Cat's Howl: A Macconwood Pack Novel (The Macconwood Pack Series Book 2) (5 page)

Cat shook her head.
Nope, don’t think about it.
She
pushed her memories to the back of her mind for what seemed like the millionth time
that night. What was up with her? She needed a nice long, quiet vacation.
Somewhere she could just sit in peace and waste away the minutes doing nothing
except maybe reading or sipping tea.
Mmmm.

But for now she was home and stuck with kitchen duty. Cat wasn’t
going to make a fuss about cleaning up. That would be ridiculous, and she hated
silly crap like that.

It was her turn and fair was fair. Besides, the upgraded
kitchen rocked. Just another of Rafe’s awesome improvements to the house.

The entire room was state of the art. New appliances, stone
tiles, accent lighting, gleaming countertops. And besides, he hired help for
the really tough jobs since everyone else had other things to do. It was a
dream, truly.

She still hated the smell of wet metal, but the lemon
scented detergent filled her nostrils as she flipped opened the cap and she
went to work.

Ten minutes into it Cat stopped stacking the dishes and pans
and pulled out her cell phone. If she was going to be stuck in there for who
knew how long, she might as well listen to some music.

She plugged her phone into the wall dock, complete with charging
station and speakers that Rafe also had installed in almost every room. She so
loved her brother!

She smiled as she looked at her new smart phone. Her brother
had insisted everyone in his Wolf Guard had one. Of course they were full of
top secret apps made for Pack business by Randall Graves. He was the resident
tech genius.

Randall was in charge of pretty much all their security, and
anything having to do with a computer. The new smart phones were a way for Rafe
to have real time access to his elite detail. It was also a way for them to
stay in contact with the Pack as a whole.

Cat was pleasantly surprised when he handed her the brand
new, hooked up cell in its pink armored case. She smiled at the memory. She may
not be a Wolf Guard yet, but this was definitely a start.

She clicked the button that started her playlist. A little
rock and roll and Cat was ready to tackle the mess. Cooking for Werewolves left
more than one dirty pot.

Boy, was that the truth! She huffed out a breath then shook
her head and danced around on bare feet across the chilly stone floor. After
packing away the leftovers, she scraped the dishes into the trash can and began
loading them into one of the high efficiency dish washers. They had two.

The monotony of the work was soothing after the day she had.
Cat bobbed her head as she wiped and stacked. She joined Gene Simmons for a few
verses, belting out lyrics and dancing around in her bare feet across the tiled
floor.

Cat wasn’t afraid to let her hair down, especially when she
was alone. Besides, a little bump and grind was just what she needed. She was
having a ball too, that is until she heard the scrape of one of the high stools
that surrounded the kitchen island. And then she smelled him.

Oh crap!
Cat turned around to discover the one person
in the world she wouldn’t be caught dead letting her hair down around. Tate
Nighthawk.

He stood watching her with a half grin on his usually stern
face. To see that smile on his lips was enough to make her almost drop a plate.
Almost
.

“Do you mind? I was watching that,” his deep voice cut
through the rock and roll making Cat’s pulse speed up.

“Yeah right,” she walked to the phone and quickly stopped
her playlist, throwing them into a tense silence.

No way was she going to act like a fool in front of him. Not
again anyway.
Been there, done that
.

“I just packed up dinner. It’s in the fridge if you’re
hungry.”

“No, I’m good.”

“Okay, so why are you in the kitchen then?”

“I love Kiss.”

“Oh.”

“So,” he pulled out the stool and sat down. His muscles
strained against the black t-shirt he wore as he rolled his neck and arms in an
effort to get comfortable.

“How was work? Sheriff’s Department treating you okay?”

“Yup. Fine,” she cringed at her one word answers. When would
she stop acting like an imbecile around this man?

“I think we can do better than that, Catriona, don’t you?”

“Don’t call me that.”

“Sorry, I forgot.”

“Like hell you did.”

“What? It’s a pretty name.”

“Yeah, right.”

