“Indeed. It’s rather astonishing that she came out the winner.”
“That’s one word for it. And she hasn’t said anything?”
“Not a peep or a pip. Witnesses include David Auberon—”
“Well, great.” Annette was well aware of the witness. It had been one of the reasons she’d been more interested than usual to get to work. “This will only feed your imagination.”
“Indeed it will. And the other witness is your favorite troublemaker, Dev.”
She knew that, too, and turned her attention to Dev’s latest mug shot: pointed chin, wide-set green eyes, hedgehog scruffy hair, improbable “gotcha!” grin. She wanted to march into holding and smack the kit as badly as she wanted to keep him safe.
Nadia, meanwhile, was smoothing her sleek, dark hair and flicking nonexistent lint from her red suit. “Shall we? Or did you want to refill your cup o’ sludge?”
“It’s hot chocolate!” Annette protested.
“It’s tepid water and powder. It’s mock chocolate. I retract nothing.”
“I’ve got something for you to retract,” Annette muttered into her cocoa. She liked Nadia a lot—they smoothed each other’s edges—but the woman was a fearful snob. She’d climbed out of her nest at 2:00 a.m. to help Annette remove a traumatized cub, but froze her out for days when Annette’s Secret Santa gift was a pair of (not designer) gloves. Protests (“We’re supposed to keep it under $25!”) went unheeded.
Annette followed Nadia past the cheerful (mostly) disorder of desks, cubicles, and offices, while avoiding the contaminated cesspool that was the break room. So many keen noses on the floor, but no one could find the source of the smell. O, break room, what mysteries you hold ’tween your fetid walls…
“Hi, Annette!” One of the clerks, Taryn Wapiti, hailed her from where she’d been chatting up an attorney. (The sharp suits were always a giveaway, even if Annette could only see this one from the back.) Taryn wasn’t much taller than Nadia, with sturdy legs and the characteristic broad shoulders of a were-elk. Her hair was a reddish-orange, and her dark eyes were nearly always gleaming with fun. “When are we gonna go back to the Patty Wagon?”
“Taryn, hamburgers, no matter how glorious, make you sick as a—” Hmm. Sick as a dog wasn’t very sensitive. “As a person who shouldn’t eat meat.”
“Worth it,” she insisted. “Plus they put a ton of vegetables on their burgers, so it evens out.”
“A tomato slice, a piece of lettuce, and a small sprinkling of onions is not, by any stretch, a ton.”
“Worth it,” Taryn said again.
“And you understand veggie burgers exist, yes?”
“It’s not the same. C’mon, Annette! I wanna gooooooooo!”
Argh, the whining. Annette sighed. “I can’t go out to eat until I do some shopping. My fridge is an embarrassment. So perhaps the end of the week?”
“Done! I’m gonna destroy their V8 special.”
“Something will be destroyed, but I don’t think it’ll be their special.”
“A problem for another day. Hey, Nadia.”
“Taryn, darling, surely there are less painful ways to commit gastrointestinal suicide?”
“None that I know of,” Taryn replied, and with a cheerful wave went back to the lawyer.
The guard had already put Dev twelve-year-old werefox, mother incarcerated, father unknown, pack affiliation unknown—in Interview One. Caro Daniels—sixteen-year-old female werewolf, parents unknown, pack affiliation unknown—went into Interview Three.
The girl looked up when Annette came in and shut the door. “Good morning, Ms. Daniels. My name is Annette Garsea, I’m your caseworker pro tem.”
Silence.
“Would you like something to drink? Pop? Tea? Hot chocolate?”
Nothing.
“I can also offer you mock chocolate. No? All right. My understanding is that you weren’t injured last night, but now that it’s been a few hours, have you found you do, in fact, need medical attention?”
Nothing. So. Hopefully not.
