Page 18 of Fae Devoted
And do his best to stay free and alive, if purely for selfish reasons. Tucker wanted a future with Jo, and to do that, he had to return to the island in one piece.
“If Mr. Grayson is petitioning for Clanship, then why chase after him? If he’s accepted, Lieutenant Tucker’s personalissues will be resolved, and he can return his focus to more important matters. Minor nuisances like protecting our queen and thwarting an elf with a god complex who wants to rule our world. Little things like that.”
The cold sarcasm in Myles’ voice put Tucker’s teeth on the cusp of lengthening into fangs again.
“It’s possible Jeremiah’s in Michigan to join the Remington Pack,” Samuel intervened before Tucker’s claws found their way into the vampire’s throat. “But if he hasn’t broken the link with Lord Daimhín, risking the príoh sensing the Fae’s presence during a binding ceremony would be foolish.”
“If Mr. Grayson managed to run far enough,” Myles said, “wouldn’t the link be weak and undetectable by a lesser Alpha?”
“A lesser Alpha wouldn’t make the attempt,” Samuel explained. “Jeremiah’s wolf is equal to Tucker’s and will require a shifter who outranks him in strength. Remington is one of the few Ferwyn males in the nine regions whose dominance level is high enough to take him on as a subordinate. As far as I’m aware, the príoh king is his sole choice in the ENC.”
“But Mr. Jenkins magically examined the Ferwyn outcasts we apprehended,” Myles argued, “and they showed no sign of outside influence. The battle witch is convinced the Sídhe wouldn’t be able to sway the recovered shifters without direct vocal cues. He also believes once the outcasts are bound to untainted Alphas, the odds Lord Daimhín can retake control of them are microscopic.”
“They weren’t forced to drink Fae blood.” Tucker’s remorse was like a massive boulder sitting on his ribcage, the incessant pressure making it hard to breathe. He couldn’t rewind the clock or erase what he suspected was more than six decades of what amounted to his brother’s mental torture. But he could end Jeremiah’s suffering.
“Yes, how…unfortunate,” Myles murmured.
A growl made its way up Tucker’s throat at the prince’s flippant response but was quickly squelched by Samuel’s hand on his breastbone.
“If Jeremiah is still tied to the Fae, I will feel it when I accept his oath.”
“You can’t risk making him Clan until we know if he’s still under Daimhín’s compulsion.” Tucker didn’t know if his brother’s connection with the Fae would affect Samuel or not. If Jeremiah had control of his actions or not. And until he did, he didn’t want his Alpha—or anyone else he loved—anywhere near him. It was why Tucker was going to find his twin on his own.
“That is not your decision to make,beta,” Samuel said low, reminding him who was the Alpha and who was not.
“So, we have no idea if Mr. Grayson is in Michigan to obtain Príoh Remington’s bond before turning feral, or is following some unknown order issued by the Elven Lord?” The Dádhe heir collected his whiskey from the table and knocked back the remaining liquid.
“And we won’t know which is true until I speak with him.” Touch him. As littermates, he and Jeremiah shared a special connection, not unlike an Alpha’s bond to his pack. Tucker knew what to look for now. He wouldn’t miss Daimhín’s presence in his brother again.
“I’ll allow it. At least until the prince and I can get permission to enter Remington’s territory.” Samuel rubbed his chin. “It’ll take a few days. A week at the most.”
Tucker nodded, emotion clogging his throat.
“I don’t recall making plans to travel north.” Prince Myles rolled the empty glass between his palms, seemingly fascinated by the sunlight reflecting off the cut crystal. The vampire didn’t flinch as the filtered rays touched the skin on the back of his hand; every window on Mud Island was treated with UV protective film.
“It’s time we informed King Alexander and the Nine of the Fae’s threat. Every Commander of the Guard needs to be prepared for war.” Samuel folded his arms across his chest; his legs braced as though readying for a battle in the middle of Tucker’s living room.
“The ENC king denied knowledge of the facility Miss MacCarthy alleges was built in his region. How do we know he’s not allied with the US government…or the Sídhe?”
“Alleges?” Samuel’s jaw ticked.
“I meant no offense.” The vampire waved the fingers on one hand dismissively. “Your Ca’anam admits the facility’s location was kept under wraps. Along with the name of the man who runs it.”
Abigail and Conlan MacCarthy were once under the thumb of a human known as the Director. The newly orphaned teenagers spent years honing their Na’fhuil abilities. Once trained, the siblings were manipulated into using their magic to benefit a covert branch of the Untouched administration. Abby spent more than two years believing she escaped the facility’s machinations, moving from town to town until the night she saved the queen’s life and discovered she’d never been free at all.
“Will you tell the other Fae Touched leaders how your halfblood holds the key to Armageddon, Commander Walker?”
The sofa slammed against the plaster wall as Samuel pinned Myles to the couch, wrapped his fingers around his neck, and dug his knee viciously into the vampire’s flat stomach.
“I’ll take that as ano.” The prince remained outwardly composed but spoke with a slight wheeze. Raising his empty glass high, he rocked it side to side, then despite the pressure on his throat obstructing his airflow, he said, “Lieutenant Tucker, a refill if you don’t mind.”
Chapter 6
The timer dinged.
Johnnie grabbed a kitchen towel and removed the tray of molasses cookies from the oven. Setting the sheet pan on a wire rack, she hummed an old country tune and sprinkled sugar over the warm batch; Jacob liked them sweet. Next, she untied her apron and hooked it over the pantry door. In its previous life the narrow space was meant to hang coats and jackets, but Johnnie decided to put it to better use. The day after she talked about repurposing the tiny closet for more essential things like five-pound bags of chocolate chips and pastry flour, Jacob appeared at her door with a set of shelves and a power drill.
Cookies cooling, she walked the short distance into the living room and removed the cherry-red painted tray from the upholstered footstool-slash-coffee-table, sliding it underneath the overstuffed loveseat. She shoved the yellow-striped ottoman to Jacob’s side of the sofa; his legs were long, and her couch was small.