“I remember when you were eight and I mispronounced your
name after reading it off your homework, I called you Ca-tree-oh-na instead of
Ca-tree-na, and you called me stupid.”

“I did not!,” Cat’s cheeks burned. She was a difficult
child, always on the defensive, but she couldn’t believe she had said that!

“Yes, yes, you did! You called me a stupid jerk-faced boy
and said I couldn’t even read.”

“Oh geez, look I’m sorry-”

“Nah, you don’t have to say sorry. It’s funny, you know,
cause I couldn’t. Read that is. Not well anyway. My mother was sort of absentee.
Hardly noticed when she swallowed those bottles of pills. And my dad, well, he
was hardly, a father. I don’t blame them, understand, they did the best they
could with what they had. It wasn’t until I lived here that I learned anything
about anything.”

“Tate, I-” Cat’s heart hurt for him. She felt a sort of
controlled emotion emanate from him. Sadness, solitude, heartache. But mostly
loneliness. She wanted to do something, comfort him, hold him, but she remained
where she stood.

She knew his mother had committed suicide. Another Werewolf
driven to madness and grief for missing her Wolf. She even remembered the day
her father brought him into their house.

He was older than her of course, closer to Rafe’s age. He
was thin and scared with chin length black hair and the darkest pair of eyes
she had ever seen. His shoulders were hunched, his clothes old, but clean, his
expression grim, and the chip on his shoulder as big as a mountain.

“No apologies necessary, Cat. We were just kids.”

“Yeah. It was a long time ago,” she watched him as she
resumed scraping dishes and placing them into the washer.

“Well, you’re certainly not a kid now. You weren’t one the
last time we were alone together either. You remember that night, don’t you?”

“Look I don’t-”

“Not one day has gone by in the last seven years that I
haven’t thought about it,” his whispered confession hit her as if he had
shouted it. She wasn’t ready to hear whatever this was from him. Before she had
a chance to speak he continued.

“
God
, I have pictured you, standing there with the
surf crashing just a few feet away. I can still taste the salt that clung to your
skin, looking for all the world like a sea nymph. Soft and glowing in the
moonlight, designed by the gods to make a man crazy from wanting you.”

Cat froze. This time the dish did slip right out of her trembling
hands. Luckily it landed on the counter top where wobbled noisily until coming
to a standstill. It was the only noise in the room after Tate’s astounding
revelation.

Had he really pictured her? Did he think about that
night?

Cat had denied herself permission to dwell on the night of
her senior prom long ago. She had been determined to get on with her life.

Getting away from the strict rules and brutal chores of her
father had been step one. Getting herself a college degree had been step two.
And putting Tate Nighthawk as far form her mind as she could get had been step
three.

Of course that last part was difficult when she came home to
live, but she worked long shifts. He seemed to do the same. They hardly
interacted.

And on the rare occasion when they were home at the same
time Tate usually ignored her. She hid her grief and embarrassment with humor and
sarcasm.

Cat swore she wouldn’t moon over him. She promised herself a
long time ago that she was done with men. She would never again put herself in
a position where she needed to try to please someone with either her looks or
actions.

After her father died and Rafe put off his rise to Alpha she
had thrown herself into her studies. She knew her brother would eventually fulfill
his destiny, but it gave her time to make her own. She didn’t believe in luck.
She believed in hard work.

She would never be a homemaker or happy housewife. It just
wasn’t in her. Cat had missed the opportunity to impress upon her father just
how useful and strong a female Wolf could be outside of the home, but she
wouldn’t fail with Rafe.

The first time she had approached her brother with the idea
of becoming one of his Wolf Guard, he refused. The second time he seemed to
have pause before stating that it was not a woman’s place. After that she
worked even harder. The third time, she told herself, the third time he would
not be able to say no.

Cat had very little else filling her time. She was forever
training. She had a rigorous work out routine, she went regularly to target
practice and used weapons such as assault rifles, handguns, crossbows, and
knife training, and she recently got certified as an EMT. Cat had all the
makings of a Wolf Guard and more. She just had to make Rafe see it.