Annette sat across from the girl and studied her as she sipped her mock chocolate. Caro Daniels had the well-scrubbed look of the werewolf next door: short black hair slicked back from a high forehead, dark skin with golden undertones, and big brown eyes an anime character would envy. She was petite and delicately made—and in dire need of several protein drinks. She was sockless in sneakers, and a navy-blue sweatshirt and sweatpants with the IPA logo on the back and sides, both size small, which dwarfed her. The clothing made sense because even if Caro didn’t have a mark on her, her clothes from last night would have been ruined with copious amounts of Lund’s blood. Exhibit A, as it were. Or would Lund himself be Exhibit A?
“You understand you’re safe here and it’s okay to talk, right? Or we could call someone for you. We’ll assign you an advocate, of course, but if there’s an adult you want us to contact…?”
Zip.
“I’m relieved you weren’t hurt. Especially given how much bigger and stronger Mr. Lund was.” Not a peep, Nadia had said, but Annette hadn’t realized she was being literal. And that was something, wasn’t it? Not a sound. Or a mark. Was she deaf? Mute? In shock? A werewolf ninja sworn to silence? “Would you like some writing materials?”
Caro shook her head. Progress! (Of a sort. They were communicating, at least.) So Caro could hear and understand, or at least read lips. Her gaze was steady, and Annette had the impression that there was a busy brain behind those luminous eyes. She made a mental note to try to get a look at the girl’s school records. Of course, first they had to find her school. And her everything else.
Mental note: If Caro hasn’t spoken, how do they know her name? ID? School? Driver’s license? Nothing in the paperwork. Find out.
“If you change your mind, just let one of the staff know. And if you need to tell me anything, they’ll know how to reach me. I’m about to go see the man you attacked last night.” Unlike the other foster-care system, there was no dancing around with “allegedly attacked” at the IPA. Even if there hadn’t been eyewitnesses, the spindly teenager had been covered in Lund’s blood. “Are you sure there’s nothing you want to tell me before I get his side of the story?”
Nothing. Not even a headshake.
“Last chance, Ms. Daniels.”
Nothing.
“Well, nice talking to you, so to speak. No? Tough room. I’ll be back in a bit.”
Caro didn’t make a sound, just watched Annette until she was on the other side of the door.
Annette let out a breath, considered her options, then stepped into the next interview room. Dev greeted her with a cheerful wave, started to rise, forgot about the lead chain, and slammed back into his seat. “Oof! Uh, hi?”
“Oh now, really?” Annette said to Jericho, the guard in charge for day shift.
The amiable werebear spread his hands, which were essentially bowling balls with knuckles. “Those are the second set of restraints. He stole the other ones. We still can’t find them.”
“Dev!”
“Frame job,” the werefox replied with his trademark game grin.
“In a pig’s eye. Not to insult swine.” Annette kept the scowl on her face, though she noticed Jericho faking a cough so he could cover his grin. “I’ve got this, Jericho, thanks very much.”
“You’re welcome.” Then to Dev, in a low rumble: “You be good.”
“C’mon, Jerry!” Dev spread his hands as far as the chain allowed. He was blinking his eyes like a startled fawn, which was as hilarious as it was annoying. “When’ve I ever misbehaved on your watch?”
“Five goddamned minutes ago,” the guard muttered on his way out.
“He’s way too softhearted for this job,” Dev confided. “What kind of a guard hates guarding?”
“One who’s made your acquaintance.
”
“Thanks?”
Annette stifled a sigh. “You want to tell me what happened?”
“I did. Frame job.” He again spread his small, grimy hands as wide as the cuffs would allow, which wasn’t very. “I’m innocente, incriminado, unschuldig.”
“Let’s keep to one language, you unrepentant polyglot. Just so I understand the scam du jour—”
“Now who’s bein’ a polyglot?”
“—you’re trying to tell me that you didn’t steal two jugs of Tide—”
“With bleach alternative.”
“—detergent?”
“I was gonna pay. But then I saw Caro was in trouble so I ran out to help her.”
“Somehow forgetting to drop the several pounds of liquid detergent in your arms.”
“I was in a rush.”
“And how do you even know Caro?”
