“I’m sure it’s lovely, but I’m happy to take your word for it. You preparing for Connor’s initiation?”
“We are. Would you like to join us?” Initiations were usually family affairs, but Gabe knew when to extend the olive branch.
Patrick shook his head. “Thank you, but I don’t want to intrude. And I’m only in town for the night. Leaving in the morning.”
He was, he’d meant, only in town to meet me. Which somehow made the potential mate thing feel even more tawdry.
Gabriel smiled. “You’ll have to stay longer next time, get a feel for Chicago. It’s a great town.”
“Looked like it coming in,” he said. “At least the parts I saw from the car. I’ll see a bit more of it on the way to the hotel.”
Gabe nodded. “Since you’re only here for a little while, we should get out of your hair.” Gabe looked at the rest of the family, who made awkward throat clearing noises. Ben winked at me, picked up the box, and headed out of the room.
The air—and the magic in it—thinned.
“They’re . . . intense,” Patrick said.
I shrugged. “I have a lot of brothers. It’s the worst case scenario for potentials.”
He looked at me with curiosity. “You are not at all what I expected.”
I wasn’t sure how to take that. “What did you expect?”
“A debutante, I guess.” He looked me over, took in hair and clothes. “Less serious. More giggly.”
“I am definitely not giggly. But I can kill a man in forty-two different ways.”
“Forty-two. That’s impressive. I appreciate a woman who can take care of herself.” He looked around the room. “I have a car outside. Would you like to go for a drive?”
Fraternal magic—hopeful and concerned—seeped in from the next room. Space seemed like a good idea.
“More than you can possibly imagine.” I headed for the door.
3
I’d donned my coat on the way out, but that hardly battled back the chill in the air. The air was cold and heavy, unusually still. I agreed with Patrick; snow was coming.
A sleek, black SUV sat in the gravel drive in front of the house. A man in a slick black suit—head shaved, eyes dark and piercing—held open the back door.
Patrick gestured to the driver. “Tom Webb, this is Fallon Keene. Fallon, Tom Webb. He’s been helping the family for many years.”
I didn’t know the details of the Yorks’ business, but it had something to do with timber. If Patrick had a driver, I guessed business was good.
Webb smiled, but his eyes were still appraising. I read loyalty in the look, the fact that he took my measure and considered whether I was the right woman for the Yorks’ favorite son.
I slid into the backseat, and Patrick followed.
“Nice ride,” I said when Tom had closed the door behind us.
Patrick’s grin was sheepish. “Thanks. I need the space.” He gestured toward his long legs, which filled the foot well. His shoulders practically filled his half of the backseat.
“Where should we go?” Patrick asked.
It was dark, and February. There was only so much that one could see of the city from the backseat of a car. “Well, if you’ve never been to Chicago, I’m honor bound to at least get you a look at the skyline.”
I leaned toward the front seat. “Head left, and when you get back to the main road, turn right. There’s an historic marker about three miles down. Pull in when you see it.”
“Got it,” Tom said. The tinted screen rose, separating the front and back seats, and we pulled away from the house and back onto the long, gravel drive.
Patrick looked at me with interest. “Archaeology field trip?”
“Not exactly,” I said. “You’ll see when we get there.”
“I’m always up for an adventure,” he said with a smile. “Tell me about yourself. Other than the fact that you’re next in line for control of the North American Central Pack.”
His tone was sarcastic, which helped me relax. There’d been plenty of other potentials—men with whom I’d shared coffee or pizza—whose first questions were about Gabriel, the kingship, the Pack. They’d slipped through Gabriel’s screening and were interested in me only because I could help them get closer to him.
Potentials like that gave the process a bad flavor. But I’d become adept at scaring them away, at feigning enough crazy to give them second thoughts. And if they became too handsy, a knee to the balls put them in line again.
“I’m twenty-seven. I like music. I live for coffee and good bagels. I believe in fairy tales, but not fairy godmothers.”
“That list sounds well-practiced.”
“I’ve met my fair share of potentials.”
“And nobody was interesting?”
“Everybody’s interesting in their way.” I shrugged. “But a relationship needs more than interesting.”
“The spark,” he said, looking out his window. “It needs the spark.”
