by Gaja J. Kos
I must have blinked a couple of times, because Hunt laughed and said, “Go home. I’ve got this. I’ll send you a report in the morning, or you can come here in the afternoon. I’m on duty from five onwards.”
“Thanks,” I muttered, letting him see the full extent of my gratitude, and made a mental reminder to bring the man some decent coffee in case I did drop by personally. Or just have the stuff delivered at the station if I couldn’t. “I owe you one.”
He waved his hand. “No worries. As long as I have a contact at ICRA…”
I chuckled at the sly smile that gave his face a nice roguish quality. “Yeah, yeah, you have a contact at ICRA. I’m Violent Crimes, though, so I’m not sure if I’ll be able to help much since we’re kind of the black sheep of the Agency.”
But the young detective wasn’t put off by my limited resources or standing within ICRA. He merely bid me goodnight, then got up to pour himself another measure of C-grade coffee.
I trudged down to my car and hit the streets. Night was in full swing, gradually creeping towards morning, with only a few cars disturbing the predominantly quiet. As soon as I got away from the dense traffic lights that seemed adamant to stop me at every intersection, I turned down the music and phoned Morozov. I’d spent enough time at the station to know he must be itching for an update. Besides, that werewolf was like a machine. I still had no idea when he crashed—if he even ever did. Talk about stamina…
He answered on the fourth ring, his voice as sinful as ever, though I sensed the urgency locked within. “Greta?”
“Hi, boss.” I took a left turn, then accelerated. “Caught you at a bad time?”
The sound of his Wrangler’s engine turning off came through the speaker. “I’m just about to check out a potential threat.”
“Alone?” I lifted an eyebrow and scanned the rearview mirror before taking another turn.
While it wasn’t uncommon for us to head out solo, we rarely did so unless absolutely necessary when crime was on the rise. The whole safety in numbers thing was no lie, and the pack-oriented nature of werewolves only made us that much more inclined to do things at least in tandem if not in a wider, organized structure.
“None of the team are free.” The click of his car door slamming shut punctuated the statement. “You can join me, if you want.”
“Give me the address, and I’ll be there.”
As soon as Morozov passed on a location in Neuperlach, I readjusted my course. I wasn’t too far away from the scene since I’d already been driving south, and with a couple of shortcuts, I just might make it there even sooner. Still, a part of me mourned I didn’t have my bike.
“I’ll be there in fifteen,” I said and floored the pedal.
“Good—”
Crack. Crack. Crack.
The blood in my veins froze.
Fuck.
Fuck.
That was fucking gunfire.
“Demyan! What’s going on?”
But Morozov didn’t answer.
His grunt was the only thing I heard before the line went dead.
Chapter Four
I had no idea how I managed to get across town in one piece.
With my blood boiling and cold sweat trickling down my back, all my mind kept replaying were those gunshots. And Morozov’s answering grunt.
My fingernails had lengthened into claws, scraping the steering wheel I’d held with enough force, small indentations marred its structure.
Still, when I neared the predominantly abandoned location Morozov had given me, I forced myself to slow. His gray Jeep Wrangler was parked in front of a building that hadn’t seen better days in a good, long while and bore numerous marks of the War no one had bothered to patch up in the seven years since. I pulled up with my headlights off and trained my gaze on the grimy windows. If Morozov was in there, there were no visible signs of him. The rest of my brief surveillance proved to be just as much of a bust. I turned off the engine and stepped out into the night, my senses open to the fullest.
A faint trace of copper lingered in the air, but no Morozov. Not even a whiff of his scent—or any indication of what had gone down, aside from the three bullets lodged in the wall a little farther down the dimly lit street.
If any of them had hit him, at least the fuckers went straight through. I needed the hope that Morozov could heal himself. That there was a chance he’d put up a fight and come out of it on top. But intuition was a bitch, and right now, it was screaming that that scenario was no more than a damn dream.
Too much could have happened after the line had cut off. But having my mind spin in useless circles of what-ifs would help no one.
Least of all Morozov.
After a quick scan that confirmed I, indeed, was alone, I closed my eyes and tapped deeper into the air’s structure. The closer I got to the bullets, the clearer it became. Blood. Some of them had hit Morozov, but that was neither here nor there. Exhaling, I latched onto the scent and prowled forward. All I managed to pick up were the splashes of it tainting the ground just a short distance away from his car—as if whoever had taken him made sure there would be no breadcrumbs on the breeze for anyone to follow.
And maybe for a regular wolf, that would have been enough.
But I delved deeper still into that well that made us Black weres the lethal weapons we were. That extra oomph our senses were granted, which made us far more attuned to the nuances we filtered through. A faint headache started to throb in my temples as I pushed my focus to the limit, but—
I had him.
I stalked forward at a painfully slow pace. Even the slightest stirring could send the flimsy trail away. I wasn’t about to risk it. Though with my instincts roaring to save Morozov, the battle was a hard one.
