Chapter 20
twenty
The house wasn’t much—a two-story fake Tudor on a quiet, depressed street—but Eric was visibly proud of scrambling a rental on short notice.
“It’s good,” Zach said, and hoped Sophie would catch the hint.
She’d been silent since the bar, the kind of trembling quiet he was beginning to think spelled trouble.
He also didn’t want to break the news that all Eric’s efforts might’ve been wasted if they had to get her out of town because the upir here were getting too big for their britches.
“It’s nice.” His shaman had finished rubbing at her steel-framed spectacles with a cloth fished from her purse and now stood in the empty living room peering at the fake fireplace; the gas wouldn’t be turned on until Brenn or Eric could get down to pay a deposit.
But there was electricity, the place came with fridge, stove, and laundry machines.
Julia had already hung up her clothes in one of the bedrooms—not the biggest one, for once.
That one belonged to the shaman. And, not so incidentally to Zach, once she consented to shar. He’d cross that bridge when he came to it.
Assuming they stayed put.
“It’s really nice,” she said, pushing her hair back. A thin thread of her light, lovely musk reached him. She even smelled pleased. “You did all this just in a few hours?”
“The hardest part was finding mattresses.” Eric drew himself up a little straighter, grinning, leather jacket creaked as he shrugged. Was he actually blushing? Wonders never ceased. “But we’re champion scroungers.”
Sophie was indeed smiling, pale eyes damn near sparkling and the corners of her mouth curved up. The smile did something funny to Zach’s head, even though he thought himself reasonably prepared for just how goddamn attractive she was.
That smile made him want to do something, anything, to keep it in place. Maybe even make her laugh. She didn’t just smell good, she was smart and capable and soft in all the right places, and—
She gave the living room another critical glance, slid her purse off her shoulder, and sobered. “We might not be here for long, though. We found out some things.”
Which brought Eric’s gaze around to rest on him, speculatively, and Zach found himself wondering if his cousin-brother was having second thoughts.
There was going to be a short, sharp fight if that was happening.
“Like what?” The pale stripe in Eric’s hair gleamed under the ceiling fixture’s bright glow.
Zach kept his hands loose with an effort. “Like why the upir are after our shaman. What’s for dinner?”
“The kids are at the store, should be back in a few. Jul said she’d do steaks.” Eric studied Zach’s face, his forehead wrinkling. He looked younger when he did that, a ghost of the gangly kid he used to be. “What’s up?”
“Steak? Wow.” Sophie’s smile peeped out again, a shadow of its former self as well.
Still, he almost lost track of what he needed to say. “Seems like our shaman’s ex-husband wants her as a sacrifice. The upir in these parts are getting uppity, in bed with the police and the local gentry. Met a shaman of the Bear Tribe who doesn’t think anyone will stand up to them.”
“So it’s simple.” Eric folded his arms, jacket creaking. “We slap them around a bit, show them who’s boss, crack ’em like a nut, and be home in time for breakfast. Right?”
If something so simple can fix it, I’ll be relieved.
“It’s up to the shaman.” Zach clumped to the big bay window, his boots squelching.
He’d be lucky if she didn’t catch a fever after being dragged around through the rain all day—she was still so new, barely past triggering.
No wonder Tribe was so hard to find in this city.
But… scared of upir? What next? They were dangerous, true, but Tribe—especially Carcajou—were well-equipped to handle such things. Right?
Unless there’s so many they can swarm a Family and take out a shaman. It was an uncomfortable thought. Cullen said they’d already lost two. Are pigs gonna start flying next? Jesus.
A quiet residential street under heavy grey pall, night already mostly fallen. Streetlamps struggled into life, pale yellow dots on the canvas of winter dusk. The house was full of stale air, but the musk was already beginning to seep in, make it smell like home.
“What are we going to do?” Eric sounded young as Brenn, and for a moment Zach was glad nobody was asking him. He was having a difficult time keeping his temper down, thinking of upir stalking a helpless woman.
Stalking this helpless woman.
“I don’t know.” There was a sound of movement, and a sudden drift of her almost-perfume. Sophie, approaching him for once. “You’re angry.” Soft, tentative.
He forced himself to stand still. “Of course I’m angry. They’re threatening our shaman.” My mate. But you don’t have a clue, do you?
“Well, what should we do?” Still that cautious tone, as if she thought he was going to explode.
He just might. Even the ice and moonlight hanging on her wasn’t enough to smooth his nerves.
