Grave Threat: Grant Wolves Book 3 Read online

  Grave Threat

  Grant Wolves Book 3

  Lori Drake

  Published by Clockwork Cactus Press

  651 N US Highway 183 Ste 335 #107

  Leander, TX 78641 USA

  GRAVE THREAT (GRANT WOLVES BOOK 3)

  Copyright © 2018 Lori Drake

  ISBN-13: 978-0-9994333-6-2

  All rights reserved.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means whatsoever without express written permission from the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. Please refer all pertinent questions to the publisher.

  Cover design by Covers by Christian

  facebook.com/coversbychristian

  First Edition: June 2018

  For Amy.

  (Sorry, still no pound puppies.)

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Want more?

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Also by Lori Drake

  1

  Five, six, seven, eight…

  Joey’s childhood dance instructor had once told her that one day she’d get to the point where she didn’t need to count, that the music would tell her what to do. That had never happened. The counts were always in her head, had been ticking away in the back of her mind through every turn, every glide, every lift for the last four hours.

  One, two, three, four…

  The best thing about being in rehearsal was the way the rest of the world fell away. It was just her, Chris, and the dance. The way it had always been. The way it was supposed to be.

  It’d been nearly six weeks since their world had been turned upside down again, and things were finally starting to settle into something that felt normal. Well, sort of normal. They lived in different houses and belonged to different packs, but they were back in the studio. There was something to be said for that, and when they were in the studio, nothing else mattered. Nothing but the dance.

  The music ended, and with it the parade of numbers through Joey’s brain. She looked in the mirror, studying their lines. She was bent back, way back, over Chris’s arm in a graceful arch with one leg extended. His eyes were on her rather than the mirror, and he had a big smile on his face that hardly conveyed the drama of the pose.

  “You’re not supposed to be grinning,” she said, eyes still glued to the mirror.

  “Sorry.” His mouth twitched as he attempted to school his expression into something else and failed.

  Joey lifted her head to look up at him, all set to deliver her best lecture about perfect practice equaling perfect performance, but his smile was infectious. She drew herself upright and rested her hands on his arms as they curled around her.

  “Okay,” she said. “I’ll bite. Why are you smiling?”

  “Because I’m happy.” He leaned down and brushed his nose against hers. “And I like it when you bite.”

  Joey’s face heated, and her already fast-beating heart kicked it up a notch. “You’re not supposed to be happy here,” she chided, but couldn’t keep the smile from her face. “You’re supposed to be serious. This is a serious place.”

  Chris chuckled. “I can be both.”

  He kissed the tip of her nose, then lifted her off the ground, hands at her waist. She laughed and slid her hands from his arms to his shoulders, though it wasn’t necessary to hold herself up. He had more than enough strength to keep her aloft, but a lifetime of concessions for the sake of appearances made the action automatic.

  “Put me down,” she said.

  His eyes twinkled with mischief as he complied, lowering her until her chest pressed against his. Rolling her eyes, she curled her arms around his neck and glanced at the clock on the wall.

  “Again?” he asked, nuzzling her neck.

  He may have been asking about the routine, but the way his lips brushed her skin made her crave another sort of dance. “I think that’s enough for the day.”

  “We’ve still got five minutes. That’s enough time for one more run-through.”

  “I know, but it’s not like we’ve got a deadline looming. I should hit the shower and get on the road. You know what traffic is like going out of town this time of day.”

  Chris’s breath blew across her neck as he breathed a resigned sigh. “Can’t keep the Alpha waiting, eh?” He started across the room toward their duffel bags with her still dangling from his neck.

  “You’ve got an appointment too, you know.”

  “Yeah, I know.”

  He lifted his head, and Joey threaded her fingers through his short hair. The look in his eyes made her heart constrict, and she hated that she’d pricked his happy bubble. “Maybe her research went better this week?”

  “She would’ve called if she’d had a breakthrough. It’s just going to be more of the same. Floundering in the dark, trying to figure out how to keep from falling out of my body again.” He set her down, but she kept her arms around his neck.

  “You’ll figure it out. Have faith, baby. I do.” She gave him her most encouraging smile, then kissed him.

  It was supposed to be a quick kiss, but his arms tightened around her again and it spiraled into something else. Something deeper, more meaningful. When their lips eventually parted, he was smiling again.

  “You sure you want to rush off?” he asked. “I can think of a great way to use those last five minutes.”

  “Four minutes, now.”

  “I can be quick.”

  Joey laughed. “Not that quick.”

  “Fair enough.” His lips brushed hers again. “Come over tonight?”

  The invitation hardly required deliberation, but she feigned it to tease him. “Mmmm, okay.”

  She loosened her hold on his shoulders, and he let her slip away this time. Stooping, she collected her water bottle and duffel, then headed for the door.

