Keeping Secret: Secret McQueen, Book 4, page 10
“It’s pretty new. We found the bar in St. Francisville was, um…” Magnolia bit back a grin and tried to look somber, “…unable to meet our needs.”
Translation, drunk wolves kept starting shit and were putting a beating on the poor townie men.
“So, Callum thought it was best to keep you guys under a more watchful eye?”
Magnolia nodded. “Some of the pack have short fuses. Keeping them within range of their king helps to hold their tempers in line. This way they can still have their fun and no one gets hurt.”
“Can we have a bar?” I asked Lucas.
“What would Genevieve think?”
The queen of the were-ocelots, Genevieve Renard, had a bar in New York that was a popular shapeshifter hot spot. The Chameleon Lounge was a lot fancier than The Den, considering it also housed a 5-star quality restaurant. But the idea of our own little Manhattan pub was sort of appealing.
“Shall we go in?” Magnolia asked, apparently uneasy about the new, hungry look on my face. “I’d like to introduce you to the pack before His Majesty joins us.”
“Yes please, Magnolia. Lead the way.” Lucas nodded his head in her direction without bowing it. He couldn’t show weakness to her or be seen to bow before a lesser wolf.
Werewolf politics and customs took a lot of adjustment to get used to. Magnolia wasn’t subservient because she was a woman. Women in packs often held prominent power positions, like Morgan or myself. And just as often men would fall into positions lower than Magnolia’s in the pecking order. Where you stood depended on the power you projected. And your power was determined at birth. There was no way around it. With wolves you would never be able to rise above the position you were born to hold.
I wondered if that was one of the reasons Kellen had decided not to be Awakened. She was spunky and independent, but she wasn’t powerful. As a human she had control of her future. As a wolf she would have been subservient forever, living in the shadow of her brother the king.
Once we were inside the bar, I became aware of just how quiet it had been outdoors. Within the walls of The Den it sounded like three dozen people were talking all at once. Probably because there were. I was amazed by the number of bodies wedged into the room and how hot it made the air. The smell of wolf was overwhelming.
The conversations—all forty thousand of them, from the sound of it—came to an abrupt stop when we followed Magnolia into the room. My first instinct was to duck behind Lucas, wanting to shrink away from the scrutiny of so many lupine stares. I could handle a few werewolves, but this many in one place put the odds well out of my favor. I was good, but I wasn’t one-against-thirty-six good.
“Brothers and sisters,” Magnolia greeted, bowing her head to a few of the obviously higher-ranked pack members. “I would like to present His Majesty, Lucas Rain, King of the Eastern packs, and his consort, Secret McQueen, Princess of our own Southern pack.”
Every time Magnolia said princess I wanted to cringe. I’d barely wrapped my head around the idea of being werewolf royalty in the past year, and here she was expecting these strangers to treat me like I was special. Maybe I was, but I didn’t want a bunch of roughneck-looking shifters bowing in front of me as Mags had earlier. Thanks, but no thanks.
The wolves sat stock-still for a few moments, casting uncertain glances between themselves until a woman in her mid-forties with a silvering ashy bob came and stood before Lucas and me. She bowed in a way she had not the first time we’d met, but her eyes betrayed her real feelings.
“Hello again, Amelia,” I said, giving her a hard stare.
Maybe I had something against women who acted as the third power seat in the werewolf hierarchy. Amelia was Callum’s version of what Morgan was to Lucas. A strong wolf who probably wasn’t quite strong enough or trustworthy enough to make the final jump to the lieutenant position.
Amelia smiled at me in a cold, predatory way that would make Morgan proud if she had seen it. “Your Royal Highness,” she greeted. I didn’t like her tone. Or her face. Or her dress, for that matter.
Perhaps I was being a touch judgmental.
“Always a pleasure.” The words came out sweet, but in my head I was shouting bitch, bitch, bitch. Lucas couldn’t read my mind, but he knew me well enough he didn’t need to. He grimaced and cleared his throat to bring Amelia’s attention back his way.
“Amelia, nice to see you again. I trust time has treated you well.”