“She’s my sister. I told that David guy when he grabbed me. Hey, are you guys going out?”
“What? No.” Dev was in on the dating conspiracy? Focus, woman! Much more intriguing, Dev had been the one to ID Caro Daniels? Annette blinked, shook her head. She knew which families each of her lambs was with. And Caro was only in the system as of last night. “No, Caro’s not your fos-sister. I’d know if she were.”
“No, I mean my real sister.”
No. Werefoxes were not blood relations to werewolves. It was a paralogical impossibility. “Dev, what pile of nonsense are you trying to feed me now?”
“It’s not nonsense.” The smirk had faded, and now he just looked upset and vulnerable. The cuffs swallowing his small hands didn’t help, nor the overlarge jacket he was wearing. Annette steeled herself. It would take more than Dev’s big green eyes and pleading expression to get her to relent. This time. Probably. “Can I see her?”
“Not just now, Dev. Can Caro speak? Have you ever heard her talk?”
“She can, she just won’t.”
“Can you tell me why?”
“No. And I really need to see her. She needs me.”
“Why?”
He gave her the Are you stupid or just deranged? look unique to teenagers. “Because we’re family.”
“How so?”
“And she’s scared and doesn’t feel safe.”
“Understandable. She’s in custody.”
“No, I mean she’s scared of him.”
“She’s scared? Not the werewolf she attacked?”
Dev made a face like he’d bitten into something rotten. “He wasn’t a werewolf, he was a monster. Besides, she had to go for that guy.”
“That guy?”
An eye roll. “Yeah, the guy she had to pounce.”
“It was a little more than a pounce. She could have killed him.”
“She should have. He’s been trying to kill her for two years.”
And, as was often the case when talking with Dev, Annette was left speechless.
Chapter 3
David Auberon lurched past the intake gang, the guards, rando juvies, caseworkers, lawyers, stressed parents, and a UPS gal, all on his way to that which was dearest to him
“Oh, God…”
the elixir he needed as he did oxygen
“…there it is…”
and woe be-fuckin’-tide anyone who got between him and the
“Coffee!” This followed by a roar of despair: “Decaf?”
“Coming! Coming!” The guy whose name David never remembered (coffee guy? the coffee guy? just guy?) raced into the room and deftly filled the empty pots. “It’s just that this machine is on the fritz so we’re using the one downstairs and something something plus something so something else, and are you going out with Annette?”
In. His. Dreams. “No. Why do people keep asking me that?”
“Because she doesn’t go out with anybody. Not anyone from here, at least.”
Yeah, well. The lady had taste. She could do better than the dregs of IPA. Rather than explain this, David gulped more coffee.
After an expectant pause, Coffee Guy must’ve figured no gossip was forthcoming. “Well, whatever, but the good news is we’re getting a new machine and something about pods and coffee something something, so it’s all gonna be something.”
“Okay.” This while he was trying not to inhale the stuff like it was cocaine. Actually, cocaine didn’t work on him, so something like cocaine. Carfentanil, maybe. Or a boatload of Jack. While slurping, David groped through his overcoat pockets until he found the elixir of life, put the coffee down (you’ll be back in my hands soon, gorgeous, no worries), unscrewed the cap on his maple syrup, dumped in a couple of tablespoons, rescrewed, replaced, picked back up, drank.
“You are the second lunatic I’ve seen slurp down sludge in five minutes.”
“Hey, Nadia.” He turned and nodded at the pretty brunette in the red suit and little shiny, pointy shoes that looked like futuristic torture devices. “You’re in the wrong biz if you want to watch people drink expensive shit.”
“Too true, David. A pity the golden shores of my home country won’t have me back.”
“Yeah.” Nobody knew why Nadia put the ex in expatriate. Well, the bosses probably knew, but that was it. And while plenty of people wondered, nobody wanted to ask her straight out. She might cut them to shreds for snooping. Worse, she might tell them. Theories ranged from her being a high-ranking SAS member who’d blown up a building to a billionaire lottery winner who’d fled her tax obligations. “Too bad.”