I had the sense from his tone that he’d had the spark before. Since he was in the car with me, I presumed he hadn’t managed to capture it.
“That’s one way to put it. What about you?”
He shrugged. “I’d say I’m the outdoorsy type. I like to fish. Hike. Chop wood.”
“You’re a lumberjack.”
He laughed heartily. “Yeah. I guess you could say that.” He flexed an impressive bicep. “Keeps a man in shape.”
“So I see.”
“Can I ask you a question?”
I nodded.
“Is this—is this what you really want? I mean, this whole potential thing?”
I looked out the window, watched farmland pass as Tom took the road at a leisurely pace. “I want my family to be safe. And I want the Pack to be solid. Healthy. Having a mate the family approves of goes a long way.”
For the four-hundredth time, I wished Jeff was a different kind of animal. But he couldn’t change who he was any more than I could change myself, put myself into a different family, or make the Keenes average.
Jeff was not the point, I reminded myself, and made myself focus on Patrick. I’d made a commitment to see this through, so it deserved my full attention.
I looked back at Patrick. “What about you? Do you want this whole potential thing?”
“I want a connection. I want my family to be happy.” He fidgeted with a gold signet ring on his right hand, which bore a complicate crest. “My father’s getting older. He’s not well.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.” Shifters were generally a healthy bunch; transforming into animal form cured most things that ailed our human forms. But animals became ill, too, and there was no easy cure for that.
“I guess that adds to the pressure to find someone.”
Patrick laughed mirthlessly. “That’s one way to put it. If I hear the word ‘legacy’ one more time, I’ll probably punch someone.”
“I’ve done that.”
He looked at me with amusement. “Really?”
“Yep.” I crossed one leg over the other, kicked the top one. It was a habit usually caused by too much caffeine. Today, I could blame old-fashioned nerves.
“Robin Swift sent a friend of his family.” Robin was Apex of the Western Pack. “Took me to dinner at the most expensive restaurant in Chicago—or so he told me. Six or seven times. And while we’re there, gave me a lecture about respecting legacies.”
“And you punched him in the restaurant?”
I grinned. “No, I punched him when he told me my only purpose was to bear his children and then stuck a hand up my shirt.”
Patrick grinned. “You land the punch?”
“Broke his nose.”
“Good girl.”
We slowed, and I looked up to see the familiar metal plaque on the side of the road. Tom turned the car into the short drive, which dead-ended at a chain link fence.
“What now?” Patrick asked.
“Still a surprise,” I said, climbing out of the car when Tom opened the door. Patrick offered whispered instructions to Tom, then followed me through the open gate. We crunched through snow across the small field, where a vine-covered chimney stood sentinel, the only part of the building still standing.
Hands in his pockets, Patrick stared up at the chimney. “What was this place?”
“A Jesuit mission, then a church. Once upon a time, at least.”
He ran fingers over the rough stone, something I’d done a dozen times. “How’d you find it?”
“Full moon,” I confessed with a smile. “I couldn’t sleep, so I ran until I couldn’t run anymore. I ended up here.”
“There’s a lot of history here,” Patrick said, glancing around. “A lot of power.”
I nodded. “Sometimes I wondered if I found it, or it found me. But this actually isn’t what I wanted to show you. This way.”
He fell into step behind me, and we walked in silence up the small rise on the other end of the field. By the time we reached the top, I was finally warm.
“This is why we’re here,” I said when he stepped beside me, and I heard the sharp intake of breath.
Chicago lay in front of us like a blanket of light, buildings rising across the horizon like a heartbeat had been charted across the sky.
Memphis would always be home to me, but I certainly understood the appeal of the Windy City. Architecture, food, politics. It was an important part of the building of America, even if it still bore the scars.
“This is an impressive view.”
“Yeah, I like it. And I like Chicago. It’s not home—not yet—but I like it.”
“Lot of energy,” Patrick said.
“Yes,” I agreed. “There is. You’re from Wisconsin?”
He nodded. “The family’s from Wausau, middle of the state. Most of them still live there. I’ve got a cabin on the lake north of Sheboygan. It’s quiet, especially in winter. No tourists. Speaking of tourists, are many people coming in tomorrow for the initiation?”