Chapter Four Douglas

T he town of Pine Ridge is a well-kept secret. The fact that it's built on three intersecting Ley Lines means that plenty of evil beings seek it out. Those in the supernatural community who are strong enough to resist temptation and wish to settle here know they'll have to put up with creatures of darkness—inner darkness, that is.

I considered moving here after Nicola died, and the thought has visited off and on through the years as loneliness and feelings of uselessness took turns battering what was left of my heart. Pine Ridge would have offered a fresh start near clan lands and at least one family friend. I could have lived on the outskirts of the town, up where Ian has his lodges that he rents out to the wealthy weekender set.

That's what I think of as I drive to the Holiday Inn, bypassing the Country Pines motel that looks so much more inviting. I don't want things to feel inviting. I don't want to be tempted to relax in some fake rosy future in some fae-run hotel. On the other hand, I don't want to stay in the crowded city where the IAC has secured rooms for Thursday's meeting. Big cities always make me feel smothered, like stones are being piled on my chest.

A hotel on the motorway is the better option, a cross between comfort and pain.

My mobile chirps in the cupholder of the white Land Rover.

It's got to be a work call. No one else rings me.

"Wickstaff."

"Mr. Wickstaff, this is the New York office of IAC. Can you hold for Mr. Neilson?"

This is unforgivably common in my line of work. People ring me, put me on hold, and expect me to hang about like a lemon while someone higher up gets his thumb out and finally takes the call he ordered his assistant to make.

"I'll hold."

I hold the entire time I drive, put on the homemade glamour the wise woman of my clan made, check-in, and start unpacking. Finally, Neilson rushes into the phone call, sounding impatient and breathless.

"Wickstaff? Neilson, from the New York office."

"Good afternoon." You idiot. As if I didn't know who you were or where you were calling from...

"I sent an email this morning, but I didn't get a response, and the London branch said you were flying today. I need you to look over the Philadelphia office's numbers before our meeting."

I blink in confusion. "I'm sorry. I'm not responsible for that region."

"No, no, I know that. The Philadelphia office restructured and lost a few accountants in the shuffle. They're overloaded. We're going to juggle some staff, but in the meantime, since you're going to give me the numbers for the Glasgow, Edinburgh, Leeds, and London offices on Thursday, I figured you could handle Philly's, as well."

I'm silent. This is clearly the request of a man who thinks he's dealing with a weak little pushover.

My tusks glint in the mirror over the tiny hotel room desk. I smile at my reflection, something bloodthirsty buried under graying hair and a stiff collar. "That hardly seems feasible. I've just gotten in. My analysis won't be complete. Why not have the Wilmington or New York office manage it?"

"Everyone says you're the best, Wickstaff. And... and this is a big meeting, you know that. This is the final review before the audit. Look, I'm going to be leading some asset relocation. Do me a solid, and I'll see you're taken care of."

Ripping through some lazy American's shoddy work and enumerating all the errors I find and how much money I save will be a good distraction—and a corporate kill is all the killing I get to do these days anyway...

"Are the files attached in the email?"

"Along with a link to the Philadelphia shared drive. Thank you, Wickstaff. You're a godsend." Neilson hangs up.

"Godsend, hm?" I shake my head. "Well. Maybe it's mutual."

ALL WEDNESDAY, I LOAF about the hotel, eating the free bagels and drinking burnt-tasting coffee. I try hard not to think about the smooth, rich coffee I had at The Pine Loft. It was bold and dark but had a buttery finish hiding under notes of cinnamon and cocoa. Magical.

I sigh.

Not every man gets coffee served by a blonde Half-Orc goddess.

I try not to think about the largesse of pastries and goodies surrounding her, either. Tonight is the hunt. We'll feast.

I'm too busy acting like an auditor with an ulcer to worry about food or female company anyway.

MY HIRED LAND ROVER can barely squeeze in among the vehicles parked all over the front garden at Ian Fenclan's house. Adrenaline kicks in and wars with acute panic.