When I neared the intersection, I flicked my claws and let my canine teeth out. The fatigued asphalt was uneven beneath my feet, cracks spreading like spiderwebs across the surface. But they held something the air didn’t—a hint of Morozov’s scent. Not only the blood, but him. The unique traits I’d have no difficulties picking out even in the densest of crowds. I inhaled, paying attention to the distribution of the scent, how it acted—as if he’d fallen, caught himself precisely where I was standing before he was hauled to his feet again.
I scanned the night.
Crude apartment blocks rested to the right, more industrial buildings taking up the front and left-hand side. The wind’s currents, while faint, swept through the intersection and diffused the scent somewhat, but there was no doubt the trail led into a three-story warehouse situated just off the road.
Fuck, what was it with these damn warehouses…
Aside from the fact they were a pain to ambush when you didn’t know the layout. Which, I supposed, was all the benefit someone up to no good needed.
I stifled a growl, then checked my options. A partially open door rested up ahead, but with the boarded-up windows, there was no way to tell what waited for me inside. I could have tried climbing the structure itself and then attempted to descend from one of the shattered windows up top, but again, the lack of intel wasn’t encouraging.
Hating the decision every step of the way, I moved in the other direction. I kept straining my ears for any rogue sound, any indication Morozov was still alive in there, but I suspected he wasn’t anywhere near the walls. If he was even still conscious. Mobile. Everything so far, from the gunshots fired at a distance to the way they covered up not only his scent, but theirs, hinted at a professional hit. I doubted they would be careless enough to underestimate a Black werewolf such as my boss.
Unfortunately, while that spoke highly of the man’s skill, it wasn’t a train of thought that offered any sort of reassurance right now.
I prowled along the long wall of the warehouse, the solid concrete here high enough that the first windows started well over my head. Not that they would have done me any good, with the faint light coming from the banged-up lampposts lining the opposite side of the street and the first whispers of da
wn seeping across the horizon. My shadow spilling across the interior would be a far worse outcome than barging straight through the front door.
Growing tenser the longer I was in damn intel limbo, I turned the corner. A cold smile crossed my lips. Maybe not all was shit.
Smack in the middle was a loading ramp.
A high loading ramp that hinted at some sort of interior platform I couldn’t see from out here. But if my instincts were right, it would be just the kind of vantage point I was searching for. Losing no time, I scaled the ramp, then squeezed myself through the small opening beneath the roll-down doors that hadn’t closed all the way the last time someone had used them. Cold bit into me as I shrugged off my jacket, set it in the deep shadows by the wall, then belly-crawled all the way to the edge of the ramp.
My claws nearly tore off chunks of age-worn concrete as I absorbed the sight.
Morozov was there. Badly wounded and on his knees, his hands tied behind his back. But the hatred in his eyes as he stared at the four werewolves looming over him was unmistakable. A fifth lay dead on the floor, discarded like a broken doll just a few feet away. Morozov’s work, no doubt.
A low voice I couldn’t quite make out filled the silence. Morozov snapped his attention to the muscular werewolf with closely shaven hair who stood tall in the middle of the group facing him, though I could tell even from up here that Morozov never truly let his guard down. Despite the sneer. Despite the fury etched into the harsh planes of his face. He might be more than just playing the part of a pissed off prisoner, but that wouldn’t blind him to the dangers of the situation.
The head werewolf muttered something that sounded like “Pavlov” and provoked a somewhat unguarded response from my boss, only whatever followed the word was lost to me as I realized what the subtle, nearly imperceptible movements in the werewolves’ formation meant.
They weren’t about to beat Morozov bloody for information.
The fuckers were going in for the kill.
Chapter Five
The familiar, odd yet welcomed dichotomy settled over me.
My heartbeat calmed. My inner predator rose to the surface.
I was burning, yet shaped into a state where emotions could find no purchase.
A killer in it purely for the death my actions would bring.
I freed my gun from my holster, watching the group like a hawk. I’d have only one chance at surprising them.
And I had to make sure that surprise wouldn’t end up with them lashing out at Morozov.
Right as they reached the edge of the range where a single swipe of their claws could injure my boss, I fired. The muscular werewolf’s head exploded in a spray of blood, bone, and brain.
As if sensing me, Morozov had turned his face away to evade the gore and keep his eyesight clear, then exploded into beautiful, brutal motion. He rammed hard into the werewolf standing the closest, putting every inch of his powerful frame to use. As they rolled across the filthy ground, I fired another round, but the two remaining weres had been expecting it this time.
Tapping into their preternatural speed, they evaded the shot—only instead of coming at me, they went after Morozov.
Oh no you fucking don’t.
I launched myself off the platform, holstering my gun mid-flight. I didn’t waste a single second between landing soundly on my feet and breaking into a run. One of the werewolves in pursuit of Morozov and their buddy pulled out a gun, but I was there before he could even take aim. I rode his body down onto the ground.
His fist smacked into my jaw, rattling my teeth. I only snarled and snapped at his hand, fucking tore into it with my canines until it was reduced to a bloody mess, and all the while, I shredded his torso with my claws. The werewolf’s blue eyes went wide, as if he only now realized I was a Black were with the capacity of a partial shift. And that just made the whole thing that much fucking sweeter.
