Family Pride (Blood of the Pride) (19 page)

My breath caught in my throat. The woman was signing her own death warrant and she didn’t know it.

“Bernie, give me the gun,” Michael repeated. He advanced on her.

I saw the wildness in her eyes, the fear of being proven wrong mixed with a mad sense of destiny. Logic had no place in her universe—it was all about appearances and devotion to family, no matter what the cost.

“Bernie.” Michael’s voice dropped to a low, authoritative tone. “Give me the gun.”

“Not a chance,” Bernadette snapped. “I’m getting the baby and raising it with or without you.”

“No,” Bran shouted.

Michael kept walking toward her, hands outstretched.

Bernadette let out a whimper, taking a step back to avoid her husband.

Bran leaped toward her, pushing his father aside as he reached out for the weapon.

Her hand jerked—whether out of fear or self-preservation I couldn’t tell. The pistol flew upward even as it fired again, a wild shot toward the two men.

Bernadette stood and gaped at them, the pistol dangling from her fingers.

The two men crashed to the floor, skidding across the varnished wood in silence. Neither of them moved.

I smelled Bran’s blood.

I went mad.

The world narrowed for me into a crimson tunnel with Bernadette right at the center of it.

I attacked, hissing like a wildcat. I didn’t care if I Changed or not, didn’t care if she knew I wasn’t human, didn’t care if I killed her with or without claws.

Her bright blue eyes widened as I rammed into her, sending us both down. The pistol bounced out of her hands and clattered away, out of sight.

I rolled away before pouncing again, landing on her chest and pinning her to the floor. Her arms were splayed out to each side, fingers fluttering.

My left hand went around her throat to hold her in place. The pain blossomed again from the gunshot wound, spiraling down my arm and up into my jaw. I felt the skin leap under my touch, her pulse hammering against my fingers.

I jammed my right fist under Bernadette’s jaw and pressed hard on the delicate ivory skin.

She gasped for air. Her hands flew up, clutching at my arms. The delicately manicured fingers clawed at my shirt.

Out of the corner of my eye I spotted Bran trying to sit up. Blood gushed from his nose, smearing across his face and hands. He burbled and spit onto the floor with an incoherent curse.

Michael rolled onto his back, breathing heavily as he watched his son. I couldn’t smell his blood, only fear.

She’d missed.

The bullet had gone wide, embedding itself somewhere in my ceiling.

I didn’t care.

Bernadette let out a whimper. I increased the pressure, cutting off most of her air. Her eyes bulged out and she drew short, wheezy hiccups.

I held my breath and reached for what I’d lost, stretching out to grab any trace of the Change left.

I didn’t need much.

Just my claws.

Chapter Thirteen

“Reb.” The familiar female voice came out of nowhere, a sharp whisper.

It sounded like my mother.

I shook my head, clearing the cobwebs.

A hand landed on the back of my neck.

“Rebecca,” Jess murmured.

I didn’t turn to look, focused on the woman under my hands.

“Reb.” It was Bran this time. “I’m okay.” I heard him gurgle for a moment before spitting. “Rebecca, I’m going to be fine.” He coughed. “Maybe a broken nose.”

“I don’t care. I’m done with this, all of this.” I felt my claws edge forward, slipping toward the open air.

Jess’s grip intensified, tugging on a sensitive spot Bran’s latest love bite had created. “Don’t do it.”

“She killed Molly. She wanted to kill us,” I hissed. “She’s a threat to our family.”

“Yes, she is,” Jess said. “But she’s the mother of your mate. You can’t kill her.”

The first jagged edge burst through the bloody slits between my knuckles, the second breakthrough more painful than the first.

“She shot me.” The throbbing in my arm intensified. “The stupid bitch shot me.”

“I know. It’ll heal, though—the wounds always heal,” Jess whispered. Her mouth was near my ear as her grip intensified on the back of my neck, now a painful pinch. “Don’t do something you’ll regret.”

Bernadette’s eyes went wide as she felt the pointed nails press against her delicate pale skin. Another few millimeters and her blood would gush out, splashing against my shirt. She’d bleed out in minutes, her lifeblood pooling around us as she shuddered and shook, her body shutting down within minutes.

“Don’t.” It was a request, not an order.

“She wants me to keep her secrets. My secrets, her secrets,” I whimpered, feeling the claws shift. “I can’t keep so many secrets.”

“You don’t have to,” Jess said softly, so low I could barely hear her. “You’ve kept enough. We’ve kept enough. Let her go.”

I drew a shallow breath, reaching out to tweak the mental string again.

The invisible thread in my mind twitched once, twice—then went slack.

I felt the claws slip back under my skin. The coolness on my flesh went to hot burning as the minute openings were exposed to the open air. They’d heal in time but it’d hurt like a bitch for now.

“Reb.” Bran appeared at Jess’s side. “It’s okay. We’re going to be okay.”

“I don’t think any of us ever will be.” I released my grip on Bernadette’s throat and got to my feet.

She rolled to one side, gasping for air. Her palms slapped the floor. Drool spilled from her lips onto the hardwood. Tears rolled down her face, leaving dark smudges under her eyes and streak marks on her cheeks.

