It does not help, I suppose, that his second has travelled up north to help Kieran’s former pack rebuild after Tamesis almostdestroyed them. Chaya was our best point of contact and truly a pleasure to work with.
Deacon is fine but can be ornery, and I am having enough trouble as it is.
“Is something the matter?”
“I have just had a vampire visit,” I say and explain Augustine to him. I explain about the wolf, too, though I do not give him Quinn’s name.
“He wants a challenge, then?” Deacon asks. “I know we have some work still to do, but we’ve been trying to make sure the wolves are all stable enough that any recompense wouldn’t entirely destroy them.”
“I know that,” I say. I know, too, that the wolves weren’t entirely responsible for what happened. Tamesis had control of their pack bonds. He likely bewitched them in a similar way to how those fae at the pub—and Maurice—bewitched me. “All he said is he wants blood. A challenge may suffice.”
“It will have to,” Deacon replies. “We have no other way. He won’t be executing one of my wolves.”
“I know,” I repeat. “You understand where he’s coming from?”
Deacon scoffs. “Of course I do. And he’s showing admirable restraint. But that’s all I can offer.”
“I’ll let him know.”
“Who’s the wolf?”
“I—What?”
“The wolf, Njáll.” Deacon must hear my hesitation because his voice drops lower and more dangerous. “Njáll…”
“It’s Quinn.”
Deacon is silent for a long moment. Then, “No.”
“Deacon, you cannot—”
“No. Another wolf can face the challenge if necessary. I’m sure Kieran will be more than happy to take Quinn’s place. He can’t do it.”
“The vampire said Quinn killed his partner. Is it true?”
Deacon is silent again and I tighten my grip on my phone.
“Deacon! Is it true?”
“Yes.”
My heart sinks. I know Quinn was damaged, both emotionally and mentally, by Tamesis’ hold over him, but I never truly thought… I shake my head.
“He has to take responsibility.”
“The person responsible is dead,” Deacon snarls. “Tamesis is dead and his bones ground to dust. Your vampire can have a ceremonial challenge, or he can have nothing at all.”
He hangs up and I stare at my phone, shocked, before I drop it onto the desk and bury my face in my hands. What am I supposed to do?
A noise has me looking up to where Maurice has moved in and perched on the desk next to me. He peers down into my face, a furrow between his brows.
“You can…” he begins, then shakes his head and tries again. “You can do this.”
I study his face, the sharp lines of it and the way his grey eyes narrow when I don’t reply. His lashes are dark, terribly long, and I’m caught by the sudden urge to try to rub the lines on his brow away.
“I want to chase you,” I say, and it’s only when the words are out of my mouth that I realise how true they are.
Ishouldeat. I should be clear-headed and prepared to deal with all this.