The one thing she didn’t have was a personal life. She
hardly dated anymore. She just didn’t have the time. Besides she was a fast
study and if she was rejected once for baring her soul, there was no way she
was going to do that again.

 Anger, pain, and confusion took turns bubbling up inside of
her. It was all she could do to not scream at him after all the things he had
just claimed.

“What is all this, Tate?”

Tate stood up and turned around his shoulders tense and his
jaw clenched. Suddenly the room felt small to him.

What the hell was he doing?
That night was best left
buried where it was, in the past. Why was he bringing it up now? In the kitchen
for God’s sake!

He exhaled. His own scent advertised his frustration. He ran
his fingers over the to of his head.

He cut his hair short nowadays, but there were times he
missed the old length of it.

He should leave as quickly as possible.
Just walk away,
man.
But she looked so damn good. And after what he had just seen he needed
to be near something good, and warm, and alive. Cat was all those things. And
more.

He took a deep breath and under the regular kitchen smells
he got a whiff of her. She was feeling something in that moment, concern,
sympathy maybe?

He lowered his head. He didn’t deserve it. Not after the day
he had had.

Sometimes he just plain hated his job. As Wolf Guard it was
his duty to not simply protect his Alpha, but to go where Rafe needed him.

Today that had meant a ride to one of the wealthier suburbs
of South Jersey. The home in Little Silver was gorgeous. From the outside Tate took
in the newly renovated colonial and saw what everyone must see.

A happy home. Upper middle class. The family clearly had
money what with the sparkling BMW that sat in the driveway. A Christmas gift
for the wife maybe?

Next to it was a smaller sports car. Not a classic, but
close. A late 1980’s Corvette. It was painted cherry red.
The father’s no
doubt.
And in front of that sat a brand new ATV. Something for the kid
perhaps?

Holiday lights and accents tastefully decorated the outside
of the house. There was a little sign that said “Designed by Two Brothers Lawn
Care.”

Tate frowned, he always assumed when he was married and had
his own home that he would be the one to put up the twinkle lights. Not that he
knew much about domestic stuff like that, but heck he wanted be the one to do
things for his family. If he ever had one.

He shook his head and went back to his perusal of the house.
His job was to gather as much information as possible to assess whether or not
this tragedy could have been prevented.

To this family the point was moot, but maybe others could
learn from their mistakes. Then again maybe some things were unavoidable no matter
what you did.

A customized mailbox sat nestled in a brick post at the edge
of the paved driveway. It was in the shape of a sailboat. The family surname
was painted across it in bright red letters. It read
Mallory.

Tate sat silently in the driver’s seat of his large SUV and imagined
what kind of mail was inside. The weekly grocery circular, maybe a letter from
the kid’s school for the annual winter fundraiser, a few late Christmas cards, a
magazine subscription. The usual stuff you’d see inside a family mailbox.

From the outside it was all so normal. Perfect even. But
inside was where he would find the horror of an unchangeable reality.

Mrs. Mallory was resting now, at least that was what he had
been told. He took a moment to quiet the Wolf inside his mind’s eye before
knocking on the door. He knew all too well that is the last moment of inner
peace that he’d experience for the next few days or weeks or months.

From the bottles on the side table and the smell in the air after
he was admitted to the home Tate could tell Mrs. Mallory was in a
self-medicated sleep as opposed to simply resting.

A couple of valium, a glass of red wine, not enough to harm
her, but enough to numb the pain, he thought as he took in his surroundings.

He took note of everything withholding judgement for the
time being. After all, she was a normal. Married to a man for the past
seventeen years, who happened to be born a normal to a Werewolf family, as does
happen on occasion.

Her husband, Rick, was not a Werewolf. However, he was loyal
to the Pack. He had grown up inside of it and was under its protection.

His situation was not unique. Some Werewolves simply did not
pass the gene onto their young.
You had to be born a Werewolf.
But even
if you were normal born to Wolves you were still Pack.

And no you could not be made into a Werewolf. All those
myths about being bitten were just that, myths, stories, make-believe.

