“It was booked under your name,” Jeff said. “They knew you’d checked in and out. If you didn’t stay there, who did?”
Emotions cycled across Patrick’s face, from denial to confusion to anger. “Tom,” he finally said. “I gave the room to Tom.”
“Who’s Tom?” Jeff asked.
“The driver,” I said, as the weight of truth settled around us.
Patrick shook his head. “He wouldn’t do that to the family. Put us in that kind of position. Create that kind of danger for us.”
“Maybe he isn’t doing it to the family,” Jeff quietly said. “Maybe he’s doing it for the family. To get the Yorks into power.”
Patrick shook his head. “My father’s sick. He doesn’t have the energy, and he’s not interested in the crown.”
“He doesn’t have to be interested,” I said. “Maybe Tom is interested enough for the both of you.”
Patrick wanted to deny it; that was clear in his face. But he worked it out, considered, and ultimately nodded.
“I told him he didn’t need to go to the city with me. But he offered, wanted to come. It was a big deal, he said, for me to have an opportunity to meet Fallon Keene. I guess it was an opportunity for him.”
“Where is he now?”
“He went into town for supplies.”
As if on cue, a car door closed outside.
“How do you want to handle it?” Patrick asked.
“Get him into the house. We’ll have an easier time handling him in here than if he’s tramping around Wisconsin.”
Patrick nodded. I slipped into the kitchen, and Jeff stayed in the living room, backing into a corner on the far side to block any effort for Tom to slip outside again.
The door opened and Tom stepped inside, a bag of groceries in hand, fresh snow on his cap and shoulders. “Got the goods, boss.”
He looked up like prey scenting predator, probably recognizing the foreign magic that permeated the cabin.
Patrick stepped into the room. Jeff moved to the front door, blocking it with his body.
Tom took one look at the room, and his eyes went cold.
“Tom,” Patrick said. “They’re here to talk to you. They say you have the crown.”
Tom’s eyes flattened. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
I stepped into the room. “Let’s not make this more complicated than it should be.”
He looked at me dismissively, then turned his gaze to Patrick again. “That crown should be yours. You deserve it. Should have it. Your family’s older. Worked harder. Got more to show for it.”
Patrick looked completely bewildered. I didn’t think anyone could fake that kind of surprise, so I scratched him off as a potential accomplice.
“You’re talking about treason,” Patrick said.
“I’m talking about what’s right,” Tom insisted, jabbing his index finger into the air like it punctuated his words. “You know who should be ruling the Pack? You. Not Gabriel f**king Keene.”
I moved closer to him. “Where is it, Tom? Where did you put the crown?”
He looked at me, lip curled. “What, Gabriel can’t fight his own battles? Has to send his little whore to do it?”
Light and magic burst through the room.
Jeff shifted, a tiger emerging from the cloud of magic where a man had stood, twelve feet of white and black fur and muscle. He opened his mouth and roared, ivory teeth bared, the sound vibrating the glass in the windows.
I took another step forward. “Here’s the thing, Tom. That’s Jeff Christopher, one of Gabriel’s favorite shifters. He’s a good friend, and he doesn’t really care for insults. And I don’t think he’s eaten in a few hours.” I glanced at Jeff. “Hungry much?”
He growled ominously.
Tom glanced between us, then grabbed the nearest piece of furniture—a tall shelf—and pushed it over toward us. Glass and wood and knick-knacks hit the floor with a crack, as Patrick and I jumped back to avoid the fall.
Tom bolted, running back out the door and down the driveway. Another flash of light and he shifted into a lean, black wolf, then took off into the darkness.
“Go!” I told Jeff, who burst through the door after him.
I glanced back at Patrick. “Stay here in case he comes back. And call Gabriel—tell him what’s happened.”
Patrick nodded and pulled out his phone, glancing carefully away when I yanked off my clothes and threw them into a pile. The magic of shifting, unfortunately, didn’t do much for clothing. You wanted to keep it, you took it off first.
Naked in the doorway, snow biting at my skin, I jumped . . . and let the magic cover me. By the time I hit the ground, I was in my animal form. A gray wolf, eyes the same amber as my own. My mind stayed human, but my senses were animal. The world opened into smells and sounds that I couldn’t have detected in my human form, including the trail of scent and magic that now led into the woods in front of us.
I dashed forward, snow crunching beneath my paws, and moved into the woods. There was no path but the one they’d cut through the snowy underbrush, limbs snapped and bent from the force of their bodies. I pushed for speed, ears straining for the sound of them . . . and heard nothing until a feline roar
Jeff, I thought with panic, paws pounding faster and faster across snow, my heart tripping like snare drum. A few feet more and I found them on the ground in a tangle, white and black fur against the newly fallen snow. Blood spattered the ground beneath them as they rolled. Jeff was considerably larger, but Tom was smaller, more agile.
They rolled, Tom biting at Jeff’s back haunch until Jeff shook him off. Tom bounced and rolled, while Jeff bared his teeth and screamed his frustration into the night.
My turn, I thought. Head down, I paced forward, teeth bared. Tom rose, shook off the fall, and showed his teeth again, daring me to attack. His muzzle was bloodied, which only infuriated me more.
I jumped, landing on his back, clawing and biting to make him submit. He rolled, pressing me back into snow until he yipped again and jumped away, a hank of Tom’s fur and skin hanging from Jeff’s muzzle. You played with the big cats, you were bound to get hurt.
I rolled and rose as Jeff leapt for Tom again, sinking claws into the back of Tom’s neck and tossing him forward like a stuffed animal. But Tom still didn’t stop. He climbed stiffly to his feet again, eyes narrowed and lips curled back in a chilling imitation of a smile. Facing me, he padded forward, one slow step at a time, violent intent in his eyes.