Heat 0f The Night (Werewolf Shifter Romance)

by Gaja J. Kos

  Yeah, these were no run-of-the-mill weres, though I noted their skill level varied. Tower definitely flirted with the top.

  As we parried, the other came at me. The sharp edge of a blade kissed my back and sliced my T-shirt open. Anger simmered anew. I should have just aimed for the asshole’s jewels earlier. Thankfully, that was something I could remedy within the second.

  I rammed my heel straight into his godsdamned balls. He let out a gargled sound that should have been music to my ears, but I was hardly paying attention. Tower took another swipe at me, feinted left, then thought to surprise me with a move that left his flank exposed.

  Hello, hello.

  I moved bare inches past the sword and jammed my clawed hand deep into the side of his abdomen. This close, his weapon was practically useless. Still, he tried—and failed—to throw me off. I only dug into him harder. My fingers wrapped around his sleek guts, and as the ball-gripping werewolf rushed over to assist his pal, I yanked. I sent Tower slamming into the smaller werewolf, all the while I held on to his guts, stringing them like a damn garland through the air as he kept on staggering back.

  Someone vomited.

  Not me, though.

  I dropped the entrails onto the filthy floor with a wet thud. My claws itched to finish off the dying werewolf—and his buddy in a two-for-one buffet—but a wounded snarl erupted from Hektor’s direction and stopped me in my tracks. I sprinted over to him, scanning the damn mess of a scene, and searched for an opening that would deliver the outcome I wanted. Not many options for that.

  The two werewolves who had remained upright had my teammate cornered.

  And one of them had managed to skewer him like a damn kebab.

  Shit.

  As long as that fucking rod stayed where it was, Hektor couldn’t heal. But if it moved in any other direction than straight back or through, the damage might prove to be too much even for Hektor’s werewolf capabilities to knit back together. Tough didn’t mean invincible.

  In a split-second decision that left an unfulfilled taste in my mouth, I opted to tackle the other werewolf, hoping it would distract the first one for long enough for me to switch my targets mid-fight and throw him the fuck away from Hektor. But before that could happen, he needed to let go of that damn rod.

  I lunged, only it wasn’t my leap that drew their focus away from Hektor.

  Footsteps pounded against concrete, the familiar scent of the men who’d become second family, pack even, filling the grimy warehouse. I couldn’t have asked for a better diversion.

  Wasting no time, I tackled the werewolf holding the skewer and yanked him away.

  Hektor gasped as the rod moved slightly despite the loose grip the were had had on it, but one of our own was beside him the very next second, stabilizing the rusty pole until someone else could come assist with the removal. Seeing Hektor was taken care of, I grabbed the werewolf, rode him down to the ground, then slammed his head against the floor.

  Then once more.

  “Remind me to never piss Freundenberger off,” Uwe commented from afar.

  I shot the ginger werewolf a glare over my shoulder, but Uwe just cackled and proceeded to cuff the lanky prick contained beside the one I’d gutted.

  “I presume this is your work?” Kurt asked as he came up to me and motioned to the spilled entrails decorating a generous section of the floor.

  “Fucker killed Wilhelm.” I secured my werewolf’s legs, then pushed off the ground. “He had it coming.”

  Kurt’s expression darkened. “That he did.”

  There was nothing more left to say. We’d grieve our loss when the time came. But that wasn’t right now, with emotions still running high. If we let our control slip, we’d slaughter each and every one of our prisoners. Morozov probably wouldn’t give us a hard time about it—actually, he’d more than likely join us, given the chance—but while he was the head of ICRA’s Violent Crimes division, he still had a few bosses up the food chain he answered to.

  The last thing I wanted was to get him in trouble.

  I hoisted the bound asshole and started marching him towards the armored truck we’d parked three blocks west. A kernel of amusement came to life within me as that last thought lingered, and in the fucking mess this night had turned out to be, I embraced it.

