Code Black (Paranormal Crimes Division Book 1)

by Tina Moss

  Grunge on the Underground station proclaimed “all the hits from the pits”. The latest anthem for the millennial generation blared through the Jeep’s speakers and drowned out Guy’s echoing protests. The bastard hated rock music of any genre. Sera cranked up the volume and enjoyed the silence in her head, even if the noise threatened her eardrums.

  Pulling off Ms. Brown’s dead-end street, she came to the intersection at Montclair Avenue in the heart of Buckhorn. The light of the setting sun reflected off storefront windows, a blazing red that matched the traffic signal. With her foot on the brake and knees steadying the wheel, she freed her hair from the bun and pulled it into a long ponytail. The amber strands struggled against the hair tie, but stayed intact. She stepped on the gas and put her hands on the wheel as the light changed to green.

  “A clue’s out there. I know it,” she whispered, letting the radio volume fall to a murmur and her thoughts turn to the story. Dusk gave way to evening with the sun’s last orange rays dying on the horizon. “I’ve just got to find it.”

  Down the road, the area shifted to residential with Sonoran-style houses lining both sides of the street. Stucco encased every exterior. Granted she hadn’t ventured far into the suburban town, but the early evening hours guaranteed cooler weather and children should be jumping at the opportunity. Instead of kids running around playing and riding bikes, she found nothing except birds chirping from trees and telephone lines.

  “Weird.” Streetlights clicked to life during her preliminary investigation. “Small town. Close neighbors. Someone knows something.”

  Yeah sure. Just like your Daddy knows something about you. Doesn’t mean you’ll find out.

  “Seriously? Give it a rest for one day.” She stopped at the next intersection. The street felt quiet, too quiet. She could hear her breath over the radio’s soft hum. She clicked it off, resting her head against the steering wheel.

  You can’t even figure out what you are, and you expect to be a reporter? What a joke. Guy’s heckling reverberated in her head.

  “Please, enough already.” She lifted her eyes to check the traffic light. “I don’t need your...”

  The words died on her lips. Her heartbeat accelerated, leaping inside her chest. Under the orange and red glow from the streetlights, a figure appeared in the middle of the road. It could pass for human, except for its head. The jaw unhinged from the base exposing two rows of four-inch razor sharp teeth. Black eyes bulged from the center of its face forcing its nose into a nub and its forehead into a thin strip. Without warning, the creature launched at Sera’s windshield.

  “What the hell?” It busted through the glass, cracking the hard surface and causing Sera to dive down in the driver’s seat. Her eyes fixed on the gash in her windshield. Adrenaline sped in her veins like fire. Running away didn’t even cross her mind. Ever since Guy’s presence first whispered through her mind, her flight response had been set permanently to zero while her fight instincts soared into overdrive.

  Slamming on the emergency brake, she fumbled under the driver’s seat with her free hand. Sweat coated her palm. The metal bat slid from her grip twice before she managed to grasp it. She opened the door, kicked off her heels with a curse and raised the bat over her head. It shook in her hands, but a fiery impulse ripped across her mind blocking the fear. Guy’s meddling gave her a jolt of courage, but his pestering induced a throbbing headache. As usual, he wanted control.

  “I can handle it myself.” She stifled his complaints with a loud internal yell. He slouched back into the recesses of her brain after a couple of well-chosen expletives.

  The creature, meanwhile, continued the onslaught of her truck, beating its fists into the metal. The hood whined and black fluid spilled out the side. With bat in hand, Sera whacked at the thing’s head. A piercing cry filled the night, before it rolled over the hood of her truck and onto the ground.

  As a smile crossed her lips, a thundering roar echoed down the street. If it hadn’t been so deafening and nearby, she might have chalked it up to an oncoming storm. But the intensity left no mistake, the noise signaled something else.

  “Oh shit.” Her mouth went dry. She dropped the bat and scrambled back into her truck. The two tons of steel surrounding her provided little comfort. Releasing the parking brake, she switched into drive and slammed her bare foot on the gas.