Bones cracked as I unleashed myself upon him, then ended his miserable existence with a crude snap of his spine. I swiped my claws across his throat for good measure. Fucking asshole.
I would have enjoyed drawing things out, but hearing Morozov fight—the increasingly labored breaths that punctuated the slap of flesh—I knew I was needed elsewhere.
I scanned the warehouse as I rose to my feet. Morozov, now with his hands free, and the werewolf he’d tackled when I’d fired my first shot were matched, fighting brutally by the wall. But there was no sign of the second were. And with the mess of blood, sweat, and death swirling in the dawn-touched atmosphere, even my senses would need too much damn time to pinpoint where the fucker went.
Morozov’s gaze met mine as he and the were exchanged blows. The silent command was there. Plain to see for someone who knew him. Invisible for someone who did not. My blood raced with that lethal calmness that should have been impossible, yet was mine. Unwavering.
I crept up on the werewolf Morozov had pivoted so that his back was to me. I readied my bloodstained claws and waited for Morozov to give me the opening I needed when a gust of wind blew through the partially open door—
And thrust my scent straight into the werewolf.
He whirled around, ducking as he did. My claws scraped air.
Morozov tackled him again as I prepared to intercept, but the werewolf fought as if some hidden capacity within him had suddenly been unleashed. As he moved, alternating between the two of us, I noticed his hand drop down to the knife belted at his waist.
I beat him to it.
Slicing open his arm, I snatched the blade and sank it into his foot, then swiped up with my claws, cleaving his body from cock to throat.
I stepped back as he collapsed, blood gushing everywhere…and heard Morozov’s warning too late.
In a blur of movement, the missing werewolf—a Black werewolf—sprang at me, his elongated teeth and claws edging for maximum damage. Caught off-balance as I was, I couldn’t stop his advance. The best I could do was brace for impact.
I threw out an arm and poised my claws for a counterattack when a blur rushed past me.
Morozov.
He collided into the werewolf midair and threw him off course. They hit the ground with a crash, then rolled in a fury of snarls and flashing claws. Across the spattered brain matter and blood. Across the years of grime that had accumulated on the industrial floor. Growls ricocheted off the high walls and produced an eerie echo. When they came to a stop, Morozov was on top.
He sank his teeth into the werewolf’s neck.
In a beautiful moment where time seemed to slow and every sound, every nuance of the fight became a highlighted masterpiece, he yanked. Blood sprayed across the walls, the ground. A gurgling sound rose from the dying were before silence swept across reality. Morozov spat out a chunk of skin and sinew, his brown-green gaze seeking out mine—then collapsed.
Chapter Six
“Step aside, agent,” the slender witch said without sparing me a look as she all but shoved me away. “We’ll inform you of any developments.”
Like fuck I was about to let that happen.
I glared at the ICRA paramedic when she scowled up at my immovable self and showed her I had absolutely zero intention of leaving Morozov’s side. She pinched her plump pink-painted lips together, but said nothing. It wasn’t against regulations, and I definitely wasn’t about to let someone who was basically pack to me out of my sight.
“I’m riding with you to Fürstenfeldbruck,” I stressed, gripping one wing of the ambulance’s open door and fighting back the claws threatening to push through. “That’s non-negotiable.”
The paramedic gave me an exasperated look, but motioned me to jump into the boxy vehicle where the rest of her team were already working on the many wounds littering Morozov’s body.
“You take point on the scene,” I said to Mads over my shoulder. “I’ll keep my phone on me.”
Mads nodded, then promptly turned on his heel and took control of the agents from our division, as well as those the regular ICRA sector had
loaned us for the duration of the case. We rarely pulled our resources together like this, but an attack on someone as high on the Agency’s ladder as Senior Agent and Head of the Violent Crimes division Demyan Morozov called for a different treatment.
To say I was relieved was an understatement.
The more people working the case, the less chance of a repeat attack.
I climbed into the ambulance and squeezed myself in the single free corner where I wouldn’t get in the paramedics’ way. The doors swung shut with an audible crack that reverberated through the crammed space, and the very next moment, we sped off, sirens wailing to clear the early morning traffic that had started to pile up on the streets. My head swam as the truck bounced and rattled down the somewhat fatigued roads before we hit the more upkept districts. Machines beeped in a rhythm too frantic for my liking, the scent of magic, blood, disinfectant, and a whole shitload of drugs aimed to boost Morozov’s natural system overtook the air. I kept my gaze pinned resolutely on his unconscious form. On the wounds his dark, though torn clothes had previously concealed, but now stood out under the harsh, bright, artificial light after the paramedics had cut off his shirt.
Shit, I had no idea what the werewolves had used on him before I’d gotten there, but it was clear they were after one thing—torture. Every single laceration, every burn mark—all of it positioned to ensure maximum pain.
It hadn’t taken me long to reach Morozov in Neuperlach after that phone call, but the attackers had certainly spared no time getting down to business. I didn’t dare let my mind wander into the perilous territory of wondering just what would have happened if I hadn’t rung him when I had.
The way they’d closed in on him…
