Page 11 of Rejected Exile

Grabbing the framed photos—at least half of them are of Mom—I leap off the bed and get out of the room as fast as possible.

I don't want to think about what my father's new collection means.

Or the answers I'm now certain Lance won't find inside his filing cabinets.

Because one thing is undeniable: whatever curse hangs over Glass Pack, my father wasn't able to cure it. He quite possibly smoked and drank himself to death looking for a cure but never found it.

There's no way he would've brought taboo and dangerous spell ingredients into the house and put them in a sacred place above his bed otherwise.

At least now I know why he slept in his office. I wouldn't be able to dream easy under a shelf full of a witch's dead things either.

* * *

I can't get the image of my father's bedroom or my stepmother's death out of my mind. I search the house for something to chase it away despite the early morning hour. The bar cabinet in the dining room is empty of anything useful; just a few sweet liqueurs and a dusty bottle of something that looks like absinthe. I look through the pantry, the kitchen cabinets, the fridge, and finally find a half-drunk bottle of vodka in the freezer. Rustling up some sugar, I pair the vodka with a few squeezes of lime juice concentrate, shake it in a mason jar, and strain it into a cold glass.

It's nothing fancy enough to serve at the restaurant, but even the first sip soothes the images in my mind, and feels less feral than drinking straight from the bottle. Since it needs something to pair with, I grab the only two things I salvaged from the fridge—half a dozen eggs and a stick of butter—and start breakfast in a stainless-steel pan I scrubbed before Lance got here.

The house needs a lot of work, I reflect as I stir the scrambled eggs, but it could be salvaged. A little sanding work on the hardwood floors, some refinishing and resealing, a few coats of paint and the living room would look nice again. The bathrooms will take more, and the exterior of the house is a wreck, but if the roof is intact, it could probably be brought back to its former glory.

What I mourn most is the stained-glass transom. But there has to be a restorer or stained-glass artist who can fix a new panel in the broken spot. The swirling pink glass curves depict peonies against a dark green background, and one of the green panels has been broken.

I don't remember much about my mother—she died of breast cancer when I was five—but I do remember that she loved that stained-glass transom.

"It could all be fixed," I murmur to myself as I serve up the scrambled eggs on a clean plate and settle onto the dining room table. "This place isn't beyond repair."

The only problem is, I won't be the one who gets to repair it. Whoever wins the alpha contest will likely want the house. If not them, someone else in town—someone who might very well tear it down and build anew.

Of course now that I know about the curse, I do wonder ifanyonewill be around to want it. Surely, not every female werewolf is dead—Lance must have been exaggerating for effect—but even half of them, plus the blood rot, would drive werewolves and humans alike out of Juniper. There may not be anyone around who wants a rundown house in need of repair.

And I promised myself that I would be in and out of here in the matter of days. Not stick around to sand hardwood floors and retile the kitchen backsplash.

Cat will know what to do, I reason as I wash a mouthful of eggs down with a long sip of my lime cocktail. She'll probably suggest that I leave it in a contractor's hands. That's just what I'll do today, while I'm out running errands—hire someone to get the place in running order, so it can be sold. I won't even need to be in town to do it.

Footsteps on the stairs alert me to Lance's presence, and I drain my cocktail quickly, embarrassed at how early I'm drinking. A moment later I feel even more embarrassed as I remember he'll smell the liquor on my breath.

Werewolves. Right. I'm not among humans anymore.

I've spent a third of my life exiled from my own kind, and I've forgotten what we—whatthey—are like.

"I found a few things that look promising." He comes into the room, glances briefly at my meal, but thankfully doesn't comment or even look judgmental. "It's unclear if he found anything, but he was researching a few possibilities."

"That's good."

"There may be more." Hesitating a little, he glances at the table. "Can I sit?"

"Go ahead."

He does, and his bulky frame in the wooden chair just emphasizes the difference in our size. I'm an average woman—a little tall among humans—but not terribly small. In Lance's arms, or thrown over his back, I'd be minuscule. Dwarfed by the sheer size of his body.

At the moment I'm drowning in the warmth of his dark eyes.

"There's a locked drawer in one of your father's filing cabinets."

Lance's deep bass voice draws my attention up to his face and away from his broad chest. I shove some eggs into my mouth, keenly aware of how the alcohol and his presence are affecting me. "There is?"

"Yeah. I was thinking that it might have important research in it. But I didn't find the key—and I don't want to overstep my welcome."

"It's probably just taxes and stuff," I tell him dismissively. "I know where he kept keys and things. Once I've got it open I'll let you know if there's anything in there, but there probably isn't."

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