Chapter 15 The Den
THE DEN
Victoria’s Mercedes purred through a pair of familiar wrought-iron gates at precisely three o’clock the following afternoon.
I stared glumly at the mansion looming ahead and tried to remember a time in my pre-werewolf life when I’d willingly walked into a building full of people I dreaded meeting more than my dentist.
This morning’s breakfast ambush had been textbook Victoria. She’d waited until I was mid-bite into Nora’s exceptional French toast, watched me close my eyes in bliss, and struck.
“I hope you haven’t forgotten that the Council of Elders meeting is this afternoon,” she’d said coolly, snapping her paper open. “We’re expected at three.”
I’d nearly choked on my toast and had gulped down the coffee Bernard had hastily poured me.
In fairness, she’d been dropping hints for days.
There had been casual mentions of “upcoming obligations” and “certain responsibilities that come with being a Hawthorne luna” that had escalated to veiled threats.
I’d been dodging them with the kind of tactical evasion that would have impressed a seasoned military operative.
Victoria had simply outflanked me by weaponizing carbs.
Samuel conveniently had pack business to attend to, which meant I couldn’t use him as a shield. The sympathetic look he’d given me on his way out had not been comforting. Neither had the ones my work associates had bestowed upon me when Victoria had come to pick me up at the office.
“Stop fidgeting,” my future mother-in-law said without taking her eyes off the driveway. “You know they can smell nerves.”
“They can smell a lot of things,” Pearl contributed from the backseat. “Martha Claymore once told me I smelled of ‘posh upholstery.’” The cat sniffed. “I would have preferred the word elegant myself.”
“Does that mean Abby and I smelled of commoner upholstery?” Bo asked, momentarily distracted from his ongoing moping.
The Husky had been protesting his new diet with dramatic commitment, as if starvation was imminent. His sulking had reached operatic levels at dinner last night.
“You most certainly did,” Pearl responded with a sneer. “And you still do, mutt.”
Bo ignored the insult and pressed his nose against the rear window, his breath misting the glass. “By the way, is that a topiary wolf?”
Victoria followed his gaze. “It’s a topiary lion.”
Bo tilted his head. “It’s lopsided.”
He wasn’t wrong. One of the topiary bushes lining the driveway was listing at a worrying angle, like something had crashed into it and somebody had attempted a hasty repair. None of the other supernatural-creature-shaped hedges appeared to be claiming responsibility.
Victoria parked in a lot full of eye-wateringly expensive vehicles.
The Den’s limestone facade rose before us, all Gothic buttresses and stern architecture.
The obligatory gargoyles perched along the roofline, their stone grimaces surveying the grounds with the enthusiasm of bouncers at an exclusive nightclub.
Bo eyed them with his usual suspicion. “I swear, one of those things blinked last time we were here.”
“They’re made of stone,” I said pointedly. “Stone doesn’t blink.”
“That’s what they want you to think,” the Husky huffed.
I clocked the guarded look Victoria and Pearl exchanged and decided not to pursue the matter. My wolf was already on edge and I didn’t need everybody’s paranoia adding to my nerves.
The front entrance of the building was flanked by a pair of ornate columns and a brass plaque that read The Den – Est. 1872, Members Only. A doorman in a tailored suit held the door open as we approached, his scent broadcasting his vampire origin.
“Good afternoon, Mrs. Hawthorne. Miss West.” His gaze dropped to Bo, his expression betraying nothing. “And canine companion.”
“I’m part werewolf,” Bo corrected, puffing out his chest. “We think.”
The doorman’s blank expression wobbled a little.
The interior of The Den smelled like old money, floor polish, and generations of passive-aggressive warfare. Dark wood paneling lined the hallways and the portraits of previous Council members tracked our progress with painted eyes that radiated centuries of judgment.
I had been here exactly once before, during my first disastrous meeting with the Council. The memory still made my palms sweat.
We navigated the lounge and made for a sweeping staircase. A series of displays containing magical artifacts made my wolf’s senses tingle in a not unpleasant fashion as we headed for the Moonlight Room.
Victoria paused outside and straightened her already perfect posture.
“Right,” she said in a hardened battle tone that spoke of decades navigating social minefields. “Poise. Composure. Dignity.”
“And no breaking furniture or insulting anyone’s lineage,” I added with a nervous laugh.