  The traffic light turned green. Her truck sputtered, but didn’t move. A host of creatures, like the one that lay bleeding below, came forth from every direction. Swarms of sickening teeth and engorged eyes shone from the streetlamps. The steady green traffic signal cast an eerie glow along her Jeep’s dented hood. Her headlights illuminated the creatures approach. Row after row of them encircled her truck like vultures on a corpse.

  A harsh whisper broke across her psyche, Let me come out and play.

  “No, Guy. You’re not welcome.”

  Now, now pet. No reason to be that way. We both know I can handle this.

  Her hands went instinctively to her head. She laughed at the absurdity of trying to block out an inner voice. “The last time I let you out, I had to switch jobs.” She took a breath, but her voice shook. “We won’t even talk about the first time.” Her hands gripped the steering wheel hard. The creatures closed the distance leaving mere inches of space between Sera and them. Yet she couldn’t bring herself to care as her blood boiled. She spoke aloud to Guy, “Remember the police investigation? The cover-up? I’ve spent too much time trying to hide.” The Jeep shook as the creatures grabbed at it, pulling and pushing in turn. Sera ignored it, focusing on the vibrations within her body. “You won’t let me even pretend to be normal. When are you going to tell me what you are?”

  You already know the answer, pet. No reason to ask.

  “Never. Never’s the real answer. Just more of your mysterious bullshit. Why should I give you control then, huh?”

  Because if you don’t, we’re both going to die. A low sadistic chuckle crowded her mind. Besides, do you really want to fight me?

  Sera let the smoky laugh go free. It filled up the Jeep’s interior. “No.” Raw energy quickened her pulse and licked her skin. “No, I guess I don’t.”

  Blazing white-hot light ignited her body. The barrier dividing her and Guy shattered until a single voice remained. Not separate but whole, not two but one. The union sent untapped power coursing through her veins. It rippled from every pore, making her skin seem afire. Her amber hair caught the wave. It cut apart the rubber band binding it and flowed like flames. Her eyes radiated as if the sun’s rays burned in them. In one volatile surge, the feeling erupted and the intersection exploded in an array of color. As the fire spread to those monstrous creatures, it incinerated every one of them into piles of ash.

  The blast lasted but a moment, draining her energy with its force. When the light faded and the world righted itself once more, Sera collapsed.

  Chapter Two

  PCD Headquarters For District Thirteen, San Antonio, Texas

  “Another dead-end.” Talon cursed and swiped at the stacks of papers littering his desk. The sheets wafted through the air like heavy snowflakes, drowning him in endless white. “Shit.”

  This latest bust marked the third snag in the Rodriguez murders and the sixth case his team had been unable to solve in recent months. Add to it the calls piling in from local authorities on paranormal crimes and it spelled a logistical nightmare. His team just couldn’t keep up with the Paranormal Crime Division’s massive workload. Their area, District Thirteen, ran a few miles south of Vegas all the way to Chihuahua—the city, not the dog. He needed more help and fast or he’d be pushing these blasted papers behind the desk for the rest of his career. That was if the higher-ups felt generous, if they didn’t…well, Talon didn’t want to contemplate that possibility.

  “Another suspect with a rock solid alibi.” He ran a hand through his shoulder-length black hair. It caught in a tangle midway down, causing him to jerk it free. “Has to be a SUB. Those bite marks weren
’t human.”

  SUBs, pronounced like the sandwich and short for supernatural or undead beings, included three groups: vampires, shifters, and psykes. Twenty-two years ago, after centuries of secrecy, these rival factions banded together to appeal to the Northern United American government for citizenship. A law passed, thanks to the sheer number of these others, guaranteeing citizenship to any SUB that could be classified into one of those three majority groups. When the NUA government started to receive threats from SUBs that did not fit into one of those neat little boxes, the Paranormal Crime Division came into being. Harsh, but necessary.

  Talon smoothed a hand over his jaw, chafing his palm with the rough stubble of a five o’clock shadow. He could figure this out. “Look at it again,” he mumbled to himself. “Look closer.”

