Genie McQueen Collection

Chapter One

Hunt.

Hard earth sped by beneath my feet, but I barely felt it. The exhilaration of running made it seem as if I were flying, and there was nothing under me but wind and joy. The night air was alive with scents, and while the scenery blurred past me too fast to see, I was picking up the story of my environment with every inhale.

The pungent smell of algae, still warm from baking in the day’s sun, gave the air a dank, swampy odor, which made me feel like I was home. It also gave me a good indication of where the land ended and the water began.

There was nothing for me near the water’s edge. Most of the animals in the trees were fair game: small rodents, rabbits and other easy prey. Sometimes I’d find a real challenge and get to stalk a deer through the spongy bog. But where the moss and peat gave way to proper swamp and land became water, I was hesitant to get too close.

I was not the scariest thing out for blood during the full moon.

Once—and only once—I’d crossed paths with an alligator who mistook me for an easy meal. Werewolf versus alligator might sound like a kickass premise for a bad Syfy channel monster movie, but in my case it had been one of the worst nights of my life. If not for my heightened healing ability, I would still have some nasty scars to brag about.

But you should have seen the other guy.

That particular fight was not something I had any desire to repeat, no matter how badass the story made me sound. Just thinking about it made my heart beat a little faster. So, in spite of the water’s edge being an ideal place to catch easy prey unaware, it also put me at too great a risk. Instead I stuck to the trees, avoiding the swamp and the hiking trails as well. At this time of night the area was mostly clear of humans, but I didn’t like to take chances.

Boldness wasn’t my problem—I had it in spades these days—but I preferred to be smart rather than to tempt fate. Foolhardy was just another way to say stupid.

Leave it to me to still be a goody two-shoes while I was covered in fur. Some habits were hard to break no matter what form I took.

Hunt.

My wolf urged me forward, driving me on at a breakneck pace. I’d caught a whiff of rabbit, and now my singular mission was to sink my teeth into it. The frenzied patter of its heart sent out vibrations I could feel, singing a perfect ode to my hunger. Feed feed feed. My mouth watered, and I bared my teeth, though there wasn’t an animal in sight for me to menace. The wolf was desperate for the kill, and she and I were of one mind on the subject.

Once I’d learned to yield to the wolf within, I was able to turn off the magical part of my brain and simply be the wolf. Like most werewolves, I was thirteen when I first started shifting. The same age young hereditary witches came into their power, something most wolves didn’t have to consider. Unluckily for me, I’d inherited both gifts, leaving my magic and my wolf to collide in a disastrous and literally explosive way. That was how I came to spend my formative years getting to know the ins and outs of a swamp very well.

Now I was older, a little wiser, and definitely had a better handle on my magic.

I skidded to an abrupt stop, nails digging into the damp ground. Sniffing the air, I parsed the layers of scent, dismissing the bog water and night breeze until the only thing remaining was fear. Sweet, delicious fear. It smelled like dying flowers and fresh blood.

Movement low to the ground caught my attention, and I went rigid, ears upright, listening intently. There. I could practically feel the creature’s heartbeat in my mouth.

I crouched low, my whole body coiled like a spring as I moved closer inch by inch to where the nervous rabbit lay in wait, thinking it was hidden from me. One moment it was frozen, the next it bolted, and I went after it, pouncing before it had a chance to hide again. My teeth pierced its neck, and there was a brief glorious moment where I could taste every ounce of its fear, then it went limp.

The hunt was over.

I ate quickly, the flavor less satisfying now that the fear was gone, but the meat was delicious and reinvigorated me for the run back. Night was coming to an end, and when the sun rose, I didn’t want to be isolated in the middle of the swamp. My wolf might have a good natural sense of direction, but not all my supernatural abilities translated from my animal form to my human one. I set off running again, zigzagging my way through the woods, still avoiding the edge of the water. It felt good to burn off my energy, bringing myself back to nature and the place where I had been at home for so long.

The night sky was turning purple-blue as I found my way back to the abandoned military encampment of Fort Pike. Sometimes, when luck wasn’t on my side, I’d find party-happy teens or adventurous ghost hunters wandering the grounds. I didn’t like to encounter people when I was in my wolf form. Though my human mind still worked for the most part, I didn’t have the same inhibitions or morals holding me back as I did when I walked on two legs. If someone were to lash out at me or make me feel threatened, I wouldn’t hesitate to attack them. During the full moon my wolf ruled me, and while I might feel bad about it after the fact if I hurt someone, it wouldn’t stop me.

It was best, then, not to put myself at any risk of running into any people. Werewolves had a bad-enough reputation without the media painting us as thoughtless killers too. That would be a PR nightmare I wanted no part in.

My nails clicked against the stone floor, but they were the only sounds. Tonight I was alone. I stopped beside the neatly folded pile of clothes I’d abandoned before my run and lay on my belly, licking the blood from my paws. I could push myself to change early, but it would hurt more. If I waited another fifteen minutes until the sun was up, the transition would happen naturally, without too much discomfort.

I watched between the open arches as the horizon changed colors. It wouldn’t be long now.

Then I saw her.

My first reaction was surprise. I hadn’t heard anyone approaching, and humans made so much noise they were impossible to miss. She couldn’t have gotten this close without arousing my attention. Those thoughts vanished when I focused on what I was seeing.

She moved between the shadows as silent and slippery as a ghost, but ghosts didn’t have a smell. Whatever she was, she stank of charcoal and burnt skin. I got up and edged away, baring my teeth and growling. The implicit threat should have been enough to keep her at bay. Most sensible people don’t approach a huge wolf whose teeth were flashing.

