Chapter Four

At the end of the day, we found Mrs Miller's prized Maine Coon cat on my car hood.

Mitchell donated his coat and wrapped the body, putting the limp and cold feline in my trunk.

I knew Mrs Miller about as well as anyone. She was always at the library, struggling to print headshots for her cat, which she was convinced could make it big in pet food commercials if given a chance. Her Maine Coon was as large as a medium-sized dog, orange in color, with pointed tufty ears. Mrs Miller had named her Princess Merryweather.

I really didn't relish the house call I was about to make.

Mitchell thoroughly sniffed my car, though I knew it was just for show to put me at ease. Even I could smell Joel's laundry detergent and sweaty feet from yards away.

Mitchell followed me to the store office, and we pulled up the security system. He stood, leaning against the wall, while I fast-forwarded through the whole day's footage.

I reached the part where Faith Hilltop entered and left the store, giving my car a wide berth. In fact, no one had touched it all day. Not even to put a flyer under the wipers, like the other cars parked down the street.

The footage continued, and the cat didn't appear until Mitchell and I entered the frame. It was as if the footage had frozen until we appeared before the cat was suddenly displayed on the glass for all to see.

Joel had come to the store over the years. He'd waited in the office before taking me to lunch. If he knew my WiFi password or how to access my cameras remotely, could he have done something like that?

No matter how much I wanted to believe that Joel was responsible for the growing threats and weirdness surrounding me, somehow, it didn't feel quite right.

I'd thought going to the wolves was overkill, but maybe my subconscious knew something I didn't.

Mitchell nudged me when I hadn't moved for several minutes.

"We should take that footage to Dean." He said, gesturing with his chin toward the screen of my desktop.

"But it doesn't show anything," I argued.

Mitchell gave me a look. "It shows more than you think."

Mrs. Miller lived in a subdivision favored by the older folks of Locket.

I wasn't sure if it was by design or circumstance, but Woodland Oaks didn't have a resident under sixty. Most of the young people looking to buy homes avoided it like the plague because of the HOA and its stringent reputation. When my grandmother was alive, I'd often joked with her about Woodland Oaks, telling her it was her time to move there whenever she forgot to put sugar in her coffee or left the television on when she left the room.

I drove as carefully as I could. When we stopped by the security booth at the entrance to the neighborhood, Mitchell made up some excuse about dropping off some paperwork for Mrs Miller. The guard let us through when I mentioned her cat.

We parked on the street outside of her house and got out. Mitchell rounded the car to get the cat, and I waved him off, explaining that no one wanted to be confronted with the image of their dead cat in a strange man's arms.

We trooped up the driveway and rang the bell.

It took longer than I expected for Mrs Miller to answer the door.

She was holding her cat.

"Mallory, what on earth are you doing here?" Mrs Miller admonished. "Don't you know that Princess Merryweather has an early bedtime?"

The orange Maine Coon blinked up at me.

I dipped my head. "I didn't realize," I explained, forcing a smile over my confused expression. "We were just in the neighborhood, and I'd heard you were entering the cat pageant in Nashville. I wanted to wish you luck." None of that was a lie, but I was twisting the truth pretty hard.

We spoke for a few minutes before rushing back to the car.

There was no dead cat in the trunk.

Mitchell slid into the driver's seat, which was just as well because I was too shaken up to drive.

"What did you go with the other bodies?" He asked. "The rat and the possum?"

"I threw the rat away when I got home," I whispered. "Kaleb tossed the possum in the trash can outside of the store. Do you think they disappeared as well?"

"I don't know." His scarred lip pursed in thought. "You're Sídhe. You'd know more about Glamour than I would."

"Technically, Wolfkin are Wild Fae as well—" I argued, stopping myself when I caught his exasperated glare. "Never mind."

"What do you know about Glamour?" He asked, changing the subject.

