In spite of my relaxed body language, when Lucas stepped up to the metal detector, the guard’s hand went instantly to the butt of his gun. Lucas always drew attention, but rarely the good kind.
At my side, Marc stiffened, watching the guard watch Lucas. I glanced at Marc as discreetly as I could. He looked relaxed, his free hand stuffed casually in the pockets of his jeans, feet spread a comfortable distance apart—but I knew better. I could hear his heart thump and knew he was already planning the best course of action, should the guard decide to make trouble.
By some miracle, none of us had set off the metal detector, but no one looked shocked when the suspicious guard chose Lucas to be searched by hand. Physical searches were supposedly conducted at random, but even I couldn’t blame the guard for choosing him. If he wasn’t my cousin, Lucas was someone I’d keep my eye on too.
He submitted to the search without complaint, demonstrating a level of patience that might have surprised anyone who didn’t know him. It surprised none of us. Yes, he was big and scary, his nose having healed crooked the last time it was broken. Yes, he could have snapped the guard’s neck between his thumb and forefinger. And yes, he’d be ready and willing to shred Miguel on sight. But while Lucas could handle any trouble that came his way, he never went looking for any. That would have been dishonorable, and far beneath him.
When the guard found no reason to detain Lucas, he let us go. I felt tension roll off Marc like fog in front of a breeze. He smiled and squeezed my hand as we went to find our gate, and if I hadn’t known better, I might have thought he was humming. But that must have been my imagination, because Marc didn’t hum. He grumbled, and snapped, and sometimes cursed in Spanish when he was really pissed off. But he definitely didn’t hum.
On each leg of our trip, I dozed fitfully, trying to make up for my nightmare-riddled sleep the night before. Unfortunately, I never got more than ninety consecutive minutes of rest, thanks to turbulence, frighteningly perky flight attendants, and the persistent demands of my bladder. Of course, that last part was my own fault, because I drank a twenty-four-ounce Coke in Jackson, and a sixteen-ounce coffee in Cincinnati. Yet in spite of all the caffeine, I felt more like a zombie than a shapeshifter when I got off the plane in Missouri.
When we landed in Saint Louis, the gate was packed. Row upon row of occupied, molded-plastic chairs greeted us, along with the conversational buzz of evening commuters: an army of corporate automatons, armed with cell phones and laptops, hell-bent on taking over the world one boardroom meeting at a time.
According to the itinerary Michael had given us, the Di Carlo brothers should have deplaned at a neighboring gate twenty minutes earlier on a layover flight from Atlanta. They were supposed to wait for us, but I saw no sign of them. I was about to follow my nose toward the aromas of fried food and processed sugar when my eyes settled on a familiar face in the crowd.
“Vic!” I cried, instantly wide awake. His head swiveled with a reluctance that spoke of grief and exhaustion, bloodshot eyes brightening briefly when they met mine. He looked like hell. Two days’ worth of stubble peppered the lower half of his face and his chunky-looking brown hair probably hadn’t seen a comb since sometime before his chin last met with a razor. Travel-wrinkled clothes clung to a well-defined frame: a white button-up shirt, undone at the collar, and a pair of snug black slacks brushing the tops of polished dress shoes. They were funeral clothes, and the man hovering at Vic’s shoulder was dressed just like him.
I hadn’t seen Anthony Di Carlo in nearly a decade, but even if I never saw him again, I wouldn’t forget those eyes. Blue like the ocean only gets when you’re too far out to see land, they were both haunting and mesmerizing. Sara’s had been nearly identical.
Vic came toward me with his arms open wide, his eyes magnified by tears. He was half again my size, but when we embraced, I felt like I was holding him up, and it was all I could do to remain standing. He buried his face in my hair, his body shaking against me with the spasmodic rhythm of unrestrained sobs. It was almost more than I could bear gracefully.
“She deserved better, Faythe,” he whispered against my cheek in halting syllables separated by wet, gasping breaths.
“I know,” I murmured. “We’ll get them.” My hand moved automatically to stroke his head, like I would comfort a toddler with a skinned knee. Or like I might soothe a scared cat.
