Howling For You

Page 6

Jeff and I looked at each other, and I opted for frankness. “We believe Mr. York may have inadvertently taken something that belonged to my family.”
Cash’s eyes went wide. “Really.”
I nodded. “Since he’s gone, would it be possible for us to take a look at his room? I know it’s an inconvenience, but it would make my family feel a lot better.”
He grimaced. “That’s not exactly policy.”
“The guest has checked out,” I reminded him. “So there’s no breach of the policy. We just want to see if perhaps there’s anything he might have left behind.”
Jeff put his hand on the counter, a folded hundred-dollar bill tucked subtly between his fingers. “We’d appreciate it very much.”
Cash’s eyes stayed flat, but he took the money and handed us a keycard. “Sixteen twenty-eight,” he said, gesturing with a bladed hand toward the elevators. “Help yourselves.”
The elevator was empty, and it moved slowly and steadily up the side of the building, adding or subtracting a guest here or there. When we reached the sixteenth floor, we followed the arrows to the right, checking the room numbers until we reached 1628.
“Got it,” I said, holding out my hand for the key card. Jeff handed it over, and I unlocked the door and pushed it open.
“Damn,” Jeff said, stepping inside behind me. “I think the Yorks have money.”
If the suite was any indication, he was right. A central hallway led to a bathroom, a bedroom, and a sitting area with a view of the lake. The furniture was high-end, the linens fancy. Silk curtains in wide vertical stripes were tied back at the windows. The room hadn’t yet been cleaned, which gave us better odds of finding some hint of what he’d been up to.
“Probably so. He had a driver yesterday.”
“Fancy,” Jeff said. “I’ll take the bedroom. You look in here.”
I walked to the small desk, opened the drawer, and rifled through complimentary stationary and Chicago-centric magazines. I found another guest’s discarded receipt for the observation deck at the Hancock Tower, dated more than a month ago, and a cellophane-wrapped peppermint.
Nothing had been lost between the couch cushions, nothing stuffed into the pillows. I found only dust bunnies under the couch, and the wastebasket was empty.
The sitting room checked, I walked to the door of the bedroom.
Jeff had pulled the sheets, pillow, and duvet from the bed and was methodically checking them.
“Nightstands?” I asked.
“Not yet,” he said, without looking up.
I walked to the far side of the bed, pulled open the drawer. The usual Bible was there, and a small notepad. Nothing else. Ditto the nightstand on the other side.
When I’d checked both, I stood up, put my hands on my hips, and surveyed the room. I wasn’t sure what I’d expected to find; it wasn’t like he’d have forgotten to take the crown with him, or left crown crumbs in a Hansel and Gretel–style trail.
“Fallon.”
I looked up. Jeff stood on the other side of the bed, motioned me to approach. The bed had four short posters. And in the corner of the poster at the foot of the bed, on the side closest to the door, was a scrap of dark fabric.
It was wedged tightly, caught on the end of a bedspring that had poked through the cover. I carefully lifted it, held it up.
It was purple velvet, the same fabric used on the cushion that protected the crown.
“Jesus,” Jeff said. “I was hoping it was a coincidence. That really sucks.”
“Yeah,” I agreed. “It really, really sucks.”
I ignored the flickers of humiliation, sat down on the bed, pulled out my phone, and sent a picture of the fabric to Gabe and a status report. While we waited for a response, I tucked the fabric in my pocket, evidence of the crime.
Jeff sat down beside me. “I can kick his ass if you’d like.”
I smiled mirthlessly. “I’d like. But I still think it’s weird. I mean, I know don’t know him very well, but I wouldn’t have suspected this. Breaking into the house? Stealing the crown?” I shook my head. “He was so mild mannered.”
“If your date didn’t go well, maybe he thought it was his only other option. Did he say anything that suggested he had a plan?”
I shrugged. “He asked about the initiation. Wondered if it bothered me that Connor gets the crown instead of me.”
Jeff snorted. “I’m surprised you didn’t kick his ass for that. Or maybe you just gave him your ‘most displeased’ look.”
“My ‘most displeased’ look?”
“Yeah, you know.” He adjusted to face me, dipped his chin, and gave me a good stiff stare.
“I do not do that.”
“Oh, you do,” he assured. “You’re very opinionated.”
“I’m not opinionated. I’m just right. Frequently.”
“And most displeased when you’re wrong. Especially if I’m right.”
