Wolf at the Door

chapter Four



“Well.” Rachael squinted as she took in the situation. “No matter how many times I look, it’s always the same. Minnesota is . . . just . . . awful. I don’t know why anybody comes here unless they’ve lost a bet.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” the head of the St. Paul Chamber of Commerce said politely. “Permit me to suggest it might grow on you.”

“Like a fungus, Mrs. Cain?” East Coast snob, she chided herself. Yet, Minnesota sucks, she reminded herself. “Wait: I know a Cain from the Cape. I do her parents’ taxes, if that’s them.” Given how teeny the werewolf community was on the planet, never mind the 413 square miles of Cape Cod, she fully expected the answer to be yes. She’d made a bad first impression and felt guilty enough to engage in polite small talk, but not quite guilty enough to apologize for being an ass. Yet. “Are you related?”

“It’s a family name; she’s my cousin.”

“Cane as in candy?” My God, I’m bored already. “Cain as in . . .” What friggin’ difference does it make?

“Cain as in the first murderer.”

“Uh.” Rachael’s theology was a little rusty. “What?”

“From the Bible. You know: ‘What hast thou done? The voice of thy brother’s blood crieth unto me from the ground.’ ”

“Ohhhh. That Cain. Thanks for clearing it up.”

“Not a problem . . . may I ask what specific aspect of the Land of Ten Thousand Lakes disagrees with you?”

“The fact that there are eleven thousand eight hundred forty-two lakes, to begin with. Every license plate is wrong. And it’s freezing, no one can tolerate these temperatures and live.”

“It’s sixty-eight degrees.”

“It’s August!”

Rachael shifted her weight from foot to foot. It was rude to stand there, almost looming over the wide red oak desk and its occupant, a heavy-set woman with skin so deeply black her red earrings played up her mahogany highlights and queenly cheekbones. In fact, the woman was so zaftig and beautifully dressed, Rachael wondered what she was doing there: the woman could have made big bucks in front of any camera.

The president of the chamber or, as Rachael thought of her, el Diablo, cleared her throat, which drew attention to the crisp cream-colored blouse and deep V neckline of the moss green suit.

“We’re having a cold snap.”

One that’s lasted ten thousand years, she thought but did not say. She took the newsletter out of the purse sack and smoothed it out with her palms. “Listen, I’m aware it’s a stereotype to come to the Northern Hemisphere and complain about the weather. I’m sorry I made an appointment to come shit all over your home state. I really am.” She wasn’t, but it wasn’t the other woman’s fault. Rachael resented having to be there at all; there could have been Honolulu. “I just wanted to let you know I was in town on Pack business—”

“Yes, about that—”

“—and have no idea when I’ll be leaving, except I’ll keep you updated. And I’m guessing that since you knew I was coming, you’ve already set up a place for me to live. Thanks in advance.”

“I think you’ll really like Summit Avenue. Did you know it was voted one of Ten Great Streets by the American Planning Association? And there are mansions that were built back in the early days of the city? Several of the homes were built between 1890 and 1920.”

“I did not know that.”

“See?” She looked triumphant. “That’s just one of the fascinating bits of history to be found in St. Paul. There’s all sorts of things you’ll be better able to explore on your own, things like the governor’s mansion being right there and the fact that three of the homes are on National Historic Landmarks.”

Wow. “I will, uh, try to get right on that.” The woman sounded just like a Frommer’s. She’d either been working there too long and ended up sounding like a poster on a travel agent’s wall, or had always talked like that and therefore was born to run a chamber of commerce, any chamber of commerce. “That all sounds swell. So, I’ll head over there next, get settled in . . . What is it, an apartment?” Cain nodded. “And I’d better figure out a good time to meet their . . .” Rachael rolled her eyes. “Vampire queen, gah, it sounds way too Comic-Con to me.” Though just knowing when to reference geeks at Comic-Con probably meant she spent too much time at Comic-Con.

“We use Pack as a personal noun, and our Pack leader (can you hear the capital letter?) lives in a mansion anyone can just drive right up to. And we occasionally allow fights to the death to determine the status of the males, which they normally don’t do on Election Day around here.”

“Glass house. Got it.” She was even in one, sort of . . . the chamber of commerce building was sizeable and chock-full of windows. She could see why the woman chose to work in the modern building, full of sharp angles and shiny metals. One entire side was almost all windows, a big half-moon of windows.

“Have you ever met her?” Rachael asked. She took out the newsletter, which showed the creases from being read many, many times, from her purse bag. This one was a deep cream, with the Burberry logo and font in black lettering. “Even in passing?”

“I have not. There was never a strong enough reason.” Meaning as an envoy from the Pack leader, or seeking vengeance for a blood debt, or being a welcome wagon rep, everyday things like that. “I suppose I didn’t need one so much as I was (and still am) a little vague on the protocol, so . . .” She shrugged.

“She puts her address and phone number on a newsletter with a circulation of six figures, and you were worried about protocol.”

Mrs. Cain mulled that over, then laughed. “Well, yes, if you put it that way . . .”

“So, I’ll go see her.” She folded up the newsletter and caught a flash from one of the stories: “Top Ten Reasons Why You Shouldn’t Pull Some Lame Vampire Crap from the Movies.” Interesting topic. Not for the first time, Rachael wondered if the newsletter was a satire. “Like I said, I just wanted to drop by.”

Mrs. Cain nodded at Rachael’s bag. “Did you lose your purse?”

“Never had it.” She cinched the bag shut. It was the sturdy, protective bag designer purses came in. She took a perverse pleasure in collecting and using the bags, but not the handbags themselves. She supposed there was something wrong with her.

“We very much appreciate your courtesy.” Mrs. Cain spoke for herself and the dozen or so men and women who worked for her. Packs within packs; happened all the time. Humans did it, too, they just weren’t as aware of it.

“Don’t mention it. Courtesy is my meat and drink. And even as I’m saying that, I’m realizing how full of crap I am.”

“Don’t let me keep you.”

“Don’t worry.”