by Lisa Ladew
Within a minute they’d found the source of the stench: a pile of bones held together with grayish-green leathery skin, still-gleaming fangs showing behind dried up lips pulled back in a permanent grimace. The odor was overwhelming, rotting vegetation mixed with the coppery smell of blood. Someone had Undone a vampire.
The three shifters stared at the bones and then each other. Finally Shiloh spoke up. “J didn’t mention any Undoings when I talked to him this morning.”
Jameson Montreat, the Keeper of the Forest and legendary White Wolf of Nantahala, was also the de facto leader of The Cause shifters, the one with the know-how and authority to organize them all. Riot respected J, as most everyone called him, even if he didn’t want to answer to him anymore. Shiloh seemed to damn-near idolize the man. Not that J didn’t deserve it. He was always busting his ass to do the right thing, unlike Riot.
Shit, time to spill his other secret. He spoke, his voice soft in the forest. “There’s another switch out there. One the Cause doesn’t know about.”
Ryder’s head whipped around and he met Riot’s eye. Riot reacted as if Ryder had shouted at him. “I know, okay? I should have told someone. But it was weeks ago, before Cora showed up and J told us what the fuck was going on.” Back then, Riot hadn’t ever seen a vampire in the flesh. Back then, he hadn’t quite believed vampires and switches were real. Or if he had believed, he hadn’t known the whole dirty truth, how switches didn’t just need help killing vampires, they needed help “coming down” from the kill, and one of the ways they could do that was with sex.
Both twins were staring at him now. Shit. He really should have told someone. “It wasn’t even that big a deal. I was in Shady Pines, I’d had a few drinks at one of the bars on the main drag, and instead of riding my bike home I was going to shift and run back to my place. I’m in the woods next to the parking lot, packing up my clothes, when this woman comes out of nowhere, kisses me, and basically won’t take ‘no’ for an answer.”
Ryder’s eyes were wide. Riot averted his gaze and grumbled. “Okay, I didn’t try that hard, but hey, being treated like a piece of man-meat isn’t as awesome as it sounds.”
Shiloh met Riot’s eyes, hers understanding but unmoved. “And you’re sure she was a switch?”
Riot grimaced, still a little humiliated by the memory of that night. “She was lit up purple from head to toe. I, ah, I thought it was a drunk hallucination.”
Shiloh’s jaw dropped. “Not breath coven then, you all glow green. You didn’t get her name?”
Yep, there it was. That sting of humiliation. “The one she gave me was fake. And since she called me ‘Ryan’ as she was leaving my apartment, I’m guessing she didn’t remember mine.”
Shiloh’s lips formed a little ‘o’, her eyes wide with surprise, then she grinned. Her shoulders shook slightly. “That’s harsh.” A little snort escaped her. “What a bitch,” she said, her voice amused. She turned away so Riot wouldn’t see her face.
Riot peered into the trees, away from her. He ran his right hand through the flop of black hair on top of his head. “Typical switch behavior, right?” he said absently. If there was one impression that had been cemented in Riot’s mind over the last month or so of crazy Cause shit, it was that switches were not capable of considering anyone’s needs but their own. He supposed that was only fair when they were the only weapon that could protect humanity, but it fucked with Riot’s priorities. He couldn’t afford to be part of this revolution.
Ryder called their attention when he crouched down next to the feet of the vampire carcass, one hand pinching his nostrils. He brushed a blanket of leaves out of the way.
Shiloh turned her attention to her twin. “Ry?”
But Ryder didn’t have to say a word; both Riot and Shiloh spotted what he was looking at easily. Boot prints. Big ones. Massive. In fact Riot couldn’t think of anyone with feet that big, except maybe Carick, the biggest mystery in The Cause. But that dusty old dude had said himself he couldn’t kill vampires. So what the fuck?
He watched as Ryder moved to the other end of the corpse, brushing away the leaves there as well. Riot expected to see more boot prints, but what was there instead made no sense at all.