It didn’t slow her down at all.

As she oozed out of the shadows, my snarl faltered, and a small whimper of confusion escaped me. She crept forward, her arms akimbo like a broken mannequin who was reassembled with all the wrong parts. Her head was tilted sideways at a painful angle, broken and mangled. Skin peeled away, baring flesh and bone in raw red-and-white patches.

She advanced on me, and I backed away, though my natural instinct resisted. I didn’t want anything to do with her, but I was stubborn to the core. Royal werewolf blood and a long history of lectures from my uncle Callum meant I never wanted to yield the upper hand to anyone, not even a walking immolation-monster, or whatever she was.

Behind the stink of charred skin was a reek of death and sulfur.

She wasn’t human.

That should have been obvious at first glance, what with the blackened skin and impossible bone structure, but I’d seen enough truly weird things in my life that I never took anything at face value. Her smell, however, was unmistakable. The sulfur scent was a hallmark of something dark and demonic.

Her mouth opened, wider than a human mouth could, and a horrible, screeching yowl emerged, croaking and grinding like rocks in a blender.

Then she was gone, blowing apart like smoke as the sun rose.

Moments later the shift took me and remade me, leaving me naked and panting on the brick, shivering from the too-recent memory of what I’d seen.

What the hell was she?

And why did I feel like I should know?

Chapter Two

As if my nocturnal encounter wasn’t enough, when I pulled up to my little rental house on Cambronne Street, a whole new nightmare was waiting for me.

Two news vans were parked on the front street and a half dozen reporters were already milling around the walkway. None were close enough to the door that I could call them out for trespassing, but they were definitely pushing their luck.

Grabbing the tray of coffee and a bag of palmier pastries I’d bought from La Madeleine bakery on the way home, I got out of the car. I was able to collect my gym bag out of the backseat before they set upon me like vultures.

Princess Eugenia, do you have any statements to make about the recent threats from the Church of Morning?

Huh?

I hiked the bag up on my shoulder, flaunting it as my reason for being out so early in the morning. Technically I had been working out. No one needed to know it had been in wolf form.

Princess, what would you like to say on behalf of your people?

Terry, you’re stepping on my marigolds again. I pointed to the small flowerbed alongside my driveway, which the beat reporter for the New Orleans Sun was stomping all over.

There’d been a time when these guys had really bothered me.

Things had changed a lot since my sister, Secret, and I had helped stop a group of necromancers while under the watchful eye of the world. Humans knew we were real now, and being a werewolf princess meant I didn’t get to escape the glare of the media’s attention. My involvement in saving New York from the brink of complete annihilation had made me something of an overnight celebrity.

So much for any attempt at a nice, normal life.

I’d been a popular target for reporters right after the truth came out. But that had been almost three years ago. Since journalists tended to have the attention span of a fruit fly, they’d stopped coming around nearly as much.

So what brought them out today?

And what was this church nonsense they were talking about?

I wasn’t sure what they called a group of reporters, but I liked to think of them as an annoyance. The annoyance of reporters followed me towards my front door, nattering their questions with no regard for my answers.

My boyfriend, Cash, opened the door for me, and I hurried inside while they continued to shout over one another. Once I was in, he closed the door and relieved me of the pastries and hot coffees in my hands. I let my gym bag drop to the floor, and he regarded it, frowning slightly before he stepped into the kitchen.

You know, I would have come with you if you asked. You didn’t need to sneak out while I was sleeping, he called from the other room.

My phone beeped in my pocket, but I ignored it.

Cash returned with my takeout coffee in a mug. Before he handed it to me he stooped down and gave me a kiss, long, lingering, his breath sweet and minty.

Good morning to you too, I said, my voice airy. He’d seemed a bit annoyed about me being out, so the kiss was a nice surprise.

I don’t like you being out there by yourself, Genie. I worry about what could happen to you.

I took the coffee from him and pushed my bag under the hall table with my toe, as if the argument would stop as long as he couldn’t see the evidence.

I’m fine. I promise you, I can care of myself when I’m out there. I touched his cheek, his brown skin warm under my palm and his goatee tickling me. I wasn’t in love with the facial hair, but if anyone could pull it off, it was Cash.

He smiled, a real, genuine smile that showed his brilliant white teeth, and I relaxed a little.

Things had gotten tense this year. Cash, now in his third year of law school, had become obsessed with his Supernatural Law professor, and his intense interest in Supe Law meant he suddenly thought he was an expert. I had to scold him whenever he tried to educate me on how things worked with the werewolves.

My uncle was King of the South. I knew more about werewolf ceremony and custom than any of the so-called experts they had brought in to teach classes combined.

Looking over my course catalogue during the summer, I’d been stunned by how many new classes were being added to appeal to student interest in the paranormal. Supernatural Biology; Anthropology of Humanoid Supernaturals—because apparently we didn’t qualify as people anymore; Dracula in Context; and my personal favorite: Lupine Sociology—How Werewolf Society Works.

As if they could possibly know. Unless a were was teaching the class, they’d be basing it on a lot of conjecture and a few hastily written books on the topic. Shapeshifters, wolf or otherwise, weren’t too keen on sharing the inner workings of our society with others.

But Cash kept insisting he knew more about the paranormal than I did, simply because he was studying the laws. Over the past couple months it had developed into a sore subject between us.

Which was why I wasn’t too keen on the idea of him tagging along for my runs. He wouldn’t be in any danger from me, but I worried he wouldn’t be able to look at me the same if he saw me in my wolf form.

I think he sometimes liked the idea of dating a werewolf more than he liked the reality.

