Pack of Lies, page 2
“Hello?” Julien called out. His voice echoed and seemed to get lost up in the high rafters. “Is anyone here?”
Julien walked up to the desk. A large painting of a waterfall hung behind it. The titular Maudit Falls, perhaps? The canvas was a violent mess of blues and purples and a lone figure stood on a cliff’s edge with their arms extended, as if begging with the water, as if this very scene was where the falls had got its cursed name.
Vaguely unsettled, Julien called out again. “I’ve had some car trouble!”
Silence. A bed was starting to look unlikely. He walked toward the open door at the back of the lobby and peered into the darkness. He opened his mouth to call out again, but something stopped him.
Julien took a few steps into the hall, squinting into the gloom. There was an open door on the right, and he peered around the corner. “Is someone there?”
A pair of reflective inhuman eyes stared back at him and Julien yelled out, stumbling backward. The eyes jumped to the ground with a soft thud and a cat darted between his ankles and scurried into the lobby.
“Fuck.” Julien exhaled and laughed at himself.
He felt a little ridiculous, but also reluctant to wander farther into the building. Because it’d be rude, and not because his heart had thus far only sunk back down to the general vicinity of his throat, of course. All he needed was a working phone, anyway. Or power. Surely no one would mind that. Julien walked quickly back into the lobby and, with only a second’s hesitation, helped himself behind the reception desk. The sooner he could make a call, the sooner he’d be out of here.
There was no landline. But, crouching, he found the outlet the desk lamp was plugged into, deep at the back of a low shelf, and quickly got his charger out of his duffel and his cell hooked up. As he stood, the Sweet Pea card deck fell from his pocket and bounced out of sight. Julien knelt to retrieve it, and yelled a second time when a furry little paw darted out from under the desk and snagged the back of his hand.
“Fuck’s sake,” Julien sighed. “You know, so far I’m not too impressed by Southern hospitality.” He got even lower to peer under the bottom shelf and sure enough found the same cat staring back at him smugly, card deck half tucked under its chest.
“If you’re down there looking for a bed that’s just right, Goldilocks, mine’s upstairs.”
A man’s voice. Behind him. Julien shot up to his knees so quickly he would have smashed his head into the desk’s top ledge if not for the warm, soft hand suddenly cupping his crown just long enough to act as a buffer between his skull and the wood, then gone. The only proof it had been there at all was a faint tingle where he’d been touched and the distinct absence of a painful head.
“Thanks. Hell, you sca-scared me,” Julien stuttered. For half a second it looked like the man standing over him had blank, colorless eyes, as flat as the cat’s. But then he shifted his weight and Julien could see it was just a trick of the light. They were a perfectly conventional gray. Nice-looking, even, though perhaps a little washed out in a pale face framed by black hair. Slightly less conventional was the dangerously short, peacock blue silk dressing gown he wore over, Christ, nothing at all, if the cling of that fabric wasn’t lying.
“My apologies.” The man cleared his throat politely and Julien tore his gaze back up, embarrassed. “I’m not up to date on the proper etiquette for interrupting a thief. It seems an invitation to bed only terrifies one half to death. How disappointing for the ego.” He squinted at Julien critically. “To be fair, a keen-eyed observer might argue you looked about three-quarters of the way there on your own. To death, that is, not to bed.”
Julien gaped, unsure what to feel more offended by first. At least the critics had the heart to call him names behind his back. “I’m not a thief,” he said finally, because it wasn’t a crime to look old and worn-out quite yet.
“A housebreaker, then,” the man said, inspecting one of his own fingernails with a bored expression. “An interloper. Persona non grata, though admittedly you look very grata indeed from this angle.”
Julien felt warmth spread down his defrosting body and he quickly pulled himself to standing. The bruise across his chest throbbed and he had to bite back a grunt of pain—unsuccessfully it seemed, from the way the man’s eyes narrowed with curiosity.
