Dante brought over a fresh pair of jeans, shirt, and a beautiful oxblood leather jacket. The knee-high boots were black, but I wasn’t complaining. They were still a work of art. Gideon had kindly pulled on his boxers before I entered the living room. He padded over to me and wrapped his arms around my waist while nuzzling his face against my neck. The night alone had been hard on him. I trailed my fingers up and down his spine and kissed behind his ear. It was becoming more natural and less awkward to show the hound affection.

  We had to go and speak to the Council and register Gideon, but Dante took us all for breakfast at Cafe Slavia first. We feasted on sausage, bacon, eggs, French toast, and fantastic black coffee. Still, the mood was stormy. None of us wanted to be anywhere near the Council, not with everything that had happened. I’d made sure my tattoos were both covered. We had decided not to tell anyone about the Morrigan’s role in everything.

  Our belongings had been packed up into backpacks, and I’d dropped a letter into my landlord’s office along with a month’s rent, courtesy of Dante. Still, a feeling of sadness swelled when I looked out the window and gazed over the river at the castle. As much as I’d been dying to leave Prague, I wasn’t entirely ready to go just yet. Every place has a unique energy, and there was something Prague that kept pulling me back. Maybe it was something to do with the hellmouth that had opened during the Prague incident, given that I was bound to two infernal beings.

  Gideon slowed his pace as we approached the Council building. Worry and concern came down the bond. I slowed and entwined my fingers with his.

  “We won’t let anything happen to you,” I said gently.

  Kane put his arm around the hound’s shoulders from the other side.

  “We’re pack,” Kane said, grinning.

  The hound relaxed and smiled. Dante gave him a reassuring squeeze of the shoulder before he opened the door to the Council building. He changed as he stepped inside. Gone was the relaxed man I was bound to, to be replaced with a cool businessman. His shoulders went back, his smile dropped away for a cool expression, and his steps became far more efficient. I tried to follow suit. We hadn’t done anything wrong. We were here to tell them about the clusterfuck in Dubrovnik and to pick up our fees.

  An older wolf shifter greeted us in the foyer area and turned and walked off down the hallway. Gideon’s grip on my hand tightened, and I caressed his thumb with my own. We weren’t going to let anything happen to him.

  We were led to the room at the very end, where three people awaited us. I spotted the small pile of paperwork on a desk to my right and held back the sigh. They were far too fond of their damn paperwork, and it all had to be done by hand in triplicate. Dante handed back the expense card and a sheet that detailed everything that had been spent on the card. The shifter didn’t so much as glance at it. He handed it to a younger puka, who hadn’t bothered to hide the black cat ears and tail.

  “Tell us everything that happened in Dubrovnik,” the hellhound said.

  I hadn’t noticed him at first. He was sitting casually in the corner with one ankle propped up on his other knee. His eyes were a deep ocean blue. There was a great story hiding behind those eyes. He caught me looking at him and his lips flickered with a smile. I didn’t miss the wedding band on his finger as he tilted his hand slightly so it caught the light.

  “We had thought that the cult was the most likely culprit behind the missing supernals,” Dante began.

  I tried very hard to stay still while Dante told the condensed version of the events. He left out the dick-swinging between him and Kane and instead acted as though Kane was a useful contact that had been there by design. When he reached the interrogation of the Shadow Moon Coven, the hellhound held up his hand and nodded to me.

  “I’d like to hear how the bond came to be from those who were bound,” he said.

  “The Shadow Moon Coven brought me to this plane and bound me to their leader, Carmen, a month before Wren et al. arrived at the coven the first time. When they left the premises, a plan was hatched to move my bond over to Wren, as they realised that she was a strong enough witch to make such a thing possible. They knew that Mr. Caspari wasn’t going to give up on the idea of them being tied to the disappearances and instructed the witch archivist not to give them any information, in order to further raise their suspicions and push them into returning,” Gideon said.

  I took over.

  “I was lured into the lower levels of the coven house under the pretence of seeing the witch family tree. Carmen grabbed my wrist and drew blood. When I looked down, the tattoo was present, and I could feel Gideon in the back of my mind. I couldn’t abandon him, and so we brought him back to the apartment,” I said.

  The hound nodded, and Dante continued.

  He explained how we came to realise it was the cult and how we broke through the barrier only to be ambushed. He skimmed over the part where he went demon and was almost killed by the Olapireta. Kane gave his side of the story how he had been caged and they had planned on draining him of his blood to make more ‘guardians,’ the fae-vampire creatures, and use the rest to keep Addison alive.

  Then it was back to me to tell them about how I rescued Kane and we went and got Dante. I left out the part about defeating Addison with blood magic, instead saying that between the four of us we managed to break through his blood magic and kill him. The hellhound’s mouth tightened a little, but he didn’t say anything. The shifter and the puka seemed satisfied.

  “Ms. Kincaid, you understand that the hound is entirely your responsibility and you will be held accountable for any laws he breaks?”

  “I do,” I said.

  “And you understand that your bond is for life unless you gain permission from the Council to transfer the bond?”

  “I do, but I need to know, will the Shadow Moon Coven suffer consequences?” I asked.

