THE PUPPET MASTER AND THE ROGUE ON THE STAIRS
Omar has just dropped a bombshell.
All this time we assumed George Peng was responsible for everything that happened to us last summer. He arranged with the rogues to kidnap Aisha, then he hired them to attack Jericho at his house and forced Eleanor to threaten Jasper into becoming her mate.
But now Omar is saying there was another person, a third party, who was responsible for all of it. Someone else who was pulling the strings all along.
“But who?” I ask. “If someone was controlling George then who?”
Omar’s face drops. “I—I don’t know his name. I only ever saw him.”
“The rogues in charge didn’t say anything? They never mentioned what his position was in the pack?”
Jasper is conspicuously quiet at my side. From the stern look of concentration on his face I can tell he’s running the numbers, trying to compute this new information and make it make sense, trying to figure out who this mystery puppet master is.
“No,” Omar says. “But I can remember what he looks like. I’ll never forget that face as long as I live.”
“Can you describe him?” Jasper asks.
Omar glances at Jasper then back at me and I see a sort of strange determination in his eyes, a spark that’s been missing this whole conversation.
“No, but I can show you. Max, use your gift, find the memory.”
“You want me to go looking around inside your head?”
“It’s the easiest way.”
I’m not sure about this, especially about doing something so intimate with Omar in front of Jasper, but I give him a questioning look and he nods.
“Okay,” I say. I press a palm flat against the glass and Omar lifts his hand to meet mine. I close my eyes and try to concentrate.
Like a rocket I shoot through the darkness toward the red veins of consciousness, and faster than ever before I’m able to identify which belongs to Omar, like he’s calling out to be found, signaling so I can find him. I reach out and grab it, and all of a sudden I’m pulled into a memory.
I’m sitting on a set of metal stairs. It’s hot and dusty, the scent of petrol and wolf musk fills my senses. Below me is a bucket of warm, soapy water, in which I’m holding a pair of blue jeans. Suds cover my wrists as I rub to get them clean. Damn grease never gets out. Just then a black town car arrives, a trail of dirt and dust pluming out behind it. I recognize the car as belonging to Alpha Jericho, but Omar doesn’t have the same recognition. I drop the jeans in the water and stand, wrapping my wet hands around the iron railing of the stairs. A driver wearing a gray uniform and dark sunglasses steps out of the driver’s seat. It’s not George, it’s some other chauffeur I don’t recognize. He opens the back door and finally a wolf I do recognize steps out.
His gray hair is swept back where it sprouts like waves on the sides, the remnants of what was once a thick head of blond. His blue suit is expensive and immaculately tailored. Sunlight reflects off his polished cuff links and patent leather shoes.
Walter Bridgers surveys the industrial site before him as his lips curl downward in an unpleasant snarl. He glances my way and my instinct is to duck, to hide, to not let him see me. But of course, I’m not here, this isn’t happening now. It’s Omar’s memory and in it he doesn’t move, just watches as the fancy pack wolf in the designer clothes turns to glare in his direction. His eyes lock with mine, with Omar’s, and I want desperately to turn away, but Omar doesn’t have the same impulse. He stares Walter down. From his expression, it’s clear Walter has no idea who the random rogue on the stairs is. His sneer turns to a grin as he and Omar continue their staring contest, the grin of a hunter having laid eyes on his prey.
The roar of a large metal door rolling back breaks the tension in the air and Walter turns, ending their moment. Two familiar-looking rogues exit the nearby warehouse. One with a long scar on his face, the other in a denim jacket with the sleeves chopped off and the mark of his gang tattooed on his bicep. Two of the wolves who kidnapped Aisha. They shake Walter’s hand and lead him inside.
As he goes the vision fades and I leave Omar’s memories, my senses flooding back into my own body, and my eyes snap open.
“Max?” Jasper asks. “Are you—?”
“We have to get Omar out of here,” I say.
Omar squints at me, concern wrinkling his forehead.
“Why? What did you see?” Jasper asks.
“Walter. He’s behind all of this. He’s the one who paid the rogues to attack us. He must have used George and Eleanor as a way to cover his tracks. He must be the one who’s turning the other packs against us too.”
“Why would he do that? He has too much invested in the pack, his whole family history is rooted in the Elite Pack. Why would he—?”
“Because he wants power,” I say. “I don’t need to read his mind to know that, it’s clear as day on his face. Who do you think taught Clayton he was entitled to the whole world? Maybe he’s convincing the other packs to align against us to oust your dad.”
“But why try and mate me off to Eleanor?”