I no longer feel at home in my clan or most of our neighboring ones. Nicola was a great beauty, well-loved, well-liked—by everyone but me. My infatuation burned bright when I met her at a Winter Solstice gathering—and dimmed rapidly soon after we were wed. Bless her, she tried to pretend she was happy. Her clan and mine never knew how discontent she was—and I live in fear of spilling the secrets she took to the grave.

This isn't home. This is better than home. This is home from home, all the best bits but none of the attention. Go in and get lost. Kill something. Roar a bit. Pretend you're happy.

THE HUNT IS LIKE A gathering of clans—without the attraction of luscious female company. Oh, true, there are some beauties in the house—but all of them are likely spoken for or somehow related to a clan I mustn't mix with.

Pretty much any one of them. I feel like I've failed them all enough.

Outside, around a massive bonfire, it's easy to forget my guilt for a bit. Georgie, the groom and guest of honor, stands with his father and a short Hispanic man whom I can only assume is a relative of Claire's. They're ringed by a few dozen Orcs, two minotaurs, a handful of humans (or at least those who look human), and a scowling gargoyle.

"The hunt begins on the hour," Ian says in a well-lubricated, expansive voice, his bulky arms stretched wide under furs and leathers that are too warm for this lovely weather. First, I call on all the married or mated men, and those who have been married or mated, to give a blessing or bit of wisdom to the groom."

I can feel myself recoiling. I have no advice to offer. A blessing, fine, but no advice. This request is customary at the hunt, but I remember tuning all of the words out, letting them wash over me in a haze of mead, confident that I wouldn't need it. I wasn't some young stag waiting to rut, I was older and established in my career, as was Nicola.

You fool. Why should your knowledge of facts and figures in the aviation industry help you?

My eyes lock on Georgie's serious face. His father is speaking first, offering a traditional blessing from Ultarn the Prolific.

Georgie looks like he's taking it all in, truly absorbing it. Nodding in all the right places. It's not just a show for his father, though. Dozens of men come forward, and Georgie listens to all of them with the same gravity.

And of course, I seem to be last to speak.

I give him the advice in a low rush of words, ones from a tortured place inside, a place that resents the advice I didn't take, the questions I didn't ask. "When she's unhappy, remember it may not be your fault—but you still have to help her fix it. You're her other half. You're responsible for her, and she's responsible for you. Everyone talks about the love and laughter bits. The responsible bits aren't nearly so popular, but they matter just as much."

As soon as I speak, I wish I hadn't. I feel like I've outed myself and Nicola, too. Will the others realize she was unhappy? That it was my fault and I didn't try to fix it because I was just as miserable?

Thank God, a deep ringing gong echoes in one of the stone outbuildings.

"The hunt begins! I hope my son won't falter under the weight of so many wise words. There are at least twelve wild boars in the woods tonight. I'd like to think I can feed this mob between a dozen boars and what's in the house!"

"Enough talking, let's take to the woods!" One of Ian's cousins cries.

"Hunting parties of three to five. The groom must have first choice," Ian said.

Georgie predictably picks his father and future father-in-law, the little man named Renaldo. I find myself with a tall, elegant vampire named Minegold and his "son," Jesse. I'm just as pleased that I'm not with any of my kin or clan allies, distant or otherwise.

"We can see in the dark," Minegold whispers.

"And hear the boar's heartbeat," Jesse whispers back. Both of their irises are now dark crimson.

"I'm just going to have the chicken salad and the blood though." Minegold pats his trim waist with a smile. "Are you hungry, Mr. Wickstaff?"

"Call me Douglas. I am. I'm living off of an understocked continental breakfast bar and bad coffee at the Holiday Inn."

"Oh, there's no room here?" Minegold whispers every word in a demure voice while he runs as fast as bounding hind, never seeming ruffled or breathless.

I can barely keep up. I haven't run like this in years. My hair whips back and my dormant senses reach out for prey as I push myself—dodging other teams, leaping over fallen logs, and navigating paths that twist through trees in the dark of the woods. Free, like I can't be back home.

