Heart of the Wolf

D. B. REYNOLDS

Copyright © 2010

Chapter One

The angels wept, beautiful faces ravaged with grief, tears coursing down perfect cheeks to fall unheeded on the body cradled between them. Kathryn Avinger gazed up at the huge sculpture and wondered if even the angels could find it in them to weep today. A bitter wind scored the hillside, scattering bits of dirt off the mausoleum and into her eyes. She turned her face aside only to have a fan of dark hair whip across her cheek.

“Sorry,” Phoebe muttered, gathering her brown locks and twisting them beneath the stiff collar of her white shirt. She wore a business suit beneath her long, black coat and would no doubt rush right back to the office once this obligatory appearance at her father’s funeral was over.

Kathryn only wished she could rush away as easily. Unfortunately, she was supposed to be the grieving widow at this spectacle, and there was the press to consider, appearances to be maintained. The not-so-dearly-departed Preston Avinger was big money, which meant his death was front page news. And unfortunately, Kathryn was a big part of that story—the trophy wife, decades younger than her aging husband and, suddenly, a very wealthy widow.

She lifted her gaze slightly to see the reporters hovering like ghouls behind the weeping angels of the Avinger mausoleum, waiting for that perfect moment of grief to share with the world. Kathryn restrained a bitter smile. They were at the wrong funeral if they wanted grief. The angels might be the only true mourners here. She glanced at the people huddled around
Preston
’s grave, their faces somber as they pretended for the cameras. Most of them were well used to public scrutiny—leaders of business, the mayor, and both of the state’s
U.S.
senators, even though
Preston
had only contributed to one. He’d quite despised the other and made no pretense about it. Kathryn had always wondered what the woman had done to offend him. But maybe being a woman was enough. No one would ever accuse Preston Avinger of social liberalism.

 
The wind kicked up again, harder this time, as if to urge them off the steep hillside. Kathryn hunched deeper into an elegant cashmere coat and wondered if she’d ever be warm again. Ten years in this city and she was still cold. She hated this place.

“Christ, get on with it,” a deep voice muttered quietly behind her. That would be Preston Junior, the loving son, her stepson, she supposed, though he was fifteen years older than she was. His words were meant only for Kathryn and for his sister, Phoebe, to hear. Among the three of them, at least, there were no illusions of sorrow.

For her own part, Kathryn felt nothing. She was numb, though certainly not with grief. Her husband had been sick for years before he died, and even before that…

Well, surely it said something about a man when not even his wife and children mourned his passing.

Her thoughts were interrupted as the minister finally ceased his fruitless prayers for
Preston
’s corrupt soul and laid a hand on her arm. She fought the urge to shake the hand off and looked up to meet his pale blue eyes. He seemed kind, solicitous even. But of course, he’d never really known
Preston
.

“It is time, my dear,” he said gently.

Kathryn nodded, tight-lipped beneath the camouflage of her dark glasses. She took a single step forward, bent down, and scooped up a handful of loose dirt, gritty against the tight leather of her gloves. Another step and she dribbled it slowly onto the coffin, hearing the individual pebbles hit the solid mahogany box. She lingered a moment longer, rubbing her fingers together with a frown before stepping backward. Her heel twisted on the uneven ground, and her bodyguard Tommy reached out to steady her, one big hand cupped under her elbow discreetly.

Cameras flashed across the way as photographers scrambled to catch the moment, preserving forever the widow’s distress—film at eleven.

Kathryn turned away from the lenses, leaning unnecessarily on Tommy’s strength.

Phoebe and her brother approached the grave together, grabbing up a few fingers of dirt and tossing it quickly into the hole before walking away. They had nothing to say over their father’s grave that they hadn’t already said to him in person more than once. With their departure, the rest of the mourners filed past quickly, some pausing to add to the scattering of dirt, some barely glancing below to see the quality of the coffin before moving on. A few stopped to offer their condolences to Kathryn, but no one lingered. It was cold, and they were eager to get to their cars and limousines.

Kathryn found herself suddenly alone at the grave site. Only Tommy remained by her side. After so many years—the long illness, the endless mourning period demanded by her husband’s notoriety, the false tributes and elaborate memorial he’d arranged for himself long before his death—after all that, it was done. At long last, she was alone.

Her shoulders slumped slightly, and the ever-attentive Tommy steered her gently toward the waiting limousine. They walked slowly, her high heels threatening to trip her with every step in the thick grass.

They had almost reached the limo when she heard the tearing silk sound of a bullet cutting through air. She moved without thought, hitting the ground as the deadly missile whipped through the space where her head used to be, as the crack of the sniper’s fire broke the funeral silence and Tommy was falling on top of her, covering her with his body as a second bullet followed the first.

Hysteria. People screaming, rushing for their cars, the press pushing past the boundaries set up before the funeral, in hopes of snapping a prize-winning shot of her bloody body or catching her last earthly words before her tragic death. No doubt they’d be terribly disappointed to discover she was unhurt.

Kathryn lay beneath Tommy’s weight, thinking about the mourners who’d already hurried away after the funeral and so, missing the excitement. She wondered how many of them would lie and say they’d been there when the shot was fired, how they’d breathlessly recount the desperate run for their lives.

“Give me a minute, Kathryn,” Tommy said, interrupting her cynical thoughts. His voice, low and tight with stress, trembled slightly with adrenaline and maybe even fear. She heard him call out to their driver, just his name, asking a question.

“Rigo?”

Rigo must have given a silent go-ahead because they were up and moving, Tommy pulling her to her feet, careful with her but not wasting any time, his heavy body all but draped over hers as he hustled her the few yards to the limo and followed her inside.

“Go!” Tommy snapped, slamming the door behind them.

Rigo had the limo accelerating away before the door had fully closed, swerving around the other cars, bouncing over the well-tended grass. Horns honked and people swore. Kathryn barely heard them.

“Are you hurt?” Tommy asked.

Kathryn stared at him, blinking hard as she struggled to focus.

“Kathryn, are you hurt?” Tommy’s voice went up a full octave with tension. He scooted quickly toward her, hands out to pat her down, or whatever it was bodyguards did to make sure their charges hadn’t been shot.

“I’m fine,” she managed. She brushed his hands away gently. He was a good man, Tommy. “I’m fine,” she repeated more strongly. She dug a smile out and pasted it on her face. “A little rattled, that’s all.”

She leaned back into the plush leather, noticing twin streaks of grass and dirt on the front of her coat. She stared at the stains absently. Her knees must have hit the ground when…

“Somebody tried to kill me,” she said, as if the thought had just occurred to her.

“Yes, ma’am,” Tommy said cautiously.

She turned in time to catch a worried look pass between the two men. “I wonder why,” she said.