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“Habit, and totally wrong.” Connor’s eyes had gone to ice. He drew a very hard line here, which I could appreciate. “He made a specific decision to use his magic on you now. And there’s no excuse for that.”
That I’d defended the Pack—against a vampire—seemed to loosen some of the tension from his shoulders.
“Vampires don’t get a free pass just because we share some biology,” I said. “Same for you and the Pack.”
“Same,” he agreed. “It’s a violation. He also noticed you.”
“Noticed me?”
“Seemed interested.”
I snorted. “If he was interested, it’s because I’m a vampire from Chicago. This close to the city, it would be weirder if he didn’t.” I looked at him, gave him a friendly elbow. “If I have to get jealous every time a shifter ‘notices’ you, I’d never have time to do anything else. You attract a lot of attention.”
“I guess that makes us a very interesting pair,” he said.
“I guess it does.” I gestured to the lodge. “How’s it really going in there?”
“Testily. It’s elders and a few others, and they’ve deigned to let me join them.”
“So thoughtful.”
Connor grunted. “It’s going to take a while to get through the rest of it—the clan has a very particular list of protocols, andevery step has to be negotiated. I need to do that on my own. Can you entertain yourself for a few hours?”
“I can keep myself busy. I could start by talking to some of the shifters.”
“About?”
“About Paisley. She’s the best link we have to Loren’s death, so that seems like the logical place to begin.”
Connor frowned, crossed his arms. A lock of dark hair fell over his temple; he ignored it. “You think he was killed because of what happened to her.”
“I think it’s the best lead we’ve got.” I gestured to the lodge doors. “And Traeger is pretty pissed at him, pretty insistent he not get any posthumous honors. Maybe I’m wrong, but he seemed very capable of taking Loren out.”
“Yeah,” Connor said. “I had the same thought. You’ll be careful out there?”
“I will. And you be careful in there.” I looked back around the compound, the nearly identical cabins. “But first, can you point me in the direction of Paisley’s cabin?”
TWELVE
Paisley’s former home, a little larger than our cabin but with similar architecture, was on the opposite side of the resort, tucked into a sliver of coast between tree line and shoreline. The remains of logs smoldered in a firepit nearby, sending a ribbon of smoke into the air.
The blinds were drawn, but light shone through the slats, and I could hear the lowthrumof bass from a screen. I knocked on the door, listened for footsteps, and, when I heard nothing, knocked again.
There was muttering before the door was yanked open. “Jesus, George, the music is turned down. Go to sleep and—”
The man who’d answered the door—a shifter about my height, with dark skin and short dark braids—looked at me, eyes widening.
“Oh, shit. You aren’t George.”
“Nope.”
“Sorry, sorry.” He leaned out of the doorway, looked left and right. “He’s got tinnitus or something. Complains about the music even when it’s not on.” He looked back at me. “Did you hear it?”
“Only a little when I got close.”
“That’s fine, then.” He paused, looked me over. “You’re the vampire. Ellen?”
“Elisa.”