"I need to work while I'm here. This was a business trip as much as a family event," I confess.

"There!" Jesse hisses. He appears to be young, in his early twenties. His dark curling bangs and perfect stubble make him look like the teenage heartthrob vampire one sees on posters and movies. His finger points us down a path toward a spit of a stream.

"If you need a place to stay, my house is open. I live alone, and I have a lot of empty rooms."

"You could try Country Pines," Jesse mentions. "It's awesome and fae-run."

"I've heard," I whisper, pausing to crouch. The handle of my hunting knife is in my hand before I know it. I look to see what weapons my companions have chosen and find them smiling, sliding into fangs.

I've never spent time with vampires. Most are evil. Murderers. Modern Orcs have no time to let lawless beings loose in our lands. For some reason, I'm not afraid.

This town is something else.

"Would you like to do the honors, Douglas?" Mr. Minegold asks with a little courtly nod.

I nod back, silent as the primal parts I keep tightly trapped struggle free. My knife is held just so, with the hilt in my hand and the blade sheathed. I break into a run, chasing a shadowy form that looks up from the edge of the stream.

It's a long chase after that, with the vampires helping me keep the boar in our perimeter. We work well, a team that doesn't speak much, but moves fast and anticipates faster.

Sweet Jesus. I'm having fun.

Actual fun.

"Whooo!" The howl of joy rips out of me before I can control it—and all around me, others answer back.

My God. It's good to be back—not to any particular place—but to myself.

AT MIDNIGHT, WE ARE not the best and most beautiful of Pine Ridge. We're loud, sloshed, and covered with blood and freshly roasted boar, yet everyone is very civil and good-natured. You can't always say that at a gathering of the clans! My experiences at the local gatherings back home have been somewhat stilted since Nicola passed.

"Mead?"

I turn around and lose my smile as my heart skips a beat.

"Georgia! Aye." I take a tankard from her.

"Having fun?"

"It's a grand time. And you? Catching up with all of your aunties and cousins?" I nod toward the house, trying not to stare at her. She's wearing jeans and a black jumper, her wavy blonde hair pulled back in a ponytail.

Adorable.

Confident.

Relaxed.

I drain half the tankard so I don't have to talk. Maybe my mind will join in and quiet down enough to be able to hear Georgia.

Nope. My brain, already hyped from the kill and relaxed from alcohol, is nattering away.

She's gorgeous, even in simple clothes. Her voice is a ray of sun, even in the darkness.

God, I'd like to bask in her light—and sink into her warmth.

You're a dirty old man, aren't you?

I'm not that old. I'm young enough. In my prime. Orcs live longer than humans. I'm stalwart. Virile.

My brain broadcasts news of this virility to a southern region of my anatomy.

This is what my father said would happen when I met the one. I'd have an instant longing for her, and it would only get worse each time I saw her until I made her mine.

This didn't happen with Nicola. Why is it happening now?

"Are any other members of the Wickstaff clan coming?" Georgia asks, cutting through my tangle of thoughts.

"No." My answer sounds incredibly curt and short. I fumble for manners, the social ones that I rarely have to use. "Um. No."

Oh, yes. A vast improvement.

"I guess it's a long way to come for a friend's kid's wedding," Georgia nods with a sweet smile. "Those airline seats are no joke when you're an Orc."

"Horrid."

Come on, man. Can't we try a sentence of more than three words? "It's a nice town. I met Jakob Minegold. Very hospitable."

"He is! You know, he's sort of the unofficial mayor of the town—well, the supernatural community. He keeps it peaceful. We all do. It's an awesome town. I know it was hard for my parents to choose one country or the other, and I know the place where my dad grew up is amazing, but I'm so happy I had the chance to grow up in Pine Ridge. It's a great place to raise a family." She beams, facing glowing golden in the light of the bonfire.

Yes. Family. If I stare at Georgia too long, a funny thing happens. The image I usually have—myself as a cantankerous old grump waving his stick at anyone who dares knock on his door—evaporates. Instead, there's a blurry image of Georgia pushing a pram through the park while I amble beside her.