Pack was Pack
and with Rafe as Alpha that meant something
it hadn’t meant in years. Tate was in the Mallory living room for that reason
alone.

Rick Mallory was a small man. Slight of stature with neatly
trimmed graying hair and a freshly shaved face. He appeared to be in shock and
opted to remain outside the home when Tate went into his son’s room to inspect.

He made the right decision. Calling his Pack contact before the
police and coroner must have been an instinctual choice. His wife had wanted to
call an ambulance. But Rick had known it was too late.

Tate turned the doorknob, careful not to leave any trace of
him in the crime scene. The stink of death permeated the air, but unfortunately
for Tate it was a familiar scent. And besides, this was no ordinary death.

Suicide.
Another one, he should say. The pup was only
sixteen years old. His first Change was three short months ago. Mr. Mallory had
said there were no warning signs. At least none he nor his wife could see.

Mason came home from school as usual. His father said he was
texting his friends, making plans for the weekend. Then he and his wife went
out to dinner alone as they did on Friday nights. Date night, they called it.

When they tried to wake him up the next day, they found him.
He had hung himself. Mason had used a fifteen-foot length of strong plasma rope.
The kind that was meant for sailing. The boy had looped it over a bare ceiling
rafter in his bedroom. One of those industrial, open concept motifs.

The walls of his bedroom were painted a mossy green and the
floors were a dark hardwood. A lime green throw rug sat on the floor. One corner
was kicked up as if someone had tripped recently.

Rick Mallory had left the body where he found it. The boy
still hung from the rafter. He was still and silent as Tate walked over to
examine him.

He touched nothing, only inhaled. Once he got past the scent
of excrement and decomposition he breathed again. There was something else in
the air, something a little off.

Tate walked over to the two long windows. The curtains were
drawn and there was no natural light inside the room. He pushed them back carefully
using a pen that he took from the right pocket of his jacket.

Both windows were closed and locked tightly. Tate’s eyes
zoomed in on the layer of dust that emphasized one harsh reality. This boy had
not opened a window for weeks.

Stale
. The air was stale.

Tate inhaled deeply. His Wolf senses came forth and as
always he felt a rush at being so close to his Wolf.
Soon.
The moon
would be full again soon. That was what he told himself.

But back to business. He closed his eyes and made a mental
list of everything he could identify.
Dust. Mold. Faint remnants of cleaning
fluids. Body soap. Deodorant. Pizza. Chips. Gym socks.
But everything was
old. As if the boy had stopped living weeks ago instead of hours.

Strange behavior for a teen. Highly suspect for a Wolf. Tate
frowned.

Werewolves had extremely reactive senses. Hearing, taste,
touch, and especially smell would be very acute for one who had just had his
first Change.

Werewolves needed fresh air, they craved it. The boy’s father
should have seen this, noted it. He should have called his Pack contact. Weren’t
his parents concerned at all after his Change? He bit back the angry thoughts
that crowded his mind. They wouldn’t help the boy now. Nothing would.

Tate turned back to the room for more signs. He noted them
sadly. The boy’s desk was messy, full of crumpled papers and covered in dust.

Tate noticed his laptop was unplugged. He tried to power it
up. It was dead. The boy’s smart phone too. They hadn’t been plugged in for a
while he guessed.

Whatever the by had told his father aside, this kid had not
been in recent contact with his friends. Of course Tate could try to verify
that, but there was really no need. He’d seen this before.

The green plaid bedspread was carelessly tossed towards the
foot of the bed. Dirty clothes spilled from the hamper. There were a few half
full bottles of water lying around, but no food.

No evidence of potato chip bags or candy wrappers. No empty
plates or fast food cartons. This kid should have been eating his parents out
of house and home.

Damn it!
There were signs everywhere! Didn’t anyone pay
attention?

Maybe his family didn’t know what to expect, Tate reminded
himself. But then again it was their job to get familiar, to learn, to read the
signs! Damn, damn, damn!

What was Mason thinking as he climbed up the step ladder and
then kicked it away?
Poor kid.
Tate wanted to scream.