How long have the vultures been out front? I sipped my coffee and looked out the front window. Goddamn Terry Masterson is standing in my lilac bushes now. I tapped on the glass, wagging my finger at the middle aged man.

They were already here when I got up.

I heard the unspoken alone at the end of his sentence. I moved from the window to him, raising on my tiptoes to kiss him, balling his shirt up in my hand to keep him drawn close to me. Cash kissed the way I imagined romance novel heroes kissed, all quiet intensity I could feel right down to my toes.

I used to like reading romance, but since the supernatural community had gone public, it seemed like every author wanted to write about a werewolf hero.

I knew too many werewolves to think they were suitable fodder for romance novels.

When I pulled back from the kiss, he looked sated, less inclined to ask me about my run. And I felt more relaxed than I had since leaving the park. I was still a bundle of nerves about the terrifying woman I’d seen, but less so than before. I was glad he had stayed here instead of going to his apartment when he found me gone in the morning.

They were asking me about a church or something. Do you have any idea what they’re talking about?

Cash shook his head and wandered back into the kitchen to get our breakfast pastries. After a long run and the exertion of shifting, I’d probably eat a half dozen eggs once he was gone, but I didn’t think any human needed to see the eating habits of an adult werewolf.

My phone started to ring, the giddy sound of Uptown Funk brightening my morning ever so slightly. When I pulled my cell out, I noticed two missed call and several texts I must not have seen while I was driving.

Hello?

Oh thank God. The voice was female and familiar, but it took me a minute to register who it belonged to.

Amelia? Uncle Callum’s second-in-command. Amelia was an older woman, and until this moment I’d thought she was unflappable. Except now she sounded like she was in a state of panic, which didn’t bode well at all. I felt my blood go cold and asked, Is it Ben? What happened? The only reason I could imagine Amelia calling me in such a tizzy was if my twin brother had gotten into a scrape or was in serious trouble.

But Ben was the levelheaded twin. He was the one who always did the right thing, who followed the rules and bent over backwards to prove to Callum he was the natural choice to step up as pack king. As far as I was concerned there was no contest. I had no real interest in becoming the Queen of the South. Nothing could sound drier or more tedious to me than dealing with pack politics all day every day.

If only I knew what I wanted to do instead.

When your sister has already saved the world, you have an awful lot to live up to.

"Ben? No, honey, Ben’s fine. Are you okay?"

I let out a sigh of relief to know my twin wasn’t in danger. Of course I’m okay. I glanced out the window as I kicked off my runners. Does this have something to do with the reporters standing on my lawn?

Haven’t you seen the news?

After wandering into the living room with my coffee in one hand and my phone wedged between my ear and shoulder, I plopped onto the couch and turned on my TV. Cash returned with the fresh palmiers on a plate and sat next to me.

I mouthed the word Amelia to him. We’d been together long enough he knew all the important people in my pack life, even if he hadn’t met any of them. He placed a comforting hand on my thigh, giving me a squeeze of encouragement. Of all the people from the pack I talked with, Amelia was the one who often brought out the worst in me.

I flipped through channels until I found CNN, and I knew right away why Amelia was so worried.

A pretty blonde news anchor was posing in a serious way while a brunette woman with a smart, polished bob glowered back at her. I pulled out one earbud to better hear the TV.

—don’t think you realize how dangerous these creatures are.

Are you claiming the werewolf community has done something to validate the threats they’re receiving?

Community. The brunette made a noise of disgust. "We can’t talk about them like they’re people. These are monsters, plain and simple, and my group won’t stand to see them in schools, in churches, in our safe spaces."

Cash’s hand went still, and I sucked in a breath. Maureen Cranston. I knew her shrewish, hateful face. She was the leader of the Coalition for a Pure America. Somehow they’d managed to make overt racism popular again, because it was okay to openly hate a werewolf.

I chewed on my fingernail until I remembered Amelia was still on the phone. What’s this bitch up to now? I spat.

Amelia sighed, and I realized my faux pas right away. Bitch. The word held a lot more weight to werewolves and wasn’t meant to be used flippantly. In fairness to me, Maureen was trying to ruin the lives of everyone I held near and dear.

The split screen changed three ways, and the familiar face of Tyler Nowakowski appeared. He was handsome in a generic way, with dark brown hair and thick, expressive eyebrows. His lean face looked more tan than usual, and I wondered what their team had been up to.

Tyler, along with his partner Emilio La Roy, were the two other parts of the special FBI unit Secret worked with to promote understanding and harmony between humans and supernaturals. They were considered the experts, so they tended to get a lot of screen time when issues like this popped up. Tyler and Emilio did, that is. Secret didn’t make the best impression with the media and had been pulled from interview duty indefinitely.

She’d called Piers Morgan a douchebag during a live broadcast.

Tyler, better trained to deal with insufferable d-bags, replied with a smooth, calm tone. What Ms. Cranston fails to realize is these threats are far more serious than just words. We cannot allow this kind of aggression to persist against fellow citizens.

"If CAPA has their way, they won’t be citizens much longer," Maureen bit back.

Tyler was struggling to maintain his cool, governmental expression. G-men couldn’t be seen as aggressive or feeling in any way. Yet another reason my hotheaded sister wasn’t the poster child for the FBI.

Emilio tended to be the best of all of them when it came to being unflappable. I swear he was part robot, programmed by the government to be the perfect fed.

Ms. Cranston, prejudice isn’t a valid reason to rewrite the Constitution of the United States. You can’t simply recall the citizenship of Americans because you don’t approve of their race.

"Are you calling me a racist?" Maureen snapped.

