December 23rd, 2042
DJ stared at the ugly chintz wallpaper as he picked imaginary lint from his borrowed suit jacket; it was cut just a little too narrow in the shoulders to be truly comfortable, but it was black, and according to Bess, that was all that mattered.
"If he smells like the pack, and he looks like a witch, they won't even question it," she'd said, when Garth was still debating with her about whether DJ should be present at all.
To be honest, DJ had spent most of the six-hour drive wondering about that, himself. They'd caravanned the day before, Garth and Bess taking the family station wagon while the boys rode in DJ's van and Cass bitched the entire time about having to leave the Ranchero. Sam, at least, had been happy to have the extra legroom. Right now, though, Sam was anything but.
"Cass!" Sam called, frustrated, pounding on the bathroom door again. "Enough primping! Other people need to get in there, you know!"
Cass jerked the door open, scowling. His tie hung loose around his neck and his cuffs were still unbuttoned; Sam rolled his eyes when he saw the state of him.
"Seriously, dude? You're not even ready; what the hell have you been doing in there all this time?" he snapped, ducking past his brother for his turn in front of the mirror.
"I can't get this stupid thing tied right," Cass growled, snatching the tie off entirely and crumpling it up in his fist. "It's too goddamn slippery."
"Give it here," DJ said with a sigh, gesturing for it.
Cass tossed it to him; DJ took a minute to smooth out the wrinkles before threading the tie around his own neck to knot it—neat and precise, with well-practiced fingers. Then he loosened it carefully, just enough to slip it off, and beckoned Cass nearer to settle the loop over his friend's head.
"Don't you ever wear a suit and tie for a case?" he asked, turning up Cass' shirt collar before he pulled the hitch snug, making sure the polyester laid flat.
"Sometimes," Cass said, batting DJ's hands away to adjust the fit himself. "Not usually; people don't really buy into the idea of twin brothers working together as detectives, or insurance adjusters, or journalists, or… well, anything fancy, really."
"Whenever we're on a case where we might need to dress up, he just makes me do it," Sam snitched, emerging from the bathroom and shrugging into the jacket he'd left hanging over the back of a chair.
"What can I say? You clean up nice, Sammy."
"We're identical, dipshit!"
A gentle rap sounded on the door of their room; since the twins were still bickering, DJ took it upon himself to let their parents in.
"Oh, DJ, your hair," Bess fussed, tongue clicking against her teeth. "You have to do something with it."
"I mean, I already combed it," DJ protested. "It's fine."
But Bess was insistent; she tugged at his lapel until he followed her to the bathroom and let her dampen his hair, rub in some product, and slick it back. Cass peeked around the doorjamb at him and snickered.
"Looking good, dude," he teased. "All you need now is some eyeliner."
"Shut up," DJ retorted, resisting the urge to run his fingers through it and muss it all up again.
"Worry about yourself, Cass," Bess chided. "Where's your jacket?"
While Bess and Sam helped Cass hunt down the jacket he'd somehow managed to misplace in less than an hour and in under three hundred square feet, Garth jerked his chin to indicate that DJ should join him in the motel room's small vestibule, leaning in close and keeping his voice low.
"How long has it been since you fired a gun?" He wanted to know.
"Uh," DJ had to think. "A few months; why?"
Garth narrowed his eyes suspiciously.
"How long has it been since you fired a gun at something corporeal?" He rephrased the question.
"Longer than that," DJ admitted.
"Right," Garth muttered, reaching under his jacket. "You get the knife, then."
Gingerly, the older wolf handed over an ankle holster and a small, silver knife, keeping one eye on Bess as he did so.
"Why is this a secret?" DJ asked quietly, tucking the apparent contraband out of sight.
"Bess doesn't think it'll be necessary," Garth explained, making a face. "But your dad would never forgive me if I let you walk in there completely unarmed. So let's just… keep this between us, okay?"
"Oh my god, Cass!" Sam nearly shouted. "It's in the fucking closet! That's where jackets belong, you idjit!"
While everyone else was tugging on the coats, scarves, and gloves necessary to brave the arctic blast currently shrieking across Lake Michigan, DJ excused himself to the bathroom to better conceal the weapon he fervently hoped he wasn't going to need. Then they all trooped outside and piled into the vehicles; it was a bit of a slog through the city from their affordable accommodations to the upscale neighborhood where they'd be meeting with the Duvals.
"Swanky," Cass commented, as a stoic doorman ushered them into the foyer of a neoclassical mansion and relieved them of their outerwear.
"Dude, the packhouse is nearly the same size," Sam defended, determinedly unimpressed.
"Yeah, but our house looks like someone actually lives in it," Cass replied, shifting uneasily as he assessed his surroundings.
"This way, please," their escort said tonelessly, directing them down a vaulted corridor and into a sumptuously furnished sitting room.
Bess settled into the studded leather wingback that presided over the room like something straight out of The Godfather—a power move, if DJ'd ever seen one—and smoothed her skirt over her knees. Garth stayed on his feet, hovering protectively behind his wife and looking decidedly ill-at-ease, but the twins followed their mother's lead and sprawled on opposite ends of the sofa. DJ, for his part, tucked himself into an inconspicuous corner and catalogued every point of egress.
"Miss Myers," an unctuous, resonant voice dragged DJ's attention from the plate glass window. "You look lovely, as always."
