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Maggie’s lips prune harder this time, and she isn’t content to keep quiet. “Says the sixty-seven-year-old man who dragged the eighty-year-old woman out of her bed to avail himself of her expertise. Not all leadership takes place on the front lines, Cameron. As a man who’s had our Alpha’s ear for nearly half a century, you know that very well.”
“What exactly are you implying?” His voice is so chilly I fight the urge to shiver.
“I’m not implying anything,” Maggie says sweetly. “I’m telling you to your face that your refusal to take the ancient prophecies seriously or prepare the next generation for something like this is a failure.” She nods my way but doesn’t shift her gaze from Cam’s. “I bet Maxim has no idea it’s been foretold that a ruler will rise who will unite the shifter clans of both dimensions.”
Cam’s lips part but I cut in, “Actually, I do. But I was told Cam didn’t know about the prophecy, not that he didn’t believe in it.”
Cameron shoots a challenging gaze across the table. “And do you? Does any of that nonsense sound logical to you?”
I shake my head. “No. But Maggie’s right, if enough people believe it, it’s something I should have been prepared to manage. My ignorance has put our people in danger. I need everything you can pull together on the prophecy on my desk by noon.” I glance to Maggie. “Can you coordinate that for me, Maggie?”
She nods. “Absolutely. You should go get some sleep. If the shit hits the fan as quickly as I’m expecting, you’re going to need it.”
Chapter Five
Willow
I’m a scientist.
I deal in data, facts, and thoroughly tested hypotheses.
I’ve never had my fortune told, never examined my love line to see who I might marry, and I’m the last person to start making decisions because of something I saw in a dream.
But that wasn’t just a dream.
It was something bigger.
Something true.
I can feel it in my bones, in that supernatural part of me that started coming online last night.
It’s ironic that my pack gift is such a contrast to my nature, but that might make me the perfect person to manage a power like this. I won’t blindly trust my gut or my visions, I’ll do my due diligence, examine the intelligence I glean with my gift from every angle, and make decisions based on supernatural intelligence and logic.
And my logical analysis of my dream while showering this morning has led to three important conclusions:
One—I have nothing to lose by placing a call to Pax. He can’t strangle me through a phone line, and he won’t know where the call originated—the North Star pack is careful to make all calls from the tower untraceable.
Two—Ditto with asking my childhood nemesis what he knows about prophecies and whether or not our “fated match” is a bunch of horse shit. I’m still mostly in the dark right now, but I could get lucky. He might start spilling his guts without knowing how much I know—or don’t know. It’s a long shot, but you know what they say about the shots you don’t take.
Three—It’s not time to run yet. My dream self clearly believes I’m in danger, but even with Maxim fucking with my head and holding me prisoner, I’m still far safer in here than I would be out on my own. And the fact remains that I am a prisoner. Diana liberated me from my rooms once, but I don’t see that happening again. I’m sure she’s under lock and key herself to make sure she doesn’t break any more of her brother’s rules.
All that remains to be seen is if Maxim left my phone on. He activated the line last night so I could order food after the attack, but he might have changed his mind about trusting me with even that small amount of freedom.
But when I lift the receiver post shower, the dial tone is loud and steady.
Pulling in a bracing breath, I replace the receiver on the old-school device and rush to get dressed.
I can’t call Pax in a towel. I need to be dressed for battle first.
I find a pair of tight black jeans, a gray sweater, and shit-kicker boots that are heavy and solid-feeling on my feet. I tie my hair back in a ponytail and put on makeup—mostly thick black eyeliner and loads of mascara.
When I’m done, I step back from the mirror and nod in approval.
This is a much better reflection. This me looks ready to kick ass and take names and maybe toss back a shot of whiskey after. If someone put his big fat hand around her neck, she’d fuck that guy up real quick.
“Just because you look tough, doesn’t mean you actually know how to fight,” I remind myself. “Or even defend yourself.”
I sigh, wishing my logical brain would take a break already. I could use some added confidence, and it’s not like I can do anything about my lack of badassery at the moment. I seriously doubt Maxim is going to let me hit the gym or start self-defense classes.