Oh, Jesus, is she serious? Cash got up, scrubbing his hand over his face before giving the TV the finger. He and I rarely discussed the racism issue, but I knew he was frustrated about the word being used in reference to white, upper-class businessmen like my uncle.

Cash was a black kid from Louisiana. Until three years ago, he knew more about racism than anyone else in the country. Now his white girlfriend had to deal with more off-color, cruel remarks and media attention than he did. I wasn’t sure if he was annoyed on my behalf or angry because my people were now the center of a hatred whirlwind. It wasn’t the kind of conversation that would end well, so we avoided the topic altogether. But things like this made it difficult, and the tension hanging in the air was so thick I could almost taste it.

Does CAPA support the threats of the Church of Morning? Tyler sneered at the name of the church, a group I’d never heard of before.

On the bottom of the screen the news bar declared Church of Morning promotes violence against shapeshifters. What did that mean? The Church was a bunch of anti-werewolf fanatics, but they were more annoying than threatening. I’d never paid much attention to them in the past, maybe to my detriment now.

Is the Church a serious threat? I asked Amelia. Cash had left the room, and I could hear him banging around in the kitchen. All the positive happiness from our earlier smooching had vanished. I crossed my legs and settled into the couch, watching Tyler, Maureen and the CNN anchor argue about the Church of Morning.

It was one hell of a loaded name for a supposed church. Morning, meaning daytime, implied they were working in opposition to the night. So the church stood against werewolves, who were ruled by the moon, and vampires, who lived in the night.

Super clever, guys, you really brought out Team Metaphor for that one.

Amelia answered my question about the church with a prolonged sigh. We’re not sure if they’re blowin’ smoke, trying to scare us, or if there’s more to it than that. But your uncle got an email this morning from their leader. It had a list of every single pack member and their addresses. There’s a chance they mean to make those lists public, and if they’re promoting violence against wolves, you could be in danger.

"I don’t get it. The Church of Morning has been around for years. They put out all those fliers and stupid PSAs, but they’ve never been violent. Besides, everyone at school knows I’m a wolf. I’ve been on TV with Uncle Callum at his PR things. People know I’m a wolf." Not to mention, based on the get-together outside, people already knew where I lived.

That’s part of the problem. You’re too exposed, and all some people need is a push, Eugenia. There are people out there who hate what you and I are, and those people will use any excuse to hurt us. You’re not safe.

We’d gone from this might be serious to you’re not safe in the span of a minute. I should have known this wouldn’t be good the moment Amelia phoned me, and now I dreaded asking the real reason behind her call.

So…what do you want me to do? I wasn’t going to volunteer what I thought she was angling for. I didn’t want to leave. I had no interest whatsoever in abandoning Tulane in the middle of a semester to run back to St. Francisville with my proverbial tail between my legs.

Your uncle wants you to come home. Just until we know what’s going on.

And he couldn’t call me himself? Maybe it wasn’t fair of me to be snippy with her, but I hated being at Callum’s command when he couldn’t be bothered to make a familial effort half the time. He might be king, but he was also the closest thing I had to a father. Would it be so hard for him to reach out and say, Genie, come home? I wouldn’t say no to him.

You know he’s a very busy man.

Too busy. Too important. Yeah, I get it.

He cares about you a great deal.

I exhaled dramatically, because I couldn’t argue. Even in my worst mood I knew Callum did love me, and if he wanted me to come back to the compound, it was because he was genuinely worried about my safety.

But it also served to remind me I wasn’t free. I was still on his leash; he’d just given me a little extra tether so I could pretend to be on my own. Now he was dragging me back, and part of me hated him for allowing me the illusion only to show me the man behind the curtain.

Fine. I didn’t bother to ask about whether or not Cash would be welcome. He was human, and the pack was in a time of crisis. He would not be invited to join me, and I wasn’t going to suggest it to him.

He’d say no on account of classes, and it was a valid reason, but I knew it was only an excuse. He seemed to understand things were better if my life with him was divided from my pack life.

I hung up with Amelia and threw the phone onto the empty cushion next to me, staring at the TV until they changed to a story about an oil-rig explosion. The Church of Morning situation would be an ongoing topic throughout the day, but it bothered me to know they even had to debate whether or not it was okay to promote violence against shapeshifters.

We were a long way away from being accepted, in spite of the fact we’d coexisted with humans for literally hundreds of years and posed no risk to them whatsoever.

As soon as I turned the television off, Cash returned. He had changed for class and looked extra handsome with his close-cropped goatee and dark charcoal blazer. I got up and adjusted his tie to give myself an excuse to touch him. He pressed a kiss to my forehead and smiled, but this time it wasn’t a genuine smile.

Pack calls? The way he said pack made it seem like a foreign word he hadn’t yet learned to pronounce properly.

Yeah. Callum’s worried about this new church problem, so I’m going to go home for a couple of days to put his mind at ease. Once he realizes there’s no threat, I’ll be back. You can stay here if you want. Cash lived in an apartment with a buddy of his from his undergrad frat days, but Everett tended to have a revolving door of ladies over, and Cash found the constant sexcapades distracting. He had a key to my place, and I didn’t share the space with anyone else. He might as well enjoy the silence while I was away.

He kissed each cheek and my forehead. I may take you up on that.

If you do, just replace the milk, ’kay? I think it’s on the verge of going bad.

This time his grin was real, his teeth gleaming white and the lines around his eyes crinkling merrily. Next thing I know you’ll be asking for rent.

I gave his ass a squeeze and kissed him softly. Nah. You pay me in other ways.

