Possessed by a Wolf. Sharon Ashwood
there were, but it seems that they malfunctioned at exactly the right moment. There were a number of incidents last night that had unusually bad timing. The chaos caused by a pack of hunting dogs, for instance, that just happened to be available right when Sam Ralston’s pet wolf ran by. Or the fact that an order to dismiss the Company guards was given to the Vidonese at a time when it was guaranteed to cause a riot.”
Bewildered, Lexie struggled to take in everything Valois was telling her. A sick feeling spiraled through her, especially when she knew how unusual it was for someone like Valois to reveal so many details to a civilian. There was only one reason he would do so—which was confirmed in his next words.
“But you know all of this already, don’t you, Ms. Haven?” the captain asked with an icy glint in his eyes. “Once we established that the ring hadn’t simply been knocked aside during the chaos, we put our heads together and thought about that familiar threesome: means, motive and opportunity. You were the one closest to the unguarded ring, and you had a perfect excuse for being there.”
Lexie felt the blood drain from her face. “What are you saying?”
Relentlessly, Valois continued. “It would have been nothing to take it when everyone’s attention was riveted by breaking glass and howling dogs. There are your means and opportunity, and motive isn’t hard to figure out. The ring is priceless. With your connections in the fashion and art worlds, it wouldn’t be hard to find an unscrupulous buyer for such treasure.”
A suffocating sense of injustice howled through her. She wanted to rage at him, but the words stuck in her throat. Instead, she fell into one of the overstuffed chairs, her skin prickling with rising panic. His theory was too perfect. There wasn’t even video evidence to prove she hadn’t done it.
“I think you had better get dressed, Ms. Haven. I’d like to take you to a more secure location for the rest of our tête-à-tête.”
“Stop right there,” ordered the green-coated guard at the gate to the palace grounds. His scowling glare traveled from Faran’s shaggy blond head to his well-worn boots.
Faran stopped, suddenly wary. It was barely noon the next day, but already the palace guard had been replaced by soldiers from Vidon.
“Step back here, please,” said the guard.
He moved slowly, hiding the stiffness from his wound. According to Sam, he should still be in bed. Whatever. Faran needed to sort out his shiny new position as palace spy, and he was counting on Chloe to help him develop a cover. He’d left a message on her cell phone he hoped wasn’t cryptic to the point of nonsense.
“Identification?”
Wordlessly, Faran handed over his passport and waited patiently in the pale January sunlight, the distant rumble of midday traffic competing with the splash of the courtyard fountains. The formal gardens separated the Palace of Marcari from the street. The building itself rose in the middle distance, a confection of pointed turrets and carved stone balconies. It crossed his mind that Lexie would be there as well, but it was a big place. He’d just have to put on his big boy fur and keep to himself.
Never mind that his inner idiot yearned for another glimpse of her. Last night she’d been even more beautiful than he remembered, with that flame of hair tumbling down her back. He longed to bury his face in it and smell the perfume of her skin. Like that’s ever going to happen again.
The guard looked up, jerking him back to reality. “American. From California.”
Tourists wandered past, cameras clicking.
“Yes,” Faran replied, watching the man scrutinize his passport. Ironically, this was his real one. Faran had plenty of fakes he could have used, but he’d decided a simple approach would be the best.
“Hmm.” The man nervously brushed the double row of gold braid on his uniform. Despite himself, apprehension pooled in Faran’s stomach. Cops of any kind made him feel guilty—no doubt a knee-jerk reaction from his misspent youth.
“What is your business at the palace? There are no tours today.”
“I’m here to see Chloe Anderson.”
“Step over there while I confirm,” the guard said, pointing. Obediently, Faran moved to a spot beside the black iron fence that surrounded the palace grounds. There were three more Vidonese soldiers waiting there, weapons already drawn. Faran tensed, last night still fresh in his memory. The guards saw him flinch and gave an unpleasant laugh.
The gate guard said something that Faran didn’t quite catch. Whatever it was, it made the one with the gun step closer, shoving the barrel inches away from Faran’s ear. “You’re not on the schedule.”
Faran laughed. “You’re going to shoot me for that? Seriously?”
Mocking wasn’t the best idea. The closest soldier spun Faran around and pushed him against the fence. Pain burned through Faran as the stitches pulled over his wound. The pat-down began, professional but thorough. Fury rose like an incoming tide, knotting Faran’s shoulders. He clenched his teeth against it, willing himself to be silent.
“I think you had better come with us,” said the guard who had frisked him. He took one of Faran’s arms, the other soldier grabbed the other, and they began walking toward the palace. “Captain Valois has a special place ready for unexpected visitors.”
Oh, goody, Faran thought as they led him away.
As it turned out, the Vidonese didn’t take Faran to the cells built into the—thankfully modernized—palace dungeon. Instead, they took him to a room that looked vaguely like an old-fashioned kitchen, complete with huge enamel sinks and a massive table in the middle. Benches ran along either wall, and they were full of other people. Faran glared around him. The wolf in him wanted freedom, dominance and revenge—not necessarily in that order—but the rest of him knew smart strategy was going to make or break his cover.
The benches were already full of people awaiting questioning. Faran sat in the one empty spot.
“The cells are already packed,” said a tall, thin man next to him. He spoke English with a cultured British accent that belonged on a polo field and not at all with his wardrobe. He had ink-black hair to his shoulders and was wearing a black T-shirt stenciled with Old Goths don’t die, they’re just Nevermore.
“Why are you here?” Faran asked, but he thought he knew. If the man wasn’t immortal, he should have been. No one but a vampire had the right to rock that much eyeliner.
“I am suspect because I am Maurice.” The man stretched out his arms as if addressing the entire world. His fingernails sparkled an electric blue.
“Is that so?”
The man shrugged. “They’re idiots. The captain isn’t—he’s real police—but he’s working with those green-coated fools. Eventually they’ll figure out my most criminal act was a diminished seventh chord during the final moments of my last concert. It was at the end of the tastiest riff, just hanging there with buckets of unresolved longing. Mwah.” He kissed his painted fingers like a satisfied chef. “Stole the hearts of my audience. Every single one.”
“Right,” Faran said, humoring the guy. Memory sparked—a clip from a recorded concert involving a light show, live horses and a snowstorm of glittering feathers. The guy was some kind of musician, if one used the term generously.
Faran didn’t have a chance to ask more questions. The door flung open and Chloe stormed in, her heels clicking on the tile. Two Vidonese officials trailed in her wake.
She took one look at the room and spun on the guards. “I was told my friend is being interrogated. Clearly, you’ve shown me to the wrong room.”
Faran got to his feet. “Chloe!”
She