Her Perilous Wolf - Julie Steimle (types of ebook readers TXT) 📗

Toms shook his head. “Are those his words? I mean, you saw him change right in front of you?”

With a nod, Vincent frowned. “Yes. Though I don’t think he actually said ‘blow it off’. It was more like ‘pretend you don’t know what you now know’, because he claims we are in more danger for knowing.”

“Then how come he showed you?” Mr. Toms leaned closer, true concern in his eyes.

Sighing, Vincent tried to think of the reason. “Because… yeah… we accidentally spied on him and his friends at the beach and already saw too much.”

Mr. Toms looked so startled that Vincent felt he needed to explain more. He told him all about the vacation and the beach house and what they had seen. And then about the party and all that Rick had revealed to them and how.

“At a party?” Mr. Toms mused. “That’s not very discrete.”

“We went down the beach for privacy. It was night, so it was dark,” Vincent explained. “I think Rick did it to clear out any misunderstanding, so she would not get hurt.”

“Now that sounds like him,” Mr. Toms murmured, nodding. The waiter arrived with the fish and the other dishes.

Vincent watched him as the waiter set down their plates, asking if they needed anything else. Vincent realized Mr. Toms knew Rick probably about as well as anyone. Obviously he knew the family secret.

Once the waiter left, Vincent asked, “How well do you know him?”

Shrugging, Mr. Toms replied, “I’ve known Howie Deacon and his father, Howard, since the time I met my wife. My wife and Howard grew up together. Same town. Though…” he shook his head. “My wife, I discovered later, was a witch.”

Vincent drew in a breath. Same town? Then his wife was from Middleton Village—just like Silvia Lewis.

Sighing, the CEO sadly grinned. “She was lovely. And I did not realize she had been sent to California to seduce me—with the intent to take my company back to Massachusetts and hopefully (by the will of her coven) replace the Deacon family as the financial powerhouse of the town. She was supposed to manipulate me until the time in which they would arrange for my untimely, yet inexplicable death, and have the coven take over the company.”

Vincent set down his fork a little too loudly. One eye turned, but it was just a waiter.

Mr. Toms shook his head, chuckling. “Funny thing, though,” the man painfully laughed, tears forming in the corners of his eyes, “She actually fell in love with me. So when we got married, she confessed all. And she tried her leave her coven.”

Shivers went through Vincent. “That’s, that’s, that’s what Silvia was doing. Audry said so.”

But Mr. Toms shook his head. “No witch leaves the Middleton Village coven.”

“But your wife did,” Vincent said, gripping the edge of the table.

Yet grief was all over Mr. Toms as he gravely sighed, shaking his head more. “No. She tried. But they killed her. Our son was two.”

More shivers went through Vincent. He remembered that crazy witch with the knife in that New York apartment. They were trying to kill Sylvia. He remembered there had been three of them. Yet Silvia had friends in the police force—or rather, Audry did.

“They drowned her in the ocean and made it look like an accident,” Mr. Toms murmured, staring at his plate, no longer picking at the fish. He seemed incline to get a to-go bag and leave.

A full run of shivers went through Vincent now.

“I’ve missed her,” Mr. Toms murmured at his plate. He lifted his eyes to Troy, “I loved her, but I have to say that no good can come from associating from a Middleton Village witch. You’d better get your cousin away from her.”

“She’s in Africa,” Vincent said again.

Nodding, Mr. Toms weakly smiled. “Then that’s good.”

They finished eating lunch. Mr. Toms passed onto Vincent his business card when they paid for their meal. He left a generous tip for the waiter—which Vincent always thought was the sign of a good man. As they walked down together, Mr. Toms whispered to Vincent, “My son is an SRA agent. He has been in training for full certification since he was referred to that organization by Mr. Carlton Jones. They accepted my son on his word.”

“And who is that?” Vincent asked, glad to finally have one thing verified.

Nodding, the CEO smiled at Vincent. “That’s right, you came here to find out more. They probably never told you about the Holy Seven.”

Vincent shook his head, thinking something was familiar about that name. “No.”

Beckoning him to continue on with him to the elevator, Mr. Toms explained in detail, “Mr. Carlton Jones is the last of the previous Holy Seven. I cannot completely explain who they are, as I am still not sure myself—even after all these years. But my son can give you the best and clearest image—for he is one of the new generation. He likes to think of himself as the eighth of the Seven.”

“That doesn’t quite add up,” Vincent murmured.

The man shrugged. “Yes. They have a funny sense of math. Their Seven includes eight members. I can’t quite resolve myself to it. But anyway, I’ll give you the address of where you can meet him. In fact, you can meet him tonight. I will give him a heads up so he won’t think you are a stalker.”

“A…” Vincent was once more confused. “…stalker?”

“You have been calling the company for him all day,” Mr. Toms explained, smiling apologetically.

Vincent blushed. “I had no idea you were tracking all that.”

“For security reasons,” Mr. Toms said with a smile. Then he laughed. “You need to understand, there are people who want him dead simply because he is my son, but also because he represents something inexplicable to the common mind. When you meet him you will understand.”