Chapter Three

The drive from New Orleans to St. Francisville was slightly less than two hours, but the whole way I was a writhing bundle of nerves. I’d had to turn off the radio because the news kept talking about the new threat from the Church of Morning. Apparently everyone was convinced they planned to make good on it, and thanks to Maureen’s appearance on the news that morning, people were also sure CAPA was endorsing the action.

What a mess.

I was so distracted, my blue Dodge Dart kept edging over the center line of the highway before I’d catch myself and steer back onto the right side. Drama and danger were things I’d had my fill of during my twenty-one years alive. I didn’t need any more death threats or excitement, thank you. If I could make it through the remainder of my years without any stress outside of my exam schedule, I’d be perfectly content.

Fat chance in hell I was going to get so lucky.

The sun was almost blotted out by a thick covering of trees, the shimmering green light offering the only solace I’d felt since leaving the city. I resisted the urge to take a detour to the local swamps that were more like home to me than Callum’s estate, in spite of the last several years spent back in civilized society.

For four years, following my disastrous first attempts at shifting into my wolf form, I’d gone to live with my great-grandmother in the bayou. She’d helped me control my magic to a point I was able to be both a wolf and a witch without any dangerous fallout. I hadn’t been back to see La Sorcière since I was seventeen, but in spite of her advanced years I didn’t worry whether she was still alive. The witch would outlast us all.

With things being such a mess I could have used a bit of great-grandmotherly wisdom. The cool, detached way she handled the worst kind of situations meant she would probably have a solution for this. Or at least she’d know a few good wards to keep would-be assassins at bay.

I snorted and gave my head a shake. How ridiculous was it to want my eighty-something-year-old great-grandmother to save my ass?

The funnier part was knowing she could.

If I thought I might be able to get away with trawling through the swamp looking for a crazy magical senior and not terrify the rest of my family with worry, I would. But the bayou had a strange way of shifting and moving, and though the land itself didn’t change, I’d been gone long enough I would probably get lost if I went after her right now. I couldn’t afford those extra hours.

Nothing felt like home anymore. Not the swamp, not New Orleans. I’d become disconnected from my moorings, and nothing felt like terra firma these days. Feeling lost was one of the oh-so-fun side effects of almost dying. I’d been thrown down an open elevator shaft from over twenty floors up. No shit. And the only thing that had saved me was magic. Now part of me felt like I was supposed to be dead, but I was still haunting the world in a living form.

Near-death was weird.

I turned the radio back on, but the stations had gone fuzzy thanks to my distance from anything resembling civilized society, so I switched over to the default CD in my deck. Tom Waits’s eerie voice crooned about lost love, and I glued my attention back on the road. Focus, Genie, I whispered. Today would be a bad day to get into a car accident just because I was a hopeless flake.

A car appeared in my rearview mirror, coming out of nowhere, giving my pulse a kick-start. I’d been driving over an hour with almost no other signs of life, and the black sedan stuck out like a sore thumb against the green-and-gray backdrop of the previously empty highway.

He was driving awfully close to me, wasn’t he?

"Just pass," I grumbled, cutting my gaze from the road to my mirror and back. He was riding my ass now, the front end of the sedan dangerously near to my bumper. What was this asshole thinking? The opposite lane was wide open, and he could have whizzed past me no problem if he was in such a damn hurry.

The sedan bumped me, and the realization of what was happening struck me at the same moment. He didn’t want to go by me.

He was trying to run me off the road.

My heart pounded, and my palms were instantly damp and itchy with nervous energy. Of all the things I’d prepared contingencies for, this wasn’t among them. I’d foolishly assumed when someone came to kill me, they’d do it when I was standing on solid ground so I’d have a chance to fight back. Ramming me off the road with a two-ton hunk of steel wasn’t playing fair.

Not that assassins cared much for fair play.

I gripped the wheel as my car jerked towards the shoulder of the road, and steadied myself, steering closer to the center to allow more rebound room. This plan would bite me in the ass if a car came towards me, but I was hoping to have enough time to react if that happened.

The music coming through my car stereo was slow, Waits singing I Hope That I Don’t Fall in Love With You, which was sweet and melodic. The pounding of my pulse in my ear bumped the tempo up a few notches, and my mind was racing.

The car slammed into me again, and I yelped. At least no one was in the car with me to see how pathetic I was in a time of panic. Some badass werewolf leader I would make.

Gritting my teeth, I scolded myself for letting my concentration drift. It wouldn’t matter how tough I was or wasn’t if this guy succeeded in killing me. The itch in my palm was a sign of magic, but as I tried to conjure a ward, he hit me a third time, making me lose my place in the spell. This was hopeless. I needed to be able to concentrate to perform magic, and he wasn’t giving me enough time.

Spotting a flash of daytime headlights in the distance, I had a truly terrible idea, one so idiotic it might be perfect.

I veered into the opposite lane, and the sedan followed me, scraping against my bumper, making my car jerk spastically. I was grateful for small favors because my attacker hadn’t opted for a higher car. There was no chance he’d be able to see around me thanks to how closely he was hugging my ass.

The lights in the distance drew nearer, and I sucked in a breath, issuing a silent prayer to the gods. It was a big gray delivery van, and hopefully the driver had quick reflexes, otherwise we were all in trouble. The van’s horn blared, and I yanked the steering wheel at the last second, hauling my car back into the right lane. The sedan wasn’t as lucky, not expecting the van to be there when I pulled aside.