"Grandmother Eva used to say it was sneaking something past reality and then convincing the world it always existed." My brow furrowed as I tried to remember her words. "It's harder to use in the Human Realities because reality is more fixed here than the Aos Sí. Belief is a big part of it. It's why you have clothes when you shift; you just expect them to be there."

Mitchell tapped the steering wheel thoughtfully. "I suppose you're right."

"Do you think the animals are a Glamour?" I asked.

"It would explain why the cat is still alive, though it could have been another cat entirely." He shrugged.

I exhaled; the adrenaline from finding Princess Merryweather's body had just started leaving my system. "I'm so glad the cat is alive."

"Me too." Mitchell shot me a close-lipped smile.

It didn't take long to get to the Chug. However, the last thing in the world I wanted to do was hash out the mysterious disappearing cat and Faith Hilltop's histrionics in my store to the Alpha. I sensed that the less I objected, the faster the ordeal would go.

Though it was early evening, the parking lot was packed to the gills. A stark difference from my previous visit. Either Dean Hart had called a pack meeting, or wolves just liked drinking on a Sunday.

The bar was nearly silent when we walked in, save for the low buzz of conversation. Werewolves had excellent hearing, so it stood to reason that no one needed to shout—unfortunately, it led to the bar appearing somewhat eerie.

Mitchell led us to the bar with his hand on the small of my back. He parked me on one of the stools before waggling a finger and telling me to be ‘be good' like a child. I showed him my teeth before he disappeared through the staff door.

I ordered a Diet Coke and waited. And waited. Mitchell didn't return, and save from Kaleb and Dean, I didn't know anyone else. A lone Sídhe in a room filled with wolves, who could scent my nerves on my skin like perfume.

"Did your date stand you up?" A male wolf slid into the stool next to mine and held up a finger to the bartender.

It took a second to realize he was speaking to me. My face crinkled as I struggled to form a response fast enough.

"That was pretty corny." The wolf smirked. "But sometimes corny works. I'm Wyatt." He held out a hand for me to shake.

I studied him for a moment. His hair was arranged to look carefully disheveled, sitting around his ears—honey blond that no doubt grew lighter with the sun. The corners of his eyes crinkled when he smiled, showing that though he looked young, he'd spent much time outside.

I reached out to shake his hand, letting go before he could feel my clammy palms.

Wyatt looked down at his hand, puzzled, before he shook off whatever concerned him. "Mitchell told me about your ex. That's tough."

"Breakups aren't fun." I grimaced.

"You're telling me." Wyatt hooted, thanking the bartender as she pushed a bottle of Bud in front of him. "You haven't seen a wolf breakup. They'll put any human relationship to shame. Lots of drama. Fur flying."

"You're kidding." I turned on my stool to face him.

"Wolves take mating very seriously." Wyatt nodded sagely.

"I'd say marriage is pretty serious." My voice was dry.

"A piece of paper?" Wyatt took a sip. "Have you heard of Shíorghra?"

"Of course," I told him. "But true bonded pairings are rare. Each Fae creed has different ways of finding their Shíorghra, but most never do."

"I'd say the same for wolves," Wyatt noted thoughtfully. "Finding your true mate is all the more important to wolves."

"Why—" As soon as the question left my lips, Wyatt glanced over my shoulder. I followed his gaze, quickly finding Mitchell.

The scarred wolf approached us, sliding his arm around my shoulders as he stared at Wyatt, his face blank.

Wyatt bit back a smile. "Just keeping her warm for you."

I raised a brow. "How demeaning."

The men ignored me. Mitchell lifted the corner of his top lip, flashing his canine teeth before he turned to me.

"Dean wants to speak to you." He told me before glancing at Wyatt. "You as well, pretty boy."

Wyatt bared his teeth, the expression too frightening to be a smile. "I live to serve our Alpha."

"So obedient," Mitchell growled.

"I can be obedient." Wyatt fluttered his eyelashes.

Mitchell scoffed, letting go of my shoulders and marching away.

"I don't think he likes you," I whispered conspiratorially, though I knew Mitchell could hear me.

