26. Twenty-Six

twenty-six

O ur visitors turned out to be friendly and not totally unannounced; Penn had invited Frann and Harold to the farmhouse. He’d planned to drive us out to the Widows’ Den after our trip to town. After my altercation with Paula and subsequent bolt from the square, Penn had called to see if they’d visit us instead.

Once I realized there was no urgency, I took my time in a very cold shower to wash away the desire. I wanted to tell them to come back tomorrow after I’d taken advantage of Penn at least a few times. And I might have done just that, except I was fairly certain this wasn’t a social call. One of them must have been the person Penn mentioned before—the one who could tell us what happened to the vampire Diana.

That thought kept me upstairs for longer than necessary. I wanted to know about the original alpha’s mate, but I wasn’t sure if I was ready. It probably had something to do with the voice inside my head warning me that I might not like what I would learn.

When I finally joined the other three downstairs, the house smelled like Italian herbs and spices.

“Red or white, dear?” Frann called as I followed the scent to the kitchen.

She and Harold sat at the round wooden table, both sipping from large glasses of wine. Penn stood at the counter chopping vegetables for a salad.

“Red, please,” I replied.

She poured me a glass of merlot.

“How was your shower?” Penn asked in a polite voice that verged on bored, like he meant to make small talk. Then, sounding all innocent, he added, “Sorry the showerhead doesn’t detach in that bathroom.”

My face turned the color of the wine in the glass Frann handed me. I took a sip and sauntered over to Penn and the cutting board, snatching a carrot from his pile.

“Lucky for you,” I murmured. I stared at the vegetable for a moment before biting into the orange shaft with a satisfying crunch.

His lips twitched. “I never said it wasn’t.”

“How are you, dear?” Frann asked, speaking up in a tone laced with concern. “I heard about your spat earlier today.”

I glared at Penn, then snipped at the carrot’s tip again.

“Oh, no,” she added quickly, waving away my assumption. “Gossip reaches our corner of pack lands faster than you might think.”

I grabbed a slice of cucumber from the bowl with another pointed look and leaned against the kitchen counter. “I’m fine. It was childish. I shouldn’t have let her get to me.”

Frann smiled knowingly. “Yes, well, Paula isn’t the easiest person to get along with. She can be downright nasty when she chooses.”

I arched an eyebrow. “You know her?”

“She’s my grandniece.” Frann didn’t sound thrilled about the familial relationship. She sighed loudly, and Harold patted her arm. “For what it’s worth, she tends to act out when she’s scared.”

That softened my resolve a little where the other woman was concerned. Paula was acting as smug and entitled as ever, but she was too smart to not understand the stakes that came with being Finneus’ fiancée. Especially after what happened with Belinda.

“I suppose I make an easy target right now, and she’s never been my biggest fan,” I admitted.

“Jealousy has a way of doing that,” Frann said, nodding.

“Jealous? Of me?” I laughed. “Doubtful. Besides, her family is well-off. They’ve given her everything she ever wanted.”

Harold and Frann exchanged glances. “It’s not always so simple,” she said gently. “There are things money can’t buy, and those are what Paula covets most.”

I sipped my wine and tried to decipher her cryptic words.

“But we aren’t here to talk about my family tree, are we?” Frann beckoned me over to the table, patting the chair beside her. “It’s your ancestors you are interested in.”

I frowned, a little embarrassed this hadn’t occurred to me sooner. Dad had always said our familial line traced back to the founding Ophiuchus alpha, yet I hadn’t considered I might be related to Diana.

“The original alpha’s mate was a white wolf, right?” I asked Frann as my gaze flitted to Penn. He didn’t look up from the cutting board, though his ears perked up at the topic change.

“She was, yes,” Frann agreed.

“I know she was turned into a vampire, but what happened to her after that—do you know? Is she still…around?” I ran my finger around the brim of the wine glass and waited for her response.

“The short answer is—I don’t know what became of Diana,” Frann said after a long minute.

Until she answered, I didn’t realize how much hope I’d pinned on her possible knowledge. I deflated, shoulders sagging. My gaze shot to Penn. He wore his typically blank expression, leaving me with no clue whether Frann’s admission surprised him.

