Chapter Twenty-Four
Melinda, with Manchu snuggled on her lap, closed another tab, resisting the urge to shove her laptop clear across the table.
Nothing. It’d been four days since the events at the abandoned warehouse and neither she nor the twins had found any trace of MysticMage.
Four days hunched over her laptop. Four nights spent in a super-sized king bed lapping up the attentions of two insatiable men.
Werewolves. Their stamina far surpassed hers.
In the wee hours of the morning, thoroughly sated, she would succumb to a deep and dreamless sleep.
Today, guilt was riding her hard. How could she lose herself to passion, how could she sleep so undisturbed when her poor client was…? It didn’t bear thinking about.
Across the table from her, surrounded by tech Melinda would’ve given a kidney for, Louis devoured a large slice of pecan pie with whipped cream.
Yesterday, it’d been apple pie. The day before, banana cream.
American pastries leaned more to the pie variety, and Louis seemed determined to try them all.
Pierre pushed back from his chair. “I’m going to make more coffee. Anyone want any? Melinda, tea?”
A chorus of yes, pleases, and Melinda leaned back in her chair, her gaze glued to Pierre’s taut ass as he sauntered into the kitchen.
Louis chuckled. “Can’t wait until tonight, bébé?”
Melinda flushed and glared at her lover.
They weren’t the only ones in the room. Gabriel, phone to his ear, paced to a backdrop of blue sky and city buildings.
Stefanie and Annabelle lounged on the sofa.
All three were werewolves. If what she’d learned about Louis’ and Pierre’s enhanced senses was anything to go by, she might as well shout it from the rooftops she was having sex with both of them.
But having intimate conversations in front of other people wasn’t something she was used to, even if it was the norm for werewolves.
Annabelle wasn’t just a werewolf. She was a witch, too.
Not that Melinda had seen any evidence of that yet.
Pierre had assured her it was true, and that Annabelle had played a role in the warehouse, keeping her safe and helping them.
Melinda had been too busy hiding behind a barrel, terrified, to witness anything.
What did it even mean to be a witch? Boiling cauldrons, pointy hats and a big book of spells? Weird occult-like ceremonies in the forest? Annabelle, despite being both a werewolf and a witch, appeared completely normal.
Isobella, Annabelle’s sister, was a witch, too. A sick one. She wasn’t here today. She’d had an appointment with her oncologist. Witchcraft, it seemed, had its limitations.
Pierre returned as Gabriel finished his call.
Stefanie accepted a coffee from Pierre. “What did my big brother have to say?”
“He’s sent back up. They should be here tonight.”
“Good.” Annabelle sipped her coffee. “I don’t think we can wait much longer. Isobella’s oncologist is pushing her to start some form of treatment. If she has surgery or chemo, or both as he’s suggesting, she’ll be too sick, too weak to go. We can’t hold off any longer.”
“Wait for what? Go where?” Melinda smiled her thanks to Pierre for her tea.
It hadn’t escaped her notice that although Annabelle, Stef, Pierre and Louis had filled her in on werewolves, there were still things they weren’t telling her.
Things everyone in the room except her knew.
She could understand why they’d kept secret their true identity.
It wasn’t something one bought up in casual conversation.
But now she knew, why would they continue to keep secrets from her? Hadn’t they said she’d get all of them?
Louis and Pierre looked to Gabriel, and after a pause, the big man nodded.
Pierre pulled up a chair beside her. “Melinda, Isobella is taking a trip back in time to the tenth century.”
Melinda almost choked on her tea. “You’re kidding me, right?” Time travel? Really?
“No, Melinda, he’s not joking,” said Annabelle, swiveling around to face her. “We have a spell to transport a person through time.” She grimaced. “It’s not pleasant, but it works. I know. I’ve tried it.”
Gabriel grunted. Perhaps he’d tried it, too. Or maybe it was an expression of the protectiveness he seemed to have for his mate. Annabelle didn’t seem to mind. Melinda wouldn’t mind it either, if it came from Pierre and Louis.
Melinda set her tea down on the table. “Okay. I’ll bite.
Why is Isobella going back in time? And why to the tenth century?
” If they were open to talking, Melinda wasn’t going to waste this chance, no matter how ridiculous it seemed.
After all, werewolves existed. And so did witches.