It was a slow and painful way for a Werewolf to die. Sad and
alone.

As Rafe’s liaison, Tate’s job was to investigate the death and
console the parents. To Tate, suicide was horrific, tragic, and pointless. It
was also far too prevalent amongst his kind.

It took him a full five minutes to get control of himself.
Another two for him to be able to walk down the staircase to the Mallory’s
living room.

He had gotten the information he came for. Before he left the
bedroom, Tate looked at Mason Mallory’s face as he hung from the rafter.

His skin was a deathly shade of blue gray, but Tate saw
beyond that for a moment. He pictured the boy smiling, the wind blowing back
his dark hair. He saw who the boy could have been. Inside his mind’s eye, from
a great distance he thought he heard Mason’s Wolf howl.

Tate wiped the single tear that fell from his near black
eyes. He desperately hoped the young she-Wolf from Northern, the one he had
heard so much about, could break the Curse of St. Natalis as Rafe believed she
could.

He had yet to meet the teenager, Grazi Kelly, but he knew
the effects of the curse intimately. It was unnatural for Werewolves to change
only on the night of the full moon.

It drove most to madness, this forced separation. The curse was
the single biggest threat to Werewolves.

Tate only wished the girl could work a little faster. His
understanding of the curse was that it was a punishment for some crime
committed long ago.

He couldn’t fathom a debt big enough that so many would need
to die to fill it. What grievous error could have been made against the Saint?
It was hundreds of years ago, maybe a thousand.

The Packs of the world no longer remembered the reason
behind their suffering. And yet they continued to suffer.

The Macconwood Pack was the only Werewolf Pack that he knew
of who were trying to rectify the situation. Rafe’s idea to be proactive and
prevent the deaths was unique.

Tate wholeheartedly supported his Alpha. It was just that sometimes
Tate had difficulty being strong and lending support to grieving families when
all he wanted to do was scream and break something.

In this most recent situation, the something was the boy’s
father’s nose.

He hated feeling powerless and that was how he felt about
the whole Little Silver tragedy.

He had to remember he wasn’t there anymore. He was at the Manor,
in the kitchen, with Catriona. Tall, blonde, and lovely Catriona.

He felt like a child with his nose pressed against a store
window. Looking at some shiny new marvel that he could never afford. He could
almost hear his father’s words, “that’s not for you.” How many times had the
old man told him that as a child? How may nights had he lain awake wanting what
he couldn’t have?

Tate watched her capable hands as she scraped plates and piled
them into the dishwasher. Her eyes were focused on her task, but he could tell
by the way she held herself that she was giving him her utmost attention. He
sat a little bit straighter in the stool.

She had long fingers and clean, short nails. Tate wondered
if they felt as soft as they looked. She worked competently, exerting little
effort.
Strong, quick, smart.
All words he would use to describe her.
Also,
beautiful
. Cat was strikingly beautiful.

He had one heck of a hard time looking away. He wondered how
those hands would feel on him. Would she be soft and responsive or would she
lead him by the collar? He didn’t think he’d mind either way.

He closed his eyes and swore he could hear her sigh the way
she did that night so long ago.
T
he taste of her still lingered in the
back of his mind.
Damn, get a grip, dude, it was years ago.

Tate cleared his throat and looked down at his hands. They
were rough and hard. Nothing like hers. He loved working outdoors, though his
job nowadays didn’t call for it much.

Still, he kept a garden on the Manor grounds, owned his own hunting
cabin that he had built himself, and he worked on his old Camaro when he had
the time.

The simple things. His father had told him to “remember the
simple things” before he had left him there. Whatever the hell that meant.

When he looked up again Cat was just pushing the button on
the dishwasher. She turned with her hands on her narrow hips and a bored
expression on her perfectly symmetrical face.

But he knew better. She wasn’t bored. He could smell her
interest.
Grrrr.
It both soothed and excited the beast inside of him.

He wished he could trust himself to speak, but he was still
hurting for the Mallory pup. Besides, their relationship was tentative at best.
He would only ruin it with any clumsy attempt to put what he was thinking into
words.