The Problem with Promises (40 page)

Holding his mate. Worrying about “the plastic.”

Trowbridge rolled off me and snatched up the glass objet d’art on the nearby coffee table. Before I’d risen to my knees, Trowbridge was standing behind Mathieu. Breathing hard. The piece of glass flummery broken in two, its jagged edge pressed meaningfully against the dumbass’s jugular.

Ralph let out a beacon of white light. An Asrai “Come on.”

There was a sharp intake of breath—which I swear came from the corner where no one sat—then a veritable mélange of voices and threats erupted.

Whitlock, having righted himself, shouted, “You want proof that she’s Fae? She tried to use her magic on me. Look at my ribs! Look at those amulets!”

Trowbridge threw out a promise of his own. “I’ll cut him!”

And other voices—their volume rising but somehow distant. No one was
there.
The room I’d expected to be full of Alphas only held three. Who was talking? Where were the voices coming from?

Merry shone, fire bright, as I scrambled to my feet.

Voices. Angry voices. Who was watching us? Were they protected by a ward of invisibility?

Oh hell no. Been there. Done that.

We have to get out of here. Now.
Trowbridge had a fierce flare. Why hadn’t he used it? My problem-solving skills stretched as I tried to figure out exit strategies that included disarming a guy with a gun while supporting my mate as we lurched for freedom.

I could raise another flare, couldn’t I? Hang the burning eyes. Screw the stabbing socket pain.
I can do this. No. I
will
do this.
If we both fired up our flares at the same time—

“I will handle this,” said St. Silas.

The babble behind us bubbled for a moment longer, then silence fell. A heavy one, ripe with expectation that was far more frightening than the disembodied voices that had unnerved me a minute ago.

The soft wisps of hair on my nape bristled.

St. Silas spread his hands. “Bridge, this is beneath you. Release Mathieu. He is a good soldier and I would be grieved to lose him in such a manner.”

Plastic crackled as Mathieu—presumably the wolf with the neck about to be slit like an envelope—shifted his weight uneasily.

“Want your word,” said Trowbridge, breathing heavily.

“What do you want?”

“No pain. Promise me she feels … no pain.”

Oh Goddess. There’s that word again.
I tugged his arm, ever so lightly because his balance was obviously crap. “Seriously? That’s what you’re bargaining for? That I won’t feel pain? People have been promising not to hurt me for days. I
always
end up in pain. Couldn’t you have bargained for a long life, filled with kids and prosperity?”

“Shhh,” he said. Not a soft shush. More of a “Son of a bitch, for all that is holy, cease talking!”

“Trowbridge,” I replied. “I don’t like the way this is going. Let’s say we get out of here. What say we start backing toward the door?”

Trowbridge weaved on his feet, thinking it over.

“Where will you go?” St. Silas inquired of my mate. “Leave this room and you are no longer the accused, you are the hunted. You will be run to ground, I can promise you that. And then? Sadly, I cannot promise that she will feel no pain. Bridge … you are an Alpha. Your days as rogue are over. You are held accountable to us now.”

“I know what I am,” he growled.

St. Silas sighed, then shrugged and said to the other guard, “Louis, shoot Ms. Peacock in the leg.”

Quicker than a ladybug facing a can of bug spray, I scuttled behind Mathieu.

“You promise me!” Trowbridge shouted, his neck red. “Give me your word!” I could smell my lover’s sweat. Feel the faintest tremble in his limbs as he fought to keep himself standing on two feet. He let out a thread of air through his teeth when I snagged his waistband and hauled upward.

“Very well,” said St. Silas. “She will not feel pain.”

Trowbridge sighed. “Good.” Without further warning, he sent Mathieu spinning toward St. Silas. My lover reeled on his feet, equilibrium lost. All that kept him from sinking to the floor was my grip on his jeans.

Weres. They’re so heavy.

And my hands? They’d been abused. But letting him fall to his knees in front of them—whoever they were? No.
This shall not pass.
Even if my arms began to tremble under the strain of managing six feet of muscle and man.

Merry hot against me.

Hold.

My cable of magic saw the problem through my Fae’s eyes and solved it for me. She streamed back to us, and did a lap around his lean waist—a safety belt of fluorescent green—then knotted herself around my wrist.

“That you again?” Trowbridge muttered.

“Yup.”

