Page 65 of Redeemed
“The Were Authority, dumbass. Get up.” Connor’s agreed to come with me and no way am I going to let him weasel out. Trajan obviously can’t. He retired to the vampire room after spending most of the early morning hours fucking us both senseless. I sling myself out of bed, wincing when my feet hit the floor. Yes, Tray did ride me hard, in the best possible way.
“You didn’t make me coffee, Snoop,” I say on my way into the bathroom.
“You don’t drink coffee, idiot.” He gives himself a good stretch, muttering about the nightmare that would be David Collins on caffeine.
He’s not wrong.
I dress in what I like to call my colorful conservative look: jeans with no holes, shoes with no heels, and a button-down the color of melon sherbet. I pull my hair back into a restrained ponytail, twisting it so the strands of shocking pink don’t show. A little eye liner but no mascara or blush and I’m good to go.
Connor’s gone with a more conservative-conservative look including khaki trousers and a single-breasted jacket. Sheena drops Cliffe off and we find her in the lobby. She has a way of dressing that’s designed to avoid attention, though I can’t put my finger on how she does it. Which I guess is the point.
“All right,” I say. “Let’s do this.”
We pile into the rented Ford—OMG kill me now another Ford—and Connor takes the wheel. He and Cliffe chat while I try to come up with a decent defense. I mean, the fact is, I didn’t petition the Were Authority to be allowed to create a pack. It’s not like I didn’t know better, but I’d created a pack before I knew what I’d done.
I didn’t plan it. I just reached out for the two closest sources of energy to keep myself from going crazy, and this is where we ended up.
The Were Authority offices are in Koreatown, in the kind of Art Deco building that gives LA its cool. We show up on time, not early and not late, and they’re ready and waiting for us.
I could have asked Sheena to come, or maybe Lydia and some of her girls. Instead I have Connor and a girl named Cliffe-with-an-e. This might not end well.
We’re ushered into a small courtroom. There’s a judge sitting at an elevated desk with a stenographer at his right and an empty chair at his left. Three rows of chairs face the judge, and the walls are covered with photos of stern-looking weres.
Dad’s photo is there, too, the biggest one of them all.
The judge introduces himself and asks me to step forward. In a sonorous voice, he reads the complaint against me.
“It has been brought to the attention of the Were Authority that you have created a pack and made yourself alpha without first applying for a permit, nor have you registered said pack with the appropriate governing bodies. What do you have to say?”
Connor’s exasperated sigh has me pinching my lips to keep from giggling.Not now, Collins. Keep your shit together. “The complaint is correct, sir. I have created a pack without submitting any of the appropriate paperwork.”
That comes out snarkier than I meant to, so I clear my throat, pulling myself together. “My pack is made up of Trajan Gall, vampire, and Connor MacPherson, Tuatha Dé Danann and former member of the Elites. Our newest member is”—Oh shit what’s her name?—“Heathercliffe Mountbatten.”
Connor and Cliffe stand on either side of me and damned if I can’t feel the pull and swirl of pack surrounding us. It’s not perfect—Trajan’s not here—but it feels damned good. The judge is busy looking down his nose at us when there’s a commotion from the main door.
“There’s the asshole. He has no business starting a pack. None at all.”
I glance over my shoulder andyes it isthe fuckhead alpha of the Los Feliz pack. My teeth grind just a little, because he can’t take my wolf in a fair fight but he sure can be a pain in my ass.
“Who are you?” The judge looks even less impressed than I am.
“I am alpha of the Los Feliz pack, James McMurtry.”
“And you’re the one who filed the complaint, Mr. McMurtry?”
If he notices the condescension in the judge’s tone, ol’ Jimbo ignores it. “Yes.” He draws himself up in a painful display of misplaced pride. “When I learned of what he’d done, I found it offended my morals.”
The judge’s head tilted, ever so slightly. “Morals? Youarea werewolf, aren’t you?”
“I am, and I earned my position. What has he ever done?”
“He’s got more balls than you ever will.” A new voice speaks. A new, and familiar voice, one that knocks the breath out of my lungs.
My cousin Marcus Collins walks to the judge’s desk. He’s carrying a folder, and he looks like everything I once valued.
Except he’s wearing a black patch over one eye.
I stare at the floor, unable to risk meeting his one-eyed gaze. His attention is on the judge, and he soberly opens the folder he’s carrying. “David Collins is the oldest son of the American Alpha, Randolph Collins. He was wrongly cut out of the Collins Family pack, an act that will shame me until the day I die.”
