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Light shimmered in bright orange-yellow cutouts through the trees at the edge of Callum’s property, dappling the ground with a warm patchwork of shadows. Dew glimmered in the tall grass like diamonds. It would have been pretty if it wasn’t for the smoldering ruins of what had once been the pack’s beloved bar.
Quick efforts by the pack members on hand had kept the fallout limited. The Den was a goner, but there was only minor smoke damage to the exterior of the mansion, and a shed near the bar would likely need to be torn down thanks to extensive heat damage to the outside walls.
The cabins were fine. The house was fine.
Still, large flakes of gray ash skittered over the lawn, and the charred skeleton of wood where the bar had been was a reminder that everything was not okay. Whether or not anyone believed me, I knew what I had seen, and I knew Mercy was responsible for this.
Everyone had been a bit too busy keeping the fire in check for anyone to go out into the woods to look for my mother, and now that the yard was swarming with human firefighters, it was hardly the time to press Callum for action.
I sat on the back steps of the main house, an afghan draped over my shoulders, and an untouched cup of coffee in my hands that had been pressed there by Lina, the housekeeper. Poor Lina, she had arrived an hour earlier, prepared to start the day’s work of feeding hungry werewolves their breakfast, only to find the estate in chaos.
She hadn’t said anything to me when she gave me the cup, simply smoothed my hair down in her gentle, maternal way, and returned to the kitchen.
Mouths still needed feeding, and Lina could be counted on to jump into action even at the worst of times. I could already smell bacon frying from inside the house. The men and women out on the lawn would be starving, no doubt.
Me, I couldn’t even fathom the idea of eating.
Callum was walking alongside a man in a crisp, official looking fireman’s uniform, not the soot-covered jumpsuits worn by those who had put the blaze out. The man exuded an air of authority even from where I was sitting.
Amelia, Callum’s second in command, trailed a few feet behind them, listening dutifully to everything being said. I suspect there was a lot of talk about unsafe structures, insurance money, and possibly arson investigations. Callum wouldn’t want an investigation. The last thing the pack needed was outsiders traipsing all over the grounds, especially those looking to uncover secrets.
No, he’d forgo collecting any insurance money if it meant avoiding an investigation.
The two men shook hands, then the fireman put a business card in Callum’s palm and wandered back around to the front of the house, where all the cars were parked.
Callum handed Amelia the card, then returned to the still steaming pile of rubble. A few other members of the pack were standing nearby, wearing similar shell-shocked expressions to one another. It was hard to believe something like this could happen on our property.
This was where we were supposed to be our safest. If we couldn’t feel protected here, how could we expect to find sanctuary anywhere?
Wilder, who had launched into action immediately last night, pulling people from the burning building, carrying heavy loads of water, doing anything in his power to keep order, was standing a few feet away from Callum and the others, his expression difficult to read.
The bar hadn’t meant much to him, he’d barely had time to take advantage of it, since we so rarely found ourselves at Callum’s compound these days. Yet he’d put his own life on the line to save the property and those who lived here.
His cheeks and forehead were black with soot, and his favorite army-green T-shirt was absolutely ruined.
I got to my feet and moved towards him as a moth might move to a light bulb, drawn with magnetic force to the only person on this property I wanted to be near right now.
I approached him quietly, his whole body so rigid I could feel the tension coming off him in waves. He started slightly when he realized I was standing next to him.
Handing him the cup of coffee Lina had given me, I wrapped the afghan around his shoulder so we were both pressed together inside its warmth. He took a sip from the mug before putting an arm around my waist, leaning the weight of his body against me.
“I must smell terrible.” He sounded exhausted, every word a struggle.
“Nah. You smell like campfire. It’s nice.” It was, admittedly, a weird thing to say while staring at the arson-destroyed remains of a beloved home bar, but sometimes you just needed to say the inappropriate thing.
The truth was, it didn’t matter that Wilder smelled like sweat, and anxiety, and burnt wood. He still smelled like Wilder, and it was a scent I had come to think of as home.
“It was Mercy, you know.” I took the coffee cup when he offered it back to me, finally taking a sip. Lina sure knew how to make a mean cup of chicory coffee. I handed it to him again.
“This?” He nodded to the burned shell in front of us.
“Yeah. I saw her last night again, after we got back to the house. I saw her after the fire.”
“Did you say anything to Callum?”
“Not yet. He’s been a little busy. And I’m still not sure he believes me.”