For all that he was dressed like an investment banker, everything about Julian Duval screamed predator. He sauntered leisurely into the room wearing a self-assured smirk; if it bothered him that Bess was in his seat, it certainly didn't show.
"It's Mrs. Fitzgerald, Julian," Bess replied coolly, allowing him to lift her hand and press a kiss to the back of it. "And it has been for quite some time now; but you already knew that."
"Of course; my apologies," Duval said silkily, not even a hint of remorse in his tone.
Garth's knuckles cracked as he made fists in his pockets, but the other werewolf didn't spare so much as glance in his direction. Instead, he took stock of the room's remaining occupants. Duval looked DJ up and down briefly, seeming to dismiss him out of hand before casting his appraising eye over Cass and Sam.
"Well, my grandfather might not have been too keen on my aunt running off with a bitten, but it seems the blood runs true," he remarked approvingly.
Bess' expression didn't falter, but Cass and Sam both scowled, recognizing the backhanded compliment for the insult it was. Obviously pleased with the reaction he'd elicited, Duval turned back to Bess.
"Shall we get down to business, then, Mrs. Fitzgerald?"
Business it was; he inquired after the Grantsburg pack's birth and death statistics, pressing Bess for details concerning familial relationships and manner of death and taking meticulous notes. DJ was mildly surprised; he'd expected more imperious posturing, less methodical bookkeeping.
"And how many turned?" he asked next, just one more item on his agenda.
"None," Bess answered easily, and Duval looked up, seeming genuinely surprised.
"None?" he repeated, incredulous. "None at all?"
Bess shook her head.
"We practice what we preach, Julian," she said, smiling serenely.
"I'm sure you do," he allowed, patronizing. "What about those murders in Quad Cities? One does hear things."
"We thought that was one of yours, actually," Cass broke in acerbically. "Turns out it was something else."
"Cass!" Sam hissed, elbowing his twin. "Shut up."
Duval's brows knit together suspiciously, and he frowned deeply as his eyes darted back and forth between the twins and their mother.
"So, no issues with containment then?" he said slowly, disbelief still very much in evidence.
"Not at all," Bess said quickly, reassuring. "When there's an issue, we handle it, but there hasn't been in years. Our pack has a deep appreciation for human life."
"I'm aware of your pack's… proclivities," the other wolf replied, grimacing. "And while I'm all for minimizing unwanted attention, I personally cannot understand the appeal of going vegan."
"Speaking of unwanted attention," Bess segued smoothly. "We've noticed that vampires have been getting some assistance from shapeshifters, these days. They're not exactly being subtle about it, either. You wouldn't happen to know anything about that, would you?"
Sweat prickled at the back of DJ's neck; this was the reason they'd come, and if Duval's caught-out expression was anything to go by, he wasn't totally unaware of the situation.
"No," he said shortly, face shuttering as he closed his little black book. "I don't. You'd do better to ask Margo about that."
"Margo?" Bess' eyebrows shot all the way up to her hairline. "I can't recall a time you've ever referred to a Lassiter by their first name."
"The Lassiters and I have an understanding," Duval said stiffly.
Bess tucked her hair behind her ears, covering her surprise, and cleared her throat.
"Regardless of any understanding," she persisted calmly, "humans are being killed and disposed of on the side of the road like garbage; it's drawing hunters in, and one of my sons was nearly killed. I'd appreciate any light you could shed on the matter."
"The humans are none of my concern," Duval snapped disdainfully, lip curling as he stalked over to the liquor cabinet by the window. "And you're well aware that anyone who wants my help had better be prepared to offer something in exchange."
He poured himself two fingers of bourbon, pointedly declining to offer anyone else a drink, and leaned back against the bar, expectant.
"Well?"
Bess sighed; this, at least, they'd been able to anticipate.
"What do you want, Julian?" she asked reluctantly.
Duval's eyes glittered dangerously, dark irises shot through with amber, as his gaze flicked back over to the twins. He grinned, exposing elongated incisors.
"You know me, Bess," he answered, overly familiar, now. "I'm old-fashioned. You have sons; fine specimens—"
"Ew," Cass said under his breath, not quietly enough.
"—and I have more daughters than I know what to do with. I'm sure that we could make some sort of arrangement; renew our packs' alliance for a new generation."
He had ignored Cass' little outburst as though he hadn't heard it, but he chuckled softly at Bess' obvious disgust.
"Oh come on, Bess," Duval continued provocatively, tossing back his drink. "I'm not talking about love, here. I'm talking about survival; about the preservation of our bloodline."
"Julian," Bess ground out, voice deceptively sweet even as she trembled with rage. "I don't give a damn about the bloodline; my children's lives aren't bargaining chips. It's a shame that you don't want more for your daughters."
"I assume that's why you left yours at home," he retorted, pretending not to notice when Bess' eyes flashed green and her claws extended. "At any rate, we're done here. My man will show you out."
He knocked twice on the bar top, and the doorman reappeared as if by magic, seemingly unaffected by the tense atmosphere in the room as he passed them their coats and began to shepherd them back the way they'd come.
"Merry Christmas, cousin!" Duval called after them, and the sound of his mocking laughter followed them all the way down the hall.
Cass Fitzgerald is my disaster child, and I love him. Credit for the idea that Cass could lose his jacket in a freaking closet goes to my DH, who frequently puts his things exactly where they belong… never to be seen or heard from again.