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CHAPTER TWELVE

There was a cacophony of slamming doors when Allen and the Hawthornes returned to Hawthorne Hall. Allen’s headache had returned, not from all the scents down at the pub, but from the cacophony he’d endured of all three Hawthornes bickering at each other in the Roots’ delivery van.

Boar had attacked Lilac for embarrassing him (to which had set Allen’s wolf bristling and snarling), and Lilac had seethed in her icy calm that Boar should’ve been stricter with Prue Stonewell, first for the disrespect she had shown their family and second for the personal attack on Lilac, something she never would’ve done if Grandmother was around. Rose had been in the back, trying to keep the parcels from bouncing around too much while simultaneously taking either sibling’s side when the other got out of line.

Not soon enough, they were all back at the Hall, Allen’s opal ring deactivating the shield barrier, and the slamming of doors had started. Boar had irritably told him just to pile the packages in the first floor library before doing whatever else he wished for the rest of the night.

He had groceries to unpack, but the cellar was cool and the food would keep in their coolers, crates, and boxes for another hour yet with any damage.

Allen Chase needed to let the wolf out. He needed to run .

Which would’ve been a tough idea to sell if the witches caught him going out in this weather with just his street clothes on had it not been for the magic of the opal ring. Or maybe Hawthorne Hall itself.

To his great surprise, after Boar had announced what room was to be his, Allen found all of his belongings—firstly, at the Hall without them being delivered by the Roots; secondly, all unpacked; and thirdly, a variety of formal wear that had been tailored . He wasn’t about to look a gift horse—or gift Hall—in the mouth, so he changed into his athletic wear, stuffed a black plastic trash bag into his pocket, and headed down for the cellar and the rear exit.

Run. Do a perimeter sweep. Test the boundaries of the Valley. Figure out my next move.

Those were his priorities now.

Mercifully no one was in the cellar, so there was no one to question him when he slipped outside. He moved quickly across the snow-covered walk, making a mental note to shovel it in the morning. The goats were all asleep in their barn, nestled in the straw, and they didn’t even bleat when he approached. Prey animals always had difficulty sensing Nemean wolves, anyway, and he was glad for the special ability his bloodline granted him. It was one of many—the impenetrable hide being the most prominent—but the spirits never blessed with abandon without also adding a fly to the ointment. For a Nemean wolf, that fly was more of a swarm. It was the most likely reason why the Coalition had rejected his application so many times.

Nemean wolves were destined to be rolling stones. Never settling down. Never forming a pack. Even their own parents only came together for the procreation of their species and their mothers hurled them from the den come age eighteen.

Forever.

Allen was still optimistic—his one toxic trait—but not if he could never leave this valley.

He waited until he was deeper into the woods before pulling the black plastic trash bag from his pocket and shedding his shoes, clothes, and the opal ring. It all went into the bag, cinched tight, and hung on a branch. Then his bare skin rippled, and between one heartbeat and the next, he became a golden-white wolf.

The winter wind no longer stung, the cold no longer numbed, and his human legs no longer slogged through the snow. He was power and strength and wildness, at one with nature instead of against it.

With a shove of his haunches, the wolf bounded deeper into the forest. It was exhilarating to feel the wind on his furry face, the cold air in his lungs, the feel of the ground flying under his paws. Yet he took no joy. This wasn’t a run to stretch his legs. This was a run to confirm his freedom. He bolted for the grasslands beyond the forest and the boundary line of Annesley Valley.

Hitting it shocked him like an electric fence.

The wolf ricocheted off the force field, steam rising from his fur. The opal ring, which he had most certainly left in the trash bag, was banded around his left outermost toenail. It flashed a warning.

No . No!

The wolf threw himself against the barrier again and again until he smelled singed fur. Then he ran another twenty yards south and tried again. The opal ring flared every time, and every time, the wolf was repelled.

Panting, Allen resumed his human skin. He tore that infernal ring off his finger, hurled it behind him, and bolted for the boundary line.

The force field sent him flying into the woods.

Branches snapped under him, hardly breaking his fall, then snow sloughed onto his head. At least it cooled the burning sensation on his skin. Swearing, he wrestled free of the snow and looked down at his chest. It looked like he’d just spent the day at the beach in July without an ounce of sunscreen.