  The shifter glared at me. His hands started to curl into fists, but he relaxed them again.

  “They have a good reputation and form a very strong bloodline. They are a pillar within the supernal community,” the shifter said.

  “What he means to say is they have a lot of money and have paid off a number of key players,” the puka said drily.

  “Yes. They will suffer consequences for bringing through a young hellhound illegally and bonding him to an unsuspecting and unwilling witch,” the hound said.

  “Now, you will need to fill in this paperwork to receive your payment, this paperwork to register the hound, and this paperwork to register yourself as a witch,” the puka said.

  “Why have you not registered to date?” the shifter growled.

  “Because she is from hunter’s lines and did not know she was a witch. Her parents left when she was 16, she has not been ascended, and thus her magic is untapped,” Dante said sharply.

  The shifter looked between us and let it drop.

  “Fill in the paper. Councilman Hawke wishes to discuss the future of your hound with you,” the shifter growled before he curled a lip at the hound.

  I swallowed hard. I knew the name Hawke. The Hawke twins had been the hunters involved in the Prague incident, and that meant the hound before me was the first hound brought through to this plane.

  56

  Dante and Kane had subtly moved closer to Gideon and me. The shifter and the puka had left us alone with the hellhound. He stood once the door was closed. He had a big presence about him, an authority that shone through and affected his bearing. Gideon lowered his eyes.

  “Marrok,” he said quietly.

  “Relax, cub, we are not in that setting,” the hound said.

  I looked between them. I’d thought his name was Hawke, was Marrok his first name?

  “Marrok is my rank,” the hound explained as he walked over to us. “Tell me, Ms. Kincaid, do you know what your hound needs?”

  “No, but I’m sure he’ll tell me,” I said.

  The Marrok smiled.

  “He is young and was heavily abused in the infernal realms. He will need a lot of time, patience, and love from you. Are you capable of giving him that?”

  “If that is what he needs, then yes,” I said as I lifted my chin.

  I wasn’t going to be intimidated. I may not have chosen Gideon, but I was going to give him the best life I could. I saw Dante’s pride out the corner of my eye, and that only encouraged me. Marrok, Councilman, it didn’t matter. Gideon was my hound, and it was as simple as that.

  “He is a war dog, Wren. He will never be a good little puppy that lies at your feet and fetches the newspaper,” the hound pushed.

  “He’s a person with needs and desires, and I will treat him as such. Are we done here?” I snapped.

  The hound grinned at me.

  “I see why you like her, Dante,” he said.

  Dante’s smile lit up his eyes and washed away the irritation that had been building.

  “I do have impeccable taste,” Dante said.

  The hound laughed. “Did you hear that Alasdair has his soulbond now?”

  “No, what’re they like?” Dante said.

  “He’s a quiet little made wolf. He brings out the best in Alasdair. They make a pretty couple,” the hound said.

  Given they seemed to have devolved into gossip, I picked up the paperwork and set about filling all of that in. Kane and Gideon helped me as much as they could. By the time I was finished, Dante and the hound seemed to be relaxed and laughing about something. The hound hugged Dante before he turned back to me.

  “Dante has my number, if you need anything,” he said.

  Once we had the room to ourselves, I turned and cupped Gideon’s cheek.

  “Are you ok?” I asked.

  He gave me a weak smile.

  “His presence just brought up bad memories,” he said quietly.

  I gently pulled him to me and stroked the nape of his neck.

  “I’ll listen when you’re ready,” I said softly.

  He grazed his teeth over my neck. “Thank you, Wren.”

  “Let’s go and get paid, then we can head to the airport,” Dante said as he put his hand on my lower back.

  Kane put his arm around Gideon’s shoulders and offered him support as we walked back out into the hallway. I kept the paperwork with me, as we’d no doubt need that, and I wasn’t going to fill it all in again.

  We stayed in a family room in Edinburgh for the first night back in Scotland. The flight had been delayed, and it was still a long drive up to Inverness. None of us had it in us. We ate room service and watched movies all squashed onto the main double bed. When the time came to go to sleep, Kane and Dante each kissed me on the cheek before they retired to one of the single beds. They had decided that Gideon needed the contact more and thus had been given the double bed with me.

  Happiness radiated down the bond when I pulled him close to me and held him in my arms as I fell asleep.

  57

  Dante had described our new home near Inverness as being ‘a little getaway place.’ It was a castle. A legitimate, honest to the gods, castle. Tall, grey stone walls stretched up towards the sky at the end of a long white gravel drive with manicured lawns on either side. Thin flower beds circled around a fountain that sat in the middle of the circle in front of the goddamn castle.

  It had turrets! There were four stories, each dotted with large windows so it would be bright and airy inside. The porch area that sprawled out in front of the door was almost as big as my apartment had been in Prague. I peered up at the roof, and it looked as though there was space up there to sit and watch the sunset, which was something I had dreamed of. I’d been dying to lie somewhere high and peaceful and stargaze since I’d left Inverness. There was no light pollution in the area; it would be perfect for it.

  As I climbed out of the car, my jaw was on the ground.

  “This is home?” I asked.

  “This is home,” Dante said.

