Page 95 of Eternal Light

Awful, but nothing they couldn’t handle.

Tentacles of evil, Jay had called them once.

“Well, it’s a bit more than that. Sentinel tracked the account to an IP address in Nashville. I won’t bore you with the ‘hows,’ but they found three holding companies that account for seventy-eight percent of the voting shares. Notably, they’ve been selling stock off at below market value at an accelerated rate over the last five months.”

That would explain the low-cash-flow-motivated shit LRH had been experiencing last fall, too. That the time frame correlated with Nix’s return to them can’t be a coincidence. Finn isn’t the only one connecting the dots.

“Those companies are owned by Patrick Carnell.”

Luca is frozen in shock, his eyes wide with anger—if his burnt coffee scent is anything to go by.

Leo picks the chessboard up and flings it into the old stone wall with an uncharacteristic roar.

“Are you telling me Carnell has been impacting Ripley Records’ decisions at the shareholder level? He’s made profit off LRH’s backs? He’s had his fucking eye on us all this time? For how long?”

“Sentinel techs said the trail goes back at least a decade,” Margot says. She must realize that this news is bad, even if she doesn’t know exactly why.

Finn has never seen Jay so angry, his smoky pine scent a blazing forest fire fueled by the knowledge that Jay’s life’s work had lined the pockets of the man who had tortured their mate. Carnell has been playing the long game for much longer than any of them had expected—maybe since the very beginning.

Out of the corner of his eye, Finn catches Nix making suspiciously intense eye contact with Luca before shaking his head. What are they keeping from them? Surely something that would tip their rage-filled mates over the edge into a rampage.

Keeping something from Gideon and Jay is all Luca needs to hit his maximum, as he bursts into tears, turning his face into Gideon’s neck.

If the alpha’s stone face is anything to go by, it’s going to smell like petrichor tinged with sulfur in there in ten seconds or fewer.

“I need a minute,” Jay growls before heading out the front door at a slow walk.

Nix looks torn between Jay and Luca but follows the former out.

“Should I still read the DM?” Margot asks quietly.

“Sorry. Yes. Please, go ahead,” Grayson says, his hair moving in that non-existent breeze that Finn has quickly come to realize means he’s controlling his anger—and his magic—with extreme effort.

Margot reads the message in a monotone.

“We’d like to extend an invitation to my son, Allistair Carnell, and his pack to attend a night of celebration. The prophesied time of destiny is upon us. Regards, Your father, Patrick Carnell.”

Prophesied time of destiny?What the hell.

“Ew, fucking ew. Celebrating what? Jay’s death?” Luca sniffs, jumping up to start pacing.

Grayson promptly grabs him around the waist and pulls him down onto his lap before he can hurt himself stepping on the wooden chess pieces.

“There’s an official invitation attached. I asked at the mailroom, and there were two physical invitations sent here, too. Sentinel has another one from your house, and there were others sent to Grayson’s office and Human Resources at the hospital. Gideon, Maureen said they have one as well at Quest. They were all received in the last forty-eight hours.”

“He really wants you to attend,” Rowan snarls.

“Thanks for calling. Don’t do anything with them or respond. We’ll handle it from here. Thank the Sentinel crew for us, too,” Leo says carefully.

“Will do. Just…be careful, will you? I’m not cut out for this espionage shit.”

“I feel you. I think maybe you guys should head home and stay there until we get things settled here.”

“Are you sure? It’ll delay all kinds of stuff.”

“Very sure. Say we’re closing in mourning until further notice.”

It’s a damn fine idea; Carnell would certainly not hesitate to apply pressure at Phoenix if he thought it would bring LRH—and therefore Gideon—to heel. The pack has too many soft spots, and for better or worse, it makes them vulnerable to Carnell—and now Withers—applying pressure.