Wolf's Kin (Monstrous Hearts #3)

Chapter Eighteen

The city didn't smell right as Adair drove through its streets. It made him nervous. He had lived too long to ignore his instincts, and his weekend off from The Hole had been spent preparing to turn tail and run at the first hint of the other vargr.

He could be out of Amsterdam and settled into a new life in under a day; that wasn't the problem. The problem was that he couldn't figure out where the motherfucker was. The Golden Stag coven had gone quiet, refusing to talk since he'd insulted their king. His other sources hadn't found any trails of bodies to follow. And no one could get that miserable bastard rotting in his peat bog to say anything. It all left him feeling as paranoid as a rabbit.

Humans were everywhere, overwhelming shining windows and hot electricity with their insatiable lust and fear. So was the thin hunger of a few younger witches who hadn't attached themselves to a coven, searching for easy prey that could disappear without drawing attention.

All in all, a normal night. Yet he had lived in this city for decades and knew its throbbing underbelly well. Something was off. He decided to stop by the club to check on it, and was halfway there when powerful magic seeped into his senses, thick and indistinguishable like smoke. His paranoia hardened into dread.

The Hole was empty—not part of his orders. Near the unlit soundstage, he scented the air carefully and then broke off with a grimace. The Golden Stag warlock and his bitches were holding a ritual. Ignoring his warnings about attracting the wrong type of attention, as fucking usual. They smelled glutted, satisfied. Finished.

Unlike the other black wolves, he'd never developed a hatred for magic, but so much and at such close range left him with a burning nose and a sour taste at the back of his mouth. To hell with it; he would just leave and take the club's loss of revenue out of the coven's cut for the month.

Even as he turned to go, it hit him: a scent that still made him cringe and whine. A mere trace, so faint it must have been on someone else's skin, but still unmistakable in its age and violence. The oldest of the black wolves, and the most feared until he had let himself be forgotten. The only one to wear his scent that closely would have to be...

"You're fucking kidding me," he muttered to himself, lengthening his stride as he reached the hallway of secret rooms. The smell of blood was overwhelming even before he unlocked the door.

For a moment, he could only stare, even when one of the figures inside looked up and hissed. The warlock hunched near the hearth, sulking while the two younger witches cooed and patted a cloth against the vicious bite mark on his chin.

Ermentrude gave him the same smile as when they'd last argued, but said nothing while feeding something to the fire. There was almost as much blood on her as there was on the bed.

"What did you do?" he said, well-aware of what burning flesh smelled like.

"We made a mistake." There wasn't a hint of regret in her voice as she wiped her mouth clean with a lace handkerchief. "Did you ever think you'd hear me admit as much? I'm sure you're thoroughly enjoying the fact you were correct."

Adair said nothing when she passed by, instead staring into the hearth. At the sight of blackened bone smoking among the embers, he turned away and lit a cigarette with unsteady fingers. It took a few drags before he could speak again. "I smell his blood," he said, jerking his head in the warlock's direction. "She attacked him?"

"Does that make a difference?"

"No. No, we're all fucked now."

"I don't see why. We'll keep looking for someone who can pique his interest and cherish it. Eventually—"

Adair moved so quickly that the witch never saw him coming. His fist caught her jaw with a crack that filled the room. The hag king didn't look up, but the other two witches watched wide-eyed as she dropped to the ground.

The hag mother had only a moment to spit out blood before Adair pinned her to the ground with one shoe to her neck. "There's no more 'eventually,' you fucking idiot. You ate her. You burned her. And you did it in my fucking club."

When she tried to respond, he kicked her in the face, breaking more bones. Then the warlock rose to his full height, lowering his antlers in threat. Their points were still bloody.

Adair turned toward him, flicking his cigarette to the side. "What? You think you can fight me? You look like you haven't so much as wiped your nose in centuries. Sniveling like a baby over one fucking bite. What do you think he'll do after finding out you killed her?"

The hag king was the first to look away, shaking his antlers again in irritation. As the two younger witches crawled close to clutch at his legs, he said, "She was false."

Then he pulled away from their hands and was gone. In the silence that filled the room, the younger witches scowled at the empty air between them, but knew enough to flinch back from Adair as he approached. "I have no idea what that's supposed to mean. Why didn't you just let her go?"

"That's not nearly... punishment enough for refusing our king," managed the hag mother, her voice muffled as she clutched at her jaw.

"Oh, I get it now. You still think you have the upper hand. Why give up on your delusions when you can double down instead?"

One of the younger witches glanced over at the hag mother and then tried to sound confident. "What's there to fear? Cleo already took care of the vargr."

"He's dead, too," added the other, and then shrank away as Adair crouched before them.

A question hissed out between his clenched teeth, strangled by its obvious answer. "If he's dead, then where is dear Cleo?"