  Yeah, Lotte, my younger sister who never failed to speak her mind, would definitely tease me about how I was looking out for Morozov for more reasons than just because he was a fucking good boss. But for the fucking.

  Or potential fucking, at least.

  The amusement spread, diluting the bitter darkness.

  The more I thought of the rough Russian in a compromising position or two, the more it helped take the edge off my volatile emotions and turn their flavor into something that was far more controllable than the brute need to lash out. I had hardly even noticed treading past the blood beyond the threshold, then through the night that still carried a twinge of smoke.

  Several others of our team were already escorting the scumbags I’d knocked out earlier towards the truck ahead of me, though once they reached the heavy black vehicle, they all stopped. No simple marching in there and locking them up. We’d cuffed and frisked them, sure, but ICRA had learned over the years that not all weapons were visible and even the best metal wasn’t impervious to attacks of the metaphysical kind. I hadn’t scented anything special on the werewolves, but errors could happen. That was why Leila, the petite witch we usually called in whenever there were several assholes to deal with, stood before the open back doors, her magic a hint of something sunny and floral in the sweat-and-blood-stained air.

  I stepped in line, Kurt and Uwe bringing up their uncharacteristically quiet prisoners behind me.

  “This always reminds me of taking a field trip,” Mads quipped from the far back, just loud enough for all of us to hear.

  “They took you on field trips to prison?” Oliver commented from where he stood by Leila as she worked her magic, a lazy smile on his thin face. “No wonder you ended up with our lot.”

  Kurt snorted. “You do realize you aren’t doing any of us any favors with that, right?”

  I sniggered under my breath, but Oliver just shrugged and tightened his hold on the were who was shooting him murderous looks. “No point in pretending we aren’t all messed up.”

  Damn right he was.

  Violent Crimes wasn’t the kind of division normal supes with an interest in law enforcement wanted to be in. We saw the worst of it, the gritty lows of life that would leave most people with permanent nightmares. Our own life expectancy wasn’t high, exactly, either. But working for Violent Crimes gave us something no other job could.

  A way to release our killing drive while using it for something good.

  I opened my mouth to fire back a retort when something stirred in the air. A faint metallic click. A whiff of a scent entwined with the distant exhaust fumes and floral undertones of Leila’s power.

  I whirled up, spotting a lean, dark figure at the edge of the roof.

  “Sniper!” I yelled.

  We sprang into motion, only the shooter was faster.

  Five consecutive shots rang out. I kept low to the ground, seeking whatever cover I could, though it quickly became clear it wasn’t necessary.

  No more gunfire echoed through the cloudless night.

  I glanced at my teammates, their faces just as bewildered as I felt as we crouched by the truck, untouched, our prisoners reduced to bloodied corpses.

  Chapter Three

  Crusted blood fell from me in flakes as I marched across the floodlit parking lot and past the security checks into the Violent Crimes building. I hardly registered the flurry of activity around me, my gaze focused straight ahead. My body knew where to take me without any input from my mind—which was right up to Morozov’s office on the fourth floor.

  Maybe I should have detoured through the communal showers with the rest first, but tension was running too high in me to stand under a stream of water
and wash the filth off my skin. What good would it do, when the one staining me from within would not only still be there, but paint an even starker contrast?

  What little agents had remained behind when we’d put in the call for backup gave me wide berth, no doubt sensing the foul mood I was in. Even Morozov did a double take from his chair behind the large desk once I barged into his austere, impersonal office with the barest of knocks to announce my presence.

  He’d heard what happened—Oliver had phoned in the execution immediately and I’d heard his voice coming hard through the line—but still he said, “What the fuck?”

  With the way his gaze swept over me, a touch of concern in his otherwise steel-hard eyes, I wasn’t entirely sure if he was asking it for his benefit or mine. Regardless, I didn’t let the opportunity to blow off some steam pass me by.

  “First we have a group of werewolves targeting civilians,” I snarled, planting my feet wider apart, and put up one finger. “Civilians with no apparent ties to the werewolf community or anything of value to them. And the wolves were fucking mercenaries, Morozov. Mercenaries. Someone paid some fucking fine money to have them do the job.”

