Page 103 of It All Started with a Bite

“Let’s not forget the ley lines,” Hugh said darkly.

I stared between them, confused. “What ley lines?”

“After Arthur disappeared, a witch in the supernatural task force charged with investigating the case discovered that the Holts’ ancestral home was built on a convergence of magical ley lines.” Samuel frowned. “Apparently, the head of the pack at the time the mansion was erected wasn’t aware of this.”

I could tell he didn’t believe this.

Victoria furrowed her brow. “Some people in the supernatural community wondered whether Arthur was researching ways to tap into that power before he went missing.”

I swallowed. “Why would a werewolf want to access ley lines? We can’t use magic.”

A fraught hush filled the office.

“No,” Samuel said quietly. “But that magic could be used to make dangerous artifacts.”

My shoulders knotted. “Like that crystal skull?”

Samuel dipped his head.

“Arthur was interested in the occult,” Victoria explained. “He was fascinated with the stuff ever since he was a child. I know Priscilla feels guilty for encouraging him to pursue his interests after they got married.”

I exchanged a glance with Bo in the tense hush.

“You should tell them,” he quavered, tail tucked between his legs.

Samuel’s puzzled gaze swung between us. “Tell us what?”

32

The Ball

The Bentley’sheadlights washed across ancient oaks and towering pines as Samuel drove up a winding private drive, the gnarled branches of the dense forest reaching toward the dark winter sky like skeletal fingers. The trees parted briefly to reveal a sprawling Gothic residence when we rounded a bend.

I stared.

The Holt mansion’s gray limestone walls and black slate towers rose from the forested slopes like the fortress of some demented, medieval tyrant. Elaborate flying buttresses stretched between the towers like the ribs of some prehistoric beast who’d met his unfortunate demise atop the building. Gargoyles perched along every cornice and gable, their stony faces watching the line of expensive cars snaking up the torch-lit driveway.

Château Montmartre looked practically quaint in comparison.

“This place gives me the heebie-jeebies,” Bo mumbled from the back seat of Samuel’s Bentley.

Hugh shuddered beside him. “You’re not the only one.”

I shot a sideways glance at Samuel. His jaw was clenched and his knuckles white on the steering wheel, his tension filtering through our mate bond and setting my own teeth on edge.

“Remember what we discussed,” Victoria warned from the back seat as we approached the mansion. “Act natural.”

Pearl sniffed from her perch on Victoria’s lap. “That’s going to be a problem for a certain someone.”

“But I’ve been practicing my fancy manners,” Bo protested.

“I didn’t mean you, mutt.” Pearl side-eyed Hugh. “I meant the werewolf-nip-addicted nutjob in the family.”

“You’re hurting my feelings,” Hugh groaned. “And I’m over my addiction.”

“Really?” Victoria asked sharply. “Because we’ve heard that line before.”

“I’m truly over it this time.” Hugh’s gaze found mine in the rearview mirror. “After all, I wouldn’t want to turn another human into a wolf,” he finished guiltily.

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