“You sure about that? It’s rare, for a territory’s wolves to be so … independent.”
“I think I know what you’re really asking,” I said. “I met some of the vampires of Europe last night. And some of their wolves. I didn’t like what I saw.”
“You’ve never seen wolves as slaves, you mean.”
“No,” I said. “Not like that.”
“It’s been that way for centuries on the Continent,” Caleb said. “It’s different, here. The arrangement Ned and I have is unusual.”
“What arrangement is that?”
“We leave each other alone.”
“The European vampires don’t like either one of you because of that.”
“They’d take Ned out, if they could.”
“And if they took him out, the wolves here could lose their autonomy.”
“It won’t come to that,” he said, but it sounded like bluster. His gaze fell, the tiniest sign of a loss of confidence. “There are rumors that a war is coming. Between those who want us in the open and those who don’t. Between us and regular people. What do you think? Is war brewing?”
War was such a big word. I wanted to deny it. “I think so, yes,” I said.
“This conference of yours has brought the likely instigators to my doorstep. What am I supposed to do with that?”
He said it like it was my fault. Like the conference was even my idea. Or maybe that the war was. “I suppose that depends on which side you’re on.”
“I’m on the side of angels, love.”
I liked him. That didn’t mean I could trust him. I looked to Ben for his opinion. He kept a neutral expression; his hackles were down, though, his shoulders and back relaxed.
I turned back to Caleb. “Does the name Roman mean anything to you? Or Dux Bellorum?”
“No, but if I run into these fellows what should I do?”
“Stake the hell out of him,” Ben said.
Caleb smiled. “That bad, eh?”
“If there is a war coming,” I said. “It’s because of him.” In a hushed voice I explained what I knew of the Long Game, that two-thousand-year-old Roman had been gathering allies and taking control of territory, for the purpose—near as anyone could figure—of having the most power. Of ensuring that the supernatural world, controlled by him, had supremacy over humanity in whatever conflict, instigated by him, ensued.
“Not even the vampires know which of them’s aligned with Roman and who isn’t,” I said. “I think it’s on purpose. Keeps them at each other’s throats. At least that’s what happened last night.”
“Better each other’s than ours. They’re nervous,” Caleb said, thoughtfully scratching the stubble on his chin. “Things are changing too fast for ’em—they’re used to watching the world move slowly around them, manipulating events behind the scenes. They can’t do that so much now.”
“If Roman can gather allies, then so can we. The more people know about him, the less power he has. So now you know.”
The alpha werewolf leaned back in his chair. “You’re all right, Kitty Norville. Unfortunate name, there.”
“Don’t start,” I muttered.
He chuckled. “One more question for you. There’s another American werewolf here for the conference, a Joseph Tyler. What do you know about him?”
I straightened, hackles stiffening again. “What about him?” I said, my voice low.
“Steady there,” he said. “Friend of yours, I take it?”
“If you hurt him—”
He huffed. “What makes you think anyone can hurt him? He’s a tank. That’s what I want to ask—is he going to be trouble while he’s here?”
I was shaking my head before he’d finished talking. “No, not at all. He’s had enough trouble. He was Special Forces in Afghanistan, he’s worked really hard to adjust to civilian life. To werewolf civilian life. He’s a really good guy.” I could defend Tyler for hours.
Caleb nodded. “All right. I trust you.” He pushed his chair away from the table. “I don’t know if you’ll still be here for full moon, but if you need a place to run, to let off steam or whatnot, I can show you territory where you won’t be bothered.”
“Thanks,” I said. “I appreciate that.”
“Can we get you a drink? You and your friends?” Ben asked, gesturing to the handful of other wolves in the place obviously keeping watch.
“Maybe next time,” he said. “I should be going.”
We exchanged phone numbers before Caleb and his pack left, and I felt like I had another ally.
Ben and I finished our drinks, ate some food, and were on our way out when my phone rang, making me jump. Just when I felt like I was able to let my guard down … caller ID said Cormac.
