Wyvern and Company Read online

  Wyvern and company

  Saa Thalarr, Book 2

  A Novel by

  CONNIE SUTTLE

  For Walter, Joe, Sarah H., Lee D., Dianne J. and Larry O. Thank you.

  A very special thank you to Fluffer Nutter, Renée B., Richard K. and Amy S.

  * * *

  The Author's information may be found at the end of this book.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters and incidents portrayed within its pages are a product of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons (or vampires, werewolves, High Demons, Greater Demons, Lesser Demons, Larentii, shapeshifters, Ra'Ak, wizards, warlocks, witches, Avii, Saa Thalarr or gods) living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Wyvern and Company, © 2014 by Connie Suttle

  All rights reserved

  This book, whole or in part, MAY NOT be copied or reproduced by mechanical means (including photocopying or the implementation of any type of storage or retrieval system), without the express written permission of the author, except where permitted by law.

  The author wishes to thank you for purchasing this e-book. Purchasing this book through legitimate channels supports the author and makes it possible for her to keep writing. If you did not purchase this book through legitimate channels, or have downloaded it from a website that pirates authors' works, the author kindly asks that you purchase a copy for yourself, as sales of her books are her only source of income.

  * * *

  ISBN-10: 1-939759-30-7

  ISBN-13: 978-1-939759-30-6

  Other books by Connie Suttle:

  Blood Destiny Series

  Blood Wager

  Blood Passage

  Blood Sense

  Blood Domination

  Blood Royal

  Blood Queen

  Blood Rebellion

  Blood War

  Blood Redemption

  Blood Reunion

  * * *

  Legend of the Ir'Indicti Series

  Bumble

  Shadowed

  Target

  Vendetta

  Destroyer

  * * *

  High Demon Series

  Demon Lost

  Demon Revealed

  Demon's King

  Demon's Quest

  Demon's Revenge

  Demon's Dream

  * * *

  The God Wars Series

  Blood Double

  Blood Trouble

  Blood Revolution

  Blood Love

  Blood Finale

  * * *

  The Saa Thalarr Series

  Hope and Vengeance

  Wyvern and Company

  * * *

  The Finder series

  Finder

  Keeper*

  * * *

  The R-D series

  Cloud Dust

  Cloud Invasion*

  *Forthcoming

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 1

  "Hey, Justin."

  Marilee Short walked up behind me as I pulled my English homework from my locker. It was Friday after our first week of school and Marilee was on the prowl. Her fake, sultry voice might work on the rest of the football team, but I wanted nothing to do with her.

  I can't explain that—Mack almost pants around her if she speaks to him at all. And Short? What an oxymoron of a name. Marilee is five-eleven in her socks.

  "Marilee." I acknowledged her presence by saying her name and slamming my locker door. She began to walk her fingers up my arm the minute I turned to look at her.

  "Whatcha doin' tonight, Justin?" she asked, turning the pseudo-sultry up a notch.

  "Helping my dad," I said, "At a construction site." I stared at the fingers walking up my arm. She dropped her hand and her eyes.

  "We-ell, if you get done early," she looked at me again, "A bunch of us are getting together at my parents' lake cabin to get drunk. You're more than welcome to come."

  "I'll think about it," I lied. I hate to lie, but sometimes there's just no other way. Marilee waited for me to say something else. When I didn't, she took the hint and walked away.

  "See you there," she called behind her.

  "Not in this lifetime," I muttered before turning to walk out a different way.

  The hallway was deserted and dim that afternoon—most kids couldn't wait to get away from school on Fridays. I heard sounds of car engines starting outside; seniors were allowed to drive themselves and they were squealing out of the school parking lot, just to make the others envious.

  I had to walk all the way around the building to get to my car, but by the time I got to it, Marilee and her crowd were already gone. Climbing into my six-year-old Honda, I shut the door and got the engine going.

  The weather was as hot as you can imagine Fresno might get in late August, and I hoped the AC would get the car cooled fast. While I waited for that to happen, I pulled my cell phone from beneath the seat to check for messages. There was only one—from my best friend, Mack.

  Mack's real name is Martin Walters, Jr., but his family calls him Mack because his dad goes by Martin. Mack is better than being called Junior any day of the week. Punching a button, I called him back.

  "What's up, JAG?" Mack asked.

  JAG is code for my initials, Justin Adam Griffin. Mack is the only one who calls me that. Actually, he's the only one who'll get away with calling me that. If anybody else did, I'd be pissed. It's just like calling my dad sweetie. Mom can get away with it, but if anybody else said that to him, they'd be acquainted with a wall in short order.

  "Not much happening here," I said. "What's up with you, dude?"

  "Marilee just called. I got invited to her parents' lake cabin tonight." Yeah, he was excited. Mack was smitten with Marilee Short—the top of his head came up to her chin, but that didn't stop him for even a second.

  I also recognized Marilee's game—if she convinced Mack to go, then maybe he'd convince me to come, too. "You goin'?" I asked.

  "Hell, yeah."

  "Have a good time. I'm helping Dad at his new construction site tonight."