"It seems lovely. Shouldn't you be going back inside? With the women?"

Georgia's face shifts from a sunny grin to hurt confusion. "Yeah. You're right. I know this is just for the guys." She puts the tray she carried out under her arm. "I've handed out all the tankards. My mom will probably come out later to see if there's anyone I missed."

I swallow the rest of my mead as Georgia walks away. It feels like someone landed a blow on all my ribs at once as I catch a glimpse of her profile as she slides through the door, her beautiful countenance suddenly downcast.

All your fault, eedjit. You wanted to save yourself the embarrassment of trying to speak and hold your tongue at the same time, and now you've hurt that girl. That sweet, friendly young woman who did nothing but show you kindness.

I stop lecturing myself and put the tankard down on one of the many wooden benches set up for this evening. Time to make my exit. I have a busy day tomorrow, after all.

"Going, Dougie?"

Damn. I paste a smile on my face and turn to give Ian a hearty embrace. "Aye, I'm away. Early start tomorrow and a drive into the city." My mouth turns down on its own.

"I feel for ye, lad. But we'll see you on Friday, won't we? Rehearsal dinner?"

"Yes, I'll be there if you want. Although, Ian, I'm not really doing much in the wedding, only standing with the clan to welcome the bride."

"You can hardly stand with honor if you haven't met her! Oh, but she's the loveliest, sweetest little thing." Ian's eyes glaze for a moment, "Built for an Orc, too." He holds his hands wide apart and sighs. "Claire's heart is as big as her— Well. You always hope your son will strike it lucky."

"You old dog."

"No one could find a better woman for me than my Farrah," he says with a tiny edge of warning in his voice. "And Claire is perfect for Georgie. If only there was someone Georgia fancied, I'd be set for life."

"Uh. There... There isn't?" I hope I don't sound too curious.

Ian shrugs and walks with me through the sea of cars to get to the Land Rover. "No. Not for lack of available men in these parts. Human, gargoyle, vampire, shifter, wulver... Dozens of available men and monsters. She wants an Orc—and who could blame her?" He slaps my back hard at that, shaking a laugh out of my tight chest. "The only one local is thon young gasbag, King Silverbow."

"Nicola's aunt was a Silverbow."

"No offense to her memory, Dougie. It's just that this one's hopped up on himself, full of his own glory." Ian's voice drops. "He is awfully good, though. Hockey. Plays as a pro on our minor league team. May make the majors someday." My old friend sighs, his head back to gaze at the moon and his long graying braid trailing down his back. "Free tickets for life if she'd pick him."

"Ah. So, you're engineering a match?"

"Hell, no! Georgia and Farrah would skin me! I stay well out of it. When Georgia meets a fellow she likes, she'll tell us. And he'll know it, make no mistake. My daughter may look as gentle as her mother, but she's a War Maiden at heart." Ian chuckles, eyes sleepy with contentment as he looks towards the house.

Georgia is visible in the window, her glass raised as if giving a toast.

My heart thumps in response to Ian's words and Georgia's fleeting figure.

Stupid, disobedient organ.

"I've got to be off." I shake hands, submit to a rough tackle of a hug, and throw myself into the driver's seat. As I barrel down the road, feelings of uneasiness rattle through my gut and limbs. Could be the mead. The crash after the hunt as my adrenaline resets.

I'd like to believe that, but I don't. The prickles of panic aren't from anything I've eaten or done. It's something I'm feeling. A horrible sense of deja vu.

Nicola was so vibrant and happy. Like Georgia.

Untamed, fiery, a War Maiden at heart. Like Georgia.

It may be my bloated, lonely ego, but I feel like Georgia has more than a polite interest in me. It's probably a passing curiosity.

Let's hope so, otherwise the similarities might continue. Nicola wanted me. I turned out to be the worst thing in the world for her. Everything bright about her dimmed once she became my mate.

I can't do this again. I won't make the same mistake twice.