Winter Lost

Adam’s sat phone still wasn’t working, but he didn’t think it would be useful to tell them that.

The table looked grim.

“What happens if he doesn’t make it?” asked Peter.

She glanced at Adam and said, “The end of my world.”

That was so obvious that Adam decided to clear the air a bit. So he nodded at Tammy and said, “The end of the world.”

The whole table looked at him with a fair bit of hostility.

What had Liam said? Something about how the wedding guests would come to an understanding about what the wedding was and their part in it. He wondered how that had happened. Had they just woken up knowing about the Great Spell and accepting it and everything that it implied?

“I’m here to help,” Adam told them. “Or maybe to play some harp. Or is it a lyre?” He flapped his hands to imitate little wings on his shoulders.

“You’re an angel?” asked Peter sardonically. “You don’t look like one.”

No one at the table had a reaction when he said either “harp” or “lyre.” That confirmed that none of these people had the harp—and that Elyna hadn’t told them why Adam and Mercy were here. Mercy had asked her not to, until they had a better handle on what was going on. But Tammy and her people for damn sure knew about the Great Spell now.

“You’re right,” Adam agreed. “I’m a werewolf. We did come here to help Mercy’s brother. I’d prefer that we not participate in the end of the world.”

Peter sat back. “Fair enough.”

“How did you get caught up in a marriage that decides the fate of the world?” Adam asked the bride-to-be, deciding to take down the temperature a bit.

“For the money,” Tammy said instantly. “Why not?”

She was a good liar. The blue eyes she’d inherited from her father helped that innocent look along. Police officers learned to be good at deception, too. Blandness spread around the table like butter on warm bread.

“I bet you gave your dad fits when you were a teenager,” Adam said. “Werewolves can tell when someone is lying.”

She cracked up. She had a good laugh—earthy and warm.

“I practiced that one for the reporters,” she admitted. “It gives them something that will sell papers, and Zane knows it’s not true. That’s all that matters to me.”

He judged that if he took the tension down one more notch, no one would notice he didn’t tell them anything they didn’t already know. He wasn’t sure how the conflicting protections—the green man and the spirit of the lake—would sort themselves out with each other and with him and Mercy when they finally figured out where the artifact was. He decided keeping information close to his chest was still the best policy.

He asked the heart of the pack, “How did you meet?” and settled down to listen.

“It was the legs that caught his attention,” Tammy said in a sultry voice, hopping her chair back a couple of times so she could display her jean-clad legs. The table erupted into laughter.

Shuffling footsteps headed their way from the kitchen at a rapid pace. Adam checked Peter’s unconcerned face and didn’t turn around to see who the stranger was.

“I was in my office when our director brought a couple of big-money donors to meet me,” Tammy said, once the others had calmed down.

As the footsteps neared the table, a man’s toneless whisper said, “Is this the leg story? You promised me the leg story.”

“This is the leg story,” said Tammy, her voice gentling. “Join us.”

Adam turned to see an older man, his rolled-up shirtsleeves damp with dishwater, snagging a chair from the nearest table. He set his chair next to Tammy’s and regarded her with earnest attention.

He’d never been a big man, Adam judged, but age had shrunk the newcomer until he looked almost frail—except for the calluses on his hands. And an inner fierceness that Adam’s wolf noticed, though Adam didn’t know why the wolf was so certain.

“You must be Hugo,” Adam said, “who grew the flowers on the tables.”

Hugo offered Adam a sweet smile. “I am Hugo,” he said with odd emphasis, nodded, and repeated, “Hugo.” He reached a hand across the table so he could exchange a handshake. “You are the famous werewolf Adam Hauptman.” The whisper didn’t change, and Adam remembered that Liam had told them that Hugo’s voice had been damaged.

For all of his age, his grip was firm.

“I am Adam Hauptman,” Adam replied, deciding to ignore the “famous werewolf.” It had felt a little like a dig, though Hugo’s smile was friendly and his expression was a little unfocused.

As soon as the introductions were done, Tammy continued her story. “Now, in that job, we went out and checked in with our local homeless population all the time. We knew them, and they knew and trusted us.”

Hugo wasn’t fae. Adam was sure of that. Nor was he a witch. Adam wasn’t Mercy, who could pinpoint supernatural people by the scent of their magic, but he’d have been prepared to bet money that Hugo was something.