“Your baritone platitudes are such a comfort.”
He grunted and kept his distance. Raptors made him nervous. The littlest thing would set ’em off during a conversation, and there’d be ruffling and hand-waving and shrieking and five seconds later they were all settled again, ’til the next time. Nadia was gorgeous, sure, but too much work. Sometimes even just to talk to.
This is why you’re still single, his mother whispered. Dead six years; still wouldn’t leave him alone.
“Your name was prominently featured in Caro Daniels’s paperwork,” Nadia told him, as if he didn’t know.
“Yeah, I brought her in.” Christ, what a mess. Blood everywhere; his hackles had been up before he was even all the way out of the car. He hadn’t wanted to take on a blood-crazy juvie werewolf; hurting a kid was a lousy way to start the week. And the guy she was savaging had already shifted back, probably due to the shock.
But she’d settled almost immediately; just dropped the guy, who hit with the sound of a raw rump roast hitting asphalt (which technically he was).
She’d also dropped her gaze—pleasant surprise—and shifted back to bipedal, followed David’s curt instructions, got in the car. If he hadn’t known better, he’d have thought she was a werehare, something that lived to nibble grass and hide. Not the infuriated creature who had nearly killed a werewolf in his prime. Would have killed, if David hadn’t intervened.
And the only reason he was there to intervene was—
“Oh, that sneaky little charming, duplicitous, idiotic genius,” Annette announced.
—Dev Devoss.
Nadia laughed, but Annette just shook her head and looked like she wanted to smile or bite or maybe both.
David straightened out of his slouch and fought the urge to run a hand through his hair in what would be an ultimately futile attempt to straighten it. It tended to stick up in dark spikes; he’d always been able to do the artfully moussed-to-look-mussed look without the mousse.
Being around Annette Garsea made him feel sixteen again, all hormones and hard-ons and exhilaration, followed by depression, despair, and binge-eating frozen pizza. (While still frozen, the bitter-cold bites were deeply satisfying.)
If she was just gorgeous, he’d be fine. Or if she was just charming. Or just whip-smart. Or just funny. Or just cool. Or just sexy. But she was the whole p
ackage, corny as that was, and knowing she was acres out of his league didn’t stop his pulse from zooming every time he caught her plums-and-cotton scent. And it made the “Are they going out?” rumors sound like total fucking nonsense.
Besides, if he ever did settle down, it’d be with a Stable. He’d known that for over a decade.
“You won’t believe this,” Annette was saying, her brown eyes almost reddish in her intensity. “Dev says he knows Caro because they’re—” She cut herself off and… Wait. Was that a blush? “Oh. Good morning, David.”
Not a blush. Or not one for you, anyway. A blush of rage. A rage blush. He grunted. Oh, very charming. Why not ask her out, make the gossip real?
“I’m glad you came in.” Jesus Christ, she’s still talking to me. “I wanted to thank you for bringing Caro Daniels in safely. And Dev.”
He shrugged. “It’s the job.”
“Handsome and modest, oh dear.” Nadia smirked, ice-blue eyes gleaming.
“I can’t tell if you’re being mean or flirting with me,” he replied.
“It’s adorable that you think those are two different things.”
“Don’t mind Nadia,” Annette said pleasantly, “because she’s horrible.”
“I’m forced to vehemently agree,” Nadia agreed.
“Lund’s being released from the hospital this afternoon,” he told Annette, already anxious to get the hell out of this conversation. “Wanted to ask you…”
“Yessssssss?” Nadia asked, leaning forward and blinking as though someone was shining a flashlight in her eyes.
“…if you needed an addendum to his statement.”
“Yes indeed,” Annette replied. “Shall we?”
“Huh?” Oh. Oh. She was coming with. Him. She was coming with him. But what did that mean? Coming with him as in following him? Coming with him in his car? At least the Razer was in decent shape; he’d had it washed just last… Wait… What year did The Great British Baking Show start? “Yeah, sure.”
Bears Behaving Badly Page 2
