Magic Claims (Kate Daniels: Wilmington Years, #2; Kate Daniels, #10.6)

Give me paper and a pen, and I’ll make you a list.

“He knows he’s done some fucked-up shit for the Pack’s sake. I had a front-row seat to a lot of it. It haunts him,” Karter said. “That story you told, Kate, that’s on point. Things are very clear-cut for him: Pack shapeshifters are good, everyone else is bad, and as long as he’s on the right side of that line, he’s golden. But all that baggage is still eating at him. Jim’s goal in life is to be a savior. He wants to be the guy who finds you when things are at their worst, taps you on the shoulder, and says, ‘Come with me. I will make everything alright.’”

Curran’s face still had that Beast Lord expression, and his eyes were still on fire.

“That’s a dangerous road to walk,” Keelan said.

“He isn’t walking,” Karter said. “He’s sprinting as hard as he can. As it stands now, doesn’t matter what you’ve done or how long your rap sheet is. If you tell Jim that you’re in danger and humans are after you, he will let you in. He admits everyone and he does it personally. You’re put in a holding cell, not knowing what will happen, you sit there for a while, worrying, and then the Beast Lord walks in and personally tells you that you are in.”

“Personally?” Curran asked. His voice was almost a growl.

“Every time,” Karter said. “He’s addicted to it: the smiles, the thank yous, the sudden jolt of happiness. It’s gotten worse since his child was born. He takes his son with him now, so he can see what a great guy his father is.”

This was bad.

“The newcomers see him that one time,” Karter said, “and then they never see him again, because the moment they’re admitted, they are assigned a clan and they become our problem. I had to kill a man last week who should’ve never been allowed in. He was a serial murderer. Not a loup. Just a psychopath who would do anything to get what he wanted and had a rap sheet to prove it.”

Damn it, Jim.

“But even if they weren’t violent, they are coming in numbers we can’t handle. All these people need housing. They need jobs. They need food. A lot of them don’t have skills, so they need to be educated and trained. I had a conversation with a female lynx yesterday who was fired from three places in a row within one week. She told me that until she was admitted to the Pack, she wasn’t a working female, she was a breeding female.”

Some shapeshifter packs used the fact that they turned into animals to justify a lot of fucked-up crap. I saw some of it when Curran had been Beast Lord, so I had a pretty good idea what kind of environment that woman had endured, and thinking about it made me violently angry.

“What did you tell her?” Keelan asked.

“That it’s not the way we do things. That none of what happened to her is her fault—and it isn’t—and that we would help her find her place, however long it takes. We had a long and gentle conversation about institutional abuse and Pack’s motto of “don’t work, don’t eat.” She is a victim, and in perfect circumstances, I would have the luxury of figuring out what her strengths are and making sure she had proper training for some sort of profession she wanted. But we are overwhelmed, so I sent her to the daycare. Child-rearing is a skill, and we’ve determined that she has that. That wasn’t where she saw herself, but we agreed that while it wasn’t perfect, it would work for now. I put her on the waiting list for assessment. There is a four-month wait. The clans can’t keep going like this.”

“What did Jim say when you talked to him about it?” I asked.

“He blames the problems on poor management at the clan level. He’s also given the clans a lot more autonomy. He had to. No two people alone could deal with the amount of work the Pack now requires.”

Karter paused, thought something over, and continued, “I tried talking to him one-on-one. He went on for a while about greater purpose and a haven for all shapeshifters, and told me that I, of all people, should understand given my history. He isn’t going to stop. But he is a smart man. He knows this cart can’t keep rolling forward. I think he’s going to bail. He’s been mentioning how he wishes he could spend more time with his family. The only reason why he hasn’t stepped away is because he has no successor, and his sense of duty won’t let him abandon us. Those who want the job can’t do it, and those who could do it don’t want to. But, sooner or later, he will quit, and when that happens, the Pack will fracture. Then it will be every clan for itself, and there are a lot of wolves out there.”

“This is why Ascanio is going for it,” I thought out loud. “The boudas are a small clan.”

Karter nodded. “Yes. Clan Cat is a small clan, too. Wolves outnumber us ten to one, jackals four to one, and rats seven to one. The rats are almost bankrupt. The jackals were forced to admit a woman who used to be a cult leader and her following, which seriously fucked up the stability of their clan. Clan Heavy has gotten even more reactionary and difficult to deal with. It’s a mess.”

And here was that thunder my aunt had warned me about.

Karter turned to Curran. “In case you’re thinking I’m here for your blessing, I’m not. I don’t bow, I don’t cringe, and I don’t kiss the ring. If I want it, I make it mine, and I don’t need any person’s permission. I don’t want the Pack. Not like this, broken beyond repair.”

Poor Curran. He had built the Pack, and now he saw it cracking.

Karter was looking at him. No matter what he said, he’d come here for help. He wasn’t sure what that help would be, but I could tell that his back was against the wall.

Curran finished his beer. His eyes had stopped glowing.

“It’s not Jim’s fault,” he said.

I almost did a double take.

“And you are right, the Pack is broken. Nobody can fix it, including me.”

Karter nodded. He looked like a pessimistic man who had let a single, weak seed of hope sprout, and now it was ripped out of his soul.

“The Pack was built on a faulty premise,” Curran said. “It was bound to break sooner or later.”

Karter nodded again.

“Let’s make something better,” Curran said.

The words sunk in. Karter frowned. “Who?”

“Us,” Curran said. “Let’s make something better.”

“Right now?”

“Why not?”

Karter blinked.

“I’ll get us some paper.” Keelan rose.





I opened my eyes because my husband pulled me tighter against himself. Soft, honey-colored light sifted through the gap below the blinds. The clock on the wall assured me that it was late afternoon.

We’d stayed up until sunrise, hashing things out. When Karter left, just as the first golden edge of the sun slipped above the forest, he’d had a big smile on his face, and he walked like a man who had a crushing weight lifted off his shoulders. We loaded him up with Troy’s tissue samples for Doolittle and two golden collars for Luther Dillon at Biohazard. I needed to get a closer expert, but Karter was going back to Atlanta anyway, and Luther was the best.

I hit the sack the moment Karter had left and apparently slept nearly till the evening.

Curran kissed the back of my neck, stretching himself against me. He was so warm, and he smelled amazing. I almost purred, but then reality kicked in.

I turned around in his arms. Little golden sparks danced in his gray eyes.

“There are seven people in this house besides us. And all of them have preternaturally sharp hearing.”

“We’ll be quiet.”

“No, we won’t, and you know it. You promised me, no fishbowl this time around.”

He sighed and rolled onto his back.

Living as the Consort within the Pack’s Keep was like living in a fishbowl, constantly observed by way too many people keenly interested in every detail of our private lives. They wanted to know what we ate, how much sex we had, who we met, and what we talked about. When we were working out the details of the new plan, I made sure to cover that ground. We had to retain some privacy.