food.
I was one of the last to shower, and I scrubbed hair and skin until I was certain I’d gotten rid of any arachnid trespassers. But I guessed I’d probably feel the creeping of tiny feet over my back for a few nights yet.
When I was clean and I’d shaken out my leather jacket half a dozen times to unburden it of any final creatures, I found the living room full of shifters and vampires. They didn’t speak to each other, but they weren’t at each other’s throats, either, which was something.
I walked into the kitchen, found the leaders of the various cabals in there.
“You look cleaner, Kitten.” Gabriel and Ethan sat on stools, blood and beer in front of them.
“I may never feel truly clean again,” I admitted. “I am, however, ready to get the hell out of Dodge.” I glanced at Ethan. “Are we ready to go to the house?”
“We are, and I share your sentiment exactly.”
Gabriel rose. “I’ll go with you this time. Damien, babysit the children, will you?”
Damien grunted but knew when to hold his peace.
***
The main house was apparently far enough away to necessitate vehicles. So we walked outside and climbed back into the trucks—Gabriel, Ethan, and I in one; Vincent, Nessa, and two more NAC shifters in the other. The rest of the vampires and shifters stayed at the guesthouse. There was no point in having all of us contaminate the crime scene.
After a drive through bumpy darkness, Gabriel pulled into a long, sweeping drive, the main house situated perfectly at the end, so guests could watch it grow larger as they flew down the driveway.
It was an obvious parent of the guesthouse—the same mix of steeply pitched roofs and heavy logs, of stone and glass, but on a substantially larger footprint. If the guesthouse would have made a lovely home for a big family, the main house was undoubtedly a mansion. Nessa and Taran had plenty of money.
The cruiser was parked in front of the house, Tom and a deputy reviewing paperwork as they waited. We pulled up beside it and climbed out into the night again.
“Hello,” Tom said, voice careful as he looked over Gabriel.
“Gabriel Keene,” Ethan said. “Apex of the North American Central Pack. Gabriel, this is Tom McKenzie, the sheriff.”
Tom nodded. “Of course. Good to meet you.”