  As I sucked in a much-needed breath, my boss, wisely, remained silent. He knew I wasn’t done yet.

  “They beheaded Wilhelm.” I added a second finger, my nails elongating into claws despite the no shifting on the premises rule. “Beheaded him.”

  Okay, so maybe this one wasn’t directly tied to the wider picture, but the sight of Wilhelm’s severed head was burned into the back of my eyelids, making it impossible to let go.

  “And then… Then, when we round the fuckers up,”—a third, fully clawed finger joined the party—“a sharpshooter offs them before we can get them into the van?” I threw my arms up, more blood flaking off my clothes and skin. “What the fuck is right. This makes no sense. No fucking sense at all.”

  I gulped another lungful of air, only this time, Morozov moved. He pushed his beige chair away from the desk, crossed his powerful black-clad legs, then motioned to the single seat set opposite him.

  He didn’t give a damn that I was filthy. That I would probably mess up the light fabric and leave him with the long-lasting stink of a fight gone south permeating the office.

  And that was part of why I liked him so much.

  Demyan Morozov knew the job. The stress. Trivialities meant little in times when shit hit the fan.

  The kind of support he offered…

  Now that meant everything.

  I slumped into the chair. Morozov’s gaze remained a steady presence on me as I blew out a breath, then buried my head in my hands with a groan and slowly retracted my claws. I rarely showed vulnerability, save for these rare moments, before Morozov would undoubtedly say something to set me straight and back on the mission like a dog on a hunt.

  “Greta.” His rough yet smooth voice coaxed me from the dark, as always igniting something within me we were both actively ignoring. “You’re my best agent. You know that.”

  “You have a whole floor of killers.” I shot him a knowing look and braced my elbows on my knees. “You’re just saying that because I’m the only female on the team, and you want something with breasts for your next mission.”

  The corner of his lips twitched. I could have sworn the blood in my veins coursed faster.

  “Yes and no.” He interlaced his fingers in his lap. “I do want you taking lead on this. Not because of your breasts, as lovely as they are, but because you’re capable. And”—he chuckled, a small sound that so rarely came from his lips, though more and more whenever he was in my company—“you’re the only person I trust not coming across as a complete brute if I send you talking to Munich PD.”

  I cocked my head to the side. A filthy strand of dyed red hair escaped my braid and brushed against my cheekbone. “You want to bring the cops in on this?”

  The Interspecies Crimes and Relations Agency and Munich PD didn’t exactly have a track record of working together. The police handled the more mundane cases, though even supes fell under their jurisdiction. Just not crimes of the caliber we dealt with. Whenever that happened, we usually stole the case away.

  Actually, that was precisely how Lotte got tangled up with ICRA in the first place.

  I shoved the thought of my sister away.

  She was an agent now. Mostly by her own choice. I didn’t have the right to interfere or judge her profession. After all, at least she was working for the “normal” ICRA division—even if she did have Isa Vogt, also known as the Ice Queen of Fang, as her boss. That vampire was fucking terrifying.

  Pursing my lips, I looked at Morozov and raised my eyebrows. “You still haven’t given me an answer. How come you decided to bring in the PD on this?”

  “The civilians,” Morozov said slowly, as if pulling up from whatever depths his thoughts had sunk into. His chair creaked as he leaned to one side and propped his elbow on the armrest. “We can’t stretch our resources thin right now. Plus, the PD have better files.”

  Not exactly the truth since ICRA had access to databases the public would probably crucify us if they ever found out about, but combing through everything required manpower and time that we truly didn’t have with the abundance of crimes thrown our way over the past couple of weeks.

  “Okay.” I nodded and scraped my fingernail over a patch of dried blood on my pants. “I’ll check in with the PD, but I need to shower first. Wouldn’t make a good impression waltzing in there like I’d slaughtered my way through half of Munich.”

