The Werewolf's Wife

Her smile dropped and she sighed. A man like that would truly be one in a million, but she was up for the hunt. So long as he didn’t wear plaid, didn’t mind she liked to play Mozart louder than Ryan played his heavy metal, liked to eat things such as foie gras and truffles, and oh yes, could please her in every way imaginable in the bedroom—and anywhere else the mood struck them.

Out in the kitchen, with a flick of her fingers, her purse and the Smart car keys floated into her grasp. She touched the garage doorknob, when the phone rang. Glancing over a shoulder to check the caller ID—because if it was anyone on the Council, she’d let it ring to message—she noted it was a foreign number.

“Switzerland?” She’d checked in with Ryan last night to make sure he was ready. “I wonder if the flight was delayed. Hello?”

A metallic click sounded, and then a voice, obviously altered because it sounded robotic, said, “Getting ready to pick up your son, Ms. Rowan?”

“Who is this?” She stared into the receiver, as if that would produce an image of the caller, but she had no such magic. “Tell me your name, or I’m hanging up right now.”

“You hang up, your son will hate you for it.”

“You’re lying. What’s going on?”

The voice buzzed metallically and Abigail heard someone crying in the background. That sound had not been mechanically altered.

“Ryan?” Her hands began to shake, and her heartbeats stuttered against her ribs. The scent of burning electronics pierced the air. She clenched the plastic receiver. “Ryan, is that you?”

“That was your son. A little jet lag, I’m sure, is the reason for the emotions. Now listen. I’ll only say this once.”

She nodded, her fingers growing white about the phone.

“Your son did get on the plane from Switzerland to Detroit this morning. We managed to get him an earlier flight, and notified his school and they were very cooperative getting him to the airport on time. One of my associates has picked him up at the Detroit airport, much to the little kicker’s protests.”

Ryan had struggled against his kidnappers? Abigail gasped and a mournful moan escaped. “Where is he?”

“He is in our custody in an undisclosed location somewhere in the United States. We are keeping him in protective custody, for his sake and yours.”

“Protective? You’ve kidnapped him! Who are you?”

Her fingers clenched and she felt the heat burgeon in her palms until her fingertips turned red. The electrical outlet next to the oven began to glow.

“I can alleviate your concerns by telling you we are allied with the Light.”

The Light was what the witches called themselves, though a few did practice dark magic. Witches had taken her son?

“I don’t understand this. What do you want? Who are you? I can give you money.”

“We don’t want money, Ms. Rowan. And we don’t want you running to the Council to tattle on us.”

They knew about the Council? That confirmed the caller must be from the paranormal nations. But it didn’t confirm they were actually of the Light.

“Tell me what you want. I’ll decide myself if it’s something I should keep from the Council. You know I do sit on the Council, so in essence, they already know.”

“You won’t bring this to them if you want to see your son alive.”

Abigail caught a gasp in her throat. She could barely hear over her pounding heart. Tears leaked from her eyes. She caught her hip against the kitchen counter and leaned against it for support. Sparks flashed from the outlet. She tucked her fingers under an arm to keep accidental magic from shooting out.

Her voice trembled when she said, “Go on.”

“Listen carefully. Write down the name I am about to give you. If you don’t find this vampire within forty-eight hours … well, then, we won’t be able to protect your son.”

“A vampire? What do witches want with a vampire?”

The pause on the line made her regret the outburst. Hell, she wanted answers. No one told her what to do. She told others what to do. But this was different. She had to do as they said, or at least make it appear as if she were playing along. Her son’s life was on the line.

“What do witches usually do with vampires?” finally came the reply.

Once every century witches needed to consume a live, beating vampire heart to maintain their immortality. It was an odd request, since most witches had no problem obtaining a source, as the vampires were called.

“Can’t you get your own source? My son is an innocent. There’s no need to involve him—”

“As I’ve said, we are protecting him from forces beyond your control.”

“Beyond my— You’re speaking nonsense. I’ve protected him all his life.”

“And look how easily we were able to apprehend him. Tut, tut, Ms. Rowan. Perhaps you need to review your protection procedures. Now, write down this address. We’ll meet exactly forty-eight hours from now.”

She scribbled down the address and the vampire’s name on the notepad stuck to the refrigerator with a magnet. She recognized the location as north of the Twin Cities. “Let me speak to Ryan.”

Click.

The drone of the disconnected receiver sliced through her heart. Abigail dropped it to the floor and followed by plunging to her knees and bowing her head into her hands.

Above her head, the electrical outlet exploded and the plastic cover shot across the room. Sparks showered the glass stove top but did not take to flame.

The only flames in the room were those inside Abigail’s heart. Someone had taken her son. The bad witch she had once been raged to the surface and punched the cabinet, cracking the wood door in two.

Ridge rapped on the door to a Victorian house in the elite Lake Harriet neighborhood off Upton Avenue. A person had to be rich to live in one of these cozy and finely preserved houses a short walk from the lake where sailboats and personal watercraft dotted the water in the summer. He’d seen a kite-sailer skimming the frozen lake after he’d parked the pickup and got out. Crazy kids.

Despite the cottage look of the house and the quiet neighborhood, the area was too upscale for him. And the houses were packed together tighter than sardines in a tin. Made his skin prickle, and not in the good prickly way he was accustomed to. He preferred the country, with room to breathe in the fresh air and trees, lots and lots of trees.

The bright red front door swung open. A gorgeous blue-eyed witch dressed in sexy, body-hugging white took one look at him, chirped as if she’d seen a ghost, and slammed the door in his face.

At least she hadn’t wielded the finger of pain at him. He counted himself lucky so far.

Ridge rapped again. “Abigail, we need to talk. And you know what about.”

The glimpse of long dark hair curling over her shoulders, and those bright eyes, stirred an innate desire he’d thought he’d never feel for her again. She hadn’t changed much, though she’d been a blonde when he’d seen her earlier this summer following the Creed wedding, and in Vegas, but women were always dying their hair for reasons beyond his comprehension. No matter, she looked … clearer than he recalled. And he knew why. He’d been sober since that crazy night in Vegas.

The door opened again and she stuck her head out. He caught the scent of coconuts and was instantly transported to that cheesy motel room amidst giggles and haphazard sex. “I don’t have time for this, Ridge. I’ve an emergency.”

The door slammed again, obliterating all images of that crazy night. For the better.

This time he leaned against the door, but as he thought to twist the fancy glass knob and walk right in, his manners—and his sense of self-preservation—reminded him he’d probably be safer on this side of the door. With a wince, he pondered how well the thin slab of wood would protect him against magic.

There wasn’t much he feared. Vampires gave him no challenge. Faeries were amiable toward him. Demons just plain creeped him out. But a smart wolf never returned to a place—or person—of danger.

“Just a few minutes, please, Abigail?”