Chapter Thirteen

T here are bolt holes and then there are bolt holes.

The hunting cabins were likely Micah's safest hideout, but he'd already been there. Some gut instinct told him he needed to cover his tracks.

That meant he had to get away from Anders and that he couldn't go anywhere near Anna, although he was fairly desperate to know that she was okay. He logged into his secure message portal and sent Jessie a short one.

On the road. Stay safe .

He hoped Jessie would know what that meant. Keep communication to a minimum but let me know if anything bad happens .

He left the CR-V at Anders' house. Left the keys on the kitchen counter, too, along with a note that said he'd be back in touch when he got his shit worked out.

When he was worthy of someone like Anders.

Someone solid, and strong, and safe.

Dawn was a thin pale line on the eastern horizon when he snuck out and shifted to four legs to get somewhere an Uber could find him.

That took him to the ferry, where he walked on. He got off in downtown Seattle, where the traffic and the noise overwhelmed him. In the last twenty-four hours, he'd shifted from Micah to Gage to Micah again, with a couple of side trips through the animal world. His tank was so empty he'd almost run out of fumes, but he didn't have time to rest. He needed to get somewhere safe, and in the time it took him to get there, he needed to decide what his next steps should be.

He still had the key to the fancy-ass condominium Corbin Blande had rented, but Seth Damyan had to have a minion watching it. Damyan probably had both his other Seattle apartments under surveillance too, which left him with finding a hotel or grabbing a tent in a homeless encampment.

Both had downsides.

Deciding he didn't want to bring the demon down on a bunch of houseless people, Micah opted for the hotel. He picked a nondescript place on Aurora Avenue at the bottom of Queen Anne Hill. It was run down but rented rooms by the day rather than by the hour, and he hoped the area's general busyness would keep him off Seth Damyan's radar.

He used a credit card in the name of Ramsey Rider, one he hadn't used in a long time. The hotel room wasn't much larger than its queen-sized bed, and the whole space smelled faintly of cigarette smoke, but there was a microwave in the room and a Starbucks within walking distance.

It didn't take him much time at all to settle in since he'd only taken what would fit in his backpack. He'd left his duffle at Anders' along with his car, "Because there's nothing that'll convince a guy faster that you really mean to leave him for good than leaving a bunch of shit at his house."

Raking a hand through his hair, Micah stared at himself in the mirror that hung on the back of the hotel room door.

Who are you, really?

Apparently he was a guy who wanted to do better, to be better.

He wanted to be worthy of Anders' love.

He made sure the door was locked, adding the chain for extra protection, and stretched out on the bed without bothering to pull down the coverlet. Yeah, if the cops sprayed it with luminal, there'd probably be evidence of blood and spunk, but Micah didn't care. He didn't want to be comfortable. He just wanted to sleep.

But as soon as he closed his eyes, the movie started.

Jessica, Thomas Broadmoor, Corbin Blande—the works.

Seth Damyan's white serpent crawled around through all of it, raising gooseflesh on Micah's arms, and the echo of Errante's words provided the narration: That is your choice, of course, but the ghosts will only get stronger with time.

Yeah, he wasn't going to get any sleep until he figured this shit out.

Eyes sandy, the beginnings of a headache tightening around his skull, Micah finally sat up and pulled out the phone he only used for contacting Jessie. He toyed with it for a while, bringing up the telephone app and closing it again. Not many options, my dude . Contacting Seth Damyan would make a bad situation worse, and the mundane police wouldn't understand what he'd done.

That left SPAM.

Special Processes and Management . A ridiculous name for a very serious organization, one tasked with policing all manner of supernatural and paranormal creatures. They'd know exactly what he'd done. Hell, they'd probably arrested the idiots he'd hired to help him.

Seth Damyan had wanted a wraith—Lord knows why—and, as Corbin Blande, Micah had made him one. That he'd had to kidnap two people and force one to power the magic against his will had made something in Micah bleed, but he'd done it anyway. He'd done it to protect Anna.

He'd done it because a lifetime of bad choices had boxed him in, and he hadn't seen another way out.

The guy… what was his name? Brandon something? Micah's gut twisted at the memory. Yeah, Brandon. He owed Brandon an apology, at least, but there wasn't a universe in which Micah Jenkins had big enough balls to contact him outright.

So, SPAM. His last resort.

"I mean, what can they really do to me? Do they have some kind of supernatural death penalty? Maybe a firing squad?" Micah shook his head, which only made the headache worse. "They're not going to kill you, idiot." Hopefully. "Just do it."

He did grant himself one concession. SPAM was most likely looking for Corbin, so that's who should make the call. One quick shift and they'd never know Micah existed.

Weirdly, he had a number for SPAM saved in his contacts. He dialed it, hands shaking, palms sweating. A young man picked up the call with a cheerful, "Main office. Can I help you?"

Taking a deep breath, Corbin answered, "I want to talk to someone about the time I raised a wraith."

"You… what?"