Merry belayed up her chain, made a short leap to Trowbridge’s shoulder, and sat there. Belly facing forward, her light a color I rarely saw—purple-red in the center, bleeding outward into fiery orange. With an expressive shudder, she untwined two vines. They did a circle over Trowbridge.

“Jesus,” he slurred. “I really hate this sun potion shit.”

*   *   *

Impasses are exactly that. Little time-outs while people talk with their eyes. I could tell that Trowbridge was using his—St. Silas’s gaze rested heavily on him, engaged in a wordless communication with my mate.

Meanwhile, I had things to say to Whitlock.

I’m going to kill you.

Soon.

Chin lowered, Whitlock sent me his own death glare. I glowered back. The burn in my eyes intensified, and I saw the answering flicker of Alpha light in his.

“Merde,”
said St. Silas. “Reeve, extinguish your flare.” There was hidden steel in those soft tones, and perhaps a history there too because Whitlock’s jaw hardened with resentment.

But, after the faintest pause, the leader of the NAW complied. The small flame that lit his blue iris died, and I was left staring at a man who looked human and was not, who smelled of Were and threat, and who I knew, without any doubt in my heart, meant to see this day finished with me and my mate rolled into a neat package of plastic.

I’ll kill you first.

“Louis,” said St. Silas, “reset the chair for the Alpha of Creemore. And find another for his consort.”

“Reeve Whitlock is lying,” I said for the benefit of all who listened. “Neither Trowbridge nor I have had anything to do with the trade of sun potion.”

“Make her go,” said the unseen Russian, his tone bored.

My grip tightened on Trowbridge. “Who
is
that?”

St. Silas squeezed the bridge of his nose, then walked over to the desk. He pivoted the laptop resting on it.

“You video-conference?” I gasped. Son of a bitch. I hadn’t seen that coming. There were four open windows. Inside each, respectively, from left to right: a vain blond stud, an effete tulip of fashion, a thickset brute with a bowl of nuts, and a guy with a face like a hatchet.

“But of course, Miss Peacock,” replied St. Silas, with heavy sarcasm. “The Great Council forever stays abreast of technology.”

“That is not her name.” The Russian chose a pistachio from the bowl balanced on his thighs. “She is the get of Benjamin Stronghold.” His lip jutted as he concentrated on splitting open a shell with his thick nail. “I remember him. Good man. Strong. Could have been a second to the Alpha of Creemore one day.” He inspected the green meat, gave a small grunt, then popped it into his mouth. Small eyes studied me as he chewed. “Then he met the Fae woman. And he became not so strong, not so good.” The Russian studied me for another brooding second, then said heavily, “And she is the result.” He tossed the husks onto the discard pile. “Make her leave.”

“I have a video!” Except, where was the iPad? I must have dropped it preleap. “Also, a spreadsheet…” My gaze darted, sweeping the floor, until I spotted the carrier bag. The edge of the tablet peeked out of the neck of it, still swaddled in wool.

“This is exactly why we don’t let mates attend trials. Too many countercharges. Too much emotion,” said the studly wolf reclining on a king-sized bed (bare chest gleaming, brocade pillows propped behind his head). His speech had a Nordic intonation, very faint. “Slows things down. In the end it always comes down to the Alpha.”

Oh, spare me.

“Who isn’t fit to stand trial,” I pointed out. “Much less defend himself or me. Look, I can clear this up in a second.” Trowbridge started to list to the left. I gave his jeans another surreptitious upward tug. “Just pass me the tablet.”

“This is the Great Council,” said Whitlock. “They deal with Alphas here, not their consorts.”

“Shut up, Whitlock,” muttered Trowbridge.

A flicker—a spit of delft blue—gleamed in St. Silas’s eyes. “A valid point, Reeve.” He studied me for a moment, then turned to my mate. “Bridge, this is not a family court, you comprehend? This is a session of the Supreme Alphas, and serious charges have been laid against you, which you must answer to. Normally, she would be sent from the room. To wait, like any other, to discover the fate of her consort. But as your mate has pointed out, you are drugged and not entirely coherent.” He moved to the tea cart where he righted a cup onto a saucer. “My esteemed colleagues are very busy men.” Thoughtfully, he lifted the teapot. “Are you able to answer our questions?”

Trowbridge’s jaw worked then he said slowly, “Whitlock drugged me.”

