Howling For You (Chicagoland Vampires 8.5)

“Good, thanks. Hasn’t started snowing yet, although I think it’s coming.” His gaze fell on the box on the table, and his eyes widened. “Is that what I think it is?”

“All four pounds of it,” Gabe said, giving him a considering glance. “You want to hold it?”

“Oh, no,” Patrick said with a grin, lifting his hands and stepping back. “Definitely not. I don’t want any part of that.”

“Who wouldn’t want part of a crown?” Ben asked, patting Gabe on the back. “All the power. The fame.” He glanced around the living room, which had seen better days. “The glamour.”

“I’m sure it’s lovely, but I’m happy to take your word for it. You preparing for Connor’s initiation?”

“We are. Would you like to join us?” Initiations were usually family affairs, but Gabe knew when to extend the olive branch.

Patrick shook his head. “Thank you, but I don’t want to intrude. And I’m only in town for the night. Leaving in the morning.”

He was, he’d meant, only in town to meet me. Which somehow made the potential mate thing feel even more tawdry.

Gabriel smiled. “You’ll have to stay longer next time, get a feel for Chicago. It’s a great town.”

“Looked like it coming in,” he said. “At least the parts I saw from the car. I’ll see a bit more of it on the way to the hotel.”

Gabe nodded. “Since you’re only here for a little while, we should get out of your hair.” Gabe looked at the rest of the family, who made awkward throat clearing noises. Ben winked at me, picked up the box, and headed out of the room.

The air—and the magic in it—thinned.

“They’re . . . intense,” Patrick said.

I shrugged. “I have a lot of brothers. It’s the worst case scenario for potentials.”

He looked at me with curiosity. “You are not at all what I expected.”

I wasn’t sure how to take that. “What did you expect?”

“A debutante, I guess.” He looked me over, took in hair and clothes. “Less serious. More giggly.”

“I am definitely not giggly. But I can kill a man in forty-two different ways.”

“Forty-two. That’s impressive. I appreciate a woman who can take care of herself.” He looked around the room. “I have a car outside. Would you like to go for a drive?”

Fraternal magic—hopeful and concerned—seeped in from the next room. Space seemed like a good idea.

“More than you can possibly imagine.” I headed for the door.

3

I’d donned my coat on the way out, but that hardly battled back the chill in the air. The air was cold and heavy, unusually still. I agreed with Patrick; snow was coming.

A sleek, black SUV sat in the gravel drive in front of the house. A man in a slick black suit—head shaved, eyes dark and piercing—held open the back door.

Patrick gestured to the driver. “Tom Webb, this is Fallon Keene. Fallon, Tom Webb. He’s been helping the family for many years.”

I didn’t know the details of the Yorks’ business, but it had something to do with timber. If Patrick had a driver, I guessed business was good.

Webb smiled, but his eyes were still appraising. I read loyalty in the look, the fact that he took my measure and considered whether I was the right woman for the Yorks’ favorite son.

I slid into the backseat, and Patrick followed.

“Nice ride,” I said when Tom had closed the door behind us.

Patrick’s grin was sheepish. “Thanks. I need the space.” He gestured toward his long legs, which filled the foot well. His shoulders practically filled his half of the backseat.

“Where should we go?” Patrick asked.

It was dark, and February. There was only so much that one could see of the city from the backseat of a car. “Well, if you’ve never been to Chicago, I’m honor bound to at least get you a look at the skyline.”

I leaned toward the front seat. “Head left, and when you get back to the main road, turn right. There’s an historic marker about three miles down. Pull in when you see it.”

“Got it,” Tom said. The tinted screen rose, separating the front and back seats, and we pulled away from the house and back onto the long, gravel drive.

Patrick looked at me with interest. “Archaeology field trip?”

“Not exactly,” I said. “You’ll see when we get there.”

“I’m always up for an adventure,” he said with a smile. “Tell me about yourself. Other than the fact that you’re next in line for control of the North American Central Pack.”

His tone was sarcastic, which helped me relax. There’d been plenty of other potentials—men with whom I’d shared coffee or pizza—whose first questions were about Gabriel, the kingship, the Pack. They’d slipped through Gabriel’s screening and were interested in me only because I could help them get closer to him.

Potentials like that gave the process a bad flavor. But I’d become adept at scaring them away, at feigning enough crazy to give them second thoughts. And if they became too handsy, a knee to the balls put them in line again.

“I’m twenty-seven. I like music. I live for coffee and good bagels. I believe in fairy tales, but not fairy godmothers.”

“That list sounds well-practiced.”

“I’ve met my fair share of potentials.”

“And nobody was interesting?”

“Everybody’s interesting in their way.” I shrugged. “But a relationship needs more than interesting.”

“The spark,” he said, looking out his window. “It needs the spark.”

I had the sense from his tone that he’d had the spark before. Since he was in the car with me, I presumed he hadn’t managed to capture it.

“That’s one way to put it. What about you?”

He shrugged. “I’d say I’m the outdoorsy type. I like to fish. Hike. Chop wood.”

“You’re a lumberjack.”

He laughed heartily. “Yeah. I guess you could say that.” He flexed an impressive bicep. “Keeps a man in shape.”

“So I see.”

“Can I ask you a question?”

I nodded.

“Is this—is this what you really want? I mean, this whole potential thing?”

I looked out the window, watched farmland pass as Tom took the road at a leisurely pace. “I want my family to be safe. And I want the Pack to be solid. Healthy. Having a mate the family approves of goes a long way.”