The relief on his face when he saw her was unmistakable. ‘You’re still here. Thank goodness. There’s a problem, Mal. A big problem.’
Shit. ‘Let me out!’ she snapped to the woman. ‘My business is done and I’m leaving.’
The thrall sniffed. ‘Good. And good riddance.’
Mallory met her eyes. ‘It’s not my fault Eric was thrown out. Blame that on your boss.’
‘Eric would still be here if you’d not interfered!’
The woman was probably right – that was something else to feel guilty about. Mallory gritted her teeth and pointed at the door. ‘Just let me out.’
‘My pleasure.’ The thrall unlocked several chains and bolts and the door swung open. As Mallory marched over the threshold, she asked, ‘What is it, Boris? What’s happened?’
Boris opened his mouth to answer but he didn’t get the chance because a blur of fur barrelled down the stone steps and pushed him out of the way. Mallory jumped backwards and the female thrall cried out in shock.
Then the snarling wolf form of Alexander MacTire thundered down the hallway and into Chester Longchamps’ drawing room.
Chapter
Twenty-Four
The thrall went into complete panic mode; she pressed herself against the far wall and immediately started babbling. ‘I don’t … wolf … attack … help … what do I?… No…’ Then she clamped her hand to her mouth as coherent speech failed her completely.
‘He was early,’ Boris said. ‘I let him into the flat and he found a note on your coffee table from Mr Longchamps and then—’ He gestured helplessly.
Mallory knew exactly which note he meant: it would be the one on headed paper that mentioned roasting her entrails, which she’d been too busy to discard properly. Uh-oh.
She tightened her toes and spun around, then pelted back in the direction of the drawing room past the Cursed Portrait, which was now shrieking, ‘Alarm! Intruder! Help!’
Thankfully blood hadn’t yet been spilled. Chester Longchamps had jumped onto the sofa, as if that would somehow protect him from the snarling wolf that was facing him. He was clutching the unwrapped bellarmine jug. ‘We’re under attack!’ he shrieked. ‘That’s a fucking werewolf!’
Mallory darted into the space between Alexander and the vampire and spread her arms out wide. ‘Let’s all calm down!’
‘Eather!’ Longchamps shouted. ‘Attackher!’
For a Preternatural who would probably heal and regenerate from any but the worst of werewolf attacks, the vampire was being something of a prick; then again, hewasbeing attacked in his own home. And it was daylight outside so he likely already felt vulnerable. Alexander had no right to be here and they all knew it.
She turned to face the werewolf head on and injected as much cold authority into her voice as she could. ‘Stand down.’
He deepened his snarl. In return she put her hands on her hips and glared. ‘You heard me. Back off.’
His narrowed eyes flicked to her. Good: at least he’d heard her. The veil of misplaced alpha fury that had brought him here must be starting to dissipate. ‘Everybody needs to take a breath,’ Mallory said.
Alexander’s ears twitched and she thought she was getting through to him, but then a shaky voice trembled from the doorway, ‘Wh-wh– what’s happening?’
She allowed herself a quick side-glance to assess this potential new threat: a vampire she’d never met before. Chester Longchamps knew exactly who it was, though, and was clearly emboldened by the fact that he was no longer alone.
‘Alan! We’re under attack from the werewolves! Get into the Understream and sound the alarm! Get everyone here!’
Oh no. Mallory’s stomach dropped sickeningly as she realised just how much danger they were suddenly in. The vampires would see this as an act of war. They’d maintained cordial relations with the werewolves for decades, beyond the odd light skirmish here and there, but this wasn’t a daft brawl or a silly argument. Alexander had broken into Chester Longchamps’ home and violence was vibrating through every shred of his lupine fur. If she didn’t stop this now, it couldspell disaster not just for everyone in this room but for all of Coldstream.
‘Wait!’ She flung out her hand towards the vampire. ‘Everyone wait. That means you too, Alan!’
Alexander growled again and his hackles rose still further. Frozen in the doorway, Alan squeaked. Chester Longchamps stiffened. Goddamnit.
‘That is not a werewolf,’ Mallory said. ‘It can’t be.’
‘Are you mad?’ Longchamps bellowed. ‘Look at it! Of course it’s a fucking werewolf!’
