33. Chapter 33
Riley
The burns on my wrist had faded from angry red to a dull, mottled pink, thanks to Ash’s salve and a visit from a Pack Homeopath. My ankles were still a mess, but my implant registered the pain and filed it under manageable.
I didn’t appreciate the thing minimizing my pain to manageable, and sent a mental image of me digging it out with a rusty spoon. It sent back a little zap through my nervous system. If I didn’t know better, I thought the thing was teasing me.
A backpack sat open on the floor, stuffed with clothes and toiletries Flint had sent me over the past two days.
Behind me, the bed was rumpled, and I stood in Conall’s shirt.
He’d been creative last night, trying to keep my mind off my injuries.
Heat crept up my neck as I flashed back to his talented mouth and long, vibrating growls.
Conall walked in, his energy filling the room. “You’re packed.” His voice was quiet.
“Almost. Ash just changed my bandages. I can walk without wanting to die, so that’s progress.”
His thumbs traced small circles on my hipbones through his shirt as conflicting emotions swirled inside him. But he understood why we both had to go.
“Jamie arranged a private charter flight to Jackson. Then Ash will drive you to Yellowstone.” His breath was warm against my hair.
His hands slid to the small of my back, and I cupped his cheeks. “I don’t want Ash to come with me.”
Conall’s expression didn’t change, but his energy did. A subtle shift, like the pressure dropping before a storm. “Why?”
“Because I don’t want any more of your Betas to be my bodyguards.”
He tilted his head. “Where is this coming from?”
I stepped back, his hands falling away. “They get hurt or die around me. Freda has a concussion, and they killed Malcolm. Jamie lost his eye, and Ash was shot in Roswell. No more.”
“You didn’t get Malcolm killed or hurt my Betas. Apex did.”
“But I’m the common denominator.” My throat tightened as my implant sent frigid vibrations through me, trying to wall off the guilt, but it leaked through anyway, hot and sharp. “I don’t want anything else to happen, especially to Ash.”
He crossed his arms. “He is my first Beta, a Tracker, and a Homeopath. If I thought you wouldn’t riot, I’d send three more Betas with you. Be thankful it’s only Ash.”
“Conall, no.”
“Riley.” His voice dropped, his Alpha power spilling out.
“You were taken from a pediatrician’s office in broad daylight.
They restrained and drugged you, and that fucking bastard let a doctor sexually assault you while they watched.
” His voice grew even lower as he spoke.
“This isn’t about your competence. This is about keeping you safe.
” I sensed his rage and fear, raw and visceral. He was scared for me.
“I’m not dismissing the threat, but I don’t want to be responsible for what happens to the next person who’s assigned to me.”
“You’re not responsible for—”
“Yes, I am!” I cut him off, then let out a breath. “I’m the one they want. Not Freda, not Ash or Jamie. Me. And until we shut this down, anyone near me is a target.”
We stood there, the space between us charged. The bond shuddered, a live wire of frustration and his consuming need to keep me safe, while I couldn’t stand to be the reason someone else got hurt.
A knock sounded on the door, and Ash stepped inside. He’d changed into dark jeans and a charcoal sweater. His long black hair hung loose over one shoulder, and his dark eyes took in the scene with quiet perceptiveness.
“Am I interrupting?”
“Yes,” Conall muttered.
“No,” I countered.
Ash’s mouth curved slightly. “I overheard your discussion, along with every other shifter in the house. Riley, our need to protect you isn’t about your competence, or guilt, or even what Conall wants.”
“Then what’s it about?”
He considered me for a moment, his energy steady and warm. “Honor. Trust. Pack structure. Conall is my Alpha, and you’re a worthy Alpha Mate. Protecting you is a high honor. I’m going with you.” His dark eyes held mine.
Conall stood there, waiting.
I looked between them and let out a long exhale. “Fine. But if anything happens to you, I am officially done with bodyguards.”
Conall let out a long breath, and Ash nodded. “I’ll meet you outside in twenty minutes.” He softly closed the door.
Conall cupped my face and brushed his thumb over my lips, causing the bond to flare between us.
“Come back to me, whole and in one piece.”
“You do the same.” I curled my fingers into the front of his shirt and slowly pulled him in for a kiss, his mouth warm and sure against mine.
