Given the meaningful look she aimed at Connor, I assumed she’d given him some of that history—and he’d tell me what I needed to know.

“Georgia, you’re family,” Connor began, “but something is going on here, and everyone seems to be ignoring the obvious. One of your elders is dead, and Paisley before him. Maybe Traeger is involved, and maybe he isn’t. But the denial isn’t helping anyone.”

Her eyes flashed, hot with fury. “I’m not in denial, and you’d best remember where you’re standing and who you’re talking to, whelp. I’ve been a member of this Pack—and this clan—a little longer than you.”

“I know,” Connor said, not unkindly. “Maybe you can talk to Traeger, find out if he knows anything else. And maybe you can talk to Cash and Everett, tell them about Loren, Paisley, their fight. Maybe they’ll pay attention. Because—and I’m going to be honest here—I’m getting really fucking sick of this clan.”

He strode to the door, slammed through it.

I walked to the door, but paused. “Not even Connor can save the clan alone,” I said. “Think about that.”

THIRTEEN

Come here,” he said when we walked outside. “I need a minute.”

He took my hand, and we walked together along the path that led to the water. Waves lapped gently at the smooth stones that made up the shoreline.

Someone had built a cairn in a flat spot, a tower of round rocks stacked one on top of another, successively smaller as they neared the top. The builder had left a white flower perched on the smallest stone, which made the pale petals seem even more fragile.

Cairns were often used for burials in places where rock was easier to come by than soil. They left behind a visible and tangible mark of the person who’d come before. This one was small—less than a foot high, only a few inches wide. And I wondered if it had been placed here intentionally. For Loren or for Paisley. Or maybe for the clan, because of the hits it had taken.

We didn’t stop walking until we’d reached the very edge of the land, an outcropping of stone that jutted stubbornly into the water. Connor wrapped his arms around me, stars spinning overhead, the only sound the soft thush thush of the waves and the beating of our hearts.

Silence fell, and I closed my eyes, matched my breathing to the waves until my mind was calm again.

“It talks to me,” he said, chin atop my head.

“What does?”

“The lake. The woods. The stones. Not in words—it’s not a Disney movie out there—but it has a kind of heartbeat, too.”

A shifter’s relationship with the earth was unique among Supernaturals, but it wasn’t often they talked about it. Maybe they wanted to keep that relationship to themselves; maybe they didn’t want to weaken their leather-and-chrome and ass-kicking reputations.

“What do they say?” I asked. “The lake, the woods, the stones?”

“That they’re glad you’re here.”

“I’m glad the stones are here, too. Because otherwise we’d be standing in Lake Superior, and the water looks very, very cold.”

Connor leaned down, dipped fingers into the water. “Definitely chilly.”

He stood up again, and before I could move out of the way, pressed his wet and freezing fingers to my face.

I couldn’t help the squeal forced out by the icy bit of lake now dripping into my shirt. “Oh, you will pay for that.”

“Come at me, vamp.”

“Not now,” I said, shaking out the water. “That’s too obvious. I’ll take my revenge when you don’t expect it. And it will be devastating.”

He just snorted.

“Is the memorial arranged?” I asked quietly, loath to bring up the clan again, but knowing we had plenty to talk about.

“Tomorrow night,” Connor said. “No one is happy, which I guess is a sign of a good compromise. I won’t be able to take you,” he added, uncomfortable or unhappy about the admission.

“I assumed. It’s fine. It’s for the clan. Did you learn anything else?”

“This isn’t the first time the sheriff has deferred to the clan to handle criminal matters. However much they’re paying him, it’s effective.”

“Effective if they want to be left alone, and get no real criticism of what goes on internally.”

He smiled. “Once again, I don’t have to bother explaining things to you.”

“Well, not supernatural manipulation. I was born to that. What’s the deal with Traeger?” I asked after a moment. “Does he have the cabin to himself?”

“His parents are dead—both killed in a drunk-driving incident four years ago. Both of them way over the legal limit. Father and mother both on the bike, and father turned into the path of a semi. Killed them both instantly. Georgia took him in until he was old enough to live on his own. Still checks in on him. He eats dinner with them most nights.”

“He’s got plenty of anger,” I said. “I think he knows something more about what happened to Loren.”