  His eyes lost focus and the letters on the page morphed into the silhouette of a mystery woman. He had imagined that woman ten different ways: blonde, brunette, tall, short, curvy, lean, and everything in between.

  “Look closer,” the fiery little reporter had said. Their phone call from a week ago still popped into his mind over and over like a broken record of old. Her persistent search for the truth, sharp intelligence, and dynamite wit kept his thoughts on her, no matter how hard he tried to push them aside. He just couldn’t shake their conversation…or the possessive feelings it invoked.

  Not now. He fought once more to concentrate on the case. His team needed a win. Just one closed file. He had to be missing something, some clue, some detail, some crucial piece of evidence, some—

  A blaring alarm radiated through the office. All of his instincts flared on high alert. His shifter energy swam in his veins, more electric than lightening. It buzzed like an unending adrenaline spike. He stiffened and muttered, “Hell and a half, what now?”

  “Talon,” a cool voice droned over the sound system. The computer monitor switched on from the far wall. A man with brown hair in military style and deep-set eyes appeared on the screen. His square jaw, creased forehead, and pursued lips screamed in charge.

  “What’s the emergency boss?” Talon felt the hair on his arms stand up as Agent Stephen Bram, his boss and former guardian, rotated the monitor remotely. Bram was a big shot in the PCD, running the area known as Unit Five, a mix of Districts Thirteen and Fourteen, the country’s southernmost regions. The screen pivoted in Talon’s direction as the alarm went silent.

  Rising from his chair, Talon struggled to keep his composure. It didn’t matter his boss treated him as an equal, mostly, or that he had at least thirty pounds and half a foot on the man. Not even the fact that he could crush that thick skull between his teeth with one shift. No, none of it was relevant. With the exception of his ex-marine father, no one taught Talon more about the importance of following the law, and keeping emotional distance, over all else. Although, he would have liked his father’s particular lesson squashed into dust. Enough crying, boy, his father’s drunken breath on his neck, or I’ll give you a reason to cry. He pushed the nightmare memory inside himself, into that box no one could touch, let alone open.

  Setting his shoulders and clearing his throat, Talon kept his face neutral. “So, what is it?”

  “The situation in District Thirteen has become critical,” Bram said with bite. “Your murder victims may now be the first in a serial killer investigation.”

  “The Rodriguez case in Phoenix?” Talon’s last inch of composure cracked. “What the hell happened?”

  “Twenty-two...dead.” The ever self-assured Bram stumbled on the words, his voice actually shaking.

  “No way.” Talon’s knuckles cracked from the strain of gripping the chair’s back.

  Bram’s gaze fixed dead ahead and steel coated the brief display of raw emotion. “Agent Rede,” he said in that horribly controlled tone. The one he used only when shit hit the fan. Coupled with Talon’s last name, it spelled deep, deep shit. “We have a code black.”

  Two hours later, Talon climbed out of the driver’s side and slammed the Suburban’s door. “Could that have taken any longer?” The PCD jet enabled them to travel from their headquarters in San Antonio to Phoenix in decent time, but the addition of the ride out to the crime scene in the small town of Buckhorn tested his patience. The griping from his team hadn’t helped matters either.

  “Don’t try to distract me.” Jame, his second-in-command and royal pain in the ass, climbed from the passenger’s side, clicking her phone off. Her eyes stalked him like a damn mountain tigress. Blond streaks ran through her straight black hair, matching the wildcat’s stripes too well. “I know what you did. Before the code black, you spoke to Agent Vanguard.”

  Talon fixed his gaze on her as he came around the front of the SUV. He so did not need this right now. Aren’t serial killers enough to deal with?

  Jame’s energy crackled like fireworks. As a full-blood shifter, she radiated the same electrifying buzz as him. On paper, they’d be a great match, both full shifters able to change into any animal, both distinguished agents for the PCD—well, at least until recently, he was. If they didn’t solve something soon... Don’t bitch. Isn’t going to solve anything.

  He huffed, blowing the hair out of his eyes, and stared at the curvy agent in a petite package. Hell, even her name—Jame, one syllable, not Jam, not Jay-me and gods help the person who mispronounced it—appealed to him. Yet she’d never driven him to take it further than friendship. Too wild. Too unpredictable. He needed someone who played by the rules, someone he could remain detached around.