Bran grabbed my arms and helped me up. I sagged into his arms, my knees weak. I felt a thousand years old and almost too tired to breathe. Between being shot, Changing, Changing back and trying to Change one more time, I had all the strength of a weak waterlogged kitten.

My vision cleared enough to take in the terrified woman at my feet, Michael off to my left, still on his back, and Jess on my right.

“You got her?” Jess asked.

Bran nodded. He gave me a weak smile, blood dribbling out of his nose.

“Good. Don’t move, you two.” She glared at Bran. “Don’t. Move.”

He didn’t say anything as Jess dropped to one knee beside Bernadette.

Bernadette looked at Jess. “Thank you,” she rasped.

“Don’t thank me.” Jess’s fist shot out and smashed into Bernadette’s right cheek. Her head whipped to one side before bouncing back. Before the woman could recover Jess grabbed the limp white ruffles and pulled her up. “You don’t mess with my family. Ever.” She looked over at Bran. “I’m putting him under my protection right now. You mess with him, you mess with me.”

“I’m his mother,” Bernadette burbled through a mouthful of blood.

“That’s the only reason why you’re still alive.” Jess’s grip tightened. “Threaten either of them ever again and you’ll answer to me. Understand?” Her lips drew back, showing bare teeth. “And I never touched you.”

Bernadette nodded, staying silent.

Jess released her.

Bernadette began to weep, deep throaty sobs punctuated with short choking sounds.

Michael pulled himself into a sitting position, wheezing. He made no move to go to his wife.

Jess pointed at Michael. “Make yourself useful for once. Call 9-1-1.”

He pulled out his cell phone and dialed, unable to look away from the mewling woman.

Jess stood beside me and inspected the bloody gash in my upper arm. “Need a few stitches but you’ll be fine.”

I winced at her examination. “Fucking burns.”

“No shit.” Jess placed her hand on the sore spot she’d caused on the back of my neck. She rubbed it gently, trying to ease the ache.

I groaned.

“You did the right thing,” she whispered. “It’s a horrible thing to have someone’s blood on your hands.”

I nodded, unable to speak. The knotted muscles under her touch loosened.

“I’ll keep an eye on her until the cops arrive.” Jess nudged me to one side. “You two go sit down.”

Bran pulled me toward the couch. He didn’t say anything to his father, who lay a few feet away, cradling his cell phone in both hands.

“Damn,” he said, gingerly touching his swollen and bloodied nose. “There go my ruggedly handsome looks.”

“You’ll survive.”

“We both will.” He started to lean in for a kiss, hesitating at the last second to see my reaction. I knew it was from his bloody lips and chin—an instinctive fear.

I met him halfway, using my good hand to pull him close. I’d tasted him before.

He chuckled and licked his lips. “Thanks.”

I met him halfway before lowering him to the ground. “Don’t thank me yet.” I heard the sirens in the distance. “We’ve got a long way to go before this ride comes to a complete stop.”

* * *

Attersley shook his head, balancing his bulk against the corner of my sofa. I hadn’t seen him so confused since giving him a sudoku book for Christmas.

Around us strode paramedics and police, the first group taking care of Bernadette, Bran and myself—the second bunch collecting the pistol and mapping out the shootings.

The female medic tending to me finished bandaging my arm. “We’ll need to do X-rays to make sure no bones got hit but I’d say off the top of my head you got lucky.” The older woman clucked. “Going to have a nasty scar, though.”

“I’ll live with it.” I turned to one side as she made notes on her clipboard. Hank stood over Bran, who sat on the floor.

“So you claim your mother had Molly Callendar killed in order to get custody of the baby.” He scratched his chin.

I guessed it was Hank’s body language for “explain, please.”

“Having him kidnapped and delivered to her later provided the opportunity for her to declare Liam a distant relative and new adoptive son without having any direct connection back to her,” Bran said from where he sat on the floor, surrounded by discarded gauze and bandages. The paramedics had done a fine job of bandaging his nose but insisted he go to the hospital.

Hank waved his hand in the air, urging him on. A good cop knows when to listen and when to talk.

“If Liam was left behind he’d go into foster care and be released to the Callendars as the closest living relatives. Odds are they’d ask for a paternity test before agreeing to joint custody with Brayton and the jig would be up.”

“The jig?” Hank asked.

“David Brayton isn’t Liam’s father. Michael Hanover is.”

Hank didn’t react. No twitch, no shocked expression. But I knew inside he was falling-down drunk over this revelation.

“How do you know this?” he asked.

Bran gestured at me. “She’s the one who put the pieces together. Look at Liam and look at me, look at my father. He doesn’t look like Brayton—doesn’t take a genius to put it together. And I think my mother’s actions bear it out, don’t you?”

It was thin, damned thin. But it was better than trying to explain Felis scenting.

Hank grunted. The pen danced over his open notebook. He didn’t look at me. I was in trouble and it wasn’t the type a bottle of whiskey could make right.

“So you and her went sniffing around looking for the baby on your own.” The note of disapproval was loud and clear.

