Chapter 11
Live by the gun, die by the gun.
—Tupac Shakur
“I have something you should see.” Cassandra harrumphed as she dug through her closet, looking for a pair of shoes to wear, her cell phone tucked to her ear. “Vera, I know you just want to help, but you need to lay off. We’re handling this.”
“I have proof this time.”
Cassandra paused, one foot halfway into her Bottega Veneta platform wedge sandals. She was already irritated at Vera for tricking her into picking up by calling from an unfamiliar number—her husband’s office line—after calls from her cell went unanswered. Vera was quick to fill the silence, the urgency in her tone not feigned in the least.
“She’s one of them, Cassie. Be careful.”
“We’re all meeting at Heather’s house in two hours. Bring whatever you found.”
“I’ll be there.”
“Vera—”
“Don’t say it. I know. I’ll behave myself.”
Cassandra’s tone was icy, commanding, and brooked no refusal. “See that you do. Another slip like the one you made at dinner, and I’ll personally see to it that there’s nothing left when the police come to pick you up for harming a human outside of a contract.”
Vera was met with the click of a dial tone before she could reply.
Though a trifle peeved at being hung up on, Vera tossed the cordless phone she’d borrowed from her husband’s office onto the bed and gathered the printouts of articles she’d found on the Internet. She was rather proud of the glossy quality her husband’s printer had spit out, showing Tiffany on the edge of a pack of scruffy-looking hunters with a gun in her hand and a White Hat pin prominently tacked to the lapel of what looked like a knockoff Ralph Lauren blazer.
So tacky.
Alexis slowly exhaled, her eyes closed, one hand palm up, the other down, resting them on her folded legs. The taste of incense was heavy on the air, and the soft instrumental music and burbling water from a nearby fountain assisted her to find her center.
Since it had been cut short, and tensions had been high the entire time, the tennis match hadn’t helped her to work off the excess supernatural energy of her second nature as it normally would have. With all of the stress from Vera and Tiffany’s sniping and fighting, she had felt it necessary to call in an emergency session with her private yoga instructor. It took some pleading and persuading, but he had eventually conceded, and cancelled one of his morning appointments for her.
The meditation wasn’t doing much to calm her. She was certain there must be something she was doing wrong—but she didn’t dare speak, knowing her yogi would instruct her if he determined she was not properly following the path of Ashtanga Yoga to serenity and enlightenment. Really, the only reason she was interested in continuing the lessons was because the instructor was one of those hard-bodied men who was Alpha enough to get her to obey his instructions without question, and because the meditation did, to some degree, help her calm herself and maintain greater control over her inner beast.
“Remember to breathe,” her yogi said, pressing his hand into her lower back to force her to correct her posture.
With a slight nod, she took in the scent of sandalwood and musk, taking it through her mouth instead of her nose despite the taste it left on her tongue. She didn’t want to destroy her sense of smell for the rest of the day.
If there was a hunt, she might need it later.
Heather rushed about her home, getting her maid to tidy the house before sending her on an errand so the woman wouldn’t become suspicious or overhear the conversation once the other werewives and Tiffany arrived. She made sure she had plenty of alcohol on hand—she thought they might need it once the news was given.
She wasn’t looking forward to telling Cassandra that she’d stopped at the courthouse that morning to file the signed and notarized papers Tiffany had forgotten and left behind at dinner last night.
Tiffany had everything she intended to bring with her to Heather’s house spread out on her bed.
She wasn’t stupid. She knew Cassandra was reconsidering allowing her into the pack after all that Vera had said. The offer to meet again at Heather’s was what tipped her off. Neutral ground; a place she would hesitate to cause a scene, because the property belonged to a friend.
Tiffany had given careful thought to what she needed to bring with her, and felt that the netbook computer to play a video on, the photographs, and the piece of jewelry she’d stolen from Vera when the ladies left their clothing behind in the woods at Alexis’s party would serve her purposes admirably.
Though they had never said as much, the Diamondfangs had always worked under the radar of the press and the hunters, working through society’s elite. Its members would never want to be outed as real monsters lurking under the façades of ruthless businessmen and women—but now Tiffany knew who most of them were, and had the pictures and dossiers to prove their connections.
She would get what she wanted, or the werewives would be exposed to the world for the bitches they were.
Vera arrived early, papers tucked under her arm in a neat leather portfolio she’d also borrowed from her husband’s office. Heather was surprised to see her, but didn’t question it, figuring that it would most likely be for the best once she delivered her news. That way she could be present to deflect any immediate attack Vera might attempt.