  "Groovy. Uh, sorry you can't go," he covered his mistake.

  I laughed. "No prob, dude. Have a good time. Don't get too drunk. You have to drive home, you know." Mack knew Marilee had her eye on me, and couldn't understand why I kept shoving her away. If I didn't go tonight, maybe he'd have a shot.

  "See ya, dude," Mack said.

  "Later, dude," I responded and ended the call. At least our conversation allowed time for the Honda's AC to work. I drove home only semi-moist from the heat.

  * * *

  "Mom, what the hell?" I said, dumping my cell and my backpack on the kitchen island. She stood in the middle of the island, her feet bare, stretching to reach the light fixture hanging overhead.

  Dad, who'd walked into the house a nanosecond after I did, now stood beside the island, watching Mom's attempt to change a light bulb while he scowled at her. When he folded his arms over his chest, that was a signal—that somebody was doing something that didn't meet with his approval.

  "Adam, it's a good thing you didn't build this house," Mom grumped as she stretched on tiptoe to reach the burned-out bulb.

  "And if I had built it?" As always, he sounded calm. I recognized the tone, however—it said I'm
not taking much more of this nonsense. If I'd been on that island, I'd have gotten down. Fast.

  "If you'd built this, I'd smack you for putting this light fixture where you can't reach it with a ladder," she said.

  Yeah, it was time to defuse. "Hi, Mom," I said, walking to the opposite side of the island and lifting my cheek for the traditional kiss. Mom smiled and leaned down to do just that.

  I pulled her off the island the minute she leaned down, setting her on the floor while Dad hopped onto the island like it was three inches instead of nearly three feet off the floor. He had a new bulb in the fixture before Mom could draw breath to yell at both of us.

  "Effing fine," Mom snapped when Dad jumped off the island with a grin. Except she didn't say effing. She said the actual word. Then she added something about tag team crap, only the S word was used instead of the C word.

  Dad and I waited for her to leave the kitchen before we started laughing.

  "You still planning to clean up the site tonight?" he asked.

  "Yeah."

  "It shouldn't take long. Joey wants to go to a late movie afterward, if you're interested."

  "I sure am. Why?"

  "Just didn't want to put a crimp in your social life," he teased.

  Dad has a faint accent when he speaks—either British or Australian—I can't really tell. His birth certificate says he was born in London, but he says he moved around a lot before he met Mom and settled in Fresno.

  Miss Channing, my eleventh-grade History teacher, sighs and bats her eyelashes at Dad whenever she sees him at one of my basketball or football games. Dad pretends he doesn't see her.

  Mr. Jameson, the assistant principal, was the one I worried about, though. I overheard him saying he wouldn't mind effing my mom, only he said the actual word, too. I didn't tell Mom about it—I told Dad. I mean, that's just creepy.

  Dad had a look on his face that I'd never seen before when I told him, just before he went to have a talk with Mr. Jameson. I don't know what Dad said, but whenever Mr. Jameson saw Mom after that, he ran in the opposite direction.

  "I think I can get the site cleaned up before dinner," I said when Mom walked back in the kitchen.

  "You have three hours," she said.

  "I can handle it." Pulling my shirt over my head on the way to my bedroom, I grabbed work clothes, dressed and was out the door in ten.

  * * *

  "How bad was the worksite?" Uncle Joey asked as we stood in line to get popcorn at the theater.

  "Found a bunch of roofing nails in the flower bed. Good thing I had the nail magnet with me—Dad told me to take it before I left the house. I'd still be there if I hadn't."

  "How did it look?" Joey stepped up to the counter to order popcorn and drinks for both of us.

  "Good. Dad's crew did a great job and the interior is finished—they're only waiting for carpet, now. The tile is already down."

  "How's school? Two large popcorns, please, and two bottles of water."

  "School's school," I shrugged as we watched the clerk fill two tubs of popcorn. "May need your help with calculus. Mr. Draper is just as boring as everybody says he is. I hope I don't fall asleep during class."

  "I'll help," Joey agreed and handed money to the clerk.

  "I got invited to a beer party tonight. Didn't want to go," I added as we walked down a hall toward our theater. "Mack went. He really doesn't like beer—he wanted to go so he could drool on Marilee Short."

  "She really bothers you, doesn't she?" Joey opened the door and let me walk through first. Commercials were already playing on the screen, but the previews hadn't started yet.

  "I don't know why. She's pretty and popular. She isn't stupid, but she lets everybody think she is. I guess she just doesn't try," I floundered.

  "That bothers you too, doesn't it?" Joey nodded as we walked up carpeted steps toward a high seat.

  "Yeah. The other guys tend to eat that up, but to me, it's just dumb. Why hide what you are?"

  Joey chose that moment to choke on a mouthful of popcorn. He coughed for a minute or two before going up the steps again.

  We'd gone to an action/adventure movie. It was strong on action and special effects, but rather deficient in story. Joey and I complained about it on the drive home.

  * * *

  Saturday is my laundry day. Since I was twelve, I've been washing my own clothes and bedding. Mom said it was good practice for later, when I went to college or looked for a girlfriend. Who wants to be invited to a dirty apartment or dorm room?

