The Falcon's Full House Read online

  THE FALCON'S FULL HOUSE

  CANDACE COLT

  FORWARD

  Dear Reader,

  Nocturne Falls has become a magical place for so many people, myself included. Over and over I’ve heard from you that it’s a town you’d love to visit and even live in! I can tell you that writing the books is just as much fun for me.

  With your enthusiasm for the series in mind – and your many requests for more books – the Nocturne Falls Universe was born. It’s a project near and dear to my heart, and one I am very excited about.

  I hope these new, guest-authored books will entertain and delight you. And best of all, I hope they allow you to discover some great new authors! (And if you like this book, be sure to check out the rest of the Nocturne Falls Universe offerings.)

  For more information about the Nocturne Falls Universe, visit http://kristenpainter.com/sugar-skull-books/

  In the meantime, happy reading!

  Kristen Painter

  THE FALCON'S FULL HOUSE

  A Nocturne Falls Universe Story

  Copyright © 2018 by Candace Colt

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without permission in writing from the author.

  This book is a work of fiction and was made possible by a special agreement with Sugar Skull Books, but hasn’t been reviewed or edited by Kristen Painter. All characters, events, scenes, plots and associated elements appearing in the original Nocturne Falls series remain the exclusive copyrighted and/or trademarked property of Kristen Painter, Sugar Skull Books and their affiliates or licensors.

  Any similarity to real person, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author or Sugar Skull Books.

  Published in the United States of America.

  Welcome to Nocturne Falls, the town that celebrates

  Halloween 365 days a year.

  The tourists think it's all a show: the vampires, the werewolves, the witches, the occasional gargoyle flying through the sky. But the supernaturals populating the town know better.

  Living in Nocturne Falls means being yourself.

  Fangs, fur, and all.

  THE FALCON'S FULL HOUSE

  Not all who wander are lost.

  J. R. R. Tolkien

  Dedicated to the very real twins Cat and Ari

  THE FALCON'S FULL HOUSE

  Genetics can be cruel. Ask half-elf, Ian Hunter. As if pointed ears and almond shaped eyes didn't set him apart, he's cursed with longevity. Shunned in the elf world, misunderstood by humans, and weary of watching friends age and die around him, he finally found acceptance in Nocturne Falls. Resigned to a solitary life, he never dreamed a woman, elf or human, would choose him as a mate. Until he meets a feisty falcon shifter.

  Wanderlust flows through Rachel Ortega's blood. The falcon shifter is itching to get back on the road, but she’s low on cash so she lands a temporary job in Nocturne Falls. She never expects to fall in love with the town or with a handsome half-elf.

  When Rachel's arrested on an anonymous tip that she's part of a smuggling ring, her only ally is Ian. He pledges to clear her name, but will a half-elf's promise be enough to restore her reputation and the town's trust?

  ONE

  She didn't factor an iron gate.

  "Lady, you sure this is where you want out?" The Ryde driver peered over his sunglasses at his passenger in the back seat.

  Rachel Ortega had already prepaid the ride from Nocturne Falls. She wasn't about to pay for a trip back.

  "This is Wolf Creek, right?" She asked.

  The driver shrugged and nodded as Rachel unwound her legs and exited the back seat of the small hybrid car.

  "Good luck," he said and drove off.

  Luck sounded good right now. The overnight flight was jammed full of yakety-yak passengers who never shut up from Heathrow take-off to Atlanta touchdown. Headphones had hardly cut out the noise. Sensitive ears were a falcon's curse.

  The 'leave the driving to us' bus trip from Hartsfield International Airport to Nocturne Falls was a living nightmare. Three hours on the map became four on the bus. The blessing was she caught a nap.

  Flying would have been a lot faster. Rachel's top speed clocked over a hundred with a good tailwind.

  Though a good stretch of her wings would have been wonderful, she'd bought a bus ticket. She'd learned the hard way luggage doesn't survive the shift to falcon.

  Luggage? One well-worn black leather backpack. Very versatile. Handy as a pillow, and a darn good swinging weapon when necessary.

  It amused her every time she thought about the grabby handed Italian-stallion-wannabe in Rome. The guy had severely overestimated his appeal, and ultimately underestimated Rachel's self-defense skills.

  She ran her hand absently over the leather. Readjusting to the US after seven years in Europe was going to take some time.

  Meanwhile, this gate had her stumped.

  After adjusting her backpack over her shoulders, she scanned through email from her new employer, Solange Ford. Nowhere was there a mention of a gate code, and she didn't have the Ford telephone number.

  There might be a way to scale the fence, which she wasn't above doing. Or perhaps there's an intercom. Or maybe send Solange an email.

  Tempted to pitch her backpack over the gate, shift and fly over, she figured it wouldn't be a good idea in this hoity-toity neighborhood. At least on day one.

  And especially since twin security cameras on the pillars focused on her.

  No flyover today. Risky, even for Rachel.

  Hands on hips, she examined the gate again. There was a keypad, but what good was it? With a zero chance of hitting the right sequence, she wasn't about to stand here and mash buttons.

  At the sound of a truck pulling up, Rachel stepped out of the way. Maybe she'd draft in behind it and door-to-door till she found the Ford home. A perfectly stupid idea.