“It has, Your Majesty, thank you.” She bowed again, but not as low as Magnolia had.
For the next fifteen minutes we were at the head of a lengthy queue of wolves who were required to let their beers grow warm while they bowed in a variety of heights and told us how thrilled they were to have us in their territory and how lovely it was to have me home again.
Like this had ever been my home.
The last wolf in line was a squinty, leering sort who I would give a wide berth to in a back alley or at a regular bar. Not that I was physically intimidated by him. Rather, something in his manner set off my spidey sense. He was on the wiry side of lean, and a hunger in his eyes suggested a small nudge would be enough to push him into dangerous losses of control. He smelled like trouble and was probably the main reason they’d been forced to stop socializing with humans.
He gave Lucas a midlevel bow and an appropriate—if forced—royal address. When he turned his attention to me, though, propriety shifted into something different. Not lust—I knew what that looked and felt like. No, this wolf wanted something other than sex, I just didn’t know what it was. He leaned a little too close and sniffed the air around me, nostrils flaring wide as he breathed me deep.
I stood my ground and stared him in his steel-blue eyes.
“I don’t believe we’ve been introduced,” I suggested, trying to give him an opportunity to fix the huge social mistake he was making. Lucas had gone rigid beside me, and it didn’t take our mate bond to know rage was simmering under that hard surface.
“Yes. How silly of me,” the wolf said, his voice raspy and holding the promise of something dirty and raw. “Your Royal Highness.” Those three words sounded filthy coming from his chapped lips. “What a great treat it is to have you home…mingling amongst us commoners.”
“Hank,” Amelia spoke up, “watch yourself.” But she wasn’t really scolding him. The way she said it was more like a parent chastising a child when they secretly found the bad behavior hilarious. The rest of the pack remained quiet and watched us.
“Apologies, Princess,” Hank said.
“Already forgiven.” I didn’t want to start trouble on our first night. And I didn’t want to jeopardize our tenuous peace here by kicking the shit out of a redneck werewolf in a wife beater and saggy Levi’s who couldn’t grow a proper beard.
“Real swell of you to take time from your life in the big city, spending time with all them…lesser sorts.”
At first I thought he meant the vampires and I tensed up, ready to make a break for the door. But when he licked his lips and grinned, I began to question the real meaning behind his words. My hesitation was rewarded when a short but well-muscled African-American werewolf next to the bar groaned and shook his head.
“I’m sorry, Hank, maybe I missed something. Must be the hair.” I laughed and twisted a blonde ringlet around my finger, doing my best impression of Brigit when she was trying to lure in a meal. “What do you mean by lesser sorts?”
“Hank…don’t.” This time Amelia’s warning was real, but still no one moved.
“Heard from some of the pack up there she spends an awful lot of time with some half-breed and his pretty blonde lady friend.”
By his abysmal description I was pretty sure he was talking about Nolan and Brigit. I also now knew exactly what he meant by lesser sorts.
I leaned in close, my lips almost against his ear. “Back away from this. Do it now and you won’t get hurt. But don’t mistake this for forgiveness.” When I stood back, I made sure the threat in my glare was clear. If Hank and I met alone in the dark, one of us wouldn’t come back. No one talked about my people like they were anything less than the best specimens living or undead. And no one talked shit about Nolan.
Hank licked his lips then raised his hands in mock surrender. “Sure thing, sweetheart.”
Lucas intervened, clamping a hand on Hank’s shoulder before my urge to punch the son of a bitch in the face could be realized. “Hank, is it? Maybe your king is okay with you insulting members of your own pack to their face, but I won’t stand for your behavior. Secret is your superior, both in my pack and yours, and if you don’t treat her appropriately, you and I are going to have a discussion about how to show a lady respect.”
The lesser wolf looked like he might protest, but he didn’t get a chance.
Callum came into the room at that moment, and Hank dropped to the floor faster than if someone had screamed duck in the front lines of a war zone.
“Hank, have you been causing problems for my guests? For my family?” Callum placed an arm around my shoulder in an almost paternal gesture, unlike anything I’d ever felt before.