  “Joey?”

  She glanced over her shoulder. “Hm?”

  “Tell Mom I said hi.”

  Joey paused with a hand on the door. “Sure. You know, I’m sure she’d like it if you called and told her yourself.”

  “Maybe.” He raked his fingers through his hair, blew out a breath, and bent to collect his stuff.

  “She’s going to want to know if you’re coming to dinner tomorrow.”

  “Yeah.” He stilled, as if reconsidering his automatic response, then nodded. “Yeah.”

  “Okay, see you later.” Joey’s eyes lingered on him. Things had been different between Chris and her mother since he took over the Granite Falls pack. Strained. Maybe it was time she said something to him before it got any worse, but now was not that time.

  She slipped out of the room and let the door swish closed behind her.
>
  Chris parked on the street in front of the small house in Wallingford. It was an eclectic neighborhood on the north side of town, full of cottages and bungalows, a haven for artists, philosophers, and others who didn’t quite fit in with the typical suburban ilk. Witches, for one. He knew of three on this block alone.

  The scent of freshly turned earth and fertilizer tickled his sensitive nose as he picked his way up the flagstone path, the former reminding him—rather unpleasantly—of crawling out of his grave. He pushed the macabre memory aside and looked around, finding that the flower beds were being prepared for spring planting. It seemed early. Spring may have been right around the corner, but winter wasn’t quite done with Seattle yet. They’d had a freeze a few nights prior, and even with the temperature in the low fifties now, a blustery northern wind tugged at Chris’s jacket. He held it in place with his hands tucked in his pockets until he was close enough to ring the bell.

  This is such a waste of time.

  The thought drifted through his mind, unbidden. Sighing, he raked his fingers through his hair and fought down the frustration welling inside him. He’d gotten this far. He wasn’t turning back now.

  The door opened, and Chris blinked in surprise. “Hey, Dean, I wasn’t expecting you to still be here.” The medium had shown up in Seattle a few days after the eventful night that had left Chris with a pack of his own and more lingering problems than he cared to admit. The medium was willing to help with a few of them, for a price. Chris was still waiting on a return from that particular investment.

  Dean gave him an easy smile and held open the door. “We got a bit caught up in it today. Come on in.”

  “Is that a good thing?” Chris asked, stepping across the threshold.

  “Maybe,” Dean said, but his grin gave the game away. Maybe it wouldn’t be a wasted trip after all.

  Chris shed his jacket on the way to the kitchen, grateful for the warmth in the house. He’d probably be sweating by the time he left, but for now, the heat was welcome.

  “Tell me you have good news,” Chris said, dropping his coat over the back of a chair.

  “It’s good to see you too, child. How was your day?” Cathy asked, looking up from her work. Her lips quirked in a smile that smoothed some of the wrinkles around her mouth while creating others.

  “Come on, Cat. Don’t tease him,” Dean said.

  “Did you do it? Did you figure it out?” Chris leaned forward, fingers curling over the back of the chair in front of him. There were books stacked on the table, which wasn’t unusual, but in the center of the table was a peculiar array of crystals with glowing lines of power connecting them. At the center was a medallion, a simple copper disc with a hole in the center, a flower pattern etched around its edges.

  “Mmmm. Maybe,” Cathy said.

  No matter what Dean called her, she’d always be Aunt Cathy to Chris. His mother’s best friend, Joey’s godmother, and—he’d more recently learned—a powerful witch. Cathy had barely settled into retirement from leading the San Diego coven when her loyalties had been put to the test. She’d come to Chris and his family’s aid, but had to sever all ties with her coven first. The consequence? Exile.

  Chris owed her his life, twice over. For that, he swallowed his impatience and lifted his eyes to meet hers.

  Mischief glinted in Cathy’s eyes that belied her aged face, but she relented. “We had a bit of a breakthrough.”

  Dean snorted a laugh. “I’ll say. She finally cracked it. Or maybe she just cracked.”

  Chris reached for the medallion, but Cathy tsked at him, and he froze.

  “Don’t rush me,” she said. “I’m not done yet.”

  Chris sheepishly retracted his hand and rocked back on his heels. “Sorry.”

  Cathy inclined her head, then waved her hand over the stones. She pinched her fingers together, and the lines of power retracted like strings at the hand of a puppetmaster, pulled toward the center until they converged on the medallion. The now-glowing disc levitated off the table and began to rotate slowly. A few seconds later, the glow winked out and the medallion dropped into Cathy’s open palm.

  “Wow,” Chris said. “I don’t think I’ll ever get used to seeing that.”

  “At least you can see it,” Dean said, on a wistful note. Being a medium didn’t make him a witch. His role in this was letting Cathy examine his spelled tattoo and telling her what little he knew about how it warded him against possession—by ghosts, anyway. The man that’d inked it, a friend of Dean’s mentor, had died years ago and taken his knowledge with him to the grave.