A headache was beginning to throb behind my eyes, and his word games weren’t helping. I closed my eyes and rubbed my temples. “What a crappy day.”
“Royally,” Jeff said, snickering at the pun. “But I can make it better.”
I nearly laughed at the bravado in his voice, but Jeff moved too quickly. Before I could protest, his lips met mine, cutting off argument. He leaned forward, his mouth insistent, a hand against my cheek. He kissed me hungrily, greedily, like a man long denied.
I let him kiss me. I let him seduce me with bites and kisses, and the hand that caressed my cheek. And then I kissed him back, my fingers stealing into his hair, pulling him toward me.
His magic rushed forward. Where Patrick’s magic had mingled with mine, Jeff’s danced, teased, and enticed. It rose to envelope both of us, hinting at the fire we could so easily start . . .
Until I remembered where we were, and what we were doing there.
The spark banked.
I stood up, knees shaking, and moved away from him, my heart beating against my chest like a timpani drum. “Jeff, we can’t. I can’t.”
“You can,” Jeff said, rubbing his hands over his face in obvious frustration. “But you won’t.”
“That’s not fair.”
He looked up at me, grief in his eyes. “None of this is fair, Fallon. For either of us.”
My phone rang.
We stared at each other until the third ring, when I forced myself to check the screen. It was Gabriel. “Hello?”
“I spoke with Richard. He knows nothing about the crown or the initiation. I think he was being honest. But he admitted he’s been concerned about Patrick.”
“I’m putting you on speakerphone,” I warned. “What do you mean, he’s concerned about Patrick?”
“I’m not entirely sure. I’m also not sure how clearly he sees things.”
“Because of the illness?”
“Yeah. He doesn’t have the strength he used to. I’m not sure he’s got the memory, either. He knows he’s fading, and he’s worried how Patrick will handle it.”
“If we’re right and he took the crown, he’s not handling it well,” Jeff said. “We need to figure out where he’ll go next.”
“Richard said he was coming home.”
“Which one?” I asked, thinking of our conversation. “He’s got two—family place in Wausau, and a cabin near Sheboygan.”
“You’re closer to Sheboygan,” Gabriel said. “You go there. I’ll send Damien to Wausau.”
Damien Garza was one of Gabriel’s go-to Pack members, a quiet man with a penchant for solving messy Pack problems.
I looked at Jeff, who nodded.
“We’re on our way.”
Patrick hadn’t given me his address, but I had Jeff for that. In addition to his gaming skills, he was a master of the Web. He could find a needle in a binary haystack and did, in this case, offering up Patrick’s address and prepping the GPS.
Jeff and I didn’t speak a word about the kiss, and didn’t say much of anything for the drive north. But the tension in the air was unmistakable. I knew we were going to have to talk about it sooner or later, but not right now. Business first.
The cabin was part of a woodsy neighborhood beside the lake, a cluster of houses and cabins probably used by Chicagoans to escape the city in the summer. But this was winter and the lake was frozen; most of the houses looked empty, the snow still in drifts around their doors.
Patrick York’s house, a log cabin A-frame, was easy to spot—the drive was shoveled, and smoke rose from the chimney.
We parked a hundred feet down the road, got out of the car, and looked at each other.
“If he’s got the crown, he’ll want to keep it. We should be prepared for a fight.”
Jeff nodded. “You bring a weapon?”
“I am the weapon.”
He gave me a cutting look.
“Blades,” I said. “Just in case, I have my blades.” I had two daggers, engraved and gorgeous, tucked inside my boots. “You?”
“Same.” He zipped up his leather jacket, nodded, and we trekked back to the cabin in the woods. As we walked, snow began to fall, large and beautiful flakes that quickly covered the ground in a fluffy white quilt.
We reached the end of the driveway and paused at the mailbox.
“I don’t see a backdoor,” Jeff said. “Either he’s going through a window, or he’s coming with us.”
I nodded and turned to walk toward the door, but Jeff grabbed my hand before I could move. A bolt of lust and magic speared through me, followed immediately by a wave of regret.
“Be careful,” he whispered, releasing my hand and falling into step beside me.
Patrick York opened the door in a T-shirt and jeans, a white kitchen towel in hand. The smell of breakfast—bacon, eggs, cheese—wafted through the room.
It took my brain a moment to catch up. What kind of thief started cooking after stealing a crown?