The Black Wolves of Boston (eARC) Page 28

  "I'll keep close to the driveway just in case." The wolf had Cabot's human voice. More proof that no matter the shape, his body wasn't true flesh and blood.

  "Okay," she acknowledged only because she was on automatic. It was one thing to know that werewolves were magical creatures, quite another to witness a man that nearly kissed you reveal that his amazingly sexy body was all illusion.

  You knew. You knew what he was. You saw him change before.

  She started up her Jeep. Under the growl of the engine, she whispered, "Oh, will you just focus!"

  * * *

  Topiary.

  Why did it have to be topiary?

  The bed and breakfast had been built in the late 1850s and styled after a big English manor. It was all pale limestone walls, banks of tall windows, and gray slate roof---even a cupola. The front lawn was massive and abnormally bare of trees and shrubs so that the visitor could be suitably impressed by the house.

  Rambling like a flock of bored sheep, topiary meandered about the lawn, looking for something to kill.

  There was a massive rabbit, a giraffe, and a family of elephants. The constructs must have originally been beloved evergreen sculptures and tourist attraction.

  Elise paused the Jeep to stare at the topiary in dismay. "God, I hate Wickers."

  Cabot appeared beside the car. He seemed to be laughing.

  "What?" she snapped. There was nothing funny about this.

  "The baby elephant! It's so cute!"

  While the largest of the four elephants was bigger than her Jeep, the baby was the size of a Rottweiler. It charged around the other topiary as if on crack, its trunk upraised.

  "It will not be cute when it's kicking our ass. They'll attack the moment we cross the patrol boundary that the Wickers set for them. It's probably a wide circle around the house, starting at the edge of the lawn." Otherwise, the topiary would wander off to attack neighboring herds of cows. The constructs weren't smart enough to differentiate between Grigori and Guernsey.

  "There's a motor court around the side of the house," Cabot said. "It has a big wrought-iron gate. If we close it, they won't be able to get in."

  "We'll have to be fast or baby elephant will get us." Hopefully the current movement of the other animals was indicative of their top speed.

  "Race you!" He slipped away.

  She couldn't see where he went. She had to trust that he was racing toward the motor court.

  Trust. That was a word her family rarely used toward anyone, not even humans. Certainly never toward werewolves.

  She floored the Jeep. When she hit the patrol boundary, the topiary turned and charged.

  The rabbit outraced the baby elephant, coming in leaps and bounds that defied its root-bound origin.

  "Come on," she growled at her Jeep, willing it to go faster.

  The rabbit landed in front of her. It turned. Its face was a blank green mass of leaves.

  "God in Heaven, hallowed be thy name!" She couldn't have stopped in time if she wanted to it. She plowed into it at full speed. She fought to keep her Jeep upright, but it rolled as the left wheels climbed the steep bulk of the rabbit. She felt holy power wrap tight around her as her Jeep tumbled across the lawn, the smell of bruised green and fresh earth filling the cabin. The rest of the herd came rushing toward her, a menacing rustle of leaves.

  She landed passenger side down, airbags deployed. She clawed at her safety belt latch. She needed to get out before...

  Her Jeep righted.

  "Elise!" Cabot peered in the shattered passenger window at her. "Elise?"

  Cabot had picked up her Jeep. He'd picked up a freaking car!

  "Are you okay?" he asked.

  "I'm fine!"

  "They're coming."

  She glanced in the rearview mirror. With the baby elephant in the lead, the other topiaries were nearly on top of them. The engine had stalled when she flipped. She dropped it into first, turned the key, and prayed. The Jeep roared back to life.

  "Go!" She floored the Jeep.

  Cabot dropped to all fours, turning into a wolf again.

  The motor court had massive twelve-foot high decorative wrought-iron gates. Over-the-top impressive, yes, but probably not designed to withstand an onslaught of enraged topiary. She slammed on her brakes, skidding to a stop.

  Cabot clanged the gates shut. "I don't know if they're going to hold; the lock is just for show. Papa Elephant is going to hit it full force."