  A voice wafted through his memory as soft as feathers, the subtle tones dripping with honey. “Agent Rede, are you going to keep tap dancing or answer my questions?”

  It hit him again like a brick, the feisty reporter. It had been barely two seconds into their call when she had caught his full attention. She hit him with questions, hammering her point straight home. He should have been furious. He wasn’t. “No, Ms. Benenati. I never tap dance. I mean what I say when I say it.”

  He’d never been that direct with a woman…or so turned on in his life. Christ, just remembering the sound of her voice made his blood sing. They had talked for how long? An hour? Maybe more? It wasn’t nearly enough. He wanted to connect again, to verbally spar with her once more, to meet her in person…to make her his. And he’d never even seen her face! Imagining her in the flesh, wondering about the possibilities drove him half mad. The primal urge clawed at his insides, the mark of a shifter hunting for his mate.

  Oh hell no. He checked himself. Can’t go there. The last thing he needed was someone who stirred up trouble for a living. He needed to keep thoughts of the fierce little reporter at bay. He couldn’t risk getting too close to someone. Ever. Not after the disaster with his family. Not after he’d let his mother die.

  He shook his head of the memories and concentrated on his partner’s griping.

  “Jame, be reasonable, huh? We can talk about this later.”

  “No. We’ll talk about it now. You stonewalled me again!” She banged her hands on the hood as the rest of the team filed out of the backseats. “You promised the next time a team leader position opened you’d recommend me for the job.”

  “Holy hell,” he growled, squeezing his hands into fists to resist the urge to shift them into claws. “We’ve got more important things to worry about than your ladder climbing.”

  “I know how to do my job.” The muscles in her jaw ticked. In a rough whisper, she ground out, “I’m never going to get my shot. I’m never going to get out of here, if you keep holding me back.”

  The shifter pulse rolled off her in inky waves. He could practically feel it on his skin. It only made his energy flare up. He pinched the bridge of his nose, attempting to settle down. “Take a breath, okay?” He lowered his head to meet her at eye level. “Your career is just getting started. I didn’t land where you are at twenty-two. I was still a punk rookie.”

  “Twenty-nine is hardly old.” She huffed. “Though you are immature.”

  “L
ook, you know how things are. I can’t run this district with just us.” He motioned to where the remainder of his team, Slick and Bull, stood in feigned nonchalance toward the back of the SUV. “We need you.” Her narrowed eyes had him hastily adding, “But you find a replacement, someone to match your skills and talents, then I’ll put the word in for you.”

  A light appeared to glow behind her cat-like hazel eyes. “Promise?”

  Good luck with that. They couldn’t even find an intern. Their pathetic recruitment list was proof of the problem. Not many wanted to sign up for a job with no down time and a high probability of death as the retirement plan. He bit back that little comment. “As long as it doesn’t get in the way of your work.”

  Jame flattened her hands on the hood, murder in her gaze. “When has anything ever gotten in the way of my work?”

  He decided not to point out it was interfering with her work at present, nodding instead toward the back of the SUV. The guys took it as their cue to come forward. Thank gods.

  Slick snuck up on Jame’s right and slapped a hand on her shoulder. “Entertaining as always.” The shifter-human hybrid possessed golden-green eyes, a tall thin frame, and closely trimmed brown hair, giving him a sharp snakelike look and earning him his nickname. He didn’t take offense and given his ability to get out of most situations—plus his self-proclaimed cleverness—preferred the handle to his birth name. Although, his uncanny talent to press all the right buttons at the exact wrong time probably had more to do with the moniker.

  “Stuff it, Slick.” Jame brushed his hand off and started forward. “Well, let’s get this done, huh?”

  “That’s it, girlie.” Bull, the last member of their squad, saddled up to her. His cowboy boots left a size ninteen footprint in the dirt. The plain black T-shirt he wore stretched across his wide shoulders, making the century old vampire look as menacing as his namesake.