“He said that?”

“Not in so many words. But he was hiding something—his tone, his body language. He doesn’t bluff very well.”

“And he didn’t know they’d argued?”

“I don’t think so, which raises a different question: If he wasn’t angry with Loren for that, what was he angry about?”

“A good question. I’m a little surprised he talked to you at all.”

“Well, Paisley’s brother, Dante, talked to me. Traeger mostly talked at me. He’s a punk. And not the good kind.”

“The good kind being yours truly?”

“Of course. Hot and redeemable. Not necessarily in that order.”

He chuckled, put a hand at my back. “And what else is wrong?”

I didn’t want to tell him. Wanted to handle my own battles. But she was a member of his Pack, and if we were going to have a chance at this, at overcoming everyone else’s attitudes, we were going to have to be honest. Something that was in short supply in Grand Bay.

“I can tell you’re disturbed,” Connor said soothingly.

“Miranda, Maeve, and Jae stopped me on the way to Traeger’s. Miranda had some thoughts she wanted to pass along. About me and you.”

“Did she?” His tone went flat.

“Yeah. In particular, she’s got a lot of thoughts about who you should be spending time with.”

He muttered a curse.

“I can handle myself,” I said. “And I can handle her. But you should watch your back. In case you needed any more proof, she does not want to hand the Pack over to you.”

“She has nothing to hand over,” he said calmly. “The Pack does not belong to her. And if I have my way, it never will.” He sighed heavily, pulled me closer again. “Damn, Lis. It’s been a really long night.”

“It’s barely midnight.”

“Don’t ruin the moment, brat.”

I smiled against his chest. “Just keeping it real.”

* * *

* * *

We decided food was the way to go. We’d take a break, recharge, and figure out a plan of attack. Someone in the clan knew who’d killed Loren; the body, the trail, the prints all smelled like clan, not like something foreign. We just needed to figure out which clan members were involved.

I’d forgotten about the leftover chicken for breakfast, but it went down well with beer and, in my case, a bottle of blood. Even if it made us both a little uncomfortable to partake of Georgia’s generosity after we’d parted on bad terms.

“Let’s go to the firepit,” Connor said. “Sit outside. Enjoy the evening. It’s beautiful out there, and the fire will be relaxing. And maybe we could even talk to some shifters.”

I smiled thinly. “You’re inviting me to interrogate your Packmates?”

“No,” he said firmly. “I’m inviting both of us into someone else’s conversation—which isn’t quite the same thing.” But he didn’t look entirely convinced of his own argument.

“Okay,” I said, and finished the bottle of blood. “Let’s go to the firepit. But I reserve the right to ask inappropriately probing questions.”

He just rolled his eyes.

* * *

* * *

The weather was cool and just crisp. I grabbed a jacket, and we walked across soft grass to the firepit nearest our cabin, found a crackling fire and four shifters sitting in Adirondack chairs around it. Two chairs were empty.

“Can we join you?” he asked.

“Sit,” said a shifter on the opposite side, his face silhouetted between bright fire and dark lake. “Take a load off.”

Connor took one empty chair, and I took the chair to his right, sipped the bottle of beer as I considered the company. Some of the shifters watched us, considered. Others watched the fire or the lake.

“I’m Rose,” said the woman beside me. Her skin was tan; her hair was short, dark, and slicked back. She wore a tank top over leggings; a wide, tasseled scarf was bundled around her neck. She pointed to the older woman beside her. “This is Patsy,” she said, then moved counterclockwise around the circle. “That’s Gibson, and my sister Ruth.”

They all acknowledged the introductions. Gibson was a young man with dark skin and cropped hair. Ruth looked a lot like her sister, if maybe a few years younger.

“Connor,” he said, and they laughed. “And this is Elisa. She doesn’t bite. Unless you ask nicely.”

The shifters chuckled good-naturedly, seemed to relax.

“You’ve stirred up Cash,” Rose said, drinking from a plastic tumbler. “He’s usually pretty low-key, but he doesn’t like being questioned.”

Connor stretched out his legs, folded his arms. “I’m not questioning him. I’m questioning what the hell is happening in this clan that two people died in a matter of weeks. Coincidence bugs me.”