"He likes me just fine," Wyatt said knowingly. "He's just worried you'll like me more than him."

I rolled my eyes, deciding to put whatever wolfy games the two men were playing to the back of my mind.

We found Dean's office quickly and went straight through. What had been an expansive space with just two people quickly seemed crowded, with Dean, Kaleb, Mitchell, Wyatt, and me standing around like football players in a huddle.

Being in an enclosed space with so many wolves was doing a number on my head. I'd gone magic blind from the amount of gold sparkles that clung to the air. A veritable Tinkerbelle explosion of glittery magic, clinging to the air and catching the light like dust. My grandmother had taught me how to ‘switch off' the magic vision, but it didn't quite work. My other side canceled my magic in some areas and enhanced it in others.

Dean greeted me with a single nod before turning to the others. Kaleb had made himself at home on top of the filing cabinet against the back wall, perched like a cat. The others crossed their arms over their chests, wearing stormcloud expressions.

No one spoke until the door shut.

Dean turned to me. "How many Fae live in Locket?"

My brow puckered. I knew why he asked, but I couldn't help but feel prickly over the question. "Excuse me? You think we have meetings every quarter?"

Wyatt lifted a hand, grinning like a schoolboy. "Wolves have meetings."

Dean pinched the bridge of his nose. "Not helpful, Wyatt."

Wyatt mimed zipping his lips.

"As far as I know, I'm the only Sídhe in Locket. I can't speak for the Wild Fae, the Unseelie, or the Wolfkin." I cut in. "Is this about the dead cat?"

Kaleb's eyes flicked to mine before he went back to lounging on the cabinet, playing the part of the spacey, senile older wolf.

"Mitchell filled us in about the dead animals. When you brought the rat to us, I assume you didn't sense the Glamour?" Dean continued. "We have reason to believe your ex-husband isn't responsible for the animals or your general sense of unease."

Anger flashed through me, and my cheeks warmed. "You don't know what Joel is capable of."

"Whatever he has done—" Dean started to speak, but Mitchell held up his hand, shooting the Alpha a look that would have made a lesser man shrivel.

Mitchell stepped forward, giving Dean his back, as he took my hand. I quickly realized that Mitchell had overheard my conversation with Faith. He knew some of what Joel had done to me. Not all of it, but some.

"We have to tell her about the Huntsman." Kaleb sang.

"She isn't a wolf." Dean snapped, the large man clearly having trouble maintaining a semblance of calm after Mitchell's direct challenge.

"Whatever has slipped through the Gate is targeting her." Kaleb perched his chin on his tented fingers. "Either the Huntsman is being his devious self, or some vicious beastie has slipped through the Gate and has targeted Mallory as its next meal."

"A Fae beast?" My voice pitched, thinking of all of the Durrach in my grandmother's bestiary. "What kind of monster leaves dead animals around?"

"Cats leave dead things as a prize or sign of affection." Wyatt chimed in, but his smirk had dissolved as the somber mood set in.

"The Fear Dorta likes to stoke paranoia in its victims. Tending to the fear like a garden, watering the flowers to make them grow." Kaleb's eyes were fixed on the ceiling, far away.

"The Fear Dorta is the Night-King's pet." Dean pinched his brow. "He breeds them and sics them on his enemies."

"What about Joel?" I piped up. "Even if he isn't the person leaving dead animals, he's still parked at the end of my driveway every day."

All four men ignored me as if I hadn't spoken, and I felt an inch tall. Once again, I was back at the police station, sporting a black eye and fingerprint bruises on my throat as I tried to make a report—only to have a deputy call Joel to take me home.

My fingers began to tremble, and I curled my hands into fists and pushed them against my thighs, though it did nothing to stop the shaking.

The lump in my throat grew, stinging with unshed tears, making breathing difficult.

I would have given anything to be safe behind my wards at home at that moment. But with Joel outside every single day, even my safe haven had been stripped away.

