Till Abandon (6 page)

"Murder is always a bad time.” This from one of the men. A rather elderly fellow with hollow cheeks and a full, grey beard.

Blake stepped forward. “Murder, yes, but not by us."

Voltaire smirked. “They know that, they simply like fucking with you."

The woman who had spoken before raised an eyebrow. “What we know,
Death
Bringer
, is that wherever you go, people die."

"Yet here you are.” Voltaire laughed. “Is there a casket sale somewhere I don't know about?"

"Stop,” Blake said softly. “We have to take care of Marcus, find out what happened. Everything else can come later. Much later."

Voltaire clicked the safety back on her guns and blew imaginary smoke from the muzzles. “Later for y'all.” Turning to Blake, she said, “I'll get a sheet."

He nodded and she headed upstairs.

The stodgy old coots downstairs were already forgotten. Most important on the agenda was the knowledge that the PSC had sent a hit squad for her. Remi had signed off on a hit squad. Why she felt betrayed, Voltaire couldn't readily say. These were killers, after all—their only allegiance was to the PSC. But she still had a hard time accepting the fact that people she'd trained, worked side by side with, were now on
her
kill list. And wasn't that just the shittiest place to be?

She pulled the sheet off the very first bed she saw and made her way back downstairs. A small crowd had gathered, most of them familiar faces from earlier in the evening. Blake draped the sheet over Marcus's body and moved to the back of the room, where he motioned for her to join him.

Voltaire felt the hostile gazes trained on her and groaned. Her best hope had been for them to work together but that seemed highly unlikely now.

I'm getting the feeling your pack doesn't like me very much, Blake.
Stepping up to his side, she slid her hand into his and turned her attention to the five Elders now sitting down. Blake's sadness and confusion radiated off him in waves—he couldn't reconcile himself to the idea that his mate might be responsible in any way for his best friend's death.

Voltaire bit the inside of her cheek. Yet another strike against her. How many more before Blake decided she wasn't worth it? Hard to believe they'd only met tonight—to her, they'd been going at it way longer.

"This can't continue, Montez,” a pale gentleman with thinning hair said to Blake. “First there's your own volatile behaviour these past years, then the business with the felines, and now you're telling us you've mated with the Death Bringer—who's brought death to our pack on her first outing."

Blake's jaw flexed. “My mate is not responsible for this, but together we will find who is. I'd thank you all to show her some respect. She's mine and that won't be changing."

Voltaire blinked. His claiming of her, here and now, felt more real and permanent than his bite. She squeezed his fingers.

Thank you. I needed it.

He brushed his thumb over her knuckles and shifted closer to her as he addressed the Elders. “As far as the felines are concerned, they were your problem long before they became mine and you didn't do anything about it. Now you expect me to snap my fingers and make it all go away?"

"You wanted to be Alpha,” Thinning Hair responded. “As such, you take on an Alpha's responsibility."

"Yeah.” Blake grunted. “Responsibilities you never told me about."

Another man—mid-thirties with dark hair—spoke up. “The felines’ claims are not the issue at hand. We want to know what happened to Mr van Treble there"—he jerked his chin towards the dead body on the floor—"and what you plan to do to catch his killer."

Voltaire squeezed Blake's fingers.
Tell him we're on it

She didn't want any more people getting hurt unnecessarily, and they would. The PSC thought nothing of collateral damage. Blake couldn't handle another member of his pack dying.

Clearing his throat, Blake glanced over at her, then told the Elders, “Voltaire and I are already on it. We will find out who did this.” He turned and looked at the crowd gathered at the bar. “Leave it to us.” The steel in his voice brooked no argument. “We cannot afford another loss like this. Please, no rash actions."

A chorus of growls and angry curses filled the room. Voltaire smiled. She understood the need for revenge, that innate instinct to hurt the one who had hurt you. This pack, Blake's pack, could and would grow on her. They would be her family. Not now, though—she read the hate and violence coming off them.

Eh
, she shrugged mentally.
Can't win ‘em all.

"Now, let's bury our friend."