Both the van and the car swerved, and I slammed on my brakes, sending gravel flying as I hit the shoulder. Tires squealed from all three vehicles, and my car came to an abrupt stop, dust settling around me like smoke. The van skidded to a halt next to the edge of the ditch. The sedan spun around in a full 360-degree turn and came to a stop facing me from a hundred yards away. I got a good look at the driver, a clean-cut blond man in his early fifties. His cold stare showed bitter rage and the unspoken promise that our business together wasn’t through.

He restarted his car and reversed hard, sending more dust and gravel spitting out before he spun back onto the highway and hauled ass out of sight. I memorized his plate number, for all the good it would do me.

A tap on my window made me scream.

The driver of the van was standing beside my door, wearing a pissed-off expression. I considered going for the gun in my glove compartment, but this guy’s bad mood was the least of my worries at this point. My better option would be to play the sympathy card.

I burst out into tears, cupping my face and letting my shoulders tremble with exaggerated hiccups. I rolled down the window and between shaky breaths I said, Th-thank God. I thought he was going to k-kill me. I gave the van driver my best wide-eyed innocent expression, hoping my eyes had changed to that really dark shade of green that I’d been told made me look extra sad. Cash once said they turned almost emerald when I was in a foul mood, but normally they were a bright shade similar to celery.

You okay? All his rage vanished, and he had the nervous look of worry men often got when they saw a woman cry. Most guys didn’t know how to deal with a sobbing woman, and I was hoping for that kind of uncertain footing.

I opened the door, and he stepped back. He was a big guy, with a round belly and a huge bushy beard growing well past his chin. Under different circumstances he might have been imposing, but he smelled human, and that alone put me at ease. One man I could handle, even if he did decide to try something, but his manner led me to think I was safe enough to assess the damage on my car.

Both of the passenger-side tires were flat as pancakes. Glass glittered up from the gravel at me mockingly. Of course. And me with only one spare. Scooting to the back of the car, I let out a genuine gasp. The whole tail end of the Dart was scraped bare, with a dent nudging the trunk in. The bumper was damn near ready to come off. The man in the black car hadn’t been screwing around.

Jesus, the bearded driver said, coming to stand next to me. That other guy did this?

I nodded, brushing the warm metal of the trunk with my fingertips. Someone had wanted me dead really badly.

Chapter Four

I managed to convince the driver of the van I would be okay waiting for a tow truck on my own. Since his ride was unharmed and he had a bunch of perishable food in the back, it didn’t take much persuasion, but I could tell the idea of abandoning me bothered him. After swearing I was close to home and well armed, he agreed to leave me but made me promise I’d call his shop once I was picked up safely.

Apparently there were nice people left in the world.

I called 411 and was put through to the only garage in St. Francisville. Luck was on my side because the grumpy-sounding mechanic had no other pickups, and after taking my name and coordinates, he promised to be out to me in less than forty minutes.

I sat on the hood of my car with one of my used textbooks in my lap, trying to focus on the finer points of criminology, but I only managed to absorb every fifth word. By the time I’d read the same page ten times I shut the book with a loud snap and set it down beside me. So much for studying. The nagging worry someone might come back to finish the job was too much for me.

Playing with my phone, I debated for the millionth time whether I ought to call Uncle Callum and tell him what had happened. But the last thing I wanted was him bringing half the pack out here to protect me. It was the middle of the day, and I’d proven to the last guy that I wasn’t going to be an easy target. I doubted they’d try again so soon, and I did have a gun handy this time.

The 9mm Glock had been a gift from Secret on my nineteenth birthday. She said there might be times when magic wouldn’t be the best defense, and having a reliable gun was never a bad idea. Considering all the stuff she’d survived, I was willing to take her word for it. I didn’t particularly like guns, though, so normally I kept it in a lockbox at home.

Right now I was pretty happy I’d opted to bring it with me.

I still preferred to use magic.

For good measure I’d also cast a safety ward in a ten-foot radius around the car. I could hold it in place for as long as it took the tow truck to arrive, if I didn’t exert myself too much.

Being both a witch and a werewolf was an interesting mix, even by supernatural standards. I tried to play down my gifts when I was around the rest of the pack. My grandmother Genevieve and her mother before her, La Sorcière, were both powerful witches, and even though the gene had skipped my mother and sister, I’d gotten it full force.

Sure, having the ability to blow things up with the flick of a wrist seemed awesome, until you did it by accident while shifting into your werewolf form. Blow a few cabins up and suddenly no one trusts you. How was that fair?

I’d learned to control my magic since my Awakening—the werewolf rite of passage cubs went through at age thirteen. Now I could change form without hurting anyone, and I had figured out how to compartmentalize my gifts when I was out with the pack. In the few years since I’d returned from the swamps, the rest of Callum’s wolves had welcomed me into the fold. But if I started tossing spells around and showing off, I wasn’t sure they’d be so accommodating.

The smell of fuel caught my attention first, and I stared down the road, narrowing my eyes to refine my vision. A rusty red tow truck was bumping along the highway towards me.

It was so old I wasn’t sure it was going to make it the next mile, let alone pull the Dart back to the garage. But in St. Francisville beggars couldn’t be choosers.

The truck pulled up in front of me a minute later, backing up so the hook end was facing my front bumper. I hopped off the car and circled around to the passenger side to grab my bag, not wanting to leave it in the car.

Thanks for coming all the way out. I started talking before I knew if the mechanic was out of his truck yet. Sometimes I had a nasty habit of babbling, something I’d picked up in the swamp with Memere. The old witch rarely spoke except to instruct or scold, so often I ended up having lengthy monologues on my own while I wandered around. I hadn’t yet rid myself of the habit, sometimes I caught myself nattering at length in public places with no one specific around to hear my thoughts. Hope the drive wasn’t too lo—

My words got stuck in my mouth as I stood up and saw the mechanic staring at me from the opposite side of the car.

