“Brentwood is busier than usual with the wards down, but it’s odd how both bombs hurt people without killing them.” I pulled down flour and sugar from the cabinet. “Our bomb came close, though.”
“Given the timing, we’re curious about that too. There hasn’t been enough material left of the mechanisms themselves to determine whether the bombs are on timers or remotely detonated.”
Buttoning my lips, I held in an offer to inspect any remains. I could likely identify a Sartori by scent. Had Carmichael hired out the job, not so much. But it sounded like either way, it was a bust.
“We know the bomber is in town to keep rigging them, so it could go either way.”
“Pyromaniacs tend to set fires then circle back to watch them burn after they’ve gathered a crowd.” His expression pinched. “Makes me wonder if a bomber thinks similarly. Returning to the scene of the crime or watching from nearby to control the exact moment of ignition.”
“I didn’t think to ask, but the other bombs were all planted in cars too?”
“Yes.” He slouched in his chair. “All in residential areas.”
“Then we’ve either been very lucky no one has been seriously hurt, or the bomber has another agenda.” A distraction? But why? It made no sense. “Any connection between them and the poisoner or…?”
“None so far.”
“Then we still don’t know if we’re being targeted on one front or two.” I exhaled. “We have to move ahead with tracking Carmichael. There’s no way this isn’t connected to him. Even if he’s not directly responsible, he’s emboldening others to make their move.”
“The other packs, prides, and clans were Sartori allies.” He mulled it over. “They worked closely with Mercer, but Sartori commanded their loyalty. He might have people in those camps willing to stir up trouble on his account and help him achieve his goals.” He lowered his head. “That would sow seeds of unrest within alliances on both sides. I don’t think the Sartoris will move against us at this point. Not if there’s a risk of their former allies turning on them. But you were right when you suggested meeting with Mercer a few days ago. We can acknowledge his new role as a courtesy and get a read on how the leadership transition is going. We can also test the waters for a truce.”
“Should we do that before or after we attempt to locate Carmichael?”
“Better to ask forgiveness than permission.”
“You think there’s still a chance they’re working together?”
As we hashed out our thoughts, I whipped together a simple batter for pancakes. I was grateful for the routine to occupy my hands. Silly as it might be, I could hardly believe I was standing in a kitchen with a man as powerful as Rían, and he was listening to me. He paid attention to me. My opinions and experiences carried weight with him.
“I wouldn’t put anything past Sartori, and Mercer challenging him was a shock. He’s never struck me as a man who craved power, but he’s loyal to the pack. I could see him weighing fealty to Sartori against the wellbeing of the pack and deciding based on that.”
“I agree.” I shook my head. “I never in my wildest dreams imagined Mercer turning against Carmichael.”
“You know them best, so your gut instinct carries more weight, but you were missing key information to understand their dynamic.” Rían put it gently, but he meant I hadn’t known I was a long-festering thorn digging into Mercer’s side. “That puts us both at a disadvantage when it comes to determining whetherit was a ruse, Sartori losing the challenge, I mean, or a genuine shift in pack dynamics.”
The thorn was out now, but the wound—and infection—remained in Mercer, poisoning his reasoning as surely as Carmichael’s obsession had sickened him.
“With witches on their side, and all the charms the pack carries, it will be hard to tell if Mercer lies to us. We won’t be able to smell his intent or emotions. He’s got a solid poker face too, so it’s going to be hard to read his expression for signs he’s telling the truth.”
“Between you, Liam, and Sloane, we’ll walk away with more information on the opposition than he will. That’s the best we can ask for in this situation.”
As I stacked pancakes on the plate, a peculiar queasiness swept through me. I lifted the milk carton to take a sniff and make sure it hadn’t gone off, but it was fine. Then it hit me. “Pancakes.”
A breakfast comfort food. I had made them on reflex. They were my go-to for guests.
“Pancakes,” Rían echoed, placing a hand over his stomach. “I wasn’t going to say anything but…”
Not so long ago, Liam and Sloane had burnt pancakes into frisbee-like discs, told me Goldie made them for me, and guilted me into eating them. Except Rían had taken half the stack upon himself. Now both of us had delayed-onset pancake trauma.
“What do you say we divvy this up between Goldie and Sloane then hit a diner for breakfast?”
“Yes,” he rushed out, angling so he wouldn’t even catch a glimpse of syrup from the corner of his eye.
The noise hadn’t woken Goldie or Sloane, so I fixed them plates and placed them in the oven. I wrote them a quick note explaining where we had gone and stuck it to the coffee table where the neon pink was sure to grab their attention.
After a quick change, I brushed my hair and teeth, checked for my phone and wallet, and escaped the buttery scent lingering in the kitchen. Rían and I sneaked out and hit the sidewalk. With the town open for business, I didn’t have to check the hours on Egging You On. They did an all-day brunch that, while it would put us in the firing line for more of that unwelcome smell, was to die for.
Halfway to the restaurant, a slight figure dressed in black sweats with a hoodie concealing their hair hustled across the street, and my senses came alive with suspicion. I couldn’t pinpoint why my danger radar was pinging, and I couldn’t pick up a scent. I took one step forward, intending to confront them.