He handed Vincent the card, writing on the back the address. Vincent had a feeling Mr. Toms had a number of these cards in his wallet, just in case.

Taking it, looking at the address, Vincent breathed freer. “Thank you.”

“Oh… don’t thank me,” Mr. Toms said, hands raised. “Your honesty and persistence got you this far. But—and I must warn you—he does not trust easily. He’s been kidnapped twice, and he carries a sword with him at all times, and has a mini, folding crossbow, among other dangerous weapons. And he knows how to use them all.”

Vincent would have laughed, but he could tell the man was not joking.

Mr. Toms went out to the valet and handed him his ticket for his car.

“Can I ask one more question?” Vincent said, following him to the curb.

Nodding, Mr. Toms smiled, glancing once to the traffic on the road. It was ordinary day-time traffic. “Anything.”

“How long have you known what the Deacons were?”

To that, Mr. Toms nodded with a sigh. “Oh. Well… there were always rumors. I never took notice of them as they seemed petty, if not stupid. I mean, who would believe it? Werewolves? This is not the middle ages after all.”

Vincent nodded. It was so true. Who would believe it?

“But I learned the truth through my son that the rumors were more likely true than not—and he had learned it through the SRA.” Mr. Toms shook his head now. “When he found out, he was floored. He did not want to believe it. He liked Howie. They were summer friends. They used to hang out before the Deacon’s divorce—before Howie moved to New York City. But, oh, some time in his sophomore year, Howie’s long time best friend, and my son’s new and favored friend, Andrew Cartwright, called him. They—his friends from Middleton Village—had already emailed my son over that very issue. But Andrew was in a panic, because he did not even know his best friend was a…” He peeked over his shoulder to see if anyone was listening. Mr. Toms lowered his voice. “It was a full moon. Howie Deacon had just returned home, much changed from what his friends remembered him. He had been gone for three years at that private school in New York City.”

“How much changed?” Vincent watched as the man thought it over.

“I was not there,” Mr. Toms replied with a shrug, looking once more to the cars in the road in hopes for his to pull up soon. “I just know that they confirmed the rumor to be true—including about the father. I ended up having a major mental shift over it, as I could not conceive of Howard Deacon as a wolf man—never mind their famous ‘wolf obsession’.” He made air quotes.

Wolf obsession. Yes, Vincent had heard that rumor. The Deacons were obsessed with wolves—from the wolf reserves they donated to and owned, to the famous wolf art they were said to own. Now he knew why.

“The SRA are tracking them,” Vincent informed him.

Mr. Toms nodded, closing his eyes. Of course he knew. The car entered the road and pulled toward the curb.

“Audry said they had been shooting at them. The SRA. Is that really true?”

Mr. Toms shrugged then nodded. “I assume so. I’ve never really asked Mr. Deacon about it.”

Vincent stared. If he had been a long time business partner with a werewolf unknowingly, he’d want to know the full truth. How could this man be so blasé about it?

“I had decided after a while it did not matter what they were in an existential sense. They were good for business. Honest, at least in that respect,” Mr. Toms explained. He then painfully laughed. “I suppose your grandfather is right in one respect. I guess I do give Michael the final say when it comes to business alliances. My son has impeccable judgement. And he swore to me that the Deacons are, and have always been, above board—which I already knew. Regardless of whatever they are, first and foremost, they are ethical businessmen.”

Vincent nodded. In a way, it was understandable that Mr. Toms would feel loyalty to them. He wasn’t a cut-throat businessman. He and Mr. Deacon had a lot in common in that arena.

“And if you had any sway over your grandfather, then maybe I would feel more inclined to open up business with his company.” The CEO of Tristain Enterprises smiled broadly at Vincent.

Sighing, Vincent shrugged apologetically. “I wish I did. I am just the clean face of the company.”

“And that son of his, John, will be taking the reins?” Mr. Toms implied.

Vincent nodded. “Yeah… Which means my time is most likely not long within the company if Grandpa ever retires. Uncle John isn’t exactly fond of me. I may be looking for work soon enough.”

“Well, if that ever happens,” Mr. Toms said with a smile as the driver pulled up and opened the car door, getting out, “contact me. I might be able to find a place here with us. We are always looking for honest people in the industry.”

Vincent watched the man go into his vehicle, pull on his seat belt, and wave before driving away. A warm feeling swelled within. That was practically a job offer.

Calling for an Uber as his mind went over all that had been said, Vincent soon returned to the hotel to plan for that evening. He needed to speak to Michael. That was clear. He got his proof that Mr. Toms’s son as indeed the man on the website. Now he needed to get to know the man himself and possibly get a better inside view on this entire situation.

Why did Michael think Rick and his father were not dangerous, despite being werewolves? And what else was out there in the world which may harm his cousin, let alone the rest of his family? And how can he prepare against it all without getting sucked into the crazy supernatural stuff… perhaps how Mr. Toms had survived—or his friend Stewart. He wanted to know that the most.

Getting a taxi this time, Vincent gave the man directions Mr. Toms had passed on to him. It took him to the edge of the city where there stood an enormous