The other guys surrounded us in a living cocoon of support, thumping Vic and Anthony on the shoulders in the proper masculine display of sympathy. Parker met my eyes over Vic’s shoulder, and I blinked at him, pleading desperately, wordlessly, for help. He eased me out of Vic’s grip and took my place, whispering private words of condolence as Sara’s brother struggled visibly to compose himself.
We must have been quite a sight: six large, distraught men, and a young woman with a battered face. No wonder people stared.
Marc took charge, herding us all away from the gate. In the main lobby, he nodded toward the Hertz car-rental booth and a line of people chatting and snacking on vending-machine candy. He took my hand, squeezing it as we walked. I glanced at him, but he was watching the people in the rental line. He growled, too low for anyone other than us to hear.
No one said anything or made any overt movements, but suddenly everything felt different. The guys’ feet made no noise on the floor. Their bodies seemed to slink forward with each graceful step. They were moving more like cats than like people, and I followed their example out of habit.
The difference was nothing any human would have noticed consciously, but it definitely spooked them. People walked out of their way to avoid us, creating an open path in a fairly crowded lobby. They snuck furtive glances at us, gasping openly when they saw my battered face, yet no one dared approach to offer me assistance or sympathy. Thank goodness.
We stopped at the end of the line, with Marc and Parker in the lead. Several wide sets of eyes peeked back at us in short, nervous glances. Most of them needed only one look at our group to decide they’d rather buy a souvenir or have a drink before renting a car. Their excuses for leaving the line were a defense mechanism allowing them to retain a sliver of self-respect, rather than acknowledge their own fear. Humans were never willing to believe what their instincts had to say about the nature of the beasts they’d just faced. And that was fine with us.
I smiled to myself as a man in a generic black business suit stepped out of line in front of us to shuffle toward the restroom. After less than two minutes, the only customer left was the one currently being served. Behind the counter the harried employee wore a white plastic tag reading Please be patient, I’m in training.
Great. Enforcers out for blood are no good at being patient. Alternately curious and apathetic, yes. But not patient.
Marc tapped Parker on the shoulder. “Get something with dual climate control.”
“And satellite radio.” That was Ethan, who thought life without music wasn’t worth living. He’d left his MP3 player at home for Jace, who was bedridden and apparently bored.
Parker grunted. “I’ll do my best.” From the look on his face, I doubted he even knew what satellite radio was.
When the employee-in-training brought out the third copy of an insurance form, dropping the botched second attempt in the trash, I ground my teeth, barely stifling a request to speak with his manager. Logically, I knew that my problem was nerves, not the nitwit behind the counter. But knowing that didn’t help.
Coffee. I needed coffee. I couldn’t get my thoughts together without a little more caffeine in my system. Luckily, the line at Seattle’s Best moved faster than the one at Hertz, and I was passing out steaming insulated cups from two cardboard trays by the time Parker took possession of a set of car keys.
He’d rented a standard seven-passenger minivan, with leather seats and two sliding doors. It had dual climate control but no satellite radio. Ethan got over his disappointment pretty quickly when Marc threatened to find a creative new storage compartment for his headphones.
I was worried that the van would be too small, but Lucas reminded me that we didn’t plan to bring back Sean or Miguel. At least not enough of them to need an extra seat. So a seven-passenger van should do nicely.
Parker drove, because he was the most reliable driver. Marc was the fastest, but he’d lost his driving privileges on the way to Mississippi. Which was fine with me. Having ridden with him countless times, I’d say my odds of surviving another attack from Miguel were better than my odds of surviving a fifty-mile drive with Marc, especially considering the cloud of nervous energy surrounding him like a cocoon.
We’d been on the road less than fifteen minutes when Marc’s right leg began jumping uncontrollably. I glanced at him and he smiled, but his knee kept bouncing. I put my hand on his thigh, and his smile changed. It, like his eyes, grew deeper, somehow hotter.