  "I'm on it." Elise shifted into reverse and quickly backed up so that the Jeep's back bumper pressed against the gates. Seconds later the elephants slammed into the iron bars. The Jeep shuddered and inched forward. "That will hold for now. We need to find the witch and kill her to stop them."

  "They know we're here." Cabot leaned in the window to get his underwear. He didn't bother with the rest of his clothes.

  "Works both ways. We know they're here too. This many constructs need to be mentally controlled within a short range." Elise undid the straps on the overhead gun rack and took down her shotgun. "We need to move before they can make and activate more constructs or call in backup."

  "Shotgun?" He questioned her choice of weapons.

  "Witch's greatest weapon is their mind. It's hard to think after you've been shot. It's easier to hit with wide-spread buckshot."

  * * *

  The door was locked and barricaded---not that it made much difference to Cabot. It was at once informative and intimidating to know how strong he could be. They entered via the back entrance into a huge kitchen.

  The house reeked of fresh spilled blood. The Jensens had told Elise that the owners of the bed and breakfast had been an elderly couple, their son and daughter-in-law, and two young grandchildren. The Wicker must have heard of Garland's death and guessed that Elise would quickly discover their hiding place. She hoped it meant that the constructs had been a last-ditch defense but she knew better than to count on it. The Wickers understood that she was there to kill them. It was her sworn duty to God.

  She stalked through the large kitchen, shotgun ready.

  Cabot stayed at her side. "There are two witches upstairs. There's something else in the house. Something not mammal."

  "Joy." The mind boggled as to what it could be.

  The thudding outside in the motor court was a reminder that they had limited time before various reinforcements arrived.

  "One is making a break!" Cabot charged through a large living room. The furniture was arranged into dozens of artful conversation groupings. He had to dodge around winged chairs and coffee tables.

  Elise swore as she heard the front door open. "Cabot! Wait! Don't follow her!"

  He collided with the baby elephant in the marbled foyer. Its bigger sibling wedged itself into the door trying to come through. Elise grabbed a heavy statue from one of the end tables. She flung it through the nearest window.

  The witch was a young blond woman in a tight white sweater and skinny jeans. Her name was Cecily if the Jensens were right about who was at Hillcrest Manor. Cecily turned at the sound of breaking glass. Her eyes went wide. Cecily pointed at Elise and shouted a command to the topiary. The giraffe swung its head toward the open window.

  Elise shot the witch, hitting her square in the chest with the double-ought-gauge buckshot. Cecily went down screaming, blood instantly staining the white of her sweater. The giraffe froze, head inches from the window. Elise pumped the shotgun. She shot Cecily again as the witch tried to stagger to her feet. Once Elise was sure that Cecily didn't have the wherewithal to command the topiary, Elise drew her pistol. She took a careful aim with her Desert Eagle and made sure the witch was dead.

  Clean death? Debatable. To the witch it wasn't any messier than being torn apart by a werewolf. Did she have any right to be squeamish over how Cabot killed?

  "You were right; the topiary wasn't nearly as cute while it was kicking my ass." Cabot crawled out from under the mid-sized elephant that had managed to shove its way through the doorway. The baby e
lephant was frozen in place by the grand staircase. Mama blocked the front door.

  Elise holstered her Desert Eagle. Picking up her shotgun, she pumped another round into the chamber. "All of the topiary seem to have been controlled by the dead witch. I think she was Cecily. The Jensens said she was a young woman. I think the Wicker upstairs is Rose."

  Cabot sniffed. "You loaded with silver?"

  "No. I locked it all up tight after Seth showed up."

  "Damn, then Rose must have silver ammo." He pointed upstairs.

  "I'll take point then."

  "What?"

  Elise drew her daggers. "I don't want to explain again to your people that I just happened to be covered in your blood."

  "I heal," he stated firmly, but didn't charge up the stairs as if that settled the argument. Perhaps the elephants had taught him to listen to her.

  "I can be bulletproof." She knelt down, daggers held point down.

  "Really?"

  "It takes a great deal of concentration. It's kind of like meditative prayer." Her cousins were better at it than she was. They teased her that she was from the angry side of the family. Apparently her mother was notorious for not being able to maintain the meditative state needed for the spell. If she didn't stay focused, the protective power vanished.

