The Loup Garou Society - Julie Steimle (most romantic novels TXT) 📗

ones, depending on our standing in the pack. The wolves live rent free.”

Rick took that information in, pondering on it. Rent free… And no work outside the pack. The Loup Garou could control the lives of their wolves entirely that way. It was like they were property.

With a shrug, she said, “Genevieve and I could move any time to a better place, if only agree to the elders’ terms.”

“So…” he lifted his gaze toward her. “Wolves advance in the pack through nepotism?”

“Or by performing a great service for them, and continuing to perform for them,” she said.

“Like Remy,” he murmured.

She chuckled, patting his shoulder. “Remy has small apartments and is on-call at every hour. The only ones of us who live well are Henri and Louisa. Marie barely gets by.”

“Because she chose to keep her children,” Rick murmured thinking.

She nodded.

He put a hand to his forehead. This really was a mess. How could he help his family with them trapped like this?

Margarete patted his cheek. “You are exhausted. Go to sleep. We will talk about this tomorrow.”

Rick nodded.

She went out.

As the sounds of footfalls lessened, Rick closed the door and looked for a way to lock it. Though he did not think she would come back to harm him while he was asleep, he wasn’t so sure the Loup Garou might not figure out that she had taken him to a safe place for the night. Their organization had the essence of a well-run mob organization. He and his dad often had brief encounters with different mob organizations in the US. And this felt no different.

He took the stepladder and put it in front of the door. And though he knew she had said she would wake him, he didn’t think it was wise to go to sleep without some kind of security system. Besides, he could set his phone to alarm.

After finding a near empty glass bottle to balance on the door handle—something Rick saw in a movie once—he sat on the bed and pulled out his phone. Once he reset the alarm, he kicked off his shoes, loosened his belt, and tugged on the covers for sleep. Before placing the phone next to his head on the pillow, he sent his father a text message:

 

All fine. I skipped out on the party. I’m doing my best, so don’t worry.

 

He sent another, realizing his father would worry if he gave no explanation:

 

I met one of my sisters. And you are right. Our family needs our help.

 

He was about to shut off his phone, but then he decided to leave one last text…

Baroque

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter Five

 

 

Mr. Howard Richard Deacon II returned to his hotel room feeling weary and worried. His son had not called. Not that he was one of those kids who checked in much—but when separated on a hunt, Howard III did make contact more frequently. And this situation was definitely like a hunt.

The Loup Garou Society had always left Mr. Deacon with a feeling of underlying dread. He hated visiting them, but he never said so. The French wolves had saved his life in a time of need, and at his core he felt that he owed them. But after all this time, he was sure he had paid them back more than they had deserved. He knew they were using him, and he did not want them to use his son. Unfortunately, with this entire scandal of him being too loose as a young man, they had plenty of blackmail to hold over his head. He was not so much worried about the scandal and its effect on his business. That would recover well enough. He was more worried about the impact it might have on his unclaimed offspring. The Loup Garou might abandon them or expose them to hunters if he did not play into their game, and there was no way he could be there in time to protect them.

That was his true fear. The French pack knew he cared about his offspring—all of them. They also knew he was downright savage in his protection of his namesake and heir. He never would have brought ‘Howie’ to Paris if he did not trust his son could handle himself against the Loup Garou. And right now, they were meddling with him. Thing was, Howie would have come back to the hotel by now, if he could. So Mr. Deacon was worried.  

Loosening his tie and kicking off his shoes, he shook his head, thinking over the scheme. Though association with the Loup Garou did influence his business in the EU, he had been planning to break from the Loup Garou for quite some time. Unfortunately, he would never be able to do it while his other children were at risk. Bringing his son to Paris had been a calculated move. Howie was seventeen. He had made powerful and gifted friends, and he was more comfortable in wolf skin than he ever had been. And though he was still not quite happy being a wolf, he was reconciled to it. His son was ready to move forward and take his place in Deacon Enterprises, at least to learn who their business connections were.  

But Howie still had a year of high school to go. And he was in a strange place. Maybe this move had been too early. Since his birth, the Loup Garou had been asking to see him, asking for Mr. Deacon bring him to Paris. And each time he had ignored the request. Howie had not been ready. Even now in his angstyness, Howie insisting on being called Rick because the divorce had hurt him so much, Mr. Deacon worried he was not ready.

He looked around at the room in the hotel he had been taken to. It was Loup Garou owned. Classic French, beautiful, and wonderfully free of all things which would irritate a werewolf—it was better than some of the hotels he had stayed at in Dubai. But it made him feel trapped. His luggage had barely arrived. He noticed that Howie’s bag was not there. The Loup Garou must have kept it in the car, expecting Howie to stay at that party to accommodate their breeding wants. Mr. Deacon had hoped his son at seventeen was wiser than he was at nineteen. At least more emotionally stable.