“She is the origin of the superstition surrounding white wolves such as yourself, and it has everything to do with her being turned.” Frann smacked her lips and reconsidered. “Well, that and the fact she turned her mate as well, to keep him with her.”

I knocked my drink over, catching it before it crashed onto the table. Red liquid sloshed over my hand, looking unnervingly like blood. Penn strode over with a towel and patted my skin dry before wiping up the table.

“Thank you,” I muttered. “I’m sorry. Didn’t expect that.”

“The Ophiuchus have a long tradition of revising our history,” Harold interjected, which only surprised me because I hadn’t thought his spotty hearing was picking up the conversation. “Frannie is right that Diana is the source of myth. After her, for centuries, our pack slaughtered white wolves the moment they emerged.”

The dream about the little girl shot to the forefront of my mind.

“When did we stop doing that?” I asked, my nail digging a rut into my palm.

Harold pursed his lips and didn’t answer. Thinking he must not have heard me, I repeated my question with more volume.

“I can only tell you what I know,” Harold said, seeming to choose his words carefully. “Four white wolves, including yourself and Diana, have lived beyond puberty.”

“That we are aware of,” Frann was quick to add.

“What happened to the others?” I pressed.

Harold and Frann exchanged another round of glances. He shook his head. “Sadly, their stories are not happy ones.”

Why was I not surprised?

“Desmona died in childbirth with her daughter. She’d already given her mate a son and heir, but was supposedly desperate for a girl,” Frann explained. “As the story goes, she sought help conceiving a daughter—from the fae. Many believed her death was the price for going against nature and Gaia.”

I felt sick, though I didn’t know whether it was because of what Desmona had done or the way the pack thought of her after her death.

“What about the other one?” I managed to ask around a tongue that felt too big for my mouth.

“She ran away the night before her wedding,” Frann said. She held up a finger in warning. “No one really knows what happened to her. They say she was troubled and left pack life to start over in the human world.”

There were worse tragedies than a wolf choosing exile, but I couldn’t imagine why any shifter would abandon their pack on the eve of bonding with their mate. Well, if I were Paula, bolting for a non-supernatural community would’ve been preferable to marrying Finneus. Still, that was a one-in-a-million circumstance.

The kitchen timer dinged, and Penn pulled a pan of baked ziti from the oven. He served it onto four plates and brought them to the table.

“This looks wonderful,” Frann said, unfolding a cloth napkin and laying it across her lap.

I raised my eyebrows and gestured toward my plate. “You made this?”

“Don’t sound so surprised,” he said.

The food was amazing, and I ate a very large second helping. During dinner, the conversation turned to more pleasant topics. Frann chatted about the latest gossip out of the Widows’ Den, which was surprisingly entertaining. The older generations of Ophiuchus wolves had more drama than teen popstar idols. Back in the day, they’d apparently made a sport of bed-hopping. This past time led to me learning all about the current love triangle between Harold’s best friend, Ronald, and two spry septuagenarians.

Maybe it was the wine, but I found the stories distractingly hilarious. I truly enjoyed spending time with Frann and Harold. They were interesting and more worldly than my school friends. Both had spent significant time away from the Snake Mountains over the course of their lives. They traded anecdotes with Penn about places I’d only seen in movies. Their conversation made me realize that I was extremely sheltered.

My long weekend with the human racecar driver in Monaco, which I’d thought daring of me, suddenly seemed dull. Am I boring? I wondered.

Maybe the third glass of wine had been a bad choice.

“That’s where I met Walter, Drake,” Frann said, pulling me out of my thoughts. “Those five days in London are some of my fondest memories,” she added, a wistful note to her voice. “I was already engaged—naughty of me, I know.” She laughed, and the years fell away from her expression. “You’ll understand when you meet him; he can charm the undergarments off anyone.”

I snorted. My undergarments were more than safe.

“Magic-users,” Harold scoffed.

I blinked as more pieces of the conversation I’d tuned out fell into place. This Walter person was either a fae or caster who Frann had met and tangoed with many moons ago—what did she mean “when you meet him”?

“Walter Stolly is a dangerous man,” Penn said.

“Oh, hardly, dear.” Frann waved off his concern. “Only his enemies need fear him. To his friends, he is a powerful ally.” She smiled. “If anybody might know what happened to Diana, and would be willing to talk about it, it’s Walter.”