Blake motioned to the crowd and two burly men stepped forward. They helped her mate to lift the body and carry it out of the door. Voltaire, hands shoved into her coat pockets, followed the crowd as they traipsed out into the dark woods behind the bar.

Silver moonlight illuminated their path as the surprisingly silent crowd, led by Blake, stopped at a wide clearing. The cemetery. Intense anguish from Blake washed over her. His pain brought tears to Voltaire's eyes. She couldn't help the feeling of culpability. If only she hadn't come here. If only.

A few men grabbed shovels, began digging, and she couldn't look. Turning away, she raised her gaze to the sky, deliberately shifting her thoughts to who could have done this. Marcus's body remained untouched in death. Murder with the mind. Very few she knew would be able to pull off that feat. If they wanted to silence her, why go after Marcus? Yes, he had been Blake's best friend, but what other purpose would his death serve than to make Blake hurt? Her mate's pain was hers as well, but she still didn't get it.

Black anger clouded her mind, stealing her breath. She turned back to the crowed. The body had been lowered into the ground and now they shovelled dirt into the hole. Blake stood off to the side, his face like granite, fists clenching and unclenching. She hurried to his side.

"I'm here.” Wrapping her hands around him from behind, she pressed her forehead to his back. He initially held himself stiff, then relaxed against her, bit by bit. Voltaire smiled. “I've got you.” She slid her hands over his chest, while an invisible pair stroked his cheeks. A sigh escaped from him. It took an effort on her part but she managed to stay out of his head. He needed his privacy to grieve.

They remained in that position, her arms around him, while the crowd dissipated. Finally it was only the two of them, the Elders having left after issuing an ultimatum to
deal with this quickly.
Old farts.

"Do you want to leave?” she asked.

Blake shook himself slightly. “Uh, give me a minute."

He disengaged her arms from around his waist and walked to the freshly covered grave. Kneeling, he grabbed a handful of dirt and threw it on the grave.

"Marcus, I'm so sorry.” His voice broke. “I'll find out who did this and I will make them pay. This, I promise.” He bowed his head for a second, then rose to his feet, a hand outstretched.

Voltaire took it and looked at him.

"Let's go home, Voltaire."

They stood naked in Blake's shower, water cascading over their bodies, arms wrapped around each other. Blake hadn't spoken since they'd come inside and Voltaire didn't push. She simply maintained skin to skin contact, providing silent reassurance that she was, and always would be, right next to him.

Breasts flattened against his chest, she dropped tiny kisses on his neck and shoulder blade. Her mate shuddered in her arms, his head thrown back, corded muscles bulging. Between them, his cock swelled. Her pussy clenched in response. Blake was grieving but his wolf wanted its mate. She was all too willing when he palmed her ass and lifted her off the floor.

Voltaire wrapped her legs around his narrow waist and pulled his mouth down to her breasts. He took a nipple in his mouth as he slid into her. She moaned, he sighed and the wolf roared. Digging her nails into his flesh, Voltaire rode her man, encouraging him to give her all he had to give. She reached into his head, past the pain and thoughts of revenge, and flooded him with warmth and reassurance. And while her pussy milked his straining cock, she slid invisible fingers down his spine, traced his ass crack and pushed into him.

He jerked. A choked cry fell from his lips as he came, emptying himself into her. Blake sank his canines into her neck, triggering her climax.

In the aftermath they clung to each other until the shudders stopped, then made their way to the bedroom and fell into bed.

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Before the bright sunlight jolted her awake the next morning, Voltaire felt his absence. A glance at his side of the bed showed the bed rumpled, but his warmth lingered. He hadn't left too long ago. She closed her eyes, searched for his presence with her mind, only to find herself alone in the house.

Is it too much to ask that my man be at my side when I awake?
She projected her thoughts to him, trying to get a hint of where he was and his state of mind. They'd slept tangled in each other, and she'd felt the wolf's restlessness and Blake's sorrow. Her man ached to shed some blood and she stood right there with him, but she still worried. Nothing could happen to Blake.

Maybe he was too far away or had suddenly learnt to block her visits into his head, because she couldn't get a read on him. Voltaire stared up at the ceiling. Was it a good or a bad thing that she couldn't get into Blake's head? He certainly couldn't access hers, and how shitty was it to have someone know your every thought when you don't know theirs?