“Yeah?” I said in greeting.
“I need to talk to you. Is Ben there?”
“Yeah, what’s wrong?”
“Where are you?”
“That pub a couple of blocks from the hotel.”
“Right. I’ll be there in a couple of minutes.”
“Cormac, wait—” But he’d already hung up. I looked at Ben. “Cormac’s on the way.”
“What’s wrong?” Ben asked, concerned. I had to shrug.
We went back inside and ordered another round of drinks while we waited.
Chapter 8
CORMAC APPEARED at the door and took off his sunglasses before looking around. He brought his fingerprint-unique scent with him—the aged leather of his coat, soap on male skin. Ben waved, and he took the seat Caleb had been using.
“I need help,” he said, before hello even.
Ben and I both straightened. “What’s wrong?” I asked.
He scratched the corner of his mustache, an uncharacteristic nervous gesture. “Really it’s Amelia who needs help. Or thinks she does. We do, I mean.” He winced, and I gaped. Cormac, tongue-tied and awkward? Something really was wrong. “Amelia thinks you can help,” he said finally.
I raised my brow and waited some more. Scowling, he ducked his gaze, and if he looked like he was having an argument with himself, he probably was. My curiosity boiled.
“You want to explain?” I asked.
He shook his head. “I say we just break into the place—”
“Maybe from the beginning?”
“You want something to drink first?” Ben said.
“Yeah, I think I do.”
Ben went to get him a beer, and by the time he got back, he’d figured out how to tell the story.
“I spent most of yesterday in libraries,” he said. “Looking up genealogies, family histories. Amelia tracked down her family—her brother and his descendants. They’ve still got land and money, her couple of greats grand-nephew owns the house where she grew up, the one she was living in before she left.” Before she set out on the travels and adventures that took her around the world and eventually to Colorado, where she’d been wrongfully executed for murder.
He continued, “She hid some things in the house. Journals, odds and ends. She wants to try to get them back.”
“You can’t exactly walk up to some guy’s door, knock, and ask to go searching for his dead great-aunt’s lost journals,” I said.
“I can’t.” He pointed at his scowling face and rough appearance, then pointed at me. “You might be able to.”
I huffed. “Oh, come on! You can’t expect me to try to sell that story to a total stranger.”
“That’s what I think—but for some reason she doesn’t want me breaking in and grabbing the stuff.”
“No breaking and entering,” Ben said. “Especially not in a foreign country, not while you’re still on parole. Not ever.” Ben glared, and Cormac actually lowered his gaze, chagrined.
I started to ask why they didn’t just write a letter or make a phone call explaining the situation, then realized—who would believe that? The nephew might not believe someone telling him this in person, but he wouldn’t be able to ignore the plea, like tossing a letter in the trash.
&nb
sp; The story was far-fetched, unlikely. I sympathized.
“Are you sure she isn’t trying to get part of her old life back?” I said.
Cormac pursed his lips, engaging in another of their silent, internal discussions. He tilted his head and said, “Wouldn’t you?”
I glared across the table at him. At them. I was going to get roped into this, wasn’t I? They weren’t just playing on my sympathy, they were playing on my curiosity. I’d chase the story. It might have been crazy and misguided. It might even have been sad, another reason to pity the tragic woman who’d attached herself to Cormac. But it also couldn’t hurt to try. What was the worst that could happen? The British equivalent of a restraining order? I knew better than to ask that question.
“Ben?” I said, glancing over.
He shrugged. “It never hurts to ask. But if he says no and kicks us out, are you going to be okay with that?”
“We just have to make sure he doesn’t say no.”
Cormac slid over a piece of paper with a name and phone number written on it. What could I do but pick it up? He watched, his hunter’s gaze cool and steady, as I pulled out my phone and dialed the number, writing a quick script in my head.
After only a couple of rings, the other end of the line picked up and a female voice answered. “Nicholas Parker’s office.”