Victoria narrowed her eyes in a way that told me my attempt at humor was being filed under pending etiquette violations. She opened the doors.
The Moonlight Room was long, shadowy, and designed to make everyone in it feel like they were being evaluated for crimes they hadn’t committed yet.
An ornate crystal chandelier hung from the ceiling, casting just enough light to be atmospheric without actually illuminating anything useful.
The table that dominated the room was set for tea service, bone china and silver gleaming against dark linen.
The Council of Elders was already assembled.
Priscilla Holt sat at the head of the table, elegant in navy silk and radiating the calm authority I’d come to associate with the de facto leader of this particular band of formidable werewolves.
She rose when she saw us and crossed the room to greet Victoria with an embrace that carried genuine warmth and made several council members raise their eyebrows in surprise.
The two women’s relationship had shifted considerably since I’d exposed Camilla Lynch’s treachery and helped bring Arthur home.
The matriarchs weren’t exactly bosom buddies—werewolf pack politics didn’t allow for anything that simple—but the frost between them had thawed into mutual respect dressed in careful diplomacy.
“Victoria, thank you for coming.”
“Of course,” Victoria murmured. “You look well, Priscilla.”
“As do you.” Priscilla’s gaze shifted to me. “Abby, the Council is happy to see you.”
“Is it, though?” I asked before I could stop myself.
Victoria’s left eye performed a micro-twitch. Priscilla’s mouth curved.
“I appreciate your candor,” the Holt matriarch said lightly. “It’s refreshing. Most people in this room wouldn’t dare speak their honest opinion.”
Her emphasis on “most people” drew a couple of stiff looks from down the table.
Pearl claimed her usual spot on Victoria’s lap as we took our seats. Bo stationed himself under the table near my feet and began his not so subtle reconnaissance of the floor for crumbs.
I scanned the faces around the table.
Helen Sheridan was already eyeing me like I’d tracked mud across her Persian rug.
Isobel Lynton sat with her arms folded, cool and watchful.
Martha Claymore and Felicity Newfield were wedged together at the far end, Martha looking bright-eyed and Felicity clutching her walking stick like a weapon.
The elderly witches greeted me with warm smiles and a twinkle in their gazes that promised scandalous trouble.
The chair that had once belonged to Camilla Lynch now sat occupied by an elder I didn’t recognize—a sharp-featured woman who introduced herself as Rosemary Pike and immediately returned to inspecting the china on the table.
A waiter arrived with a serving cart loaded with tea, sandwiches, biscuits, and cakes.
Bo started drooling. I carefully moved my feet out of the way.
Priscilla called the meeting to order and the Council settled into its usual rhythm.
Agenda items were raised. Territorial disputes were aired.
Somebody’s nephew had been caught howling after curfew for the third week running and was facing a formal reprimand.
A lengthy debate erupted over hedge maintenance responsibilities along the boundary between two pack territories, during which Helen Sheridan referenced a precedent from 1943 and Felicity threatened to wallop someone with her walking stick.
I was twelve minutes into mentally redecorating the room when Helen decided to lob her grenade.
“Before we move on,” she said in clipped tones, dabbing her mouth delicately with a napkin, “I feel compelled to raise a concern about the younger generation’s recent… associations.”
The atmosphere cooled considerably.
Helen’s gaze swept the table with the precision of a sniper. “It has come to my attention that certain young wolves from prominent families have been—how shall I put this—seen to be fraternizing in a rather inappropriate fashion.”
I didn’t need enhanced senses to know she was talking about Hugh and Beatrice.
Isobel Lynton stirred. “Helen raises a valid point. Pack reputation is a delicate matter. One would hope the younger generation would show more discernment in their conduct.”
Victoria’s teacup met its saucer without a sound, which was more menacing than if she’d slammed it down.
“If you have something to say about my son,” the Hawthorne matriarch stated, her voice lethally pleasant, “I’d prefer you do it plainly, Helen.”
Bo gulped. Pearl twitched her tail. I swallowed audibly.
Helen’s chin lifted. “I simply think that the Hawthorne heir gallivanting around town with a Lupton girl and the pair of them behaving indecently sends a certain message.”
“And what message would that be?”
Priscilla spoke before Helen could answer. “If we’re discussing our children’s romantic choices, I should point out that my son Marcus is happily courting Lauren Lupton.” Her tone was mild but her eyes were granite. “I don’t recall anyone at this table having a say in the matter. Nor should they.”