  "May I be of assistance?"

  Rachel's gaze met the driver's. A friendly smile. Honest face. He didn't look like a scurrilous abductor. But serial killers were often suave as silk.

  She stepped out of arm's reach from the rumbling pick-up, ran her hand along the back of her jeans waistband and tapped for the knife—gone.

  She remembered she'd given it to a friend before going through airport security in London. Her stomach twisted. Even though she'd never had to use the blade, she felt naked without it.

  Dammit. This guy was her only option.

  "I'm supposed to start a new job. But, I don't have the code."

  "I know everyone in here. Who are you looking for?"

  Rachel cleared her throat. "The Ford house." She grimaced as soon as the words left her big mouth. Where were her city smarts? Don't blab stuff like this to a stranger.

  "So, you're Solange's new assistant?"

  She gasped. Talk about small towns and how everyone knew everything. Not what she was used to growing up in Miami. Nobody there just pulled up and offered help. Oh, they might pull up, but help wouldn't be the reason why.

  Another two cars waited for this guy to move. Either she continued to stand there like a stump, or accept his help and make everyone in line happy.

  Inside the old pickup, she hugged her backpack on her lap. While her knees grazed the car's dash, she noticed he scarcely had legroom either.

  He punched in the code, the gate opened, and they rumbled through.

  Once he got rolling, he reached his hand to Rachel. "I'm Ian Hunter."

  Whoa. Those eyes. Wh
at color was this? A cross between pewter and dusk, they pierced through her heart; a place she proudly kept sealed.

  His brown hair ponytail grazed his mid-back; a solid broad back. She drew her eyes down his arm to the hand holding hers. A white dress shirt with folded cuffs accented his powerful forearm.

  She gave his hand an extra squeeze before she released his grip.

  "Rachel Ortega."

  Ian slowed as he rounded a corner and Rachel had a better view of the different home styles. Modern. Colonial. And of course, a few Gothics. Pick a style. It was here.

  She'd seen her share of gorgeous homes, but these ranked up there. And she'd heard this was a community comprised entirely of shifters. Incredible.

  Ian stopped in front of a three-story mansion sitting back from the street. Cars were parked on the road and up the driveway.

  "This is the Ford home?" She asked.

  "It is." Ian reached for the intercom button.

  Another gate and more cameras? This was nuts. With all their supernatural powers why did people here need this much security?

  A woman's voice came over the speaker and acknowledged Ian.

  "Thanks. I can walk the rest of the way," Rachel said.

  His perplexed look turned into a grin. "No doubt, but this is where I'm going."

  The truck was out of place here, but who was she to judge?

  After the gate opened, he maneuvered around the line of cars and parked in the grass behind the house. The garage was larger than most markets in Europe.

  She had a hundred questions but didn't know Ian from a boiled potato. And now wasn't the time or place to ask anything since she didn't have a clue about his connection to the Fords. But she sensed he wasn't an animal shifter.

  Silently they walked from the car to the front porch. She glanced once over her shoulder at Ian's old vehicle, standing out like a frog in a punchbowl.

  If this driveway full of upscale cars was any indication, Nocturne Falls must have some pretty interesting residents.

  Rachel nearly laughed out loud at the ornate double wooden doors. She fully expected Bela Lugosi to open them. She ran her fingers through her hair, released the lock behind her ear, and let it fall over her eye. She could sure use a hot shower.

  Ian rang the bell a second time. "They may not have heard us."

  She was about to reply when the door handle clicked. Rachel felt her heartbeat thump up her neck to her temples. She'd traveled all the way from Europe for this job and only communicated with the owner through email. She didn't have a clue who the woman was, what she looked like, who, or what, she ate for dinner.

  Fine time for regrets and what ifs. She shut her eyes and took a deep breath as the door opened.

  "Ian, you made it. Get in here, man."

  Rachel opened one eye and the other. Mister tall, dark and utterly adorably handsome, how do you do?

  She noticed his shiny gold wedding band. Figures.

  Ian embraced the guy in a man-hug and turned to her.

  "Rachel, it is my pleasure to introduce you to Ryan Ford. This is Solange's son," Ian said. "Now I must excuse myself."

  Though Rachel had no ties to Ian, he'd sure made an exit. Now, what?

  "Rachel, Mother's around here somewhere. Follow me."

  Ryan's casual and comforting welcome calmed her, somewhat. He must know she's a falcon, which would account for his politeness.

  As they passed through rooms full of people, Ryan navigated like a pro, while Rachel knocked into at least ten people juggling little appetizer plates and drink glasses. Not the smartest place to wear a backpack.

  Thank goodness only one or two of the older guests gave her the old stink eye. Were they judging her clothes? Well, let them.

  Rachel had worn black since she was a teenager. Black shoes. Pants. Tops. Dresses. Or, now a dress; the one she had in the backpack.

  They entered a large room that in the old days may have been called a drawing room. Did anyone draw in those rooms?

  "She's the tall one," Ryan whispered and pointed to a group in a corner.

  Most everyone in here was tall. But, in the middle of a gaggle of admirers, stood a stately matron staring daggers in Rachel's direction.

