“No!” Fizzy confusion had her bouncing around, a fluff in her princess dress.
“What happened a century ago was just an accident?” I teased.
“Yes.” Effa agreed, embarrassment punching up her mouth while her hands battled the petals. “But wolves don’t forget. They get squid-spittled. Fish-eyed. Never trust a fire nymph.”
I took pity on her, even if she was infesting Anson’s beautiful Alpha Suite with vines—they seemed to grow in response to her frustration, popping out of corners. Creeping over the books on the shelves.
“Must have been the wonkiness in the Carmag,” I said, while both nymphs nodded gravely in agreement. And yet, a joyful undercurrent warmed my heart. Seeing Caerwen, not so burdened with helping failles. And Effa, revealing a juicy humor. Perhaps they were less constrained when they were away from Aine.
“I worry about you guys, too,” I said. “Harming yourselves by staying too long.”
“We’re not fracky,” Effa said, blowing out a puff of exasperated air. “We’ll go back and forth when we need it. Now that you’re awake.”
They’d been afraid to leave in case…
I bent my head, said “thank you” so softly I wasn’t sure they heard.
Caerwen patted my hand. “Your poor runes… I dislike vampires immensely. Always have. Ruin things because nobody stops them.”
“You know what?” Pushing back the sheet, I swung my legs over the edge of the plush bed. “I’m tired of lying around. It’s time to get dressed, go out into that garden, and set those croissant prisoners free. Who’s with me?”
Both nymphs squealed.
Two days later, Anson called a meeting. I had to attend, but Effa and Caerwen remained in the Alpha Suite—a decision having more to do with the vine infestations than with nymphs having no say in Carmag decisions.
The meeting room was what I expected from a pack known to love music and close companionship but waved a war flag with two fighting wolves on a red field. Whose alpha did nothing when his healer tied me to a bed and poured ice over me. Who’d set his wards against Grayson while agreeing to shelter Sentinel Falls refugees, then claimed we weren’t hostages.
Fallon waited at the polished table. Three chairs away and opposite from her, a muscular man studied the folder in front of him. Elijah Stone, Anson’s military advisor. Similar to Mace in responsibility, but not as alpha-dominant. Just an aggressive wolf.
Anson sat, flanked by empty chairs, but still the obvious alpha in the room. What I sensed from him was a mix of strength and wild. What was his wolf like? Did Anson crave solitude the way Grayson did? Or did his pleasure come from his ability to lead?
He’d be a strong leader, fair, perhaps rigid when his pride was involved. I glanced at Fallon. She was also strong and wild. They might have made a powerful pair if circumstances had turned another way. If we weren’t facing an enemy, and if competing interests didn’t feel so magnified.
And if Mace had not been in the way.
At the far end of the table, a woman sat with her legs crossed, back stiff. I guessed she was a wolf shifter, but she was not from the Carmag. An eyepatch covered her left eye. She wore fighting leathers with empty loops where weapons should be. Her brown hair was ordinary and pulled back, worn the way Fallon wore hers. The way I wore mine because loose hair, especially long loose hair, was a liability in battle.
Not that anyone expected a battle during this meeting unless it was with opposing opinions.
With no windows, the isolation was eased by the mounted monitors lining the utilitarian walls. An array of electronic devices covered the table. Overhead lights were daylight-blue. Stark. Empty chairs set in rows said the room would accommodate two dozen men if needed. I imagined the threat in clomping boots and rough, muffled voices, but perhaps that was faille energy I was picking up. Images from the past.
“Alpha.” I offered Anson the courtesy of his title, threw in a chin dip as insurance. He waved toward a chair, and I slid into place next to Fallon. Her leg cast was off; she’d propped a cane against the empty chair beside her, half hidden by the table edge.
The smile she threw me was welcoming and cautionary. I understood the caution. I’d never fully apologized to the Alpha of Carmag for my earlier animosity—when Sentinel Falls depended on his charity. But instinct warned me Fallon’s caution had more to do with the one-eyed woman at the table’s end.
I folded my hands in my lap and waited.
“You’ll want to see this,” Anson said.
A wall monitor flashed on, revealing a white screen before the video footage jerked into motion.
It could have been a news report after a tornado. Or an earthquake disaster in some distant land.
In silence, we watched the camera panning across the destroyed buildings. Men worked to clear the debris. Others used chainsaws on fallen trees. A man’s voice droned on, addressing the Alpha of Carmag—he was giving a report of some kind. But not one sent in real time.
A time stamp in the upper right corner raced through the seconds, minutes. From two weeks ago.
“Why the delay?” Fallon asked tightly.