  She lightly touched her dagger points to the marbled floor of the entryway. Leaves from the topiary covered the polished stone. She took a deep breath and struggled not to hear the loud rustling noise coming from upstairs or notice the muscles in Cabot's legs. Calm piety was what she needed to focus on. Another deep breath. "Blessed be the Lord, my rock, who trains my hands for war, and my fingers for battle; he is my steadfast love and my fortress, my stronghold and my deliverer, my shield and he in whom I take refuge."

  Cabot stepped back as the power of the Lord settled over her. "Wow." He tilted his head. "Are those wings? It's kind of hard to tell. They're all ghosty."

  She steeled herself against snapping "please shut up" since that would break the spell even as she formed it. "Amen."

  She was halfway up the stairs, when the witch tried her first attack.

  "Kill the werewolf," Rose commanded.

  Elise's shield flared as the witch's power washed over her. "Never."

  Rose gave a brittle laugh. "Do I detect feelings for the forbidden fruit? One has to admire your taste. Cabots are a wonderful mix of angelic and wolf."

  Elise paused, surprised. She nearly turned toward Cabot but then caught herself. Focus! "Blessed be the Lord."

  A bullet whined off her shield.

  "My rock, who trains my hands for war, and fingers for battle." Elise started up the stairs again.

  "Anton Cabot didn't have the full angelic glamour but he had enough to take your breath away." Rose's second and third shot ricocheted off Elise's shield.

  "He is my steadfast love and my fortress," Elise growled.

  Rose stood in the hallway. She seemed like a silver-haired grandmother except for the Glock in her hand and the massive rosebush lion at her side. The construct came rushing at Elise when she reached the top of the stairs.

  "My stronghold and my deliverer." Elise sliced through the lion's left leg with both daggers. She sidestepped, letting momentum tumble the lion down the stairs to where Cabot waited. He could only slow the construct down but she only needed a moment.

  "All that angelic sweetness wrapped in fur," Rose shot at Elise. "The sex must be amazing."

  "My shield and He in whom I take refuge." Elise flung her right dagger.

  It buried itself in the heart of the witch. The snarling and loud rustling downstairs went silent.

  "Amen." Elise walked to the witch's body. She yanked out her dagger and cleaned it on carpet.

  Only when she had all her weapons tucked away, did she turn to Cabot. He was still human and covered with dozens of deep scratches that were quickly healing.

  "Why didn't you tell me you're half angelic?" she said.

  "Quarter angelic," Cabot corrected her. "You didn't know?"

  "No!" she shouted.

  "My grandfather---who I've never met---was angelic. It's why my father was a Thane."

  "Your grandmother was Russian. Where did the name Cabot come from?"

  "Lloyd Cabot was the Thane that the king married my grandmother to while she was pregnant with my father. Lloyd was killed in the king's service while my father was young. My grandmother works as the king's accountant for his Russian packs. She lives in Carnegie Hill on the Upper East Side."

  "Why didn't you tell me?"

  "We were kind of busy doing other things?" He echoed back her earlier excuse as to why she hadn't told him about Joshua. "My father was given the choice to be wolf or angelic at thirteen. He chose wolf. I chose wolf. Who slept with my grandmother has never mattered beyond that point."

  "What was the name of the Grigori?"

  "His name was Grigori."

  "His first name!"

  "Gavril. Why?"

  "Because I wanted to know if we were related."

  "I thought all Grigori were related."

  "At first we weren't. Two hundred angels wed the daughters of man, and they all took more than one wife, as was the practice in those times. Our people all have one last name to reflect the fact we're descended from those the angels set to keep watch over mankind."

  "That was an interesting way to 'keep watch.' Doesn't that make family trees confusing?"

  "God, yes!" She didn't recognize the name so it meant that they weren't related for at least four generations.

  "I'm sorry, I thought you knew. You knew my name when we first met. I just thought you knew all about me."

