Keeping Secret

The sign welcoming us to St. Francisville felt like a pin in the inflated balloon of our tension. The car ahead of us that held Morgan, Jackson and the member of Callum’s pack serving as our guide drove past the beautiful stately homes of the small town. The street was lined by big, old houses with wraparound porches and potted plants that were in bloom even in the early spring climate.



In the grand tradition of all American small towns, the main street was called Main Street, and we followed it all the way through the heart of the town and right back out again. I whipped my head around and watched our destination shrink out of sight into the gloom of the night.



“Uhhhh.”



“Patience.”



“And sweetness, my two greatest traits.”



“Eyes up front,” Lucas directed, gently rotating my chin towards the front seat again. “Look.”



The car ahead of us took a left turn and pulled off the main highway onto an unlit road. Dominick hit the signal and followed onto the gravel.



The wheels crunched the small rocks with the crackle of a bag of chips. Waving sycamore boughs dripping with moss brushed the roof of the car and hung in green curtains down the visible length of the road. A road that seemed to go forever and onward into nothing.



After about five minutes of driving through the Louisiana equivalent of a car wash, the road turned to proper pavement and fanned out into a huge circular driveway. In the center of the driveway was a fountain featuring a low rocky outcropping with a wolf standing on top posed in a howl stance.



The lead car pulled off to the side and we followed suit, taking an open spot in a parking lot already brimming full with a variety of mismatched automobiles ranging from a battered pickup with a Confederate flag sticker in the back window to a silver Lexus convertible.



The three Harley motorcycles next to the fountain piqued my interest, but I said nothing. What the hell were all these cars doing out here, and where was my uncle’s house?



Morgan and Jackson got out of the backseat, and Dominick let himself out before coming around to open Lucas’s door. Once Lucas was out, he rounded the back of the car and released me, offering me a hand to give me a more graceful exit from the backseat.



I don’t know how much grace mattered considering my T-shirt had a prancing cartoon pony on it and my hoodie had fucking ears.



The other driver was a petite young woman with auburn hair who was about two inches shorter than me and looked ten times nicer. She was smiling so much I thought her teeth might crack. Considering how actively Morgan was ignoring the wee driver, I suspected our resident alpha bitch wasn’t a big fan of the shorter woman.



Which meant I liked her right away.



“Your Majesty,” she said, dropping to her knees at Lucas’s feet and ducking her head so low it touched the tips of his shoes. “It is my most profound pleasure to have brought you safely before my king. My name is Magnolia, and I will be at your service during your stay.”



Magnolia got to her feet then stood in front of me. Her smile widened, which I didn’t think was possible. “Your Royal Highness.” Her voice pitched upwards with excitement, then she repeated her toe-touching bow. “I can’t tell you what a joy it is to welcome our long-lost princess back.” She clasped my hand and squeezed. “I will do anything you need. Anything.”



Creepy.



“Well…thanks, Mags.”



Her hazel eyes lit up. “Mags,” she repeated.



Had this girl never heard of a nickname? Did people seriously only call her Magnolia?



Goddamn, I’d dodged a bullet when I avoided being raised by the Southern McQueen clan.



Mags wasn’t a McQueen because of the way she was genuflecting like a motherfucker all over Lucas and me. No one in the upper ranks of the pack would be required to display such a show of obedience.



Magnolia bowed to each of us again—much more subtly this time—then swept her arm to a small path at our left. The winding trail was paved with red wood chips and led up a hill. We followed her lead, Dominick ahead of Lucas and me, while Morgan and Jackson brought up the rear.



Once we’d crested the hill, the answer to where the house was hidden became obvious. A massive Greek-revival plantation house was nestled amongst a group of huge, ancient oak trees whose trunks were green with thick, spongy-looking moss. The house itself rose two stories up, but judging by the height, the rooms inside must have all had twelve-to-fifteen-foot ceilings. Eight white columns lined the front of the house, with more around the sides supporting the roof for the wraparound verandah.



Brilliantly white and clean, the house looked equal parts modern elegance and old-fashioned charm. Above the verandah’s roof was a third floor that was smaller, as though someone had plopped a guesthouse on top, the proverbial cherry at the end of a sundae.



The chip wood path split into a fork, one end leading to the house, another winding behind it and off into the darkness. I didn’t know much about plantations, but I suspected there were more buildings, some equipment sheds and maybe a real guest suite. I was hopeful about the latter, because in spite of the beauty of the main house, I wanted to keep my distance from my uncle.