For whatever reason, I’d expected an older man. Some balding guy in his late fifties with a scowl and a beer belly. The only part I’d gotten right was the scowl. The man looking back at me was maybe twenty-five. His angular jaw was tense, and his full lips were set in a humorless frown. But goddamn. He was the single hottest man I’d seen in my entire life.

His eyes were hazel, the color of swamp water flecked with fresh fallen leaves. Something about them reminded me of home. His hair was either dark blond or light brown, though my certainty on which changed with each shift of sunlight over his head. He wore mechanics overalls with the top stripped down and tied around his waist. This gave me a provocative view of his chest and shoulders in an almost-too-tight gray T-shirt. His upper body was so muscular I thought he might be able to lift the car up on his own.

A waft of wolf scent hit me, and my eyes went wide.

He could lift the car barehanded if he wanted to. This guy was a werewolf through and through.

His nostrils flared, and he gave me a knowing nod, letting me know he’d figured me out too. Car trouble, ma’am? he drawled, and his eyes glimmered with humor for the first time since I’d seen him, breaking up the seriousness of his frown.

Since he was a werewolf in St. Francisville, he would be under Callum’s control, and that made him safe, if not trustworthy. I saw no sense in lying to him. The whole pack would know soon enough.

Almost got driven off the road by one of those Church of Morning loonies. I didn’t know it had been them for sure, but it seemed like a pretty safe bet.

This made his eyes widen, either in surprise or because he was impressed, it was hard to tell which. And a couple blown tires were the worst of the damage?

You haven’t seen my rear end yet. Oh God, Genie, did you seriously just say that?

He smirked but didn’t say anything. Instead he walked to the back of the car and let out a whistle. Guess they meant business.

"Sorry, I don’t mean to sound rude or forward or anything, but who are you? I thought I knew every wolf in Callum’s pack."

What’s the matter, Princess? Worried I might be up to no good? Seems to me you’ve already had your fair share of bad luck today. He flicked the dented trunk and gave it one last assessing stare before sauntering back towards me. Walk wouldn’t have been the right verb. He moved like a predator or a really suave runway model. Each gesture promised something obscene.

My cheeks flushed.

What was it about this guy? So far he hadn’t been very nice to me, but just the sight of him was turning me stupid. It was unfair for any one man to be as good-looking as he was. If he had a half-decent personality, I might have been at risk of falling for him, but from what I could tell I had nothing to worry about in that department.

I wasn’t too astonished that he knew I was a princess. He’d taken my name when I called in. As a werewolf in the south, he could easily do the math. You obviously know who I am. It’s only fair I have a name I can call you.

You can call me anything you want to.

I rolled my eyes. Smooth. On average, how many times has a line like that worked for you?

It’s usually fifty-fifty. I’ve never tried it on royalty before. Seemed worth a shot.

Sorry to tell you, but your average is tipping towards failure.

His mouth quirked up in a slight smile, and he set about getting the car rigged up to the tow truck. I thought he was going to ignore my question a second time, but just as I was about to push for more information he said, My name is Wilder. Wilder Shaw.

Shaw. I bristled. Now there was a name I definitely knew.

You must be related to Hank. I tried to make it sound casual, but a hint of bitterness snuck into my tone, and there was no getting around it.

Hank Shaw, one of the longer-standing members in Callum’s pack, was a big reason I still hadn’t brought Cash home to meet the family after a year together. Hank was bigoted in a way that seemed over the top even in the south. He was vocal and obnoxious about his racism, so much so the pack’s sole black member, James Fairfax, had been granted permission to live away from the pack compound.

Worse still, Hank had actively abandoned the pack once to join a rogue group led by none other than my mother. Ultimately he’d come back with his tail between his legs and begged forgiveness, which Callum had grudgingly offered him. Mercy was, technically, part of the pack, so while Hank had by all accounts defected, the king let it go on a technicality.

Secret, when she found out, was furious. As it turned out, one of the duties Hank had performed for Mercy was beating the tar out of Secret. It was too late for Callum to go back on his decision though. All he could do was keep Hank on a short leash and hope he was reformed.

Ben and I had both asked Callum on many different occasions why he didn’t kick Hank out of the pack, but our uncle believed in second chances, and he thought there was hope for Hank yet, in spite of how hateful the man could be. Maybe he was right, but it made things tense around the plantation time and time again. Secret wouldn’t visit if she knew he was there.

Yeah, Hank’s my older brother, Wilder said.

I tried to take this new information and see him in a different light, hoping it would make Wilder less attractive to me. No such luck. He was still swoonworthy, especially given the way his shoulders and arms flexed while he worked with the hitch.

Are you and your brother…um…close? I couldn’t figure out a better way to ask, Are you also a racist prick who likes to beat up women? Southern girls were raised to not be quite so confrontational in our conversations with handsome strangers.

Wilder gave a half shrug, not paying much attention to me as he worked. I know what you’re trying to get at, he said finally. "I do know what he’s like, and I sure won’t defend his beliefs or the mistakes he’s made. But I also won’t badmouth my kin. He wiped his hands on his overalls and glanced up at me, the green flecks in his eyes catching in the light, making him seem like more animal than man for a fraction of a second. He’s good in his own ways, but his badness keeps people from seeing it. I know a different Hank." The grimace had returned.

I guess I’d stepped on his toes in spite of all my efforts not to.

I was pretty sure I knew all the wolves in Callum’s territory, so why have I never met you?