I glanced at Cormac, thinking I maybe should have gotten a little more information about Nicholas Parker, apart from the belief that he was Amelia’s great-great-grandnephew, before calling. Oh well. “Hi, may I speak to Mr. Parker, please?”
“May I tell him who’s calling?”
“My name’s Kitty Norville, I have some information for him.” Maybe that would be enough. I didn’t even know what kind of office Parker had. Doctor? Lawyer? Stockbroker? Hairdresser? Lawyer, I bet.
“One moment, please.”
Waiting, I imagined what kind of indignant conversation Nicholas Parker and his secretary were having. Kitty who?
Then a male voice came on. “This is Nicholas Parker.” Tenor, BBC British, the kind of voice that narrated nature documentaries, that automatically inspired confidence in a backwoods American. Surely I’d be able to explain the situation to him.
My script kicked in. “Hi, I’m Kitty Norville, I host a radio show and I’m tracking down a story you might be able to help me with.”
“Yes, I’ve heard of you. You’ve been in the news recently, I think.”
Right. Now, was that a good thing or a bad thing? “I have some information about a distant relative of yours, a great-aunt, I think. Amelia Parker?”
“Yes. She’s a bit of a family legend, came to an awful end in America if I remember right. Something of a scandal. I only know the family stories. I don’t even know if any of them are true.”
I took a deep breath. “What would you say if I told you I have a message for you from her?”
I expected the long pause. The question was, would there be a click of him hanging up at the end of it. But no, he answered. “I’d say I thought it was a bit odd.”
British understatement, gotta love it.
“She died, but that wasn’t the end of it. If you’ve heard of me then you know I deal with some pretty crazy stories, and this one’s a doozy. Can we meet in person?”
“I’m really not sure what to say, Ms. Norville. If you have some artifact that belonged to her, surely you can send it—”
“I said I have a message from her. I’d really like to talk to you about it. I can come to your office.” A nice, familiar, public place. That should have been comforting.
He sounded subdued, nervous. Of course he did. “I suppose I have a few minutes to spare this afternoon.”
“That’s all I need,” I said, trying to sound reassuring. He gave me the address and a time, and I promised to be there before hanging up.
I grinned at Cormac. “What do you know? Diplomacy beats breaking and entering.”
He sighed, relief softening his features. “Thank you.”
Chapter 9
THE THREE of us took a cab to Nicholas Parker’s office, which was a couple of neighborhoods over in Bloomsbury. The address was in a row of picturesque town houses, painted white with geraniums in flower boxes and with wrought-iron fencing in front. A short set of steps led to a red front door. Next to it, a brass plate announced PARKER, ALDRITCH, SOLICITORS.
“You ready for this?” I asked Cormac. He was searching the windows, as if he could see past the gauzy curtains to the shadows within. As for Amelia, I couldn’t imagine what she was thinking. You leave the world for a hundred years, then return, incorporeal, in search of an object you lost, or descendants, or some scrap of connection. Filtered through Cormac, a century dead, I didn’t know her well enough to be able to guess. I hoped this was worth it.
I opened the door; Cormac followed me inside, and Ben followed him, hands shoved in the pockets of his jacket.
Ahead of us a set of stairs was blocked by a gate that said NO ADMITTANCE. To the right was a doorway that led to what was probably a parlor or sitting room in the house’s earlier days. It had been converted to a reception area, with several nicely upholstered chairs and a small coffee table of antique mahogany holding copies of high-end architectural and travel magazines. Decoration included bookshelves, tasteful knickknacks, and copies of Impressionist paintings that might have been hanging here for a century. A desk and a young, polished receptionist sat as guardians to a far doorway.
All three of us were out of place here.
“Hi,” I said, moving forward to the desk, letting momentum carry me. “I’m Kitty Norville, I have an appointment with Mr. Parker.”