“No.”
“Don’t lie to me.” The growl behind Callum’s words was unmistakable, and the violence it promised pulled me out of the momentary trance his touch had put me under.
“My King, I’m sorry. I meant nothing by it.”
“Then you won’t mind missing the rest of our festivities tonight.”
“I—”
“That wasn’t a request, Hank. Out.”
If he’d had his tail right then, Hank would have slinked out with it between his legs. But as he passed me, our eyes met, and I knew the talking down hadn’t been enough.
Less than twenty-four hours in Louisiana and I’d already made an enemy.
Was there a prize for that?
Chapter Nineteen
Werewolves like to drink.
A lot.
We were an hour into the welcome-wagon fiesta and the Louisiana wolves had worked through enough beer and scotch to put a Sons of Anarchy biker gang party to shame. Even Amelia and Magnolia were drinking their scotch neat and could hold their liquor like troopers.
Three wolves in jean jackets with matching black beards and identical blue bandanas had loaded about seven dollars worth of quarters in the jukebox and were singing loudly and triumphantly off key to Garth Brooks’s “Friends in Low Places”.
Country music and drunk werewolves. This night couldn’t get any better.
On the other hand, when I looked past my bitterness, it was nice to see not everyone in Callum’s pack was a hateful racist like Hank. Werewolves, in that sense, were a lot like vampires. Who you were after the monster claimed you was the same person you were before, only the after picture had more fur or fangs. Hank had probably been raised by the nearest Ku Klux Klan Grand Dragon or whatever, and once that kind of hate blackens your soul, it can’t be undone.
I had to wonder, if he hated me for associating with a half-black kid, how did he deal with having a black man in his own pack? It must have been a hard pill for Hank to swallow. I hoped like hell the African-American werewolf was higher ranked because it would serve Hank right to have to follow the orders of someone he would normally treat like garbage in the street.
I was all for that kind of metaphysical justice.
Nursing my Budweiser, I tried not to draw attention to how little I was drinking. If I’d turned down the booze in a crowd of hard drinkers this close to my wedding, the immediate assumption would be that a tiny werewolf pup was taking up refuge in my womb.
Fat chance on that one.
Truth was, I was the cheapest drunk this side of a group of sixteen-year-old girls with a four-pack of Mike’s Hard Lemonade. My metabolism worked too fast, and I went from zero to drunk in as much time as it took to ask, “You wanna make it a double?” Sometimes it was great, but right now it was a huge nuisance.
So I sipped the shitty beer I’d been offered then held the nearly full bottle up every time someone new tried to get me one and said, “Sorry, so-and-so just got me a refill.”
Morgan and Jackson both appeared to be following my lead, because every time I looked over, Morgan’s whiskey was only half-empty, and Jackson’s beer bottle label was always torn in the same place. I was glad to see they weren’t immediately trusting our Southern hosts and were keeping their guards up.
Lucas, on the other hand, was taking on the task of fitting in with a certain gusto.
That is to say, he was hammered.
You can turn a twenty-seven-year-old man into a king, but you can’t take the twenty-seven-year-old out of the man. Desmond still played Xbox, and Lucas still drank with the gusto of a frat boy at social events. He was making merry with the locals like a pro.
Dominick sat beside me, using his bodyguard duties to avoid yielding to peer pressure. Too bad my pack-protector position didn’t give me a similar out. The slight blond had tipped his chair back, and his eyes were half-closed, giving him the appearance of being near sleep. I wasn’t fooled.
“He looks like he’s having fun, eh?” I asked.
“Eh.” Dominick laughed at me. “You had a wee Canadian slip-up there, McQueen.”
“Sure, sure. Watch yourself or I’ll aboot Chesterfield touque poutine.”
He dropped his chair back onto all fours and gaped at me, his cheeks flushed with amusement. “What just happened there?”
“Oh, sorry, you don’t speak Canadian.”
“Neither do you, apparently, because that wasn’t a sentence in any English dialect ever.”
