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

wolves coming, and they didn’t smell like you. Maybe another time?

 

Raising her eyebrows at the text, she chuckled. She texted back:

 

lol J Idk. Maybe. But don’t go back to the hotel.

 

He texted back:

 

Too late. Already here.

 

She groaned. Foolish pup. She shrugged, realizing that she had tried her best. But she texted:

 

They’ll find U

 

Words almost automatically appeared.

 

Nah… J

 

And that was the end of his texts. And she didn’t see the point in responding.

Eventually her train pulled into her station. She stepped off.

And was followed.

But she just went home. And the wolves from her pack following her soon realized that had been her intention all along. They followed her only a short distance then turned back toward the metro station. They did this mostly because they were in a neighborhood which had a number of wolves who could report on her arrival at her house. It wasn’t a nice neighborhood. Rather it was one where wolves out of favor or of lower standing lived among ignorant humans of a low economic class. The behavior of those who live here had to be immaculate, far from wolf in behavior, as humans were nosy. And if those humans saw anything strange about them, it was likely to be reported to authorities—especially since wolves were not respected by humanity in the least.

Her cellphone chimed.

Pausing, she pulled it out of her pocket. It said:

 

Not to be creepy, but turn around.

 

Margarete quickly whipped around. There was nothing behind her. She grabbed her chest. It was pounding.

She turned again to head home. But looking up—right in front of her stood a tall figure in a hoodie.

She jumped, slapping a hand over her mouth to keep from screaming.

Rick lowered his hoodie, shrugging his shoulders with a smirk. “Too creepy, huh?”

Groaning, she stomped over to him and slapped him on the shoulder hard, cursing at him.

But he was snickering. Rick, somehow, had followed her without the wolves spotting him. But then, he reeked of nicotine, which masked his wolf smell.

He had been the ‘smoker’ in the metro. And looking at him, he was not dressed the same as when he had been on the roof. Where had the hoodie come from?

Margarete quickly looked to the nearest house. Wolves would see them. She hissed, “This neighborhood is not safe.”

“Then why are you here?” he asked, nonplussed.

“I live here.” Shaking her head, Margarete whispered, “There are wolves watching.”

His eyebrows raised. “Ah.”

She didn’t want to send him away, but she also didn’t want to have the others find him. He had been clever enough to make it this far without being found. Then an idea came to her. She pretended to pass him on the street as she said, “I will text you the address of a café where we can meet.”

“Won’t you be followed?” He rolled his eyes at her, understanding her reasons very easily.

Margarete waved. “Trust me.”

He chuckled and strode away. She looked back once and saw him slip into the shadow. Then he was gone.

 

The Café

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter Four

 

 

Paris was a bit of a nightmare.

Rick had not expected things to go so awry so quickly. But then he recalled his last encounter with werewolves. Those Canadians were pretty keen. In fact, they had been almost impossible to lose—even in a car, though he had managed it. And now he was facing an entire pack in their territory. That was downright deadly. It was a good thing he had found that castoff cigarette and was able to stink up his clothes.

He had learned a few things after being hunted by the SRA, and one of them was you could mask an odor with something common and yet repulsive. The hunters had used clove cigarettes as the scent of clove oil messed with wolf noses. And the witches used aconite, which did the same. He was glad the smell of burned nicotine had worked. He had, after all, not collected his suitcase, from which they could track his scent. Then again, he had just bathed and they would be tracing more the smell of the shampoo and soap than his clothes anyway.

Walking the night streets of Paris was not something he had counted on when he had first agreed to come with his father on this business trip. Before this whole fiasco, he had expected to learn the ropes of dealing with the Loup Garou—taking it slowly. He still was having a hard time registering what his father had told him. The conversation with his claimed sister on the roof had been surreal. Even now, with his dizzy jet lag, she felt like a figment of his overactive imagination.

He wondered about her.

That she-wolf—Margarete… He had accepted she was his sister a little too easily for his own comfort. He didn’t know why he had at first. But… there something in the way she stared at him when they talked, like she was piecing together his face and recognizing bits of it. But in her, he only saw a faint resemblance to his father. Her eyes were large and round, like Helena Bonham Carter’s, with hooded lids. Her irises were wolf blue, much like the white wolf’s. For all he knew, they were related. Maybe he was an uncle of hers. Or a cousin. And her hair was wavy, not wolfish in texture at all. He could not make out the color in the darkness. And yet, something in the point of her nose and angle of her chin seemed a bit like his dad’s. Or maybe he just wanted it to be like him. In all honesty, he thought it would be nice not to feel so alone. He never told his friend Peter McCabe this, but he was jealous of all Peter's brothers and how close his family was. He wanted that.