  “It’s a castle.”

  “It’s your castle,” Dante corrected.

  The series continues with Shattered Wards.

  To join Holly Evans’ mailing list and be alerted when she releases new books, click here.

  Caged Wolf

  SM Reine

  1

  Folks didn’t come to Lobo Norte because they wanted to. Our town was a pit stop in a nowhere-place in the desert, neither Mexican nor American, marked on no map and unreachable by normal means. Any normal person unlucky enough to stumble upon us was likely to never leave again. For those who came deliberately, we were the last chance to get gas before crossing the border into the United States. Or the first place to get whores and drugs before crossing into Mexico.

  When the Fang Brothers blasted into my town, I could tell that they weren’t there for gas. That only left one other option.

  The door to my bar swung open, and there they were: three men, each of them tall and broad, each of them encased in leather and denim.

  The first one was grizzled and gray. His vest had “Big Papa” etched into the breast with white thread. Big Papa didn’t have a right eye and he didn’t try to hide the scarred, empty socket.

  The one on the left, with a goatee and wicked eyes the color of the playa, had a vest that said “Mad Dog.” Both radiated intimidation. It would have been enough to make any other twenty-two-year-old girl drop everything and run.

  But I wasn’t any other twenty-two-year-old girl, and the third guy—the one on the right, hanging back from the others—had my cowboy boots glued to the floor.

  He was a full inch taller than Big Papa. His square jaw was shadowed with faint stubble, same length as the dusky brush of hair on his head. He’d shaved maybe a week earlier, and judging by the glistening sweat on his collarbones, that was how long it had been since he had showered, too. His skin was dusty and sunburned. A man who had been on the road for months—maybe his whole life.

  The stubble made me wonder what the hair on the rest of his body would look like, if there was any at all. My gaze made its way up his fitted jeans and tasseled chaps to the shirt that hugged every line of his abs.

  It took me a moment to meet his eyes, and once I did, I realized with a jolt of shock that he was watching me just as hard as I was watching him.

  This guy’s vest only said “Trouble.”

  I believed him.

  The way my body instantly reacted to his stare—that was definitely trouble. Sprawled on the pool table with my ankles hooked over his shoulders kind of trouble. My stomach clenched low and hard, making heat pool between my thighs.

  I reached under the shelf, grabbed the shotgun, and set it on the bar where all three of them would be able to see.

  “What can I get you boys to drink?” I asked in English. Pleasant, nonthreatening. I let my shotgun, Little Bo Peep, do all the real talking.

  Big Papa hefted his girth onto the stool in front of me. He was in good shape for a guy his age. Burly. Looked like he knew hard work in fields or factories, judging by the breadth of his arms and the scars on his palms. “Tequila,” he said. I grabbed three shot glasses, and he said, “Two’s enough.” He spoke Spanish like a Mexican. Not like I’d have mistaken them for tourists in the first place.

  Two shots of tequila. It wasn’t a strange request, even at three in the afternoon.

  I pushed the shots across the bar and shifted gears into Spanish-speaking mode. It didn’t come as easily to me as English, but I was more or less fluent after my months in Lobo Norte. “Cash or tab?” I asked, trying like hell not to look over at Trouble. What I was really trying to ask was, How long will you be here?

  Cash meant they would be gone soon. They’d get some blow from Johnny, top off the gas tanks, fuck a girl or three at the Coyote Ranch, be gone by dawn.

  Big Papa said, “We’ll open a tab.”

  He tossed back one shot of tequila. Mad Dog downed the other. Trouble hung back, thumbs hooked in his pockets, the muscle in his jaw working as if he wanted to say something but didn’t dare. It wasn’t restraint holding him back. I could see in the bulge of the veins on his tattooed forearms that he was fighting hard against himself on the inside, way down in the dark places where nobody could see. His bones and flesh were only a cage for his fury.

  “More,” said Big Papa.

  I refilled the shot glasses.

  Mad Dog took his shot and ambled around the bar, looking around at my pride and joy—the place that had sheltered and employed me since I was twenty years old, back when I was still healing the wounds that now left my shoulders and neck a twisted mess of white scar tissue.

  The bar wasn’t much. Our pool table was upholstered with patchy red velvet. Its broken leg was propped up by a piece of slate. The TV had been bootlegging football games since the seventies. The scattered tables were clean, but mismatched.

  Our usual clientele didn’t care about fancy things. They only cared about the stripper’s pole affixed to the bar, the shelves of alcohol I had behind me, and the main feature of the back room.

  The biker leaned against the door and lifted a black eyebrow. “When’s the next fight?”

  He was looking at the cage hidden behind the curtain: twelve feet by twelve feet of wicked iron enclosing a concrete platform with an old bell on one side. It was stained from years of monthly bloodshed.

  That cage was the only reason we had any kind of economy in Lobo Norte. Men came to us for the cage fights. Johnny’s drugs and the Ranch girls had followed to service those men. Gloria and Johnny and I lived a good life off of those weekends. A modest life, but good.

  “Tomorrow night,” I said, and pointed at the chalkboard advertising our fight nights. There was a signup sheet next to it.

  “Prizes?”

 

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