So...a good thing?

The phone beside the bed rang, startling her. She let it ring two more times before snatching it up. “Blake's phone."

"Hey, it's me."

"Where are you?"

Blake sighed. “I'm having breakfast with Marcus's mom. I didn't want her to learn about it from anyone else."

Damn. Her heart broke for him all over again. “Why didn't you wake me? I would've come with you."

"I know, but I had to do this myself. I heard you calling, that's why I called."

"Are you sure you're okay? I can come to you."

"I'm fine. It's just—it's hard."

She nodded and swallowed the lump in her throat. “Okay. Just know I'm here for you. By the way, I have nothing to wear. My clothes are all at the Sunrise Inn opposite the train station."

"I'm near there, I'll pick them up."

"Thanks.” They said goodbye and Voltaire hung up the phone with tears in her eyes. He'd sounded so defeated, beaten down. There was no trace of the strong, aggressive man she'd tangled with when she'd first gone to the bar the evening before. That couldn't last—she needed her man back, all of him.

Voltaire rolled off the bed and stretched. First step to getting her man back was to deal with the threat the PSC posed to them. Rummaging through Blake's drawers, she grabbed a shirt and shrugged it on. She picked her coat up off the floor and searched the pockets until she found the prepaid cell phone she had bought the day before. The cheap-ass thing was almost out of charge.

No matter. She dialled. What she had to say wouldn't take long.

Remi answered on the third ring. “Yes."

"You sent a team after me?” Voltaire kept her tone low and even, no evidence of her rage or the sense of betrayal that coiled in her gut.

A brief pause, then Remi spoke. “Voltaire?"

"One and the same.” She sat on the edge of the bed. “What? Didn't expect to hear my voice?"

"What the hell are you talking about? I didn't send a team after you!"

A hollow laugh fell from Voltaire's lips. She brushed a lock of hair from her eyes. “Really? Because someone from PSC is here and they've already killed my mate's best friend."

Remi coughed. “Mate? You have a mate?” Surprise and disbelief were evident in her voice.

"Yes. Mate.
Mine.
And if anything happens to him, I'm coming for you, Remi."

"All right. You need to calm the fuck down with the threats.” Remi's voice went up by an octave. “I don't even know where the hell you are. I did not send anyone after you, Voltaire."

"Humph. Forgive me if I don't believe you, Madam President."

"Believe what you want.” The cold steel had returned to Remi's voice. “But think before you act. The consequences—"

Voltaire jumped to her feet. “Fuck the consequences. I
am
the motherfucking consequence if you continue to come after Blake. And you'd better warn Czion as well—I'm wiping out anyone who's foolish enough to go after my mate."

Remi inhaled sharply at the mention of Czion. “What does Czion have to do with any of this?"

"Are you freaking listening? Czion is here, in Colorado, trying to start a war with my mate over centuries-old territorial bullshit. I will kill him."

"No, you can't."

The tremor in Remi's voice shocked the hell out of Voltaire. Did Remi care for Czion despite her ranting to the contrary? She raised an eyebrow. A kink in the PSC president's facade...how to exploit it?

"If you didn't authorise my death, who did?"

"There's no one after you, Voltaire.” Remi sighed. “At least, not on our command. Besides the elite team isn't together right now. Saint is on assignment in Germany and Prescott is here with me."

"I don't get it.” Voltaire shook her head in confusion. “Someone from the PSC is here, Remi,” she stressed. “The way Marcus was killed... Very few people can do that, and I trained all of them."

"How was he killed?"

"His body was untouched, literally immaculate.” She rubbed her eyes. “Only a trickle of blood at the side of the mouth, eyes open."

"A
mind
death,
” Remi whispered.

"Exactly. How many people do we know who can do that?"

Remi tried to rationalise. “There could be others out there, people we're not aware of with these abilities.” She was almost pleading with Voltaire to let it be so.

"Maybe, but their psychic presence lingered. Familiar in an unexplained way. I know this person, Remi."

"My God.” Shock and fear rang in Remi's voice as she finally got what Voltaire had been trying to tell her.