Margarete had texted the location of a café, which Rick found without any trouble. It was a quaint place that felt genuinely French. It also was open until late in the night, which was useful. As he found a small table where he could watch the road without being seen, he wondered if they’d let him sleep there—maybe in a back room or in a booth. Going to the hotel was out of the question. And he didn’t think youth hostels were a safe bet either. The problem was, would he be able to communicate his trouble without looking like some kind of runaway or druggie?

When the waitress came around, he asked if she could speak English.

“A little,” she said.

He sighed and apologized in his horrible French for his language, then attempted to order a sandwich (that he was sure had no garlic or honey in it) and some juice. It took a bit for her to jot down and nod like she comprehended him—which he couldn’t tell considering how lousy his French was—and he waited patiently, keeping one eye on the road. When she returned, she set a fancy panini in front of him with a glass of… he wasn’t sure what it was but it didn’t look like juice. It was pinkish colored. And there were these small colored balls in the bottom of the container—and it smelled a little like tea.

“Ah, I see you ordered something.” Margarete strode into the cafe and sat down in the chair opposite him. She had moved so fast that he decided to scoot from the doorway more, realizing he had not chosen the best location after all. Then he saw how she was dressed. She was in different clothes—jeans with a shirt/tank top combination which was entirely different from the dress she had worn earlier. Her outfit earlier was simple, feminine and casual. This one was like a clubber, including her hair, handbag and makeup. If he had not heard her voice, her light but identifiably French accent, he would have assumed she was someone else. Her eyes were the same electric blue though.  

“Did you change your look on purpose?” He peered at her.

She nodded. “Of course I did. And I went out a back way, so I doubt I was followed.”

He just stared at her. “I liked the way you were before.”

Before, she had a clean face. And this makeup didn’t exactly suit her. It was overdone, flashy, and frankly did not improve her at all. It was like she was trying too much to be seen as cool. Her hair was styled in an upturned twist, hastily done

Margarete laughed. She shook her head, her expression calling him a simpleton. “I never wear makeup—”

“Clearly.” Which slipped out before he could stop himself.

Her eyes widened at his impertinence. Huffing, she said, “I did this on purpose. No one would recognize me if they look into this shop.”

He watched her carefully then sighed. “Are you expecting…?”

She shrugged then flagged down the waitress and ordered a coffee. “The pack will be on patrol looking for you. If you are not in the expected places, they will eventually look for you in places like this.”

Moaning, Rick pressed his fingers to his forehead and massaged it against an ache. She watched him, curious at the gesture… though more like she recognized it. He wondered if his brothers ever did anything like that.

Finally, he said, “So… what are our options here?”

Margarete gestured to the waitress who was bringing her coffee. “Do you know if the upper room is let?”

The waitress shook her head and shrugged. She peeked to Rick. “Je ne pense pas. Do you need to rent a room for the night?”

Peeking at Rick, Margarete said, “This is… a distant relative. This is his first time in Paris, but I cannot take him home according to the rules of my apartment. Can he lodge here for the night?”

Rick watched as the waitress nodded then smiled at Rick. “I will talk to my manager and see.”

“Can we borrow one of the party rooms as well? Just for a short while. He and I need to talk,” Margarete said.

The waitress nodded. “Aller de l’avant.”

Margarete rose from her seat, carrying her coffee. “They’re going to let us use a back room so we can talk in private. And, if we are lucky, I can get you a room stay in for the night.”

That seemed a little fast. But Rick followed her, picking up his sandwich plate and taking his peculiar drink also. He walked a little closer to her and asked, “Are they wolves as well?”

She shook her head, hissing back. “And don’t mention wolves to them either. It is a sore spot for them.”

He stared at her, puzzled.

Seeing his looks, she explained as they went into a back room with a door large enough to accommodate huge trays of food, “I got them out of a jam with the pack a while back. They housed a wayward wolf once on a full moon who had run from the elders’ punishment after biting a human. They had no clue about the pack. But the pack assumed they were hunters using the wolf as bait to get to them.”

Rick drew in a breath, his eyes widening—almost going wolf-shaped. He noticed the huge dining table and chairs, pulling out one to sit.

“The elders had prepared to eliminate the entire family and make it look like an accident—but I intervened