Werewolves: Dead Man's Hand: Werewolves of Washington, #7

By Angela Beegle

Frank Mellencourt is a werewolf by choice and a member of the Spokane pack by happenstance. He isn't happy, though. The pack Alpha grates on him, the Beta is worse, and he's having problems at home with a wife who doesn't know his secret. Something's going to give.

Tobias James and Tam Franklin, members of the Gladstone pack, have a mission if they choose to accept it: take over the Spokane pack by any means necessary.

Frank doesn't like them, either.

For Tobias, Spokane is the city from which he moved as a young man. Going back means making peace with his ailing, elderly father.

For Frank, Spokane represents a threat to his wife, and no one is allowed to threaten her but him.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Angela Beegle
• Release date: Jun 10, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301691715

Angela Beegle

Angela lives in the Pacific Northwest, where (according to her coffee cup) the average temperature in July is 65F, and the average in January is 40F. She feels this very comfortable range, plus the distinct lack of poisonous snakes, spiders, fire ants, Africanized bees, hurricanes, tornadoes and droughts, more than makes up for the lack of sunlight nine months out of the year. She and her husband (who doesn't care about werewolves in the least) have been married since 1992, and have four delightful homeschooled children, a shelter-rescue dog, and three urban chickens. Her birthday is at Christmas time. What she really likes for her birthday is fuzzy sweaters. J/K.

Book preview

Werewolves: Dead Man’s Hand

Smashwords Edition

License notes:

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author’s hard work.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Copyright Angela Beegle, 2013. All rights reserved.

To my mom, who has been a fan of my writing for a long time.

*****

Foreword:

For the purposes of placing this story in the timeline of the rest of the series, it takes place about 10 years earlier than book 1—or about 1998 give or take a year—to allow for 2 very important details to both be true: Common Law Marriages created in Idaho before January 1, 1996, were recognized by the State and grandfathered in; after that date, they were not (this matters because it surfaces in book 4: ‘The Secret’).

As another detail to help fix this story in time, Frank has a cell phone, but Amandine does not. My husband only had a beeper in 1997 when our first child was born, and although cell phones were available, they were still not widely owned even in metropolitan areas. However, we both owned cell phones by the time our twins were born in 1999. The phones were big, clunky, and expensive by today’s standards, but they were beginning to be more readily available.

So, for this book, jump ten years into the past, land light, and take off running into the story. Enjoy!

*****

Frank Mellencourt knew his hand was good, very good. He also knew most of the others weren’t doing so well, and he didn’t need to see their cards to know how unhappy they were. Parillo was sweating despite upping the ante in the last round, Benson was blinking more than normal, and as for Wesson—gawd, Frank thought, what an unfortunate name. It always made him think of cooking oil even though the guy claimed he was distantly related to the gun manufacturing family—anyway, Wesson never had been able to keep a straight face in his life, and right now he looked thoroughly disgusted. O’Reilly was the only real danger in this hand. O’Reilly thought his hand was good.

Frank liked winning. He liked having the money, of course, since it let him continue living in the manner to which he had become accustomed. He liked the look on the other guys’ faces when he raked a huge pot off the table. He liked knowing he could win any time he wanted to—or fold early and cut his losses—or choose to lose, just to let them have a little hope. Mostly though, he liked winning because it meant he’d outwitted them, outclevered them. It felt like hunting, when the deer’s speed and tricks failed it, and he pulled it down and ate it. He lived for such moments of mastery.

His gambling companions were just good ol’ boys, but even if they’d been professional-level players Frank could probably still have beaten them. As he always said, you can fool the eyes, but you can’t fool the nose—and he could smell what they felt about their cards as clearly if they’d laid them on the table.

He watched Parillo fold on the next hand. Benson, blinking, stuck in there and tossed in his raise, but Wesson followed Parillo, throwing his cards down and tipping his chair back with a grunt and a sigh.

You must have a hell of a hand—again, O’Reilly drawled across the table at Frank as he added money to the pot. Either that, or you took some Xanax before this game. Which is it?

I guess I must have a hell of a hand, Frank agreed, Unless you’re accusing me of cheating. He pulled his billfold out of his hip pocket, drew out a ten, and added it to the pot. Nobody had thrown in more than a five on this game yet.

O’Reilly sucked on his teeth. He looked at his cards, then over at Frank. I’m just saying you seem to get an awful lot of good hands.

Frank smiled and tapped his cards on the table. Ignoring the jibe, he turned to Benson and said mildly, You in or out?

Benson glanced between the two. He shook his head. I’m out. This game’s too rich for my blood. My wife’s gonna kill me as it is. He pushed his chair back.

And that left just O’Reilly. With calculated scorn, Frank said, You dealt them. You made the accusation. You want to pat me down? I’ll stand up and let you do it. Nothing up my sleeve, in my pockets, or stuck to the underside of the table or chair. Go ahead. He laid his cards face-down and stood, hands outstretched and harmless. Go on.