For a moment the worry and fear fell away.
His hands slid into my hair, and he angled my head, deepening the kiss.
I breathed in his scent and bathed in his emotions, knowing the next time he saw me, he’d be furious.
Then I tracked down Parker and dragged him outside. “I need your help.”
Later that evening, Ash pulled up in front of the log bungalow that had become my second home in the Old Faithful historic district of Yellowstone.
Gunnar filled the doorway, his massive frame blocking the light. Mangus skirted around him and met me as soon as I slid out of the rental. His tail wagged enthusiastically, and a string of smoldering drool landed on my hiking boot.
“Hey, big guy. Did you miss me?” I scratched behind their ears, then winced when he brushed against an ankle.
“He moped by the door for two days straight,” Gunnar informed me. “Athena missed you too, but she has more dignity.”
The white hellhound walked to the edge of the porch and yawned. “She doesn’t look like she missed me.”
Gunnar glanced at Ash. “You’re kinda hard on your bodyguards. What is this, number four or five?”
Guilt swamped me. “You remember Ash from Roswell, right?”
“I remember him taking a few bullets for you.”
Ash stared at Gunnar. “You’re making Riley feel responsible. She has a savior complex and feels guilty when people she cares about get hurt.”
Gunnar winced. “Sorry. Yeah, she kind of does want to save everyone.” He turned to me. “It’s not your fault everyone gets hurt around you.”
Ash shook his head. “You’re making it worse.”
Gunnar shrugged and motioned for us to come inside. “Wouldn’t be the first time. I made some ‘don’t ask’ stew and biscuits if you’re hungry.”
I tilted my head. “What’s in–”
“It’s called ‘don’t ask’ for a reason,” Gunnar interrupted.
We stowed our luggage then sat down to eat.
The stew smelled delicious but contained an unsettling number of different meats.
The biscuits, however, were light and fluffy with a sprinkling of chives and cheese on top.
Mangus flopped down beside me, and I picked out big chunks of meat from my stew and fed him.
A half-empty bottle of whiskey sat beside a stack of case files on the table. Gunnar grabbed a few coffee mugs, filled each with a finger of whiskey, and pushed one toward me.
“You look like shit,” Gunnar informed me, settling his bulk into the straining kitchen chair.
“Thanks.” I took a sip, wheezing through the burn.
Gunnar pointed to the files. “I’ve been thinking about this case while you were getting yourself kidnapped again.”
Ash picked up his coffee mug and pointed to my partner. “Stop poking at her, troll.”
Gunnar rolled his eyes. “Fiiine. One thing keeps coming back to me since our first day here.”
The implant hissed to life, cold and analytical. I slowly sipped the whiskey, letting it burn a path down my throat and dull the pain in my ankles.
“What?”
“Zaria. The witch. I’ve looked through her file several times, and she’s an anomaly. Why is she here? She grew up near Lake Bled in Slovenia, but she ends up on another continent. She also knew your dad before she even moved here.”
I cradled my mug in my hands. “And?”
“Maybe her ties to your father were more than just casual or coincidental. She also volunteered to help you with your implant.” He tapped a thick finger on the table. “We need to go through her place.”
“Is it still intact?”
“Yep. I talked to the county sheriff, and he said the wards on the house shocked the shit out of him and his deputy when they went to look at the place. They’re waiting until whatever protection spells Zaria has on it fades.”
When a witch died, their magic dissipated over time. Dani, my former landlord, had warded my old apartment building with a few nasty spells, but I knew she had to feed them her blood every so often.
“We’ll have to be careful. You don’t want to mess with a witch’s magic, especially one from the Old World.”
Gunnar nodded. “He gave me a key.”
“Okay. Let’s go then.”
The next morning dawned cold and foggy. Zaria’s cabin appeared through the trees, a wood and stone cottage with a covered porch and smoke-stained chimney.
The trim and front door were painted a cheery robin-egg blue, but yellow crime-scene tape stretched across the front door, stirring in the breeze.
We stood on the porch, and Gunnar stared at the front door. “I think you should knock, announce yourself, and unlock the door. The witch seemed to like you when we met her that first day.”
Ash shifted beside me. “I feel witch magic, but I don’t sense ill intent. Let me do it, just in case.”