"Mallory, do you know of the Huntsman?" Dean asked carefully, pulling out his office chair and sinking into the seat. He knitted his fingers together and observed me.

"I've heard the name," I admitted, forcing my eyes forward so I didn't look at Kaleb. "My grandmother taught me many things. The Aos Sí. The Sídhe, and Wild Fae."

Dean nodded understandingly, rubbing the back of his shorn head as he gathered his thoughts. The other wolves shifted restlessly, making themselves comfortable.

"I am only telling you this because of the token," Dean warned. "Your grandmother was trusted by the Beast-King, so I am trusting you now. If you betray that trust, there isn't a corner of the world you can hide."

I kept my mouth shut and nodded, though the magic in the room grew oppressive, pressing down on me like an anvil between my shoulder blades. An Alpha's domination.

"The Huntsman is a very old Sídhe. Older than most of the royalty that rules over the fae courts." Dean said, his voice gaining a faraway quality. "He serves a purpose, and because of that, he cannot be killed. When the barrier between worlds is thinnest, the wild hunt rides."

"Okay..." I had no idea where he was going with the story. "What about the dead animals?" I asked, my stomach sinking even more as dread slowly filled my blood like cold water. "What do the dead animals have to do with the Huntsman?"

"Our pack is based in Locket for a reason. The Huntsman stationed us here." Kaleb said gravely, finally looking at me. His eyes bored into mine. "There is a Gate between the Human Realities and the Aos Sí. We guard the Gate, but sometimes the durrach slip through. Our pack patrols the woods and protects the town."

"Do you think something else is leaving dead things on my car?" I frowned. "Some fae monster?"

"We patrol." Dean's lip curled distastefully. "But sometimes they slip through. The Tanner boy was taken last year by a particularly nasty durrach. A Chimaera. Locket is not a safe place, no matter how much the humans who have settled here wish it so."

I was surrounded by Wolfkin, who could sense every spike in adrenaline and smell my panic like sour milk. "My house is warded," I said through numb lips.

"But not your store." Dean nodded as if I had answered some unspoken question.

"Not my store. Or my car." I echoed. "Or my back porch."

"Do you have the ability to set wards?" Mitchell asked—all business.

I shook my head. "My grandmother set the wards on the house. They've built up over the years. Blood and bone. I don't have that kind of magic. Can we ask the Huntsman for help? He's your boss, right?"

Each of the wolves exchanged a loaded look that I didn't understand.

"We are in service to the Huntsman," Wyatt replied carefully. "It would not be wise to bother him so close to Samhain."

In service? I wondered what he meant by that.

My grandmother hadn't taught me much about Wolfkin and the wild fae. I thought that wolves ran in packs under the authority of the Alpha. I'd only heard of the Huntsman in passing, and even then, I struggled to conjure any solid information from my memory.

My grandmother had warned me about the Fae, even though we were Sídhe. She told me that most fae were tricksy and would steal your mind and body if you gave them a chance.

There were so many types of Sídhe that it was hard to keep track.

I was a Weaver, a broad term for imbuing magic into items I could braid, weave, or sew. It wasn't combat magic, primarily defensive, and whatever I wove with would dissolve once the magic was spent.

There were Sídhe that could control blood. Sídhe that could wear any face. Even Sídhe that could feed on emotions like pain and rage.

"We've established that Joel McGowen isn't involved. Should we pull Mallory's bodyguard detail?" Wyatt glanced at me.

"What about whoever is targeting her?" Mitchell added in. "The pack still offers protection until we can catch whatever durrach is behind this."

"And the boon owed to her grandmother?" Kaleb's voice was quiet but somehow the heaviest in the room. He swung his legs off the filing cabinet and slid to the floor, his eyes fixed on mine. "I'll take you home." He told me. "You don't need to be here for these petty squabbles."

"I'd appreciate that," I whispered.

Kaleb shook his head and laughed to himself. "I forget your kind don't say thank you."

I gave him a close-lipped smile before I followed the silver wolf from the room without saying goodbye to the others.