“We knew you were covering Brayton and Callendar.” Bran shrugged. “Figured we’d try something different.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” This was more for me than Bran.

“No concrete proof, just a theory.” Bran stood up. “You were busy trying to find a missing baby and a killer. We didn’t want to distract you when there could be nothing there.” He nodded in my direction. “Limited resources—no need to send your men on a wild-goose chase and waste your time. And we didn’t need my father’s name spread all over the papers as a possible suspect—I don’t have to tell you how fast a man’s reputation can be trashed on rumors and innuendo.”

Hank pursed his lips. It wasn’t forgiveness but it was a start.

“So you’re saying you found the kidnapper. And he is...” The detective’s eyes fell on me, harsh and unyielding.

He’d get along with Jess just fine.

“Dead.” I gave him the address of the cheap hotel. “He was dead when we arrived.”

“How did you track him?”

I didn’t even want to begin to describe that connection. I pointed at my feet. “Old school is still the best school. Got a tip through my sources. Convenience store close by told us a guy with a newborn came in looking for supplies. Followed up the tip and found him in a nearby hotel. Punk who’s uncomfortable with a newborn and buying diapers tends to stand out.” Tony Romano would back us up—he feared Jess more than the police.

“You found him dead.” Hank made it sound like more of a question than a statement.

I nodded. “We picked up Liam and put him someplace safe.”

“Someplace being with your friend.” Hank gestured toward Jess, who hovered a few feet away, leaning on the kitchen doorway.

She didn’t scowl, didn’t glare. Her face was a mask, hiding her feelings from everyone around us. I knew she was watching and studying and cataloguing things in her mind.

Jess never forgot her friends and enemies. I hoped Hank would make it on the friends list.

“We didn’t know who to trust.” It sounded lame, even to my own ears. “We hadn’t ruled out Bran’s father as a suspect. Michael Hanover is a pretty powerful man with police connections. We were worried the baby would disappear before we could get the full story.”

The senior detective studied me for a long minute. I could tell he believed half of it—which half was the question. And the difference between spending quality time in jail or walking free.

“Should I ask what your next move was going to be?”

I pointed toward the two Hanovers at opposite sides of the room, being questioned by uniforms. “We got a call from his father that he wanted to talk. We met him here and went over the situation, talked it all out. Until his wife showed up.”

That at least was the honest truth.

“Sorry.” I couldn’t add anything else.

Attersley sighed and turned away to make a phone call. I visualized the kid at the hotel’s front desk freaking out as police swarmed over the cheap flop and he had to stop texting.

I could tell by the detective’s frantic gesturing that he was coming in for quite a bit of heat himself from his superiors. This was a public relations nightmare and it could only get worse before it got better.

Attersley’s attention came back to me, scathing and unyielding as he hung up. “Uniforms are on the way to verify your statement.” He gave a weary sigh. “Did you ever think about calling it in? Never thought we might want to know this little bit of information? We’ve got men and women running around trying to find this baby and sucking up time and money that could have been rerouted elsewhere.”

“Sorry.” It sounded weaker the second time.

“You could be charged with kidnapping,” Attersley snapped. “All the good works and wishes might not be enough to keep you out of trouble this time.”

“I think not.” A pudgy, slightly overweight woman emerged from the crowd. She wore a light blue blouse and jeans, a laminated identification card hanging from the lanyard around her neck. The clipboard in her hands held a good inch’s worth of paperwork.

“And you are?” Attersley spit out. I couldn’t blame the man for being short-tempered, he’d had a hell of a past few days.

“Denise Farnsworth.” She stuck her hand out. “Social Services.”

I risked a glance at Jess. She didn’t look at me.

“And you are here because—”

“Liam Callendar was placed in our care early this morning and the AMBER Alert canceled.” Her face was a perfect mask of innocence. “I guess you didn’t get the memo.”

If Hank could have snorted smoke, he would have.

“What?”

Denise gave him a wide smile. “The baby was registered as a ward of the court today. Thus, no kidnapping and/or violation of the law.”

I sniffed the air.

Family.

Hank rolled his eyes. “Of course. Anything else I should be informed of?”

“No.” Denise looked at her clipboard and tore off a page from the pile. “Here’s the paperwork. Whatever else you may find to charge Ms. Desjardin with, it won’t be kidnapping.”

I felt dizzy and not just from the rip in my arm.

My family was curling around me, covering for me.

I couldn’t even claim it was because of Felis business. The only Felis involved in this mess was me, an outcast.

I bit the inside of my cheek. Crying wasn’t an option, not here and now.

“Okay.” Hank scanned the pink carbon copy before tucking it into his pocket. “Thank you.”

Denise nodded at me before walking over to Jess. The two women exchanged a fast look before falling silent.

“Who killed Keith Shaw?” Attersley asked.

“I killed him,” Bernadette uttered from where she sat on the couch. She hadn’t said a word since Attersley had arrived with the uniforms and paramedics. Her right eye was swollen and bruised from Jess’s punch. The scratches on her throat didn’t require bandages but the black-and-blue marks weren’t going to disappear quickly.

“You.” The disbelief in Attersley’s voice matched my own feelings.