Marc had misunderstood the purpose of my touch, but hey, it worked. His leg stopped bouncing; he’d found a new outlet for his energy. His nostrils flared as he breathed in my scent, and the yellow specks in his eyes seemed to sparkle. It was a look I hadn’t seen in a while, and it was so intense it almost scared me.
He leaned into me, and his mouth found mine before I’d fully realized what he had in mind. I couldn’t have resisted even if I’d wanted to. But I didn’t want to. No matter what else was going on or how mad I was at him, it was always the same. Once he got that look in his eyes, resistance wasn’t an option. It wasn’t even a concept. Which was why I’d stayed so far away from him for so long. If I hadn’t, it would have been impossible for me to sustain our breakup. My body responded to him without bothering to consult my brain.
“Would you two please cut that out?” Ethan snapped, elbowing me in the ribs. He sat on my right, with his fingers in his ears.
Marc pulled away from me long enough to growl at Ethan, but then his tongue was in my mouth before I could chime in with my own two cents. He’d finally figured out how to shut me up. I’d have to congratulate him—as soon as I regained the ability to speak.
“Seriously, guys,” Parker said. If it had been anyone else, Marc would have snarled again, but he took Parker seriously. Marc let me go, and I glanced at the rearview mirror to find Parker staring back at me.
My face flushed and I laughed. But my smile froze in place as the first muffled notes of the Nokia ring tone met my ears. From my pocket. Eric’s phone was ringing in my pocket, and I had no idea whether or not to answer it.
I dug the phone out and stared at it as if it would tell me what to do. But it didn’t. Phones aren’t very helpful in that respect. The number on the display was unfamiliar. “Does anyone know Ryan’s cell phone number?” I asked.
Ethan stared at me as if I’d just spoken in tongues. “Okay,” he said, glancing around the van. “Raise your hand if you knew Ryan had a cell-phone before this morning.” No hands went up.
“Okay, point taken. No one knows. You could have just said that,” I snapped. “Someone call Daddy.” No one moved. “Now!”
Six hands dug in pockets for cell phones. Marc won. He had Daddy programmed in under “boss.” I should have guessed. “Greg, it’s Marc.” He paused, listening, and Eric’s phone stopped ringing. Damn. “Do you have Ryan’s cell-phone number? Someone just called Eric’s phone, and we don’t know who it was.” Another pause. “Oh. Already?”
I couldn’t hear Daddy over the highway noise, and not knowing was driving me crazy. See? No patience.
“Okay, here she is.” Marc handed me the phone, his hand over the mouthpiece. “It was Ryan. He’s at the ranch. Your dad wants to talk to you.”
I took the phone. “Hi, Daddy.”
“Ryan just got a call from Miguel.” His tone was all business.
“What did he say?”
“He was just checking in. They’re about two hours from Oak Hill, but coming from the opposite direction, so you shouldn’t run into them on the highway.”
I nodded, even though he couldn’t see me. “Good. We’ll beat them there by over an hour. Have you spoken to the Taylors yet?”
“Yes. Everything’s set. Carissa and her mother left with four of their enforcers this afternoon. Brian will be there to let you in. He’s happy for the opportunity to stay and help.” Brian was one of Carissa’s brothers. Her father was at the ranch with the other Alphas.
“Okay. That sounds good.”
“Faythe?”
“Yes, Daddy?”
“Be careful.”
My heart beat a little harder, and I swallowed. “I will. I promise.”
“Good. Put Marc on the phone so I can threaten to flay him alive if anything happens to you.”
I laughed. “I’m in charge, Daddy, remember? You should be threatening me.”
“I’ve already done enough of that to last a lifetime. Just be careful.”
“You already said that.”
“I know.” He sighed, and I pictured the lines on his face deepening as he frowned down at his desk. “It warrants saying twice.”
I smiled, feeling strangely warm and fuzzy, considering my destination. “Don’t worry.”
“You always were one to ask for the impossible.”
“Yeah, and to make it happen too. So stop worrying.”
“I’ll do my best.” He paused. “Listen, Ryan says Miguel gave him a message for you. Do you want to hear it?”
My stomach clenched around airport lasagna, threatening to expel it. “I don’t know. Do I?”
