“No one doubted you,” he says kindly.
I look at him. “Lowe sure did.”
“Lowe knew Max had attacked you first. He is very good at smelling lies.”
“Oh. As in . . . literally smelling?”
Mick nods but doesn’t elaborate. “He knew Max was up to something, knew it had to do with Ana, and wanted to get as much information as he could out of him. It’s a tightrope to walk, for Lowe. He won’t go about interrogating every person he doesn’t like, or he’ll be the same as Roscoe was toward the end. But the Loyals have been hurting their own, and they must be stopped.”
“He sure seemed ready to let the others torture Max.”
“That was a show, meant to scare Max. And it would have worked, we could all smell it. But you did make it easier with your . . .” He smiles and gestures at my eyes. “Just promise you won’t do it to me, okay? You were scary in there.”
“I would never. You’re my most beloved jailer.” I smile, close-lipped and fangless. “Besides, I’m the one who should be scared.”
“Why?”
I point to the scar on his neck. The row of teeth marking his collarbone. “You’re the one rolling in here with that, like your favorite pastime is getting into fights.” I cock my head. “Is that how you turned into a Were?”
His eyebrow quirks. “We’re a legitimate species, not an infectious disease.”
“Just making sure that if someone bites me I won’t turn into you.”
“If you bit someone, would it turn them into a Vampyre?”
I think about it for a moment. “Touché.”
He laughs softly and shakes his head, suddenly wistful. “This is my mate’s bite.”
Mate. The word, again.
“Do they have one, too? Your mate.”
“Yes, of course.”
“Have I met them?”
He looks away. “She’s not with us anymore.”
“Oh.” I swallow, unsure what to say. I hope it wasn’t one of my people who did it. “I’m sorry. It sounds like mates are a big deal.”
He nods. “Mating bonds are the core of every pack. But I don’t think it’s wise for me to discuss Were customs with you.” He gives me a look that manages to be chiding and soft all at once. “Especially if you’re chatting with your brother in a language no one else speaks.”
Oh, shit. “It’s not . . . I just missed home. Wanted to hear something familiar.”
“Did you?” We come to a halt in front of my door. Mick opens it, and gestures for me to step inside. “How curious. You don’t strike me as the type who ever had a home.”
I let his words churn around me for several minutes after he leaves, wondering whether he’s right. When they grind to a stop, I know he isn’t: I did have a home, and her name was Serena.
I change my top into one less smeared with Max’s DNA and silently slip out of my room. With everyone distracted by the commotion, breaking into Lowe’s office is almost suspiciously easy. There are plenty of ways to hack into a computer, few of which are at my disposal. Fortunately, I have enough experience with brute-force techniques to be optimistic.
The sun is setting, but I don’t turn on the lights. Lowe’s desk is given away by Ana’s grinning picture. I tiptoe there, kneel in front of the keyboard, and start messing around.
This is not my bread and butter, but it’s relatively simple and not too time-consuming. It’s clear that the Weres don’t expect intrusions from within, and the machine is mostly unprotected. It only takes me a few minutes to force my way into their database, and a handful more to set up three parallel searches: Serena Paris, the date she disappeared, and The Herald, in case my suspicions are right, and Lowe was part of some story she meant to cover. It’s just a start, but I hope that if she was mentioned on any communication device that’s automatically backed up on—
Something soft rubs against my calf.
“Not now,” I murmur, distractedly swatting Serena’s damn fucking cat away. The terminal starts to populate with hits. I stroke a few keys to maximize. So far, not too promising.
The cat’s wet nose presses against my thigh. “I’m busy, Sparkles or whatever. Go play with Ana.”
He starts purring. No, growling. Frankly, it’s a level of entitlement that pisses me off. “I told you to—” I glance down and instantly scramble back, nearly falling on my ass.
In the dim light of dusk, the yellow eyes of a gray wolf stare angrily at me.
CHAPTER 9
Ana interrupts her bedtime story to communicate to him important, time-sensitive information: “Miresy is so so soooo pretty. I loooove her ears.”
He presses his lips together before resuming his reading.
Among the Vampyres, fangs are not just teeth—they are status.
Take muscles in Humans: Was there a time, a bunch of millennia ago, in which having a mate with inflated, bouncy biceps meant more protection from . . . the dinosaurs? I’m no history buff; I thrived in math and zero other subjects. The point is, athletic prowess provided an evolutionary advantage that’s now, in an era in which atomic bombs exist, fairly obsolete. And yet, Humans still find it attractive.
Canines are much the same for Vampyres: they’re considered a symbol of strength and power, because in the olden days we’d hunt our prey and sink our teeth into their flesh to feast on their blood. The longer, the sharper, the bigger—the better.
And this wolf’s . . . This wolf’s fangs could win contests. Rule civilizations. Get their owner engaged, married, and very much laid at any Vampyre party. And they could shred me into M&M’s.
“Are you an actual wolf?” I ask, fighting to keep my voice steady. “Or are you a Were who part-times?”
The only reply is a deep, long, panties-shitting growl.
“Would it make things better or worse if I growled back?”
“Wouldn’t change it either way,” a voice says from the entrance.
Lowe. Leaning against the frame, relaxed like a loungewear model during a photoshoot.
“Thank you, Cal,” he says, coming my way. “That will be all.”
And magically, with one last half-hearted snarl in my direction, the wolf shakes its beautiful gray fur and trots away. It stops by Lowe and butts its head against his thigh.
“Cal? As in . . .” He turns to me and I stare at his face, looking for similarities. I’d have expected consistency between Weres’ shifted and human forms, but Cal’s a redhead. I crane my neck to get a better look at the wolf, but Lowe steps in front of me, blocking my view.
“What the fuck are you doing, wife?” He sounds like a volatile mix of tired and irritated. Any thought of Were phenotypes instantly departs.
I just got caught. Doing something very bad. And I’m in real danger.
“Just looking for . . .” What? “Sticky notes.”
“Do Vampyres keep sticky notes inside their computers?”
Fuck. “I was trying to check my email.” I swallow. “Get in touch with friends.”
“You don’t have friends, Misery.”
I’m not sure why this hurts when it’s true.
“And I’m very much not an IT person, but that”—he points at my code, which is still crunching along—“does not look like Yahoo.”
“Yahoo? Lowe, you’re really dating yourself here.”
“Come in,” he orders, and I cannot comprehend how I didn’t notice Alex idling by the door. Too busy contemplating my imminent demise, probably. “Can you figure out what she was doing?”
“On it.”
I scrunch my eyes shut, running possible scenarios in my head. I could knee Lowe in the groin and try to run away, but I don’t know if the crotch area is as sensitive to them as it is to us, and anyway . . . there are wolves prowling around. “You set me up,” I say. It comes out whiny, which is exactly how I feel. “You asked Mick to leave right in front of me because you knew I’d take advantage of it.”
“Misery.” He clucks his tongue, chiding, and moves closer, like he knows I’m considering darting away. His heartbeat envelops me, steady, determined. “You set yourself up, because you’re bad at this.”
“At what?”
“Snooping around.”