“What I want to do is go find this Wilson motherfucker and tear his spleen out. Because I can smell how afraid you are every time you think about him. Then I want to find his happy little handler, this Armitage, and tear him apart, too. And all their little helpers.”
The touch startled him. She had her hand on his shoulder, a light pressure through his damp jacket. Both of them had been rained on all day, and for what? To find out the upir had a lock on this town so tight the Tribes were afraid instead of proud.
“Why are they afraid of Carcajou?” She pronounced the name slightly wrong, but he thought he detected a breath of high-school French. “And what does that mean, anyway?”
“They’re afraid because that’s our specialization, hunting upir.
And because we don’t back down—that’s why there’re so few of us.
We breed slow and we fight hard.” Our Family was an exception.
Especially when our shaman threw twins, that was a Big Event.
Every Tribe we ever knew came to pay regards.
His hands had knitted into fists. He felt more than heard Eric withdraw, probably spooked by the high-level bloodlust pouring out of Zach’s glands.
“Well. That answers that.” Did she sound amused? Did she not understand what was going on?
He glanced down. Yes, that was her hand on his shoulder. Yes, she was smiling. It was an odd, wry expression, and her glasses glinted wickedly at him. She’d unbuttoned Kyle’s jacket; the rain had worked its way in, plastering a triangle of cotton T-shirt to her chest.
Yup. Curves to make a racetrack die of envy, and she was standing right next to him, the closest she’d ever willingly been. Close enough that he could feel the heat from her, even through soaked clothing.
What the hell?
“I guess you saved my life.” Sophie stared at the window, very carefully avoiding looking at him. “Though we’re going to have to talk about that kidnapping thing.”
“I didn’t have a choice.” His growl rattled the entire room; Zach fought to bottle the anger, keep it leashed.
“I know, I said we’d talk about it. Just calm down.”
He could smell the fear on her, yet she stayed right where she was. He wondered what it cost her. “It’s hard to be calm when you smell frightened, shaman.” You don’t know how hard.
“I can’t remember not being scared. Isn’t that funny?” Her expression suggested she didn’t find anything amusing at all about it. “I know I must’ve been, maybe before I married Marc. But not anymore.”
Jesus. “I’m sorry.” And I’m something you should be afraid of, too. Dammit. Of all the things to happen.
“I was terrified when I left him. That nobody would believe me, or he’d find me and drag me back, or the outside world really was too huge for me to handle on my own. That he was right somehow, you know? That I was weak and he was justified every time he…” Maddeningly, she stopped.
Every time he hurt you. “But you did it anyway, right?”
“I did.” Her hand fell from his shoulder, but thankfully she didn’t retreat further. “Just like I’m scared of you and your family, but I’m going to stay with you anyway. Being frightened isn’t a reason not to do something. Lucy always tried to tell me that.”
“I’m sorry about her.” And sorry about Kyle. And sorry about you, too. Sorry I’ve frightened the fuck out of you, handled you exactly wrong. Why couldn’t this have been easier?
“Me, too.” Miraculously, she still didn’t back away from him. The nearness was soothing, her scent spreading, wrapping around him. “I just… Why would Marc want her dead as well? I can’t figure it out.”
Of course she couldn’t. It was utterly alien to her, probably, the things some men were capable of. And they call us beasts. “I’d bet it was because she helped you get away. Didn’t she?”
Because when that type of man thinks he owns something, he’ll kill everything it touches. Just to prove the point.
She was silent for a long span of moments, staring out the bay window. When he looked closer he found her cheeks were wet, not just with the endless, stupid sleet. Big gemlike tears made her pretty eyes sparkle, and she was biting her lower lip, worrying gently.
“Then it is my fault,” she finally whispered. “It should’ve been me.”
“Oh, Christ.” Zach had her shoulders before he realized it, restrained himself from shaking her only by sheer willpower. “Don’t. It’s not your fault and not hers, either. It’s him. He’s the—”
Sophie reached up, awkward because his hands were around her upper arms. Her damp fingers curved around his nape; she pulled his head down, gently but irresistibly. His mouth met hers, lips opening shyly, and he forgot everything but the taste of her, flavored with the ghost of spearmint gum.
His body pushed against hers, searching for resistance and finding none until her back met the wall near the dead fireplace. His palms slid down to describe her waist, those hips he’d been longing to touch unreeling just like a rollercoaster.