“Gah!” he cried out as steam lifted from his red flesh. On his pinky finger, the opal ring winked at him. It would return no matter how many times he took it off. “Gah to you, too!”

There was only one thing left to do. He had to talk to Zofia.

Only after you sweep the perimeter , his training reminded him. You have a job to do. And panic isn’t anywhere in that dossier.

With just a thought, he shifted back into the wolf. His massive paws churned through the snow, weaved him between trees, and took him in a wide arc around Hawthorne Hall. His rapid heartbeat had slowed as he focused on something he could do .

Seated on its little hill overlooking the village, Hawthorne Hall was surrounded mostly by open grassland. Treacherous territory for a massive golden-white wolf to be found, even if the snow was up to his wolfy elbows. Someone would notice the massive trench he’d leave behind in his wake, or at least the paw prints. A good pair of binoculars would be all he’d need to monitor this area from the Hall itself. To the northeast of the Hall, however, was the forest that would need the most exploring.

There was the little pond that separated its closest point from the building, and the barn, of course. The forest was too vast for him to chart in this one sitting, but he mapped out the section closest to the Hall. The only defining characteristics were a large cluster of boulders that must’ve rolled down from the mountains centuries ago and a little clearing that seemed oddly symmetrical, like it had been manmade.

Tired, more from the emotional strain than anything else, and starving again, Allen returned to his bag of suspended clothes. It took only a few minutes to dress and a handful more to traipse back to the barn. On the way, he checked his cell phone and discovered a voicemail from James Root.

“Allen, son, I won’t beat around the bush. Zofia had a complication at the hospital this evening. Her pain medication was incorrectly delivered—”

“They gave her the wrong stuff, the morons!” came Kalina’s irate interruption.

“Hush, ’Lina. Let me get this out. Allen? Well, Zofia’s in a coma now. Doc says it could’ve been worse. ’Lina’s packing a few things to go stay with her—”

“And guard her against more incompetency!”

“—for the next couple of days. ’Lina, no, don’t bring the cat. Ugh. Allen? I know the ol’ gal would be relieved to know you’re taking good care of the Hawthornes. Keep doing what you’re doing, and keep the truck for as long as you need. We’ll be in touch, okay?”

It took all his willpower not to crush the cell phone into plastic confetti. First, because he now strongly suspected that Zofia’s accident was no accident at all, that she had been a target not once, but twice. No doubt the assassin had truly believed her to be a tiny Slavic human woman instead of a house elf. Her Fair Folk blood must’ve saved her from whatever “medication” had been delivered.

And secondly, if she was in a coma, she couldn’t explain exactly what she had done to him nor take the ring back.

His wolf began to whine.

Calm down. We’ll call Sionnach . He looked down at his watch. Crap. But not for another week .

The fox shifter had been very clear about that. No contact with the Coalition unless it was at the appointed date and time, no matter what. They were taking every precaution that the Hawthornes didn’t discover their involvement, even if that meant hanging Allen out to dry.

Scowling, he checked on the goats, just to be sure, then hurried down the walk to the cellar doors.

Wan yellow light spilled from the door’s windows, seemingly turning the swath of snow before him into a pool of melted butter.

He froze.

There were no tracks out here—even his own from earlier were gone, whisked away from the storm. Whoever was in the cellar was either a Hawthorne looking for a late-night snack, or an intruder.

The latter seemed unlikely, but after what Prue had accused him of earlier this evening and the attempts of Zofia’s life, it was entirely probable.

On silent feet, Allen padded to nearest door and peered inside.

Lilac!

She was snooping around the stack of groceries just inside the door, casting worried glances towards the dark stairwell as if expecting to be discovered at any moment.

She hadn’t heard his approach, so he stayed in the shadow of the awning and watched her for a moment. Spirits above, she was beautiful. Long brown hair he had to keep reminding himself not to touch, intelligent eyes, long legs that revealed sculpted calves when she stood on tiptoe. How she was down here in the cold cellar in just a long cotton nightgown and satin slippers was beyond him, and he felt a sudden urge to shrug out of his jacket and bundled it around her shoulders.

But from the hunted look on her face, it didn’t seem like she planned to be down here long. She craned over the stack of boxes and crates, rummaging around for whatever he knew she’d hidden there. No doubt she was trying to secret it away somewhere else so Boar or Rose wouldn’t find it.