  Chris glanced at Dean and smiled. “Hey, you can see spirits… that’s one up on me.”

  Cathy sat back in her chair with a sigh. Fatigue etched extra lines in her forehead. “It is done.”

  “Well, almost done,” Dean said. “We still need to test it.”

  “Can I see it?” Chris asked, and Cathy passed the medallion to him. He turned it over in his fingers. It was so small, barely an inch in diameter. “It’s tiny. Are you sure this little thing will stop a ghost from possessing someone?”

  “Hmph.” Cathy straightened in her chair. “It’s not the size that counts.”

  Dean laughed, while Chris tried to figure out if that was a joke or if he’d just offended the most powerful witch in the region.

  “Well,” Chris said, trying for a graceful recovery, “I guess a bodysuit is kind of impractical. Do you think Roger would be willing to help us test it?”

  “Maybe,” Dean said. “I think he likes knowing he could take any of you over whenever he wants, even if he’s promised not to do it. But he was mopey this morning, so maybe it’ll cheer him up.”

  “Mopey?” Chris asked.

  Dean shrugged. “You know how he is. Our very own bipolar bear.”

  Chris did know how Roger was. The ghost had been hanging around the house for weeks, swinging back and forth between despair and fury over his inability to find—and kill—Eric, the Granite Falls pack’s former Alpha. Truth be told, Chris thought he understood Roger’s mood swings better than most did. When he was outside of his body, his emotions were much stronger, more capricious. Dean said emotion drove spirits to act. Roger was only held in check by a promise—and the fact that they had his ashes in a safe. Even if he possessed someone, he couldn’t get his ashes out. Controlling their bodies wouldn’t give him the access code. It was a brilliant idea, but Chris couldn’t take credit for it. That one was all Joey.

  Chris tucked the medallion in his pants pocket. “Talk to him, please. If this works, I’m going to need more of these. Enough for both packs, and maybe a few spares, just in case.”

  “Don’t put the cart before the horse, child.” Cathy pushed to her feet and leaned against the edge of the heavy wooden table. “If it works, I can make more. But it will take time.”

  “Right, of course,” Chris said quickly. “Sorry. You know I really appreciate this, right?” He walked around the table to give her a hug, then urged her to sit back down.

  “Well, I know you two have some more work to do, so I’ll get out of your hair,” Dean said, also moving around to Cathy’s side of the table. He bent down and kissed her cheek. “Get some rest, Cat. You done good.”

  Cathy closed her eyes briefly and chuckled. “Well, child. I done well.”

  Dean grinned, like that was exactly what he expected, then headed for the back door. His leather jacket hung from a row of pegs beside the door.

  “See you at the house,” Chris said.

  Dean nodded and opened the door. A gust of wind blew into the house, stirring the pages of the open books on the table and raising goosebumps on Chris’s bare arms. Even after Dean shut the door, Chris could hear the wind whistling through the small house’s eaves. He hoped it didn’t take the roof off his own home.

  “Shall we get down to business, then?” Cathy asked.

  Chris glanced at her, concern nibbling at the edges of his awareness. “Are you sure you’re up for it? You look l
ike that spell took a lot out of you.”

  “It did,” she admitted, grimacing. “But I did find something for you this week. Fetch me that book, would you?”

  Chris leaned across the table to reach for the stack she pointed at. “This one?”

  She nodded, and he collected the book for her. Its battered leather cover bore no tittle, and the edges of its pages were yellowed with age. He opened it before handing it over and found the pages covered with slanted handwriting in narrow, even rows. The script was illegible to him, either written in a language he didn’t understand or in a manner he couldn’t quite decipher.

  “What is it?” he asked, and handed it over.

  “This is the personal journal of Nadezhda Trubnikova,” Cathy said, tracing a faded tree stamped on the leather cover with her fingertips.

  “Who?”

  “Did you know that Alaska was once a Russian territory?”

  “Yeah.”

  Cathy glanced up at him, lips quirking in a smile. “You continue to surprise me, Christopher.”

  Chris shrugged and rubbed the back of his neck. “I read. What does that have to do with Nadz-whatever?”

  “Nadezhda Trubnikova. After the United States purchased Alaska from Russia in the mid-nineteenth century, many of the Russian Americans returned to Russia, but some migrated south and resettled in the Pacific Northwest. Trubnikova was one of them. She still has descendants in the area. As you know, I’ve been trying to track down information on your ability. I got a letter the other day from a woman who said her grandmother used to tell her stories about her own great-great-great-grandmother, who was what she called a ‘spirit walker.’”

  “You think she was an astral walker. And that’s her journal!” Chris could barely contain his excitement.