"Raised. A. Wraith." Corbin emphasized each word.

"What's your name, please?" The young man's tone of voice was distinctly less pleasant.

"Corbin." He sighed, wondering if this was all a tragic mistake. "Corbin Blande."

"Thank you, Mr. Blande. Can I put you on hold for a moment?"

He came very close to hanging up. "Sure."

"Thank you."

The much-less-cheerful young man went away, only to be replaced by the hold music. Dead Man's Party , by Oingo Boingo.

"Because that's not ironic at all," he muttered into the phone. He paced the room, catching a glimpse of himself in the mirror.

Corbin glared back at him. His hair was so dark it was almost black, combed off his face and held in place by some hugely expensive product. He wore a polo and jeans someone must have ironed because they still had a crease down the front, and Micah's Chucks were replaced by a pair of brown leather Top-Siders.

Of all of his personas, he hated this one most of all.

He'd been on hold long enough for one song to end and the next to begin— Pet Sematary , by the Ramones. "For fuck's sake."

Corbin had come close to hanging up so many times that he finally put the phone on speaker and left it on the bed so he couldn't touch it. When he tried to sit, his knee vibrated so fast he stood up again. He wanted to shift, to get rid of the stink of hair product and the scrape of starched jeans. He wanted this over.

"Hello, is this Corbin Blande?" The suddenness of the voice made him jump.

"Yeah." He had to clear his throat. "Yes, it is."

"My name is Geordi, and we need to talk."

"You stupid bastard."

Anders flung himself out of bed. As soon as he'd cracked an eye open and realized he was alone, he knew Micah hadn't just made a potty run. "You did it. You left, you stupid fuck."

Even as he started yelling, he knew there was no one to hear him. He was alone in this big ol' house, because he hadn't loved Micah enough to convince him to stay.

Whoa… love? Where the fuck did that come from?

He made a fist and stopped himself just before punching a hole in the wall. "Won't help, man. It'll only make a mess."

Or more of a mess, because the way he felt right now was the very definition of mess. He stalked through the house, hoping he was wrong, that somehow Micah had just snuck up to the music room or decided to go for a run.

All he found was Micah's duffle bag, still full of clothes, and a note.

Let me clean up my shit so I can be worthy of a man like you .

M . ?

He'd literally drawn a little heart. Anders fought the urge to light the note on fire. "I could have helped you, man."

He choked down a sob, wondering what the hell to do next. Shower? Try and eat something?

Go after him?

That last one resonated in a way that made him uncomfortable. His wolf perked up at the idea, and deep in his belly, he knew that's what he needed to do.

"Fuck it. Shower first, then save the idiot."

Under a stream of hot water, he calmed down enough to pay attention to what his gut was trying to tell him. Yeah, he had to go after Micah, but how? Where?

East.

That one word gave him such a sense of rightness that he could take a deep breath. "But how far east?" he asked himself. His gut didn't seem to have a ready answer for that, although Seattle seemed like an obvious first step. "Hope this isn't a complete disaster."

Or more of a disaster than it was already.

Clean, dry, and dressed to travel, Anders threw together some yogurt and fruit for breakfast and planned his next steps.

Potter . He was going to have to tell Potter he was leaving. His Alpha would prefer he asked rather than told , but whatever.

He didn't really have much choice. Either Potter was going to be angry or Anders' wolf was, and he would much rather deal with an angry Alpha.

Grabbing his phone, he dialed Potter's number before he could talk himself out of it.

Potter answered on the first ring. "What's up?"

"I'd like to stop by if it's convenient. There's something I need to tell you."

After a brief pause, Potter said, "Okay. I'll be in the backyard with the rosebushes."

Mrs. Potter's garden was the neighborhood's gold standard, so Anders wasn't too surprised by that. "Thank you, sir." Once he had breakfast cleaned up, he packed an overnight bag, just in case, threw the bag in the back of the truck, and headed for the Potters' home.

They lived some fifteen minutes away, not quite to the Port Angeles city limits. It was a big house, and while the property wasn't as large as Anders' own, it ran up against a stand of evergreens and, beyond that, to a forest where the wolves could run.

This time of year, the gardens exploded with color. Bright orange daylilies lined the front walkway and a pair of shrub roses guarded the front door, their blooms an astonishing pink. Anders parked behind Potter's Lexus SUV and just sat for a moment. If anything, the pull in his gut was getting stronger, his wolf pacing restlessly. "I'll head east soon," he said aloud. "I just need to tell Potter."

What if he tells me to stay? I can't put the needs of a guy I barely know over the needs of the pack .

But if he didn't do just that, he wasn't sure he'd be able to live with himself. Micah wasn't perfect—Anders was pretty sure the guy had left out several salient details to his story—but he called to Anders in a way he didn't understand.

"I gotta do this." There was no one to hear him, but at least he'd sounded more confident than he felt.