He gave me a look that told me nothing about how he felt. I was around for awhile. When you were off playing with the frogs and the gators. Came back to make sure Hank doesn’t have too rough a go. He’s been struggling a bit.

Oh. I wasn’t really sure what else to say, and I didn’t want to ask more about his brother.

All right, Princess, I’m almost done here. Why don’t you hop up in the cab?

Genie, I corrected.

Hmm? He’d stopped paying attention again.

My name is Genie. Eugenia, really. But…people, um…call me Genie? Smooth. Dumbass.

Wilder glanced at me. I know your name, sweetheart. But that won’t stop me from calling you Princess.

I was about to tell him if he was trying to be proper, Princess wasn’t the appropriate form of address, Your Royal Highness was, but then I realized he wasn’t being polite. He was being condescending.

I sniffed and hiked my bag higher on my shoulder, trying to come up with a witty retort to wither him in his place. Secret would have known exactly what to say. My sister was the master of the soul-crushing one-liner.

After a much-too-long pause I said, Wilder is a stupid name anyway. I turned on my heel, hoping my pathetic rejoinder would at least get me the last word.

Before I could get into the cab of the truck I heard him say loud and clear, Whatever you say, Eugenia.

Chapter Five

The whole drive back we sat in tense, awkward silence. I was afraid to speak again because my foot had a tendency to wedge itself right in my mouth whenever I started saying anything. Wilder was no help. He was doing his best to project the air of a man who embodied strong silent type.

Fine. Whatever. It wasn’t like I needed to talk.

By the time we pulled up to the garage I was squirming in my seat, words bubbling up the back of my throat. He stopped at the front of the building and stared at me pointedly until I realized he was waiting for me to get out.

Oh, I mumbled, feeling stupid for not getting his hint sooner. Of course, if he’d just said something, I could have bypassed the embarrassment stage altogether. My mental catalogue of reasons to not like Wilder was steadily outstripping his more…attractive qualities.

I paced with barely constrained nervous energy by the garage door, not sure if I was supposed to go in or if I was meant to find my own way home from here. Wilder, from my short acquaintance with him, seemed like he might be the kind of man to make a stranded woman walk six miles by herself.

I could have called Callum’s estate and gotten a ride from here, but then I’d need to explain why I hadn’t called them in the first place. I’d rather get a lift with a cranky stranger than tell my uncle over the phone that I’d been the target of an assassination attempt.

Some things are better said in person.

So instead of leaving I waited, assuming he’d come back for me even though he hadn’t said anything one way or the other.

Plus the front door was locked.

I hugged my purse to my chest and was almost convinced he wasn’t returning when the big garage door behind me gave a loud groan and lifted. Trying to hide my startled jump, I steadied my breath and schooled my features.

Didn’t mean to scare you, he said.

Dammit. You didn’t scare me.

Sure. A little twist of a smile again. I had no doubt he was making fun of me.

My Dart was behind him, and another set of garage doors was open at the back of the shop, letting a warm breeze flow through the space. He’d parked his truck beside my car. The smell of engine oil and gasoline wafted out to meet me. It was a pungent, unmistakable scent, but one that was not altogether unpleasant. It made me think of road trips and outboard boat motors.

A flat platform on wheels was next to a toolbox, and I suspected it was used for him to roll under the car to work on it. My only real exposure to mechanical work came from movies. I tried not to picture Wilder smeared with grease, his shirt sticky with sweat as he rolled out from under a car and said, The chassis will be good as new when I get my hands on it.

I blushed.

That fantasy had gotten specific awfully fast.

I was not interested in Wilder Shaw. He was just one of those guys who’d been born with an incredibly distracting defect: he was too perfect. That face. Those lips. His stupid beautiful eyes. He was like one of those flowers that lured insects and animals in, only to devour them whole. Sure, he was pretty, but he was a predator through and through.

And no matter what he’d said earlier, my opinion of his brother was still coloring the way I perceived Wilder. There was no way one brother was a traitorous bigot and the other just walked away totally liberal and devoted to the pack. Nope. I’d lived in Louisiana long enough to know the brush of racism painted people in heavy strokes and light ones, but being less of a racist than Hank didn’t make him a good person. As for the traitor thing—twisted political ideals tended to run in families hand in hand with personal ones.

Who’s being prejudiced now? a voice in the back of my head scolded.

I slung my bag over my shoulder and followed him into the garage. He didn’t invite me in exactly, but he did open the door and walk away, which I was beginning to realize was sort of the same thing.

How big is your head? His voice was muffled from inside his truck.

"I beg your pardon?"

His head popped up over the hood of the truck, assessed me, then said, Looks normal.

Thanks?

He had already disappeared. When he came back, he was carrying two helmets and tossed one at me without waiting to see if I was prepared for it. Thankfully, werewolf reflexes kicked in, and I grabbed it out of the air before it fell, hugging it tight so it didn’t clatter to the floor and make me look like the klutz I sometimes was.

Though why I cared what he thought about me, I didn’t know.

What’s this? I realized too late it was the wrong question to ask.

A helmet. He pulled the front door closed and swung a lever over to lock it, dimming the interior light.

Of course. Of course that was his answer.

Is it absolutely necessary for you to answer all my questions like I’m six years old? I glared at him, then back at the helmet, still not sure why I was holding it. Did he think the drive back was going to get extra bumpy? Was he worried I couldn’t walk around without hurting myself?

My momma always said if you want an obvious answer, ask an obvious question.

I’m betting she had to field a lot of obvious questions in her time.

Wilder snorted. You wouldn’t be wrong. Put that on.

I did as I was asked, though I didn’t like obeying the commands of this wolf I’d never met before. I was his superior. He