  Actually, I was looking forward to a little mess, but not so much it couldn't be cleaned in half an hour. At least I knew how to clean and do laundry—Mom made sure of that. That's why I was carrying an armload of sheets and pillowcases toward the laundry room when I heard the television going in the media room.

  Normally, Mom and Dad seldom watched television—especially so early on Saturday morning. At first I ignored it, choosing to stuff the sheets in the washer, add soap and get it started before walking into the kitchen for a glass of orange juice.

  That's when I walked into the family room, carrying my juice and looking to find out why the TV was on. That moment set me on a track I'd never known existed. I froze, my glass halfway to my mouth, as the huge, flat-screen television came into view.

  Splashed across it was Mack's photograph from last year's yearbook—the one he hated so much. A reporter blathered some nonsense while I read the caption at the bottom of the screen—the one that said arrest made in party massacre at Shaver Lake cabin.

  The glass of orange juice fell from my fingers and shattered on the wood floor.

  Chapter 2

  "He didn't do it. Mack wouldn't do that," I repeated. I think I'd said it at least six times.

  "Son, we know that," Dad said, putting an arm around my shoulders. "We just have to convince the authorities they have the wrong person."

  The landline rang while Dad did his best to reassure me. Mom answered.

  "Hello?" she said. "Yes, this is Mrs. Griffin. Why do you want to know whether my son is home? Of course you may question him, but only with his father and me present." I knew then Mom was dangerously close to letting whoever was on the other end of that conversation have it. "Yes, that's our address," she confirmed. "We'll be waiting." She hung up.

  Dad can sound deadly, but when Mom gets that quiet and deliberate, somebody is in real trouble for sure. "The police are on their way," she announced. "It seems Mr. Jameson named Justin as Mack's coconspirator in everything he does, and suspects that he was at that party last night."

  "I will take that bastard apart," Dad rose, his voice barely above a growl.

  "Adam, calm down. There are other things that require our attention first," Mom said. "Mack is in real trouble. We can't have that."

  "They won't arrest me, too, will they?" I asked. Honestly, being implicated in multiple murders wasn't even on my radar until that moment.

  "You will not be arrested," Mom said firmly. "We will handle this, one way or another."

  Two police officers showed up twenty minutes later. Dad frowned as both of them walked into the house. Mom politely (and stiffly) offered coffee when they sat across from me at the kitchen island. Both accepted a cup.

  "Now," the taller of the officers, whose nametag said Francis, turned to me and began. "We understand that you and the suspect are inseparable."

  "We don't sleep together," I snapped. Well, it just came out of my mouth—that's the only excuse I had. "He went to the party last night. I cleaned up a construction site for my dad, then went to a movie with Uncle Joey."

  "Do you have proof of this?" The second officer—Barton—asked.

  "I have the ticket stub," I said, slapping the tiny square on the island. "Luis, my dad's foreman, was at the construction site last night, too, to lock up after I got done. I called my mom on the drive home, to ask what was for dinner. We had manicotti."

  "How did you know Martin Walters, Junior, went to the party last night?" Bar
ton asked, saying Mack's full legal name. Mack would have been pissed if he'd heard that.

  "I called him before I drove home from school, yesterday. He said he was going. I told him I didn't want to go because I promised to clean up the construction site."

  "Is that the only reason?"

  "I don't like Marilee Short," I blurted. "And I don't much like beer."

  "Is that why you plotted with your friend to attack her and the others at her party?" Officer Francis asked.

  "He told you he wasn't at the party, and he provided proof and witnesses. That should be the end of it," Dad hissed. His voice was so compelling, it rattled both policemen, I could tell.

  "Did Mr. Walters inform you of his plans, then, to attack those at the party?" Barton tried another tack.

  "Mack is five-six and weighs one-twenty. Do you think for a minute he could take on most of the football team, half the basketball team and the cheerleaders, too?" I huffed. "I saw the news—somebody leaked information that the victims looked like they were attacked by wild animals. Tell me how Mack could do that all by himself without somebody pounding him to a pulp, first. Why don't you talk to the survivors? I hear there are eight of them."

  "They're not speaking," Francis snapped. "Too traumatized, according to the doctors. Two are in critical condition, and may not live."

  "Then answer my son's question," Mom snapped. "Tell us how they were attacked from close range by someone strong enough to do that kind of damage, without anyone attempting to fight back?"

  "We don't have an answer, ma'am," Officer Barton muttered. "But the assistant principal said your son and Martin Walters, Jr. are best friends. We're obligated to investigate."

  "Where is Mack, now?" I demanded.

  "In jail," Francis said. "He's eighteen—he'll be charged as an adult."

  "He's not guilty of any of that," I said. "Mack would never do that."

  "He says he tried to call for help, but we can't find any record of the call and his cell phone is missing," Barton said.

  "Wait," I said, standing. "Let me get my phone to see if he tried to call me. I turned the ringer off last night for the movie and forgot to turn it on again."

  "I'll come with you," Barton stood and nodded to me.