The Werewolf's Wife. Michele Hauf

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СКАЧАТЬ whistled and stepped back a few paces. Mention of the blood sport always brought up his defenses. “You are not serious.”

      “Deadly.”

      “That’s right, you’re the grand high poobah on the Council for werewolf and vampire relations. Since when does the Council take an active role in rescuing vampires from the blood sport? They normally observe and suggest. I can’t imagine they’d step in to personally act on the behalf of one missing vampire.”

      “They won’t, and wouldn’t conceive of taking an active role. The Council can’t know about this. Please, Ridge, I need your expertise. You’re familiar with all the packs in the state. Which ones are involved in blood sport?”

      None of them. He hoped.

      “I … can’t do this.”

      Were some still involved? He was no fool. And he wasn’t stupid enough to believe all the packs had taken the Saint-Pierre wedding as a means to step back from their vicious sport. But he didn’t want to—could not—dredge the Northern pack through that bit of bad press again.

      “I didn’t come here to stick my nose into other packs’ business. I just wanted to unload a wife.”

      “Oh yeah? Well, this wife is going to start nagging in about ten seconds if you don’t help her. And trust me, I don’t have to open my mouth to nag. I’ll let my spells do the talking.”

      She waggled a finger before her, and that night in the Las Vegas motel returned in horrid detail to Ridge. The pain of the infliction had felt like hundreds of thousands of volts of electricity shocking his entire nervous system.

      He glanced at the burned outlet and felt the urge to protectively cover his crotch, but he remained staunch.

      “No magic, please. Is there anything else you’d rather have from me? I stand firm on not associating the Northern pack with the foul blood sport again.”

      She shook her head, lifting a trembling chin. The baddest of the bad was desperate for his help, and she was trying to keep a stiff upper lip about it. Interesting. But he couldn’t resist that soft, quivering lip. Would a kiss be inappropriate right now?

      Probably so.

      Why was it always the damsels who managed to pierce his steel armor and touch his heart? A pouty lip, a few tears. That’s all it took. He was a pushover, and nothing but.

      “Fine, I’ll see what I can do to help, but you swear you’ll sign these papers after we’ve located the vamp?”

      “Yes, but let’s hurry. I want to go to the closest pack, and then on to the next until we find the vampire.”

      He grabbed her by the arm before she could head out the side door. “Why the urgency? You said you had forty-eight hours.”

      Bowing her head, she nodded. “A man, who I suspect is a witch, contacted me about an hour ago.”

      “You suspect he’s a witch, but don’t know for sure?”

      “He said he was allied with the Light. But he could be anyone, really. I’m not normally frightened by anyone, you must understand. Hell, I’ve stood against the meanest of the mean, the sickest of the sick, the vilest of the vile. And I’m no angel myself.”

      He was about to agree, but held his tongue.

      “But I could read the seriousness in his threat. He means business, Ridge. I have to find this missing vampire and bring him to a designated meeting spot in forty-eight hours.”

      “Or what? What are they holding against you that would make you go against the Council, when I know such an act could be grounds for dismissal?”

      Abigail lifted her chin and bravely met Ridge’s eyes. “They have my son.”

       Chapter 3

      When Abigail wanted to leave immediately, Ridge suggested they take his truck. She didn’t give him any more information about her son. He had no idea the witch had a kid. But it wasn’t as if he’d kept tabs on her over the years.

      Only in your dreams.

      “I want to drive,” she said, and veered toward the garage, exhibiting the no-nonsense, listen-to-me-or-I’ll-zap-you attitude he knew all too well. “You agreed to help me, so get on board with the plan, Addison.”

      “Plan? When did we come up with a plan?” When she dangled her keys and stepped into the garage, curiosity led him to follow. “Is there a plan?”

      “The plan is to get moving. Fast.”

      The garage was no warmer than the inside of an icebox, he noted before the door rolled up to reveal the gray evening sky and the security light outside blinked on. Ridge nearly tripped over a toy.

      He backed away from the horrendous red-and-black thing some joker in an R&D department had decided to call a vehicle. It was one of those foreign jobs that would get eaten alive by a semitruck on an icy freeway. Not designed for Minnesota winters, that was for sure.

      “Oh no. I’m not getting into that death trap. I’m sure you have to be a clown to ride in one of these.”

      “Ridge.” She fixed him with an exasperated stare, and he almost looked away for fear her eyes might beam another blast of magic that had very likely left the kitchen wall scarred and bruised near the outlet.

      Almost. He leaned his elbows onto the miniature atrocity and looked across the car at the most gorgeous set of sky blue eyes he’d seen. He hadn’t recalled them being so … fathomless. As if mysteries and secrets swirled around inside the iris, and somewhere in there a man might trip and spiral endlessly after.

      He’d like to trip. Had never once tripped in his dating history.

      “Please, we have to hurry,” the witch pleaded with him.

      He relented to the compelling pull of the damsel’s distressed gaze. Ridge folded himself into the passenger seat, and after adjusting it as far back as it would go, his shoulders still rubbed the door and his knees the dashboard.

      “You’re right.” Abigail turned off the ignition with a frustrated sigh. “This car doesn’t fit you. I’m sorry. Let’s take yours.”

      Pleased to be behind the wheel of his Ford 350—and in control—Ridge navigated the pickup truck around the perimeter of the Twin Cities on Interstate 35W. The snowstorm they’d had three days ago had left a sheen of ice along the shoulder, but the main drive was thankfully clear and dry.

      Abigail had suggested they begin with the River pack, located closest to the Cities, which occupied land on the Minnesota side of the St. Croix River.

      “You’re tilting at windmills,” he said as they cruised the freeway amidst a blur of red taillights heading home during evening rush hour.

      Through rain, snow, hail or sleet, the Minnesota driver never backed down from the challenge of rush hour. Another reason he was thankful his job wasn’t nine-to-five or in a business complex. Ridge liked to drive, but preferred the rough back roads СКАЧАТЬ