My fingers wriggled at my sides. Oh, I longed to thumb through the files in those cabinets. There had to be so much potential Alpha-Floyd-blackmail in the drawers. I’d have had Cecil and Fennel grab some files when they were here earlier, but I’d felt it was too big a risk. I’d only wanted to remind the arrogant wolf who he was dealing with, not send him on a murderous rampage.
“Hello, Alpha Pallás. Nice to see you aren’t itching anymore.”
“The coven brought me ananti-itchcharm.” No handshake, but at least he hadn’t called me “filthy, low class, trailer-park grunge witch” or “witch bitch” or “trailer trash Betty” this time. Heck, the man was almost civil.
Interesting.
He acknowledged Ronan with a nod. “Third.”
“Alpha,” Ronan said, and I found that interesting, too.
Allowing for language and regional differences, most shifters used the widely accepted titles of mother and father rather than pack title. That Ronan chose to acknowledge his father’s position in the pack rather than their relationship spoke volumes.
Not for the first time, I wondered why Ronan remained in La Paloma now that his sister had moved away. It obviously had nothing to do with paternal love, because there didn’t appear to be any.
The alpha leader lowered himself into a faux-leather, high-backed chair behind an oversized metal desk. The seat squawked in protest as he leaned back and folded his hands over the beginnings of a paunch, something rarely seen in the shifter world. It took a lot of calories to shift, so wolves tended to stay fit throughout their lives.
Either the alpha had been hitting the beer taps harder than normal or he hadn’t shifted in a long time.
Looked like I was starting a whole collection of interesting Pallás pack tidbits.
Floyd was in his early sixties with silver hair and brown skin bronzed by the sun. He wasn’t bad looking, just unkempt, like a house with good bones that had slipped into decline.
“Sit down, Witch Betty.”
In front of the alpha’s desk were two repulsive plaid-cushioned chairs. I perched on the edge of one. Ronan stood three feet behind me, arms folded. He looked like paid security. I wasn’t sure if he was protecting his alpha leader or me.
Or himself.
“One second.” I pulled out my phone and selected a photo from a file I kept on a cloud service.
Alpha Floyd’s phone pinged.
He snatched it up and read the text message. Or, rather, looked at it. There were no words to read.
His mouth tightened, and his gaze darkened, rage twisting his features.
I kept my voice low, firm, and even. “I understand warding the bar against me. That’s just smart. I even understand sending me after a cursed book. That’s just business. But if your second puts his hands on me again, I’ll send that picture to every wolf in your pack.”
It wasn’t an empty threat, and Floyd knew it.
He gave me the sort of nod an adversary gives an equal. His thumb moved over the message, and I was certain he was deleting it from our text conversation.
I made a point of doing the same, keeping the phone in the alpha’s line of sight and out of Ronan’s. The photo would remain in the cloud.
For now.
“Let’s talk about why you’re trying to take out the Mictlantecuhtli cult.” He opened his mouth, and I held up my finger. Not the one I would’ve liked to have held up, though. “One chance. You have one chance to tell me the truth or I walk.”
“Then what will poor old Gladys do?” Floyd made a mock-sad face.
Ronan moved behind me. It was a subtle shift of his feet, and it wasn’t accompanied by a growl, but it was angry. In fact, rage was radiating from him like heat.
I stared at the alpha leader, saying nothing.
“Fine, fine. Not like it matters.” Floyd straightened in his chair. “That stupid cult is a problem. I thought if you saw what they were up to, you’d take care of them for me. Simple as that.”
Simple as that, my ass. “Keep sending me into situations like this and see what happens.”