“You’re bleeding.” It was a statement, not a question, and Julien glanced down at the back of his hand, surprised the man had noticed.
“Your cat scratched me.”
“If you’re hoping to sue, I should tell you her owner is on his honeymoon and would react poorly to being interrupted.”
“Of course I’m not going to sue.”
“In that case it’s nothing less than you deserve, you trespassing fiend.”
“I’m sorry,” Julien said haltingly. “I was under the impression that this was a hotel.”
The man ran his hand over the wood of the desk with a thoughtful expression. “Is this the impression you were under? See, I would have called it a desk, myself, but then I’m a simple, straightforward sort of soul. What you see is what you get.”
“Well, I can see quite a bit,” Julien muttered under his breath, and to his surprise the man grinned and just leaned back against the wall, causing the robe to slip even higher up his legs.
“And what exactly were you hoping to get all the way down there?” He seemed totally untroubled to be practically naked in front of a stranger. Maybe soaking wet, half-frozen and three-quarters of the way to death, Julien didn’t look very intimidating. Maybe the man felt physically secure with his younger body and thick, powerful-looking thighs.
The tingling on Julien’s scalp where the man had touched him intensified and he dragged an impatient hand through his hair. “I was looking for an outlet to charge my phone.”
“But of course you were. I’ve been known to get on my hands and knees for the sake of an outlet myself. Carry on, Raffles.” The man tilted his head to the side, studying Julien in a lazy, knowing sort of way. “Unless you need someone to play Bunny?”
It was the sort of over-the-top flirting men did when they were utterly certain it wouldn’t go anywhere. Teasing and unserious with no genuine interest. Meant to fluster and nothing else.
“I said I’m not a thief,” Julien said tightly, suddenly feeling as weary and washed-up as he apparently looked. The crash must be catching up with him. “I’m sorry; it’s been a hell of a long day.”
He thrust his hand out, then quickly retreated when the man simply regarded it with a single raised eyebrow. Fair enough.
“My name’s Julien. I’m on my way to the ski lodge, but had an accident a little ways up the road. My phone’s dead, so I hiked down this way and saw the sign and, well, yes, I came in and helped myself to the power. I’m sorry if I surprised you or made you uncomfortable at all.” He could hardly say it with a straight face. The man didn’t look like he knew the meaning of the word discomfort. “Are you a, uh, guest here? Owner?”
“No.” The man smiled sharply. He had a small heart-shaped mouth that gave his whole face a sort of pointy, foxy look. “I’m a thief.” His gaze flickered toward the door with a distinct frown and Julien instinctively did, too, just as a loud banging sounded.
“What’s that?”
“Some cultures call it knocking. You wouldn’t be familiar,” the man murmured, slipping past him with a sway in his hips that did interesting things to the silk.
Julien looked purposefully away and followed him into the lobby just as the man opened the door. On the stoop stood a woman, dripping with blood.
Julien swore and hurried closer. “What the hell!”
The woman took one wide-eyed look at him and sagged forward, forcing Julien to reach out and catch her. Her body felt cold and fragile against his and she let out a long shuddering sob and began murmuring something frantically into his chest. Julien looked over her head for help, but the man in the robe had backed away, expression closed, almost wary, and Julien felt a corresponding prickle of unease.
“Are you hurt? What happened?” he asked.
“Sweet Pea,” she cried. “I saw the monster!”
Chapter Two
Of course Eli had expected it all to go tits up sooner or later. He’d just thought two weeks was a bit quick, even for him.
Though if one liked to quibble, and Eli liked little else more, it had been two months since he was first offered the job as manager of the Maudit Falls “Retreat.” Some of that time had even been spent productively: reaching out to old rebel pack contacts, hiring medical staff, setting up the cabins with everything they’d need for runaways to recover, start over, move on.