  She'd thought she had. Was it because Gavril Grigori never knew he'd fathered a son? If Gavril didn't know, how did the Wickers find out?

  "We should probably go," Cabot said. "If they called the police, they'll be here soon."

  "We need information." Elise stalked into the nearest bedroom. "There is still at least one Wicker in the wind. Dahlia. Maybe two, if Dahlia isn't Garland's mother. The Wickers had something major planned, otherwise they would have fled the night you killed Reed Wakefield."

  Luckily the bed and breakfast was devoid of the normal clutter of rightful owners. The Wickers had set up residence in hotel-sparse rooms. The two women had been packing when they'd been killed. Witches were clotheshorses; they had a massive amount of luggage. Elise emptied the suitcases onto the beds and sorted through the contents.

  Cabot roamed through the room, opening up drawers and looking under the bed. "I'd always hoped we'd find Ilya alive but everyone always said that the Wickers took him to sacrifice him."

  "They needed him as a werewolf, not a youngling."

  Finding nothing of interest, Cabot moved to the next bedroom. "They couldn't have made him a wolf as an infant," he called from the room across the hallway. "Children go feral even when they're changed by alphas. That's why we wait until younglings are thirteen before making them into wolves. The magic overwhelms them if they're younger than ten or eleven. Alexander decided that we'd wait until thirteen just to be sure."

  "If he'd been raised among wolves, then he'd recognize the Wickers as evil. He would have fled to Albany or the king, not to Boston where there's no werewolves."

  There was a crack of breaking wood. "Oh, this has 'I'm important' written all over it!" Cabot called.

  She hurried to see what he'd found. It was a large metal suitcase that had been padlocked into a closet. Cabot had simply torn the entire door frame out of the wall.

  She tried opening it. "Locked."

  "No problem." He tore the lid off.

  There were ancient books and bound sheaves of paper.

  Elise picked up one of the books. The lettering inside was all done by hand with careful spell runes illustrated. "It's their grimoire."

  "What the hell?" Cabot flipped through the bound papers. "These are photocopies of wolf bloodlines. How the hell did Wickers get these?"

  That e
xplained how Rose knew that Cabot was angelic. "Who would have the originals?"

  "Alexander." He continued to flip. "His are at the Castle. He's got one room just filled with all the records going back a thousand years or more. I think these are copies of the pack's ledgers. The king requires each alpha to record all births so he can keep track of family bloodlines. These are only the princedoms. Boston. London. Moscow. Las Vegas. Los Angeles. And only for the last three hundred years or so."

  "Three hundred?" She flipped to the inside cover of the grimoire. "Oh shit."

  "What?"

  "This is the Monkhoods grimoire."

  "Monkhoods. I know that name, don't I?"

  "The Monkhoods nearly wiped New York City off the face of the map in 1702."

  "Those Monkhoods! I thought they were all dead."

  "Wickers are harder to pin down than ghosts."

  Cabot turned sharply to listen to something she couldn't hear. "We really need to go. Now."

  26: Seth

  The city of Albany was a little exclamation point of skyscrapers in the middle of pastures. They rounded a bend on the NY Thruway after driving an hour in cow country and there it was, in its entirety. Seth hadn't realized that the state's capital was so small compared to New York City. It looked like it could fit in one block of Manhattan.

  They stopped first at the pack's funeral home and met with the county coroner who was also the local wise woman. She signed off on death certificates for both the old marquis and Samuels, citing natural causes. It made Seth wonder about the Boston network that bypassed the official system. Who had signed off on his little brothers' mangled bodies?

  Seth ordered the grandsons hostile to him to stay at the funeral home and oversee the cremations. He wanted a clear slate when they hit the family home.

  Hundreds of years ago, the Court of Albany might have been well outside of the city but urban sprawl had grown up around it. "Wolf Road" was packed solid with strip malls, chain restaurants, and red lights. Set back from the road, protected by a high brick wall, and screened by evergreens, the pack's homes were invisible to the casual eye.

  The Court was a collection of brick Queen Anne Victorians gathered around a cul-de-sac. They were big beautiful houses with all sorts of towers and attic gables and gingerbread trim.