Magnolia trotted ahead and took the three steps up to the verandah in one leap. A man emerged from the front door, and she hit the deck with such speed I thought she’d been knocked over, but the drop was too graceful. Her forehead was practically against the wooden planks. If I had three guesses as to who the man was, I’d use one and two to suggest Santa or the Tooth Fairy, because they’d be totally unnecessary.



Lucas and I arrived at the steps. I wanted to stay on the ground, but Lucas had no interest in standing lower than the other man. He bounded up the stairs, waiting for Magnolia to move before he extended his hand.



Callum McQueen, Southern werewolf King, was as large in height as Lucas and broader across the chest. He wasn’t yet forty, but the hair around his temples had begun to go gray, showing in stark contrast to his dark brown curls. Curly hair ran in the McQueen family. Blond did not.



Thanks, Dad.



I was betting the women of the south appreciated Callum’s hard jaw and its thick, dark covering of stubble, which clung to his face not unlike moss clung to the oaks. His eyes were dark brown, and if they were the windows to the soul, his were shuttered. Callum’s expression was unreadable. He looked down at Lucas’s offered hand then turned his attention to me, where I remained on the ground level.



“Callum,” Lucas said, forcing his face into an approximation of a smile. “It’s a pleasure.”



If anyone else had addressed Callum so casually, it would have been seen as an incredible faux pas. But Lucas was a king too, and as much as neither of them liked it, they were equals.



After an achingly long pause, Callum took Lucas’s hand and shook it. “Welcome to my home, Lucas. It’s been awhile. Last time I saw you, you were just a pup.”



It wasn’t an outright insult, but I caught on to what Callum was doing. He was trying to remind Lucas who the older, wiser king was of the two of them. Well, older was right at least.



“We were all younger men, once,” Lucas replied politely.



Well played.



“Yes. And now you’re marrying my niece.” Once again the Southern king’s attention pivoted to me, and this time it lingered. “My long-departed niece.”



“Hello…Your Majesty.” I grimaced after the words came out. Even to me they sounded petulant and forced.



Callum pretended not to notice and offered me a smile and his hand. I climbed the steps hesitantly, expecting to fall into a booby trap any moment. I reached the top unscathed and placed my hand in his. His handshake was firm but not crushing. He didn’t need to force his strength on to people. His power was obvious without being showy. He was confident he would be respected in his domain.



“So this is our little Secret.” He took my other hand and held my arms out from my side, like a dressmaker who was checking for a good fit. “My goodness, all grown up.”



“Grandmere made sure I got my vitamins.”



“Grandmere.” He cocked his head to the side. “Hmm. Indeed. How is my mother?”



That was a rich question. She’d run away from him because she believed under his teenage leadership my life would be at risk. Now I was standing here in his clutches—literally—and he was asking after her health.



“She’s well.” I said nothing else.



“Good.” He nodded once. And again. “Good.” He dropped my arms. Neither of us commented on my ensemble, for which I was grateful. “Well, let’s not spend the whole night on the porch. The rest of the pack is at the bar. Magnolia will take you there, and I will meet you later.”



The bar? We drove two hours, and now he wanted us to leave again to make our introductions to a bunch of drunk wolves? Could this get more ridiculous?



“Come on,” Magnolia said, walking around the side of the verandah.



“Uh, don’t we need our cars?” I asked.



“Why? The bar is out back.”



Chapter Eighteen



The Southern wolf pack knew how to bring a party to their front door.



We followed a chip path through another stand of oaks in total darkness. After about five minutes of silence, I was about to ask what kind of horror movie Magnolia was taking us into, when a pair of tiki torches appeared ahead. The path opened into a huge clearing.



To our left was a stone building, shaped like a turret, which looked too small to be a house. To our right was a large wood-plank building with a rickety porch wrapping around it and newly replaced wooden steps that stood in bright blonde contrast to the stain of the rest of the building. Above the entrance was a neon orange sign blinking the words The Den.



More neon decorated the windows on either side of the door and also served to obscure my view through the glass.



“You guys have a bar?” I couldn’t wrap my head around the building in front of us.



More buildings were set off in the distance, most dark, one or two with dim lights shining from their windows. It seemed as if Callum, or more likely my Grandfather Elmore, had renovated the old slave quarters into residences for the pack. With Callum’s home being so far from a major metropolitan area, it must have been easier to have the pack stay close rather than wait to have them come to him.