I shook my head. “No, I think Gunner is right.” Cautiously, I walked up the front steps, announced myself, then unlocked the front door and stepped inside. The cottage smelled of fresh herbs, beeswax, and witch hazel.
Ash and Gunnar walked in right behind me.
A sturdy leather couch and an antique wool rug sat in the main living area.
Oak bookshelves lined the fireplace, and the bright, compact kitchen had white cabinets and black soapstone countertops.
Fresh thyme and rosemary grew in small white pots on the kitchen windowsill, and a Portuguese cookbook lay open on the counter.
“Who’s been here?” I wondered as I pulled rubber gloves out of my pack.
Gunnar glanced around. “No clue. Obviously, her wards and the crime scene tape aren’t keeping everyone out. You check her bedrooms and bathrooms. I’ll check the living area and kitchen.”
I started in Zaria’s bedroom. A faded heirloom quilt covered her bed, and linen curtains hung over her window, letting in soft, muted light.
Her dresser held clothes and a few pieces of jewelry, but not much else.
I looked through her closet next, feeling a vague sense of guilt about going through her personal things, even though she was dead.
Her clothes were mostly practical and high-quality.
She had two dresses, one a beautiful white silk sheath with delicate lace embellishments.
Had Zaria been married in it? I finished and moved to her small office.
The desk was tucked beneath the window in the smaller room, holding a brass reading lamp and a thick, scented candle.
A stack of handwritten notes sat in one corner, covered in Zaria’s beautiful handwriting.
They included ingredient lists, a few journals, and notes in a language I didn’t recognize.
A small jewelry box sat beside a stack of envelopes.
Inside, nestled on faded velvet next to a gold bracelet, was a simple gold band. My hand crept up, and my fingers curled around the ring I wore on a chain around my neck.
I unhooked it, pulled it off the chain that still held Parker’s tracker, and held the two rings side by side. They were identical, except for the size. The same width, the same dull sheen, the same tiny inscription inside the band I’d never fully deciphered.
My implant processed the visual data and compared the two rings. High probability of a match confirmed.
My mouth went dry. “Ash,” I called.
He came up the stairs. “What did you find?”
Turning to him, I held up the rings. “This one is mine, and I found this in her jewelry box.” He looked down at them.
“Where did you get yours?”
“My father, not long after my parents divorced.” The words felt thick in my throat. I pulled out a small plastic evidence bag and slid Zaria’s ring inside, then put my ring back on my chain and fastened it back around my neck.
Ash didn’t speak, but the air was heavy. I kept going through Zaria’s desk. An old address book was tucked in the back of the top drawer, and I flipped it open. The pages held a few names, addresses, and phone numbers in Zaria’s distinctive handwriting.
A few pages in, I stopped short.
J.B., P.O. Box 772, Estes Park, CO. My father’s initials and his old mailing address, from before he disappeared. The ink had faded to the color of old tea.
And right below it, in the same handwriting, was my old college address in blue ink, and my P.O. Box in Springdale. I quickly flipped through her address book and stopped short when I came to the R’s.
There it was. D. M. R. on Maple Street in Boulder, Colorado. Daniela Maria Reyes, my old landlord and friend, who was also a witch. Parker was the one who’d arranged my housing, and he’d known what Daniela was. But I’d never asked how he knew my old landlord in the first place.
My chest tightened. The implant sent a cold pulse through my system, trying to regulate the surge of emotions that threatened to swamp me. My hand shook as I traced the address.
When I finished checking upstairs, I walked downstairs. “Gunnar,” I called, my voice steadier than I felt.
He was in the living room. “You find anything?”
I held up the address book. “She has my father, my old landlord in college–who is also a witch–and me listed in her address book.” His green-tinted face went still, his eyes narrowing.
“She knew your dad, and she knew exactly who you were.”
Mangus whined from the porch, probably sensing my distress. The mist had thickened, pressing against the windows as I showed Gunnar the ring.
“We need to find out what the connection is between my father and Zaria, and what is happening in this Park.”
Gunnar blinked at me. “Uh, it’s kinda obvious they were romantically involved.”
I looked down at the ring in my palm, and for the first time since my father disappeared, I wondered if I’d be better off not knowing.