O’Reilly smelled agitated. Scowling, he put his own hand down and got up. Fine. Make a fool of both of us, he muttered. He ran his hands under the bottom of the chair and tabletop, and then gingerly patted Frank’s sleeves, down his sides, and down his pant-legs. It wasn’t a professional job, but the other men were watching. The scent of their discomfort rose like vinegar in the room.

Satisfied? Frank said.

Fine. I call. O’Reilly moved back to his seat and gathered up his cards. Let’s see them.

Frank sighed. As you wish. He laid his cards down. Full house. Three eights, two fives.

O’Reilly swore and threw his own cards face down on the table.

Now if you don’t mind, I’d like an apology. If I were going to cheat, would I really come up with that hand? Frank began to pull the pot toward himself and to lay the dollar bills in his hand without regard to denomination, stuffing the resulting wad in his pocket and scraping together the change.

Something’s just not right, Mellencourt, O’Reilly muttered. You’re a shark now. You weren’t always one. But—I’m sorry. Guess I went overboard.

I guess I shouldn’t fleece you guys so bad, Frank said. I might put you off the game. G’night. Pockets full, he went out into the bitter cold of the wintry Coeur d’Alene night. Traffic in the distance sounded like a rushing river. There was a river out there too, but what he was hearing was definitely vehicles on I-90, endlessly hurrying somewhere. He looked up into the sky. The moon wasn’t quite full, but it was calling him. It made him want to go run and hunt, but it would wait. He turned on the radio as he drove home, catching the weather forecast.

—batten down, and make sure you have a way to clear the snow off your roof, the announcer said. This storm is going to drop eighteen to twenty-four inches on us. If you haven’t been to the store, now’s a good time. Be prepared in case the power goes out. Check with us in the morning for a list of school closures— The announcer rattled off more general safety instructions. Frank squinted at the sky through the windshield. It was clear and cold, and it didn’t feel like snow coming, but they sounded very sure. He hoped they were wrong. February’s full moon was tomorrow. It would be a very bad time to be housebound.

* * * * *

The apartment was dark, silent and chilly, with the thermostat turned down for the night when he arrived. It had been years—he wasn’t sure how many—since Amandine had abandoned her habit of drowsing with a book in the living room, waiting for him to come home. He remembered how excited she used to be about his wins, even before she understood the game. That time was gone, though. He’d fleeced the guys for an easy three hundred tonight, and she wouldn’t care. Never mind that. They might not have been married in a church, but they were common-law man and wife all the same. He wasn’t surprised that she acted like an old married woman.

He toed off his shoes and pulled off his clothes, leaving them in a heap in the living room, and walking noiselessly into the bedroom in sock feet. Goosebumps prickled his arms. His eyes, already accustomed to darkness after the drive home, let him find her dresser easily. He tucked the wad of bills into the top drawer. She would find it in the morning when she got new socks before work, assuming she went at all. He slipped into the bed, regretting the creak of the mattress as always. The heat under the blankets was delicious after the chill in the room, and her smell pleased him, as it always did. Her scent was as unique to him as her face, or as the charming French accent she’d never managed to lose. He eased up against her and she turned to him, roused slightly. He woke her more thoroughly. It was a delicious nightcap to a very successful evening.

Later, as he settled off to sleep with her curled back to back with him, he listened to the moon singing in his head. If he couldn’t get out to the property because of the weather, he figured at least he could go play in the snow. The streets would be empty, and the likelihood of someone seeing him was very small. It was hardly ideal, but measured against the alternative—spending the whole night fighting the moon and very possibly not succeeding—he’d take his chances.

The room was still dark when he woke to the alarm shrilling on her bedside table. She groped blindly, silencing it before burrowing back under the blankets. He lifted his head from the pillow. The apartment sounded wrong, dead still and silent. He reached over and touched her shoulder. Amandine, your alarm went off. C’mon, wake up. The power’s out.

She made an uncertain, groggy sound. Hmm?

The power’s out. Want some coffee?

Mmm hmm. She sat up. Cold air rushed into the void under the covers. Her French accent, always heaviest upon waking, seemed particularly thick. I will shower. At least there is hot water. She tottered toward the window, shivering.

You should call in to work.

I will, but I am certain I know what the answer will be. You should see this.

He got up, pulling the top blanket with him and wrapping himself with it. The scene outside the window was one of rounded edges and of snow, falling so hard it looked like fog. Oh yeah. The radio did say something about snow. I’ll make the coffee.

She kissed his cheek. Thank you.

He pulled on sweatpants and sweatshirt, and then went into the kitchen. With a gas stove, hot water was not a problem. He put coffee and water into the stovetop espresso maker and turned the burner on. The view from the kitchen window was no better. Cocking his ear for the shower, he made sure she wasn’t going to come in on him, then got his cellphone and made a call.

Jake, it’s Frank. What are we doing tonight?

Cripes, you’re the fifth person to call me this morning. Can’t you people think for yourselves? You’re never required to come at full moon, and you sure as hell don’t have to try to drive in this crap.

Frank scowled at the phone. Right. Well I don’t think I’m going to be there. Consider yourself RSVPd.

You and everybody else. Jake said. "Anyway, if nothing else, we might get a few new wolves out of