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“What do you have for me?” I asked as we took the stairs up to the second floor.
“Three more sympathy arrangements.” Clint nodded to a trio of maids carrying massive, lavish vases of flowers. They moved alongside us like ducks in a row before outpacing us up the stairs.
Each was making a point of not looking at me. They knew exactly how I felt about those fucking flowers. The first one had arrived two days ago, and my stomach had turned at the sight of it. The tenth one, I’d thrown against a wall.
The flowers hadn’t stopped coming, but the maids had done their best to keep them out of my line of sight ever since.
“Is that all the East Coast packs have for us?” I asked. “Their sympathy?”
The police were doing what they could to find Melony and the boys. The FBI were doing their best to track down Samuel. Clinton and Aubrey, like me, still believed that the two cases were connected. It would explain how all our enemies had simply disappeared.
Human authorities and shifter business didn’t often mix. They minded their business, we minded ours. For the average police force, all but the weakest packs were completely impenetrable. The older a pack, the better fortified they were from human influence.
If Samuel was hiding out with one of the other old packs here on the East Coast—and we were certain he was—the FBI would burn through every cent of their annual budget trying to find him. And if he’d taken Melony under his wing, decided to harbor her while she held our sons hostage, the cops would be the last to find them.
Only another shifter would be able to crack that façade. Clinton and Aubrey had spent the last two days on the road trying to do just that.
To little avail, apparently.
“It’s complicated, Xander.” Aubrey’s lips pulled into a tight, thin line. “We did warn you it wouldn’t be easy.”
“We tried our best. For as much good as it did us,” Clint admitted, mopping his brow with a handkerchief. He was a short man, but he’d been standing a little taller since Samuel’s departure. Beneath my gaze, however, he shrank a full inch. “We can keep at it, though. If you have a moment to talk game plan—”
“Need to get dressed first.” It would give me some time to think over a plan that didn’t involve breaking down doors and tearing out throats. “If you see Felicity, let her know I’m looking for her.”
“Of course. But, Xander—”
“Five minutes, Clint.” I took the last few stairs in a single step. “If the East Coast packs are going to fuck us in the ass, I don’t wanna hear about it until I’ve got pants on.”
I made it about five paces before the next interruption. This time, it was in the form of a short, dark-skinned Portersmith woman wearing a brightly colored hijab and navy-blue nursing scrubs.
“Mister Miller—”
“It’s Xander, Yasmeen. Please.” I didn’t slow down as I headed for my room. God willing, Felicity was in there waiting for me. The world was too loud right now. Too chaotic. Too full of people needing me for things.
Even if she ignored me from across the room, Felicity was the only person who could quiet it all back down.
“Ah… Xander, then,” Yasmeen continued. “It’s about your brother. He—”
“Which one?” I interrupted, tugging my robe a little tighter around my waist. Yasmeen was Kingston’s recovery nurse, but with Dylan at the manor now, either of them could be giving her grief.
“Excuse me?”
“Which brother?”
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw her eyes widen, likely with horror. “There’s more than one?”
“Ah.” So, she hadn’t met Dylan yet. “Kingston, then. Has he killed anyone?”
“No, but—”
“Minding his manners around you?”
“As much as he’s capable,” Yasmeen allowed. “But—”
“Is he a danger to himself or others?”
“Of course not. Well.” A damning pause. “Not exactly. But—”