Normally Allen would’ve looked the other way, but her protection was his priority. If whatever she was hiding created more animosity between her and Boar and compromised any one of them, then he would’ve failed his mission.

Definitely not an option.

Allen shoved open the door and stamped his boots on the mat. “Can I help you find something?”

Lilac shrieked, whirling around. Color stained her cheeks like freshly squeezed pomegranate juice, and she clasped her hands behind her back. “No! And were you just outside ?”

“Went for a run. So, are you hungry? I’m about to fix myself a snack and I need to unload all of this anyway.”

“I-I’m not hungry,” she blurted. “I’m just, just—”

“Just looking for this?” He reached down and hefted the crate he didn’t recognize out into the open. Bottles rattled under the gingham cloth.

“Please, be careful with that,” she cried. “You have no idea—”

“Lilac.” His firm tone made her swallow back her reproach. “I’m not here to rat you out or anything, but you need to promise me whatever’s in here isn’t going to jeopardize your safety. Or Boar’s or Rose’s. I’m the caretaker here now, and I plan on taking care of more than just the Hall.”

She seemed torn between blasting him with more of her scorn and making nice.

“Promise me,” he prompted.

“I promise!” She held out her hands. “Now please, give—”

“What is that?” Boar’s voice lashed from the stairwell.

Allen felt his blood run cold and the hackles rise on the back of his neck. He swallowed, calmed, and turned towards the descending witch. “I don’t know,” he replied truthfully. “But I figured with Lilac not finishing her supper at the pub that she was hungry, and I am your cook now, I suppose, so—”

“That’s not food in there. It shouldn’t even be in this Hall.”

“Boar, please,” Lilac pleaded.

Allen stood stock still as the burly witch moved around the big wooden trestle table and closed the distance between them. Spearing Lilac with a brown glare, he snatched the gingham off the crate. Dozens of dark glass bottles glittered like jewels, beautiful script on paper labels revealing Alopecia Soap and Fever Syrup and Follicular Elixir and dozens others.

“Allen,” Boar said in a controlled voice. “Throw this outside. Right now.”

“Brother, please !”

“Boar,” Allen protested. “These are just—”

Boar’s brown eyes flashed green. “I command it.”

Allen shuddered as the Hall trembled and a powerful conviction seized control of him. Perhaps on a human, the compulsion would’ve been complete, but on a shifter . . .. He had enough resistance to glare at the witch and stand his ground. His whole body trembled with the effort, though, and a sweat broke out across his forehead despite the cold.

Lilac was close to tears. “Allen, please don’t.”

Her anguished face cut through the heart of him. What was in this crate meant so much more to her than he’d previously thought. “Boar,” he strained. “This isn’t . . . right.”

“ Do it . And make sure it shatters.”

His wolf howled in distress.

Allen gritted his teeth as Boar’s command wrenched his body around against his will and marched him out of the Hall. He had enough willpower remaining to rip the lid from the crate before hurling everything into the snow. The moment he completed the order, the power controlling him vanished, and he sucked in a deep breath. Then he launched himself back into the cellar. He had to talk to Lilac, to convince her—

Sobbing, Lilac was already disappearing up the stairs and Boar was watching her go, fists clenched and a pained expression on his face. He heard Allen’s footsteps and turned. “Allen, I’m sor—”

Boar’s head snapped back as Allen’s fist cracked him on the chin in a textbook upper cut. The witch dropped like a felled tree, and Allen stood over him, chest heaving.

“Don’t ever do that again,” he snarled. “I’ll obey you, Boar, to the extent my conscience allows. You can do your own dirty work from now on, you hear me?”

Boar flipped onto his feet, magic channeling to his hands, but Allen only stepped back. As much as he wanted to run after Lilac, appeasing her brother had to be his priority, especially with that magic directed at him. He retreated to one of the coolers and practically tore the lid off it to get at the frozen porterhouse inside. He offered it to Boar.

“For your face. You hold that there while I get the skillet hot, yeah? Then we’re gonna share that steak and go forth from tonight knowing each other a little better, aren’t we?”

Boar looked like he just might refuse this peace offering, then his magic winked out. He didn’t waste the power it would take to heal himself, choosing Allen’s olive branch instead. The witch took the frozen steak and pressed it against his jaw. “You cook this medium-rare and not a degree over and I’ll forget all about it.”

“Agreed.”