He hoped his son would call him soon.

Undressing for bed, Mr. Deacon unconsciously paced the room. His son had faced various demons, witches, and hunters, but he had never taken on an entire pack before. Perhaps he really had brought his son too early.

Perhaps he should call him.

But Mr. Deacon shook his head. No. He could give Howie away if he were hiding. Their rules were simple. Call if you can. Text him at midnight if there has been no contact. Otherwise, don’t panic until then.

He put his suitcase in front of the dresser but did not unpack. Going to the bed, Mr. Deacon climbed in.

Almost immediately, he heard a knock at his door.

Rising, Mr. Deacon walked over to the door but did not open it, as his son would have knocked in a silly way. “Yes?”

“Are you dressed? It is urgent,” someone said in French.

He did not recognize the voice.

Grabbing his robe from his suitcase, he pulled it on then opened the door.

Standing there were several unfamiliar young man-wolves, led by Monsieur Blanc, the white haired elder wolf with electric blue eyes, and Madam Freyna, that pushy thickset she-wolf who made Mr. Deacon think she really ought to be wearing lederhosen, have braids in her hair, and a swastika on her arm. She just had that Nazi look about her. The regal American-born werewolf stared back at them, dry-eyed, jet-lagged, and weary of their politics. Unfortunately, Mr. Deacon was unable to refuse their entrance while they marched directly into his room, several of them searching under his bed and in the empty closets.

“And what do I owe the pleasure of this intrusion?” he asked, watching them.

Monsieur Blanc said with cold eyes, “Your son. Where is he?”

“Didn’t he go to the party with your man there?” Mr. Deacon gestured to Remy who stood distraught along with an extremely wolfish sort of man in a leather vest and a handful of other less obvious wolves. The man-wolf looked like he would tear apart the hotel room in his search. He had already gone through the suitcase as if Howie could fit in it alongside the socks. “Isn’t it his job to make sure my son is safe? And hey! You, get your hands out of there.”

The man-wolf stepped back, dropping the shirt in his hands.

Monsieur Blanc deathly stared at Mr. Deacon. “Your son locked himself in a room and climbed out a window on the top floor.”

Automatically, Mr. Deacon choked on a laugh. It took him a second to regain his composure. Howie was ok. It was such a relief to hear.

“You think this is funny?” Monsieur Blanc protested.  

Nodding, Mr. Deacon smiled. “Yes, unfortunately. That is so like him.”

All the wolves stared. Their shining eyes on him, shocked in this revelation of his son’s character, they leaned in, almost circling him.

“What?” Madam Freyna exclaimed.

He nodded, frankly. He was quite pleased.  

“You mean to tell us he makes a habit of it?” that manservant Remy exclaimed—clearly out of turn as all the other wolves automatically stared him into silence. He shrank back, ducking his eyes.

But Mr. Deacon nodded again. “I’m afraid so.”

They turned their eyes on him again disapprovingly, reading his pleasure also.

Chuckling, Mr. Deacon explained, “I told you he would not play along. My son—despite all his faults—is ingenious when he wants to escape something. And he is especially adept at sneaking out of tall buildings.”

They stared more. Some gaped.

With a shrug, he added, “He used to sneak out our house all the time to meet up with his best friend. They were a pair of hellions who loved to prank the witches of our town…” saying that in hopes to make them worry over what kinds of people his son could take on. “…And he did the same at his private school in New York City. He often went out from an upstairs window, which somehow he had disabled the security to. I don’t think I will ever be able to break him of that habit.”

The wolves shared looks. Their irritation seemed more in that Mr. Deacon wasn’t the least bit sorry. He was enjoying it.

“What about GPS?” one of the wolves suggested. “He’s got to have it on his phone.”

“He doesn’t,” Mr. Deacon replied, enjoying this more.

They looked to him.

With an almost benign smile, he expounded, “We had our phone GPS disabled long ago.”

A hush fell on the room.

“Why?” Madame Freyna asked, perplexed. “Aren’t you worried about his safety?”

He shook his head, thinking how naïve they had to be. “That is exactly why we disabled it. The Supernatural Regulator’s Association are connected with the CIA, NSA, and FBI which can hack a regular cell phone. Ours are specially made to scramble any Global Positioning System so hunters cannot use them to track us.”

The Loup Garou shared looks. Perhaps they had not considered that hunters would be connected with such covert organizations as the CIA. Or perhaps