  Amusement lit Morozov’s brown eyes and illuminated those dashing specks of green. “Don’t worry. I’ll call ahead and let them know you’re coming.”

  * * *

  The drive from Neubiberg to Munich’s center was mostly uneventful. I opted for one of the standard-issue ICRA cars at our disposal instead of my Harley-Davidson for the simple reason that bike rides were a thing of freedom to me. A way to disconnect from the world and just fucking enjoy life for a few moments. Tonight wasn’t that night. I needed to occupy my thoughts instead of releasing them, and blasting metal or hard rock at full volume usually did the trick well. I put on my pre-prepared compilation of System of a Down, Rammstein, Queens of the Stone Age, and Metallica, fueling myself on the powerful riffs and bellowing the lyrics to every damn song as I hit the predominantly empty streets.

  When I parked in the visitor’s lot, my voice was a bit hoarse, but at least my mind was pleasantly blank—and, more importantly, calm enough to deal with people without flashing my canines. Despite the late hour, the station was no less alive than our offices. I announced my name at the front desk, then waited as the human wearing just a touch too much perfume for my liking checked my credentials. Several officers in uniform had drifted through by the time she sent me up to the third floor with the instructions to find Detective Hunt. With the quick directions she’d given me, it wasn’t hard to locate his desk in the bullpen.

  Especially since the man was openly glaring at me.

  One of his colleagues bid him goodbye, clueing me in that Hunt probably had to do overtime because of our request. Though I seriously doubted that was the only reason for the venom he was shooting my way.

  I sighed and put on my best neutral face as I walked up to him, then extended my hand. “Agent Greta Freundenberger, ICRA Violent Crimes. Thanks for meeting with me on such short notice.”

  His handshake wasn’t only firm, it was a damn pissing match. “Detective Michael Hunt.”

  He didn’t seem inclined to offer me the rudimentary padded chair positioned beside his desk and I wasn’t about to push it, so I simply said, “Look, I don’t want to bench you or poach away any of your cases, and I really am fucking sorry if my visit forced you to stay here late. My sister-in-law is a cop in Ljubljana, the Assistant Commissioner actually, and I know how she busts her balls on a daily basis. So no, I have no superiority complex, and I’m really not into the whole territorial bullshit. I want us to work together to figure out w
ho the fuck ordered a hit on seventeen civilians. You good with that?”

  The athletic, dark-haired detective just stared at me for long, long seconds. Then motioned to the empty chair.

  “By all means, Agent Freundenberger.”

  * * *

  We spent the better part of the next three hours gulping down coffee like it was air and doing thorough background checks on all seventeen victims. Morozov might have been more right than I’d given him credit for when he spoke of the benefits working with the Munich PD would bring. The police actually had records I hadn’t come across while scouring our vast databases in the years since I’d joined ICRA. Sure, they consisted mostly of the mundane stuff the Interspecies Crimes and Relations Agency wouldn’t bother cataloging unless it was relevant to a hot case, but the info the PD had at their fingertips could definitely come in handy when investigating humans. We rarely did the latter, hence the minor intel black hole.

  Hunt and I alternated our coffee runs, making sure we never ended up without the stuff. Gods knew we needed it. Examining every possible angle of every one of the victims—including their relatives—to find a single fact that might explain why this group had been targeted was nothing short of torture.

  When the third hour crawled towards its end and my eyelids were starting to feel excruciatingly heavy, I had a whole new level of respect for anyone who worked a desk job, be it ICRA or police.

  “Found something,” Hunt exclaimed, nearly throwing my sleepy ass off the rickety seat.

  He pushed a folder over, a paragraph hastily circled in brick red and still carrying the scent of his marker.

  I squinted. “What am I looking at?”

  “A link to the werewolf community.” He rolled his seat around the edge of the desk until we were flush side by side, then tapped his finger on the paper. “It isn’t much, but the man was a lawyer and one of his clients was a werewolf caught in what looks to be a B&E case. I’ll check out the details, see what it was about.”