“Sure it was.” I sipped my beer and smiled for real for the first time since we’d arrived in Louisiana. “I said I’ll beat your ass to a pulp if you ever insult my Canadianisms again.”
“Nonsense. Everyone knows Canadians are a peaceful people.” He was laughing now.
“Tell that to the White House circa 1812,” I told him.
“Oh? Why?”
“Because that’s the year the peace-loving Canadians burned it to the ground.”
Dominick grabbed an empty bottle and jumped onto his chair. The room got silent in an instant as everyone paused to look at him. “Cheers to 1812.” He lifted his empty bottle.
The whole room whooped and raised their full glasses, howling in unison.
I could barely hear over the sound of my own laughter.
After Morgan and Jackson were shown the way to the two-bedroom cabin they’d be sharing, the next stop on the Magnolia Plantation Tour was another dark path into the great unknown. Only this time I had a smashed werewolf king who was leaning on me as though a hundred and ninety pounds of muscle were easy for me to carry, and I no longer had Jackson’s help supporting Lucas’s weight. He was trying to sing me a song, but had come up with a weird mashup of “Endless Love” and “I Wanna Sex You Up”. It was endearing in the way really drunk romanticisms were, but I was too distracted by how heavy he was to appreciate it.
Magnolia interrupted his serenade with a “Here we are.” She and Dominick were doing an admirable job of ignoring the spectacle of a piss-drunk Lucas trying to be a smooth Casanova.
I wanted to defend him and explain that when he wasn’t eighty-percent whiskey, he was incredibly charming. But they didn’t care. He was royalty. He could shit in someone’s hand and they’d say thank you.
We had come to a stop in front of a single-level house built in the same style as The Den. It had been painted an antiqued turquoise color, giving it a fresh, beachy look, and had a porch swing hanging next to the door. I dumped my fiancé onto the swing, where he continued to sing loud and off key.
“I can give him the tour later,” I told Magnolia.
She nodded and opened the front door, letting me into a small but tidy cabin. Immediately inside the door was a kitchenette with a stovetop burner and a tiny bar fridge. To my left was a worn-looking couch sitting in front of a limestone fireplace. Throw rugs were scattered haphazardly across the hardwood floor.
“The wood can feel real cold in the morning,” Magnolia explained. “The fireplaces don’t work anymore. We had to seal them up when critters started coming in and ruining all the unused cabins.”
“It’s okay, I know all about the joys of ornamental fireplaces.”
Along the back wall were two doors. She pointed to the one on the left. “The bathroom.” Clearly it was not a stop on our tour because she steered us in the direction of the right-hand door. “And this is your bedroom.”
Inside, the walls had been painted white, and the exposed beams ran the length of the ceiling and into the main room, showing me that the bedroom wall didn’t go all the way to the top, as if the room divisions had been added later. If these had once been slave quarters, that made sense. Why divide a room for comfort when you could cram people in on top of each other like cattle?
A king-sized bed with a soft white duvet took up most of the room. The only touch of color was a painting of waves rolling off an angry ocean, which hung over the bed. The grays and blue greens tied the stark whiteness back into the seaside color scheme the rest of the cabin had been decorated with.
“Thank you so much, Magnolia.” I saw our bags piled beside the door, my yellow weekender looking extra cheeky amongst all the white. “Thank you.”
“Anything,” she repeated her promise from earlier. “Will His Royal Highness be okay?”
I snorted. “He’ll have a royal headache in the morning, but yes, he’ll be fine.”
“Very good.” She nodded and turned to go. “We’ll see you at breakfast.”
“Oh.” Shit, how was this going to work with so many strangers around? “I don’t know what Lucas or Callum told you, Mags, but I have a…condition.”
She looked puzzled. Well, hell, I’m sure I could come up with something that would be believable to an eighteen-year-old wolf.
“I was born a wolf.” Lucas had told me this was rare to the point of being considered impossible. Only babies who underwent severe trauma in the womb could activate their lycanthropy early. Typically they didn’t and died instead. I was an exception, but I couldn’t explain to them the reasons for it. “I… Because of that I’m more connected to the moon. I’m fully nocturnal.”