“I haven’t heard the message, but Ryan says it isn’t pretty.”
Great. But what the hell. Words couldn’t really hurt me, and maybe if he pissed me off, I’d fight better. “Yeah, put him on.”
“Here he is.”
I heard scratching sounds as the phone changed hands, then Ryan spoke into my ear. “Hey, I told Dad you wouldn’t want to hear this, so don’t shoot the messenger, okay?”
“What do you think I’m going to do, reach through the phone and snap your neck? I think you’re pretty safe, at least until I get home.”
Marc laughed and mimed snapping someone’s neck. I didn’t think it was very funny, but apparently I was in the minority.
“Thanks,” Ryan said. “That’s very comforting.”
“Just spit it out. What did he say?”
“That you’re going to pay for his face. This next part’s a direct quote. He said he’s gonna ‘beat you until you beg for mercy, then fuck you until you bleed.’”
My mouth went dry. Fear clutched my lungs, making it hard to draw a deep breath. And for a moment I thought the low rumbling sound was my stomach preparing to heave. Then I realized it was Marc growling, his expression so fierce I couldn’t stand to meet his eyes.
But before I could say anything, a loud whack sounded in my ear. Ryan howled in pain. The phone clattered to the floor of Daddy’s office, and I held mine out at arm’s length to save my hearing. My father’s voice came back on the line. “I’m sorry, Faythe. He should have known better than to pass on a message like that.”
I clutched Marc’s hand and tried to steady my voice. It almost worked. “He did warn me.”
“He’s used up all my patience and he should have known better,” Daddy said. “Maybe now he’ll think before he opens his mouth next time.”
My heart sank as I realized how often those words could have been applied to me.
My father took a deep breath, exhaling into the receiver. “I’m going to let you go now so you can focus. Just remember to stay within sight of the guys and keep your eyes and ears open. You know what you’re doing, so don’t start second-guessing yourself. You’ll be fine.”
“Thanks, Daddy.”
It wasn’t until after we’d both hung up that I realized I should have told him I loved him. That’s me, always a second too late when it mattered. But that habit was about to change, because a second too late with Miguel would mean my death. Or worse.
Thirty
It was nearly eight o’clock by the time we drove into Oa
k Hill. The setting sun cast rosy streaks across the sky and long shadows on the ground, warning us all that night was near, and that with it would come Miguel. And one way or another, this entire ordeal would be over.
We had no trouble finding Carissa’s house, though none of us had been there in years. Nearly two miles after we passed the last residential neighborhood, Parker turned right off Highway 19 onto a private dirt road simply labeled Route 12.
The Taylors and their enforcers were the only residents of Route 12. Oak Hill was a very small town, and they lived on the northern edge of it, on a heavily wooded six-hundred-acre estate, which had been in their family for generations. Half a century earlier, when everyone else in the area was selling off large chunks of real estate for a quick profit, the Taylors had steadfastly clung to their property. Now they owned one of the largest acreages in the area. Like us, they treasured their space and their privacy, and there was plenty of both in the abundant Missouri woodlands, especially in their own private forest.
Several minutes after we turned, the Taylor house appeared on the right side of the road, at the top of a small crest half a mile from the highway. Behind it, the forest spread out as far as I could see, primarily a mix of oak trees—white, black, scarlet, and northern red—and other large tree species like black gum, maple, ash, elm, walnut and red cedar.
Against the lush, green backdrop, the house stood tall and proud, like the family it had housed for more than a century. It was a redbrick Greek Revival, with narrow white pillars, a wide, flat facing, and the trademark front gable. The house was set two hundred feet back from the road on a broad green lawn with a flower-lined brick walkway. It was beautiful, in both its strong straight lines and its wooded isolation.
The garage door opened as we turned into the driveway, revealing an empty space next to a highend older-model sedan, painted beige, but probably called Autumn Harvest, or something equally pretentious. Parker pulled into the garage and turned off the engine. The door closed behind us.
“Okay, that’s a little creepy,” Ethan said, staring out the rear windshield.