Rather than knock, he followed the stone path around to the backyard. Potter was on his knees in front of a garden bed, tending to a row of rosebushes as full and healthy as Anders had ever seen. Shredded bark surrounded them, so there wasn't much weeding to be done. As soon as he caught sight of Anders, Potter stood, dusting off the knees of his khaki pants.

"What's going on?"

"Do you mind if we go inside?" This was Pack business, and he meant to treat it as such.

"I was going to ask you if you wanted one of Erica's banana nut muffins, but maybe we better talk first." Potter's gaze was thoughtful, as if he could see Anders' turmoil even if he didn't know the cause. "Come on in."

Following Potter into the house, Anders almost lost his nerve. The old Craftsman home had a large wooden deck out back, circa 1970 or so, and their feet thunked across it. Potter had been Alpha of the Elwha Pack for about as long as Anders could remember. He'd led the pack the first time Anders shifted, a scrawny sixteen-year-old with more attitude than sense. It was Potter who'd recognized Anders' strengths, who'd pulled him aside and encouraged him to fight for the role of Beta.

It was Potter who'd told Anders that he should be the pack's next Alpha.

Neither of them had planned on Anders taking off after a guy he barely knew.

A guy who might just be his mate, wolf or not.

Anders had been to Potter's office before. It was a somber place, with heavy antique furniture and a single bookshelf weighed down with medical texts. Potter sat down behind his desk and gestured at the only other chair.

Anders sat, though he fought the urge to play with his hair, crack his knuckles, rub his face, or make any of the other small gestures that would delay things further. "It's about Micah."

"Micah? You mean the guy at the cabins?"

"Yes, sir."

"What about him?" Potter's tone went from jovial to stern in three words.

"He's, well, he needed a place to stay for a while, out of sight."

"Why?" One word, like the crack of a whip.

Anders stifled his reflexive flinch, Micah's need for secrecy battling with Potter's demand for honesty.

Honesty won. "Someone's after him. A demon, I guess, and I told him he could stay with me for a while."

"You knew he'd crossed a demon and you still invited him to stay?"

Anders made fists with his hands to keep from fidgeting. "Yes, sir. Well, I didn't know about the demon until last night."

Potter's forehead creased as if Anders hadn't done enough to connect the dots. "So, why are you telling me this?"

"This morning when I woke up, Micah was gone, and… and I'm going after him."

"What?" If his "why" had been the crack of a whip, this was a thunderclap. "Do you know where he went?"

"East." He sounded weak to his own ears. Potter was going to shred him, and he deserved it.

"East. Like, Seattle-east? Or Chicago-east?"

Anders straightened. The Alpha would attack weakness. The only thing he'd respect was strength. "My gut is telling me east, so I'm going to head for Seattle to start with. I'm pretty sure it'll point me in the right direction once I get closer."

"The only thing my gut tells me is when it's time for dinner." Potter flopped back in his desk chair. "You seriously expect me to be okay with you taking off after some guy? How long do you think you'll be gone?"

"I don't know, sir." Anders held firm, his shoulders strong, his posture erect.

"You don't know." Potter shook his head, but before he could launch into another diatribe, Anders spoke up.

"I've never had a feeling like this before, sir. There is something in me that's telling me I must do this. My wolf is telling me I must do this."

Potter's gaze narrowed, his expression both annoyed and concerned. "Have you mated to this man?"

Anders swallowed hard. "I'm not sure."

All emotion left Potter's expression. "You're not sure."

"No sir. All I know is that I need to go after him, that he's somewhere east of here, and that I don't know when I'll be back."

When he spoke again, Potter's voice was gruff. "Have you told your sister?"

"I'll call her from the road."

Potter stood, chin raised, hands clasped behind his back. Anders recognized the posture. His Alpha, demanding obedience. He went down on one knee, unable to breathe, because if his Alpha refused to grant his permission, Anders was in a world of shit.

"Anders Walter Montgomery, I have heard your petition and have made my decision."

Anders' heart skipped a beat, likely because he still wasn't breathing.

"You may go after this man, this Micah Jenkins, but you must bring him to me. Either you both join the Elwha Pack, or neither of you belong here."

Anders folded inward, as if Potter had kicked him in the belly rather than said those words. He managed to drag some air into his lungs, then cleared his throat and somehow got to his feet. "Yes, sir," he said in a voice sounding nothing like his own. "I'll be in touch."

Potter's expression never changed, but there was a new tightness to his lips. He nodded once, and together, they left his office. From the dining room, Mrs. Potter's surprised hello was more of a yelp, as if she hadn't expected company. Anders gave her a small wave, but Potter didn't slow his pace.

At the front door, neither said anything. It took every ounce of Anders' willpower just to meet Potter's gaze. His Alpha opened the door, and Anders took off before he could get himself in any more trouble.

He slammed the driver's side door behind him but didn't start the truck immediately. His hands were shaking so hard he didn't trust himself to drive.

Either both of us belong to the pack, or neither of us do? Fuck me. Just. Fuck. Me .