  Ryan turned to Rachel again. "Bark's worse than her bite. Mostly," he said.

  Peachy. Rachel drew her shoulders back and walked straight toward the woman. With a broad smile, she reached her hand forward.

  "Mrs. Ford? I'm Rachel Ortega."

  "How delightful to meet you in person." Solange's husky voice smacked of insincerity.

  Somehow, Rachel didn't pick up the same delightful vibe. Ryan had assured her his mother's bite wasn't all bad. 'Mostly.'

  Was it too late to catch the next Greyhound out of here?

  TWO

  "I'm sure you'd like to freshen up." Solange waved over a red-haired woman. "My daughter-in-law will show you to your room. This party will go on for hours, so come back anytime. We'll talk later when it's not so noisy."

  Noisy, yes. But nothing like an Ortega extravaganza spilling out of the house, around the pool, and onto their boat anchored at the intercoastal.

  Every time she asked her Papi why he was throwing another free party for people nobody knew from Adam, her father would say: 'It keeps my name out there, Bebita.'

  As though plastering his face all over Dade County billboards and television ads weren't enough.

  No case too small for Ortega law.

  Rachel shuddered. In the last few months before leaving the states, she'd seen more of her father on TV than in person.

  With her father posturing to run for Congress and her mother caught up in her medical practice, she doubted either of them had missed their 'Bebita' much.

  "I'm Jess Ford, Ryan's wife. So good to meet you." The woman's sparkling eyes and bright smile erased Rachel's apprehension.

  She followed Jess through the kitchen, bustling with caterers and past a solarium until they reached a door.

  "You'll love this cute little place," Jess said as she led Rachel into the apartment.

  After living in communal hostels, and the occasional outdoor woods 'venue,' Rachel thought she'd walked into the Ritz-Carlton.

  A suite with an adorable kitchenette, living room, private bedroom, and bath. Even a small washer and dryer. The whole place, all to herself. Her head reeled.

  She slipped off her backpack, set it on the two-seat futon, and continued the tour. Jess opened the double doors to the walk-in closet. "Hope this is big enough."

  Rachel stifled a giggle. It was more than big enough for her dress, a jeans jacket, a pair of flats, and her T-shirts.

  Jess eyed the backpack. "Are the rest of your bags coming later?"

  Rachel could lie and say her suitcases were delayed at the airport, ignore the comment entirely, or tell the truth.

  "This is all I have," she said.

  Jess's face drew a question mark, but she didn't pursue it. Rachel liked this classy lady more by the minute.

  "You have free TV and internet access." Jess opened the blinds covering a slider off the kitchenette. "And this."

  A patio with a table and two chairs, bordered by the solarium on one side, the woods around the others.

  And trees? A thick, shady stand of tall trees? She could spend hours in this heaven on earth.

  All her parents' Miami estate had been sky-high Norfolk Pines, palms, and tropical fruit trees. Not hospitable falcon perches.

  "Outstanding," Rachel said.

  Word of mouth and a recommendation by a friend of a friend got her this job. Though she still wasn't sure what this position entailed, she sure as hell was going to give it her best shot.

  Jess checked her phone and showed a baby-cam to Rachel. "One of the twins woke up. I need to check on them. Come on back to the party when you're ready."

  As Jess walked away, Rachel thought to ask, "What's the celebration about, if you don't mind me askin
g."

  Jess's lilting laugh was charming. "Oh, guess it would help to know it's Solange's birthday."

  After hanging her dress and jacket, unpacking her toiletries consisting of a toothbrush, paste, moisturizer, mascara, lipstick, and body butter, Rachel laid down on the double bed covered with a white comforter.

  She sneezed her usual six times, signaling feathers were nearby. The comforter label proudly stated the darn thing was goose down.

  Ah, phooey.

  She dug into her backpack for her nose spray while mumbling curses about being the only falcon on earth with a bird feather allergy. She shoved the comforter into an empty dresser drawer and sneezed again as she waved away tiny floating feathers.

  After opening the sliders for fresh air, she returned to the comforter-free bed. All she needed was just a few minutes of peace and total quiet. No planes, trains, buses, crowds.

  Rachel might have slept through the night if her phone hadn't buzzed. Stunned awake, and unsure where she was, she replied to the text message from her brother assuring him she arrived in one piece.

  She shook off the stupor of a daytime nap and checked the time. Jeesh. She'd slept an hour.

  After splashing her face with cold water, Rachel rummaged through her backpack for a T-shirt appropriate for the party, though didn't plan to stay long.

  She hung all three of them in the closet and pondered her choices. One halter top, plain black. One three-quarter sleeve, midnight black with sequins. One full-length sleeve, Halloween cat black, with Megadeath scrawled across the front. Oh, and one sleep shirt.

  The halter revealed a bit much for the first night and this conservative crowd. And no Megadeath for this party.

  She settled on the sequined shirt from a Paris thrift shop. Random designs. Non-controversial. No statement.

  She wandered through the house, following the sound of the party goers. In the kitchen, she sampled from a tray of melt-in-the-mouth pâté. She asked one of the chefs if it was a French import.