The prim woman flashed a brief glance at us before looking over her shoulder at the door. “Yes, he’s expecting you.”
“Thanks.” We went to the second door, and I wondered if I should have come alone. We looked like a pack moving in, intimidating. But Cormac needed to be here, to plead our case, and we weren’t going to leave Ben behind.
Nicholas Parker might have been pacing, waiting for us. We caught him stopped by the window, looking out at the street, hands clasped behind his back, fingers twined anxiously. He glanced over his shoulder and sighed. He was in his thirties, clean-cut with upper-class polish, perfect shirt and tie, and neat hair. The jacket to the suit, charcoal gray, hung over the back of the chair. He had meat on his bones and probably spent time at a gym. A gold wedding band glinted on his finger.
“I’ll try to make this painless,” I said, with what I hoped was a friendly smile. “I’m Kitty.” I approached with an offered hand, and he took the cue automatically and shook it. “This is Ben O’Farrell, and this is Cormac Bennett. He’s the one who actually discovered the information about Amelia.” Parker shook their hands, too. Both Parker and Cormac fidgeted, and I had a feeling Parker wasn’t any more used to feeling this uncomfortable than Cormac was. Ben, bless him, stayed quiet and watched.
“I’m afraid I still don’t understand what this is about,” Parker said. “Shall we sit? Would you like tea, coffee?” He gestured us to chairs across from the wide antique desk occupying the center of the room, off center from the window. We took the chairs; Parker remained standing, which was okay. He needed to feel safe.
“How much do you know about what happened to Amelia Parker?” I asked.
Parker shrugged. “She was a bit of an eccentric and died rather violently in America. I can’t say I know much else about her. The family gets requests every now and then from scholars wanting to look at her papers, but she didn’t leave much behind. I thought everything that was possible to know about her had already come to light. We have a few photographs, a painting, a childhood diary, the few letters she wrote home. That’s all.”
“Did you know she was researching the occult?”
He chuckled nervously. “She caused quite a scandal with her interests. I can show you the letter her brother—my great-great-grandfather—wrote to their parents, lamenting her fallen state. Too many go
thic stories as a child, he said.”
“Actually, all her research had a purpose. She became a fairly accomplished magician.”
His polite smile turned stricken. “You don’t mean the kind that pulls rabbits out of hats, do you?”
“No,” I said. “I can’t claim to understand exactly what happened or how, but she cast a spell. Part of her survived her execution in Colorado. She’s here, right now.”
The smile fell, and he stared. “If you want money, if you think you can claim some sort of inheritance, I’m afraid you’re sorely misguided and I will call the police—”
“Not money,” Cormac said. His voice stabbed, sudden and out of place in the antique office. “A box. She just wants some of her things back. She hid them in the house in Sevenoaks.”
“You’ve done your research,” Parker said.
“I didn’t have to. Amelia told me.”
“I don’t know what kind of charlatans—”
“There’s a second stairway into the attic, a servant’s passage from the kitchen up the back of the house. In the attic, she rigged up a secret compartment under the floor. The box should still be there.”
“That stairway was boarded up years ago—”
“You don’t have to believe me. Go and look for yourself, see if it’s there. If it is, Amelia wants it back. That’s all. We’ll leave you alone after that.”
Parker maintained a rigid dignity, despite the anger in his gaze. “If this is a publicity stunt—”
“It’s not,” I said. “I’d have brought cameras if it were.”
Cormac said, “The house has three stories, a cellar under the pantry, and the attic. The nursery has always been on the second floor on the south side of the house, and has two sashed windows and a fireplace. The kitchen is on the north side of the house, on the ground floor, and Mother always complained that it was too small for the entertaining she wanted to do. There are five bedrooms, two sitting rooms, a music room, and a dining room. I doubt the bust of Admiral Nelson still sits on the mantel in the larger sitting room, but perhaps the painting of Sir Richard Parker, my own great-grandfather, who knew him, still hangs over the fireplace.”