Why not time travel. “Are you hunting a powerful relic or something?”
“No.” Pierre shifted in his chair. “It’s a bit more complicated than that.”
The stillness in the room unnerved her. Whatever it was, it was big.
“Isobella is our many times great grandmother,” Louis blurted out.
Pierre glared at his twin.
Louis held up his hands. “What? There’s no point dancing around the subject. Like a sticking plaster, you just rip that sucker off.”
Their many times great grandmother? Her gaze skipped from one set of earnest eyes to the next, then back to Louis and Pierre. They were serious. “Does Isobella know about this?”
“About going back in time? Yes.” Annabelle rose from the sofa and skirted the table. “That she will mate these guys’ ancestors? No.”
At Annabelle’s closeness, Manchu leaped from her lap and flew up the stairs. Pierre and Louis he tolerated—Louis mostly because he fed Manchu treats at every opportunity—but he didn’t like any of the others getting near him.
“So, let me get this straight. You’re sending a sick woman back in time, with a spell that—in your own words—is unpleasant. Then she’s going to have to mate with some tenth-century barbarian?”
Annabelle held up two fingers. “Two barbarians, actually. Twins run in the family.”
Melinda gaped at Annabelle. “And you’re okay with this?
I mean, Isobella’s your sister. I don’t know a damn thing about the tenth century, but I’m pretty sure they don’t have oncologists and chemotherapy there.
Do they even have hospitals?” Melinda took in the room, the unconcerned faces looking at her.
“You’re sending her there to die. After… after…”
Gabriel cuffed Louis across the back of the head. “You idiots. You’ve told her nothing.”
Pierre snarled at Gabriel. “Like you told Annabelle?”
What was she missing here? Something important.
Perhaps profound. She rubbed her chest, attempting to ease the tightness.
Instinct, and the way Pierre and Louis couldn’t meet her eyes, told her it somehow concerned her.
Maybe Manchu had the right idea, but she remained in her seat. She had to know. “Told me what?”
Pierre reached for her hands, but she tucked them against her chest.
“Told me what?”
Pierre’s hazel eyes pleaded with her to understand. “There are certain things about us we can only reveal in…certain situations.”
Gabriel rolled his eyes. “Have you three talked at all in the last few days?”
This time, both Louis and Pierre snarled.
“Cut us some slack, Gabriel. She’s only known werewolves exist for four days.
It’s a lot to take in.” Louis rounded the table and joined his twin, blocking the others from view.
He pulled out a chair and dropped into it, leaning in close.
“There are other werewolf clans besides ours, but the Langeais wolves are different from them.”
Langeais? Is that somewhere in France?
“We are the only true werewolf pack.”
True werewolf pack? What the hell does that mean?
“Unless you count the Ludenwic wolves in London and the Rus wolves in Russia,” added Gabriel.
Pierre bared his fangs at his brother. “You’re not helping right now.”
He turned back to Melinda, his canines sliding back up into his gums, and Melinda fought the urge to shrink away from him, from those teeth. This was Pierre.
“Us”—Pierre sent a loaded glare in his brother’s direction—“the Ludenwic wolves and the Rus wolves are the only werewolves who can…turn human beings into werewolves.”
Oh, God. Melinda was out of her chair, retreating. Annabelle, Stefanie and Isobella had never mentioned that when they’d had their talk in the bar downstairs. Because she’d not asked that question? She hadn’t known enough to ask it.
Annabelle shrugged. “Sorry, Melinda.” The witch’s face beamed with sincerity. “It’s not knowledge the pack sanctions to be spread. It wasn’t our place to tell you.”
She could understand why. Werewolves running around, turning humans into more werewolves—it was like something out of a black-and-white horror film. Her eyes widened. Did they do that? Would Pierre and Louis do that?
Pierre stiffened, his expression shuttered. “We don’t do that, Melinda.”
What? How did he…?
Hurt flashed in Louis’ eyes. “We can read your body, your scent, chouquette. You were imagining us roaming the streets of San Francisco looking for fresh victims. That’s not how things work.”
No? How did they work then?
“Our alpha must sanction all turnings,” explained Pierre. “It’s been that way for centuries. There’s only ever been one reason he’ll accept a turning without question.”
“And that reason is?”
The entire room held its breath as every gaze settled on her.