“Again,” yawned the guy in the bed. “This could stretch out forever. Can’t we cut through this? What do you say, Gregori?”

The Russian placed the bowl on the table beside his seat. He scrubbed his head. “I have a business to run. If she will not leave the room peacefully, let her stand for her mate.”

“That’s entirely against protocol!” piped up the effete guy.

St. Silas poured a cup. “No, Charles. It is unusual but not completely against ‘protocol.’” The tone he used for the last word spoke volumes about his feelings on that subject. “Bridge, consider what I put in front of you most carefully. If she speaks for you, then you may not. Not a single word, you comprehend? By giving your assent, you waive your right to speech inside these rooms.” He added four sugars to his cup. “One would need to trust his mate very deeply to let her stand for you.”

Trowbridge leaned back his head to stare through half-slit eyes at the Quebec wolf.

Don’t look at him. Look at me.

What was he thinking? Was he even capable of logical thought? Or was he drifting along, encased in the happy bubble sensation that comes with multiple hits of sun potion?

Trust me.

St. Silas took a sip, then asked indifferently, “So, Robson Trowbridge, Alpha of the Ontario wolves, leader of the Creemore pack, what is your wish? Shall it be your mate who answers the charges or you?”

Choose me, Trowbridge. Let me speak for you. I’m a half-blooded Fae. My lies are not broadcast in my scent. Trust me, Trowbridge.

“You up to it, mate?” he asked, his gaze still resting on St. Silas.

I wanted to close my eyes in relief. Asking me if I was up to lying was like asking a washed-out former kid star if he was up to taking a line of coke. Or course I was. Spinning tall tales was one skill I’d taken the time to study and practice. “Yes.”

He leaned back in his chair and let his head rest against the seat’s pillowed back. “Works for me.”

Whitlock started, and sought to cover his sudden agitation by pouring another inch of whiskey into his tumbler.

“Very well,” said St. Silas in a brisk tone. “The formal inquiry is now open. Be it known that Robson Trowbridge has accepted the substitution of his mate. Her words will be his words. Her truths and lies, his. She will stand for him.”

And this time I’ll do it right.

St. Silas smiled. “Miss Peacock, many charges have been laid. In the interest of economy of time, let us move directly to the essential issue, which is—

“Her allegiance,” growled the Russian. “Is she Fae or is she wolf?”

“That is not of immediate concern.” St. Silas put down his cup. Crossed his arms. “The question is, has she or her mate engaged in trade with the Fae?”

“No,” I said flatly.
There, subject done.

“Never?”

“Never,” I replied.

“Of any kind, whatsoever?”

“Nope.” This was going to be easier than I’d thought.

“Test her scent,” said the Spaniard tightly. “See if she lies.”

I couldn’t help it. The corner of my lip lifted ever so lightly.

Whiskey slopped when Whitlock slammed his glass on the table. “She’s half Fae,” he said in disgust. “She doesn’t carry a scent and St. Silas knew it when he asked her to stand for Trowbridge.”

“Not true,” murmured St. Silas.

Whitlock’s knee bobbed, telegraphing his building irritation. “That bit about Trowbridge being too soused to answer—what a crock of shit. St. Silas has effectively taken his ability to scent lies off the table.”

The Frenchman inclined his head. “How could I possibly know she doesn’t have a scent? I’ve never met her before.”

Fumes of frustration rose from Whitlock. “But you’ve met other Faes. You know they’re scentless.”

“Never a half-blooded one.” St. Silas’s tone turned hard. “I based my knowledge on what I knew of halflings. And they carry the scent of their wolf from father to child.” He glanced at the plastic carrier bag. “I, for one, wish to see this video now.”

Trowbridge swayed as Mathieu unwrapped the tablet and passed it to his boss.

St. Silas turned it over in his hands, then pressed the button on the side.

He stared at the screen.

Then he pressed the on button another time. “It doesn’t work,” he said, lifting his gaze from the pad.

Karma fucking hates me.

*   *   *

St. Silas’s pronouncement provoked a babble of voices, speaking over each other. They spoke so fast, and broke over each other so ruthlessly that I couldn’t track who was talking. I could only listen, my gaze riveted to St. Silas’s, my hopes draining as they argued. Team Trowbridge was losing.

“Maybe the battery’s dead,” I said to St. Silas.