The united front landed with the subtlety of a sledgehammer wrapped in silk. Helen’s mouth pinched. Isobel’s expression cooled further, which I hadn’t thought possible.
Felicity jabbed the air with her walking stick. “Oh, leave the young ones alone. At least they’re dating within the supernatural community. My granddaughter brought home a human once. A vegan human.” She shuddered. “Now that was a scandal.”
Martha leaned toward her companion. “Hey, remember when Helen climbed through Alexander Hawthorne’s bedroom window in a see-through negligee?” The elder’s whisper carried across the room like a foghorn.
Helen went scarlet.
“That was forty years ago,” she hissed.
“And yet I recall it like it was yesterday.” Martha beamed. “I hear that Alexander’s face was priceless. And Victoria nearly took the door off its hinges.”
Victoria’s expression signaled she had blocked this particular memory for good reason.
“I had a witch hex a rival’s corset at the 1987 Moonlight Gala,” Rosemary Pike volunteered unexpectedly, glancing up from her plate. “The thing inflated like a balloon during the waltz. She floated into the chandelier.” She returned to her biscuits and rearranged one subtly. “No one said a word.”
Isobel tittered involuntarily and sobered hastily under Helen’s cold stare. Martha and Felicity bestowed approving smiles upon Rosemary.
“The point stands,” Priscilla said smoothly. “Our children are adults. They’ll make their own choices. As did we.”
Helen subsided with poor grace.
A soft thud from beneath the table distracted me. I looked down.
Bo had crept across the floor and was making a move on the serving cart. He froze mid-reach, one paw extended toward a tray of crustless sandwiches on the lower shelf, his eyes enormous and guilty.
My mouth flattened to a thin line.
Unbelievable. I’d put this dog on a diet eighteen hours ago and he was already committing crimes.
Pearl poked her head under the edge of the table. She observed the scene below with narrowed eyes.
“Pathetic,” the cat hissed scathingly. “At least have the decency to steal with some finesse.”
Bo retracted his paw and tried to look innocent, which was difficult when his tongue was hanging out and his eyes were locked on the sandwiches like targeting systems.
To my quiet despair, the meeting ground on.
Pack boundary inspections were scheduled.
A complaint was lodged about unauthorized bonfires near the southern preserve.
Felicity and Martha got into a spirited argument about whether the annual Winter Hunt should include a vegetarian option, which devolved into a broader philosophical debate about why supernatural creatures should eat salad.
Things were mercifully winding down when Martha addressed the table.
“By the way, does anyone know when the Lincoln sisters are returning from their vacation?”
I stiffened. Thankfully, no one noticed.
Priscilla frowned faintly. “I’m not sure. It is strange that they’ve been gone this long.”
Felicity perked up. “I’ll tell you what’s strange. Those Marchefords.”
My spine straightened, my wolf going on full alert.
“What about the Marchefords?” Victoria said, puzzled.
“I saw two of them at the general store in North Amberford on Tuesday,” Felicity confided with an edge of glee.
The Council exchanged surprised glances.
“That’s unusual, considering they’re rarely out and about,” Isobel remarked.
“They were buying some weird things,” Felicity added, notching up the glee with a devilish sparkle in her eyes.
“What kind of weird things?” I asked lightly.
Bo had stopped trying to raid the serving cart and was listening with one ear cocked.
Felicity wrinkled her nose. “Helium balloons. Streamers. Crepe paper. They also ordered an alarming quantity of sausage rolls from the bakery next door. I know because they ran out.”
“They got face paint too,” Rosemary said. She shrugged at our stares. “I was at the florist across the road.”
A murmur went around the table.
“The Marchefords don’t normally socialize,” Martha said warily.
Priscilla pursed her lips. “True. They haven’t attended a single community event in decades.”
Helen waved a hand dismissively. “It’s probably nothing.”
The Council moved on to closing remarks. Priscilla thanked everyone for attending. I rose with the others, my mind no longer on Council politics or salad debates.
The Marchefords had just become my next lead into the Lincoln sisters’ disappearance.
“You’re thinking what I’m thinking?” I murmured to Bo as we followed Victoria and Pearl out of the room.
The Husky shot me a wary look. “You mean, how those sausage rolls would be great right about now?”
I swallowed a sigh. This dog had a one-track mind.