Was that all interspersed with licking his own wounds, crashing his ex Oliver Park’s newly wedded bliss, and drinking the happy couple out of house and home? Very much so. But that had been productive work, too, in its way. Two months ago, he’d been in no fit state to help anyone but himself to another glass of wine. This morning he’d been showing his very first hire, Dr. Mutya Capili, where the fuse box was with a fragile, foreign feeling dangerously close to pride. Well, it was a tale as old as time. One moment you’re fiddling with the fuses and the next you’re watching your dreams burn down. Que será, será, so they sing.
Though perhaps Doris would be singing a different tune if she, too, found herself sidelined in her own lobby watching a cop man attempt to interrogate a couple of uninvited guests spouting nonsense about some eight-foot supernatural creature lingering around the roadside like it had picked up part-time work as a crossing guard.
Most of the current spouting in question was coming from the woman, Annabelle Dunlop. She’d introduced herself last week, when she’d shown up on his doorstep the first time, significantly less bloody and ostensibly there to welcome him to the neighborhood. Eli doubted that very much. It wasn’t difficult to notice her smile had only warmed when she’d realized the retreat had no interest in poaching the wealthy, outdoorsy clientele of Blue Tail Lodge, her own ski resort over the mountain. Eli had told her they were a sanctuary for people escaping bad situations. A place where those who needed to get away could receive help, catch their breath and figure out what came next. It was even almost the truth—a rarity for Eli.
Please, call me Annabelle was a tall, white woman in her late thirties with the sort of powder-soft, crepe-like tanned skin some people got when they started wearing sunblock at twenty-nine. It hadn’t put much of a crimp in her obvious good looks, though. She knew it, too, from the way she kept shooting searching, sidelong glances at the man Eli had found intriguingly facedown, ass-up under the desk. Less attractive were the tangy streaks of blood dripping down the side of her face, and matting her long, heavy blond hair.
“I told you, I saw the car in the ditch and pulled over to see if the driver needed help,” she was saying, holding the ice pack Eli had scrounged up to her head. “But when I got closer, I heard something, behind the trees. I followed the noise—”
“You walked into the woods?” the cop interrupted. Maudit Falls’s very own police chief, David Bucknell, apparently. Also white and in his late thirties, Bucknell was a bit shorter than Annabelle, but broad. One of those people determined to counteract height with the width of their shoulders. He had a pleasant, friendly face that was currently twisted in a concerned grimace. “Alone, in the dark, toward an unidentifiable noise?”
“I thought the driver might have—have wandered off the road,” Annabelle stuttered defensively, and sent another glance toward said driver.
Somehow Bucknell’s expression turned even more unimpressed.
“I hadn’t even gone that far when I felt a—a presence. I knew I wasn’t alone.” Annabelle’s voice dropped to barely more than a whisper and the other humans leaned closer to her, tense and waiting. “I called out, but no one answered. The whole forest had gone quiet. I started back toward the road and heard something behind me. I could tell it was moving fast so I began to run. But it was so dark that I kept falling down.” Her voice shook a little and she gestured with the ice pack at the shallow cut on her head. “I hit a branch, but I was too frightened to stop or slow down. I just—just kept running until I got here.”
There was a moment of silence.
“And you never left the road?” Bucknell asked, turning to the wayward driver.
It seemed to take a moment for him to realize the question was for him. “No...? Why would I? I hiked down here to look for somewhere to charge my phone and call in the accident,” he said, sounding confused. Then his eyes widened with genuine surprise as the implication in Bucknell’s words sank in. “Oh! No, I didn’t—I would never—”
“David!” Annabelle interrupted. “Of course it wasn’t him chasing me around the woods. Don’t you know who this is? Julien Doran?” The movie star? she mouthed without subtlety.
Surprised, Eli took a more careful look at the man. Or rather a more careful look at the man’s face, this time. It was hardly a chore. Tall, square jawed and impeccably fit, he was white, in his midforties perhaps, and had very dark hair that glinted auburn in the low lobby lights. Handsome enough to be a movie star certainly. Charming enough, too, the way he immediately slipped into an obviously well-practiced bashful look and pulled out a few lines like Call me Julien, please and Not a star, just an actor who got lucky once or twice. It was a very different character from the awkward and delightfully easy-to-fluster man he’d been behind the desk.
