Page 21 of A Wolf's Revenge

Francis had the detonator. It would be on his person or within immediate reach, and if I moved on the holding rooms without neutralizing it first, I was gambling that he wouldn’t trigger it the moment he registered the building was compromised. I was not willing to gamble with that.

Francis’s room was on my floor, third door on the right from the stairwell. At two in the morning, he’d be asleep or close to it, and I’d been a quiet, compliant presence for three days, nothing to raise his alertness. The master key would open his door.

What I did next would determine whether the rest held.

The key turned without sound.

I held the door at the frame as it swung inward and stood in the gap, listening — and for once, not only with my ears. Francis was on the bed, on his back, the slow deep rhythm of genuine sleep. His scent told me the rest of it: no adrenaline, no wakefulness under the surface, a man entirely down. On the nightstand: a phone face-down, a glass of water, the detonator.

I crossed to it.

My wolf came up as I moved — not the dulled, distant thing it had been for thirty years, but close, awake, pushing at me the way it used to. It knew what Francis was. Close the distance. End it. He’s asleep. He’ll never feel it.

In another life, I’d have done exactly that without a second of hesitation. That version of me was not entirely gone — I could feel him in the stillness I went into, the place where emotion stopped and mechanics began, and tonight, I could feel the wolf agreeing with him, which was new, and worse.

But that version of me had no family two floors down. And killing Francis in his bed would wake the building as surely as a gunshot — a dead man stops breathing, and in a house full of wolves, the absence of a heartbeat is a sound.

I held the wolf where it was. It did not want to be held. I picked up the detonator anyway.

He moved — a shift, a half-turn toward the nightstand — and I went completely still, the device in my hand, close enough that if he opened his eyes he would see me. Three seconds. Five. His breathing re-settled. His hand reached the edge of the nightstand, found nothing, and withdrew.

I was across the room and through the door before he finished the movement.

In the corridor, I pressed my back to the wall and breathed, and let the wolf back down to where it lived. A two-stage mechanism: safety cover, then the button. I flipped the cover, removed the battery, and put both pieces in separate pockets.

That problem was solved.

Two floors down, the air changed.

I felt it before I reached the bottom of the stairwell — the green-bitter wrongness thickening with every step, the same poison I had smelled three blocks from a burning house thirty-four years ago. The Conti’s had treated the holding wing the way my father had treated their grounds. Whatever else they were, they were still a pack that had learned the hard way how to cage one of their own.

It meant Amy couldn’t turn. Couldn’t have torn the door off its hinges, couldn’t have fought her way to her son as the wolf she was. They’d taken that from her the same way it had been taken from Kerra. The understanding moved through me cold and clarifying, and I pushed it down, because there was a version of tonight where I let what they’d done turn into rage and got all three of us killed, and I was not going to live that one.

My own wolf guttered as I came off the stairs into the treated air, the strength bleeding out of my limbs, the senses going flat. I had a few minutes of useful function before the aconite took the rest. I moved fast.

The corridor smelled of damp and old machinery. I went along the wall, listening at each door. At the third, I stopped.

A child’s breathing. The slightly-too-fast rhythm of someone not quite asleep, hovering at the surface — the way Noah always slept when something was wrong, one ear open even at six years old, monitoring for the sound of a door. Under it, slower and deliberately even, Amy. Awake and pretending not to be, conserving herself, the way a smart wolf does in a cage she can’t break.

I put the master key in the lock. Turned it. Pushed the door open slowly.

Amy was awake.

She was against the far wall with Noah curled into her side, one arm around him, and she had something in her free hand — a bracket or hinge she’d worked loose from somewhere — held with the grip of a woman who’d decided she wasn’t going to wait to be rescued. She had it raised before the door was half open, and her body had gone into the low, ready set of a wolf about to launch, the instinct intact even when the shift wasn’t available to her. Trapped, dosed, three days in, and still the most dangerous thing in the room.

She saw me.

She lowered her hand. She pressed her mouth together the way she did when she was holding in something that would otherwise come out as a sound she didn’t want to make. Her eyes went bright and stayed there.

I crossed the room, crouched in front of her, put my hand on her face, and she turned into it for exactly one second, and in that second, even here, even with both our wolves drowning in poisoned air, the thread I’d felt at the top of the stairwell pulled tight. Quiet. Undeniable. The thing I’d spent eleven years calling a marriage I’d been lucky to choose, instead of what it was.

I would deal with that later. I straightened.

“Noah,” Amy said, very quietly. “Wake up, baby. Daddy’s here.”

He came awake fast the way children do, looked at me, and said my name. I picked him up, held him with one arm, kept my other hand on Amy. His small wolf stirred against the aconite — I felt it try and fail, the way a young one does, reaching for the shift on pure instinct and finding it gone. He was too frightened and too dosed to manage it even in clean air. He pressed his face into my neck instead.

“Are you hurt?” I said against his hair.