Alexis was next, breezing inside with a calm, collected air and trailing the scent of incense behind her. The other girls wrinkled their noses at the stink, but she ignored them, dropping into the plush cushions of a couch. She kicked off her embossed leather Alaia sandals and swung her legs up onto the couch, lounging comfortably. Cassandra was not far behind, arriving only fifteen minutes after the scheduled meeting time. She drew off her Versace sunglasses once she was inside and tossed her Yves Saint Laurent purse on the couch next to Alexis, putting her hands on her hips.
“Hmph. She’s planning to be fashionably late again, I see.”
“She’ll be here soon,” Heather said, waggling her BlackBerry. “She sent me a text that she was running behind. Had to pick something up on the way, she said.”
Vera frowned, stalking over to a chair that gave her a good vantage of the rest of the room, as well as the front door, so she’d know the moment Tiffany arrived. Cassandra huffed and toyed with a few strands of her hair, giving the other girls a hint as to just how peeved she was by the whole situation.
Alexis gestured her over, tucking in her legs to make room. “Come on, Cassie. Come sit and relax. Breathe, darling. My instructor tells me that controlling your breathing is essential in learning how to control your life force. Or something like that.”
The other girls stared at her blankly.
“What?” she said, frowning at the looks they were giving her. “It’s part of the road to spiritual development. That’s very important, you know.”
“Oh, whatever,” Cassandra said, rolling her eyes before tucking her skirt under her and settling primly on the edge of the cushions. “Heather, be a love and get the drinks started, would you? I have the feeling we’re all going to need them before this is over.”
By the time Heather returned with the drinks, Tiffany was just pulling into the driveway. The other girls feigned indifference, but the amber glow to their irises and tension in the set of their shoulders gave them away. Tiffany brought a Claire Chase messenger bag in addition to her purse, tucking the strap over her shoulder before striding with her head held high to meet with the werewives inside.
Heather met her at the door, showing her into the room and seating her as far as was polite from Vera as was possible. The two ladies glared daggers at each other, but were civil enough to exchange tight nods, never taking their eyes off one another.
“Well,” Tiffany said, pausing to sip at the Long Island iced tea—heavy on the rum—that Heather had pushed into her hand, “now that I’m here, I’m not sure where to begin.”
Cassandra cleared her throat. “Tiffany, you know that we all like spending time with you and having you here—”
“All of you?”
Vera smirked at Tiffany’s pointed look, her lip gloss adding an extra sparkle to that killer smile.
“You know what I mean. Now, you know what we are. By your own admission, you’ve known for a while. While we certainly appreciate your desire to join us, I’m sure you can understand why we might be hesitant to let someone with your ... background ... join our ranks.”
Tiffany turned her disapproving look from Vera to Cassandra, her frown deepening. Cassandra didn’t give, meeting her gaze without flinching, and holding it as an uncomfortable silence stretched out between them. Tiffany would neither acknowledge nor deny that she was a threat, while Cassandra wouldn’t let her ignore the possibility any longer.
While their bodies tensed and gazes narrowed, Alexis sat up, and Heather chewed on her lower lip as the two had their stare down.
As it seemed neither was willing to break the silence and put an end to the silent contest of wills, Vera cut in by dropping her file folder on the coffee table with a crack sharp enough to draw all eyes.
“I believe what she’s trying to say is, your past history does not make you a suitable candidate for our pack.”
Tiffany ground her teeth, setting her drink aside with some care and leaning forward in her seat to point an accusatory finger at Vera. “You don’t know the first thing about me, Vera, and don’t pretend otherwise. None of you, not even Heather, knows me well enough to make that kind of assumption.”
“Oh really?” Vera purred. “Then, by all means, enlighten us about these.”
With that, Vera opened the file and spread the newspaper articles and accompanying photographs over the coffee table for all to see.
The headlines of the articles screamed about the injustices and property damage caused by illegal battles between humans and Others. The anti-Other groups had picketed Other-sympathetic businesses, destroyed entire buildings, and killed several vampires and werewolves without valid warrants. Interspersed with the articles were pictures. Irrefutable pictures of Tiffany showing her allegiance as a White Hat, with the trademark white cowboy hat pin attached to her lapel in every one.
Protest marches. Riots. One even showed her with several other White Hats on the run from police dressed in full riot gear, a flaming building in the background. Surrounded by others like her, all wearing the same pins or logo emblazoned on their shirts.
Tiffany whitened under the bronze shimmer of her foundation, her lips pressed into a thin line as all eyes turned to her.