Eli did sort of recognize him now. One of the many effortlessly attractive faces that had graced the blockbusters twenty years ago, before transitioning to guest roles on poorly lit limited series and festival darlings. Eli had even seen one of his later movies once. Some devastating art house film he’d been dragged to on a date, about a man trying to raise a baby goat in the city. It was all an allegory for the opioid epidemic. Apparently. He hadn’t actually finished the thing. A well-placed hand and a couple of soft squirming sighs had convinced his date they should leave early. Eli didn’t like sad stories.
Doran had changed since then. He had scruff for one thing. More coppery than his head hair, it had even faded to a pale rose in some places, giving the redhead’s take on salt and pepper, whatever that was. Garnet and gold. He looked older, too. Granted, it had been over a decade since the goat movie, but there was a new, unmistakable weariness in the tilt of his head, the quiver of his hands, the scent of his skin.
Doran glanced over at Eli suddenly—he’d been studying him too long, even the most unobservant human could have sensed it—and blinked at him curiously. His eyes seemed different in person, too. Big, round and so dark they looked black. Prey eyes, Eli thought absently, biting his lip, and was startled when Doran looked suddenly nervous and ripped his gaze away.
Eli ran a quick hand over his own jaw, nose, ears, scalp. But everything was where he’d left it.
“The skiing,” Doran said, answering some question Eli had missed. “I’m just in town for the skiing, but I had an accident up the mountain. An animal ran into the road and I lost control of the car.”
Bucknell tensed, looking grim. “Dead?”
“No. Or I couldn’t find anything like that, anyway.”
“What kind of animal?”
Doran opened his mouth, hesitated. “I’m not sure,” he said finally, sounding oddly regretful. “Larger than a dog, I think. And fast. Really fast.”
“Sweet Pea!” Annabelle breathed. “Finally, a direct encounter!”
Eli closed his eyes to roll them unnoticed. The absurdity. As if any oft-mythologized species that had managed to remain undiscovered for thousands of years by the utmost secrecy would suddenly start flagging down cars. Eli pointedly ignored the irony as he stuck his own metaphorical flag into the fray.
“Mr. Doran, this creature you saw, be it sweet or otherwise—were they injured by the accident?”
“I don’t know,” Doran said seriously. “I thought I hit it. But when I got out, I didn’t see anything. And it looked like—” he paused, glancing at Annabelle beside him, who was staring so intently she looked like she was seconds away from whipping out a recorder “—like maybe I was wrong.”
He was clearly hiding something. Eli stepped closer, inhaling, curious, but Bucknell cut in.
“Plenty of large wildlife in the area—coyotes, black bears, deer,” he said. “There’s even been rumors of red wolves around here.”
“I thought red wolves were practically hunted to extinction,” Doran said.
“Not on Blue Tail Mountain.” Bucknell shrugged. “Annie and I grew up in Maudit. I’ve heard the howling myself. Bobcats are out, too, around now.”
Eli inspected his fingernail and sighed, telegraphing the peak of boredom. “Coyotes and bobcats and deer, oh my. The list of potential suspects grows long. Or is it potential victims? I’ve gotten awfully mixed up. What are we investigating again? Hit-and-run? Who stole Mr. McGregor’s carrots?” He looked at the handsome one and smiled sweetly. “B & E?”
Doran’s jaw flexed. “I’m sorry,” he said politely. “I don’t remember catching your name.”
“I don’t remember throwing it,” Eli murmured.
Annabelle’s laugh sounded a bit forced. “Oh, this is Elias Smith. He’s the new manager of the retreat here.”
“I heard the place was bought up a couple months back,” Bucknell said thoughtfully. “First time this land hasn’t had a Nielsen living on it in ninety years. Though I can’t say I’m surprised after what happened last summer. Are the new owners—?”