“I tried reaching out to him myself,” Penn explained, sensing my confusion. “That was before I remembered Frann telling me a story about him.”

“He still sends me a shepherd’s pie every year on my birthday,” she said with a grin. “And I send him a Hershey chocolate bar on his.”

Again, it had to be blamed on the alcohol, but I was wildly curious.

“Why Hershey?” I asked.

“Walter is American, dear,” Frann explained.

“I see. So, you’re still in contact?”

Frann hesitated. “In a manner of speaking. I’ve sent word through certain channels that I need his help. He’ll be in touch, I have no doubt.”

Her certainty reignited my hope. The way Harold rolled his eyes, like he too knew this Walter man would dash to Frann’s aid, only bolstered it.

“Do you think there’s really a chance he knows more about Diana?” I asked.

Frann nodded. “I do. Walter has always been interested in the original wolves. You could say he’s made it his life’s mission to learn more, though he will tell you it’s more of a hobby.”

I turned to Penn. “And you agree?”

His jaw tightened. “Unfortunately, yes. Believe me, if I knew of someone else— anyone else—I wouldn’t even consider Stolly.”

My eyes narrowed as I tilted my head to the side. “So the risk is worth the reward. Why are you so convinced?”

Penn drained his wine glass. “Because Walter Stolly is known for his fantastical stories. One of his more infamous claims to fame is that he once spent a night gambling with an original wolf.”

My mind wasn’t firing on all cylinders, but that math seemed impossible unless the wolf in question was immortal. For the second time, I nearly knocked over my wine glass. Penn and his quick reflexes prevented another spill.

“It may not be her,” he cautioned.

“How many other original wolves were turned into vampires?” I countered.

“Well, the first Ophiuchus alpha for one,” Frann reminded me. “Let’s wait and see what Walter says.” She patted my hand. “I’m afraid this old lady needs to get home. My eyes aren’t what they used to be.”

She offered to help with the dishes, but the sun had already sunk low in the sky and Penn insisted the couple leave before it grew any darker outside. Frann promised to call as soon as she heard back from Walter. I hugged her goodbye at the door and thanked the older wolves for venturing out.

Penn and I returned to the kitchen. Together, we cleared the table and washed the dishes in comfortable silence. Well…seemingly comfortable.

Every time his arm brushed mine, my mind went back to the kiss—to the feel of his skin against mine. My heart sped up, and the burning ache for him started all over again.

Against my better judgment and all logic, I drained my wine and poured another. It was still early, despite the stars that peppered the sky, and I really wanted to forget my compounding worries for the rest of the night. Tomorrow, I would deal with the consequences of my actions. Tonight, I just wanted to get drunk and make bad decisions.

Unfortunately, the consequences of my actions had other plans and they came knocking. Literally. Penn and I were still in the kitchen as the raps on his door echoed from the wooden beams on the ceiling. His muscles tensed.

“Stay here,” he ordered.

I followed him to the hallway and stopped. Whoever it was hadn’t arrived in a vehicle, and I didn’t sense them the way I would with a pack member.

“Hello, Beta Williams,” a low, sultry voice greeted Penn.

Malia. She appeared to be alone, though I supposed a magic-stealing murderess didn’t really need bodyguards.

“Can I help you?” he asked, tone not friendly in the least.

“I wanted to deliver this in person, to make sure our darling Drake receives her invitation,” Malia said.

From the shadows, I watched as she handed him an envelope.

“May I speak with her?” she asked.

“No,” Penn said.

Malia’s laughter rang in my ears. “So protective,” she cooed. “So determined to protect your sweet wolf princess and her innocence as long as possible. That is what you like about her, is it not?”

Penn’s large frame blocked my view of the caster, but I heard the grin in her voice.

“What if I told you she is neither sweet nor innocent?” Malia went on. “Would you still be so ready to die for her?”

A tense silence followed, and my teeth set on edge with worry that I might launch another fight.

“I’ll make sure she gets this,” Penn said finally, stepping back and closing the door.

Malia forced it open with a translucent wave of magic, so she could call her parting words to me.

“Make sure you save some of that delicious rage for tomorrow, Drake. It will make your power taste so much sweeter.”