Paw prints. Like his own, but bigger. Much bigger. Too-big-to-be-real bigger. And the scent was… what the hell was that? It smelled like something ancient, like those prints carried sand from the walls of Jericho or some shit. Riot had never scented anything like it. “What the hell made those?”
Riot glanced at Ryder to gauge his reaction, but the dark-haired leopard was gazing sharply at his sister. When Riot looked over at Shiloh he could see why.
Shiloh, one of the toughest shifters he’d ever met, was looking at those paw prints with an expression of such adoration, it reminded him blatantly that she was a female, something he rarely thought of her as. Her normally sharp expression softened in a welcoming smile, and her eyes lost their usual guardedness. He’d never seen Shiloh look so… soft. At that moment she looked as capable of loving a man back from the brink of ruin as she was of kicking his balls into his throat, and the ball-kicking was her specialty.
Shiloh didn’t say a word. She followed the paw prints, into the underbrush, looking every inch a sleek cat shifter on the trail of her greatest kill ever.
Ryder threw Riot a sharp glance. Riot read the look at once, it said: I’m going. You’re not. Riot nodded and waved him on.
Even a cat like him had to admit that this was Cause business, and that meant it was not his. Not anymore.
Chapter 2 - A Call To Arms
Gemma Jackson stared at herself in the reflective surface of the inside of the elevator as it took her to the mental health ward of Shady Pines Hospital. Show time. She patted her dark curls, smoothed her capris, and gathered all the moxie she’d acquired in her twenty-nine years of life, especially her last eight as a freelance investigative journalist.
The doors dinged and Gemma strolled out like she owned the place, straight to the nurses’ station, ready to play this thing right. Her story was at stake, but more importantly, women’s lives were at stake.
The click of her power heels on the tile floor boosted Gemma’s confidence. Do your thing, girl. She subtly scanned the middle-aged nurse behind the desk, picking out every detail, even the ones most would dismiss as unimportant. Hot pink scrubs, pink frames on her glasses, and lipstick to match. Gemma plastered an open smile on her face and kept her voice friendly. “Hi, I’m here to visit Jinelle Spencer.”
The nurse’s eyebrows rose over her glasses. Uh-oh.
“Are you on the list?” the woman asked. Gemma was already examining the woman’s workspace, finding a little plaque about grandkids being a gift from heaven, and a photo of the nurse with a middle-aged man, the two of them standing on a beach and smiling. She’s all about family. Easy.
Gemma smiled again as she reached into her purse and drew out an envelope. “No, but I have a notarized letter from her parents granting me permission. Her mom wanted to come with me but they just had too much to do today with the farm and all. Said to say she’d be here Saturday as usual, though.” She handed the letter over and forced herself to lean casually against the counter, as if this research didn’t call to her in a way that scared her, as if seeing Jinelle wasn’t vitally important to her.
The nurse sighed as she handed the envelope right back, an I’ve-seen-it-all-before stare fixed to her stony face. “We don’t allow visitors unless they’ve been approved by our head-of-staff.”
So Nurse Flying Eyebrows wasn’t a pushover. No problem. Gemma liked a challenge. Time for a new approach.
Gemma leaned forward conspiratorially, ready to spill as much truth as the nurse could handle. “Look, I’m up from Atlanta doing a story on the women who’ve been disappearing. The Tri-State Kidnapper’s victims? Ms. Spencer left so abruptly I thought she was one of them, but her parents assured me she’s safely in her room here. All I want to do is lay eyes on her to confirm, and they agreed that wou
ld be fine.”
But the nurse wasn’t budging, her eyebrows still high. Gemma thought furiously, examining and discarding options. A throat clearing behind her made her jump. “Ladies? Trouble?” a soft-spoken, clear, male voice said.
Gemma turned. A doctor had stopped on his way down the hall, and his name tag said he was exactly who she needed to see, but a way more stylish version than in his website photo.
Dr. Momeyer was in his early fifties, but he looked like he was trying to be thirty years younger. His hair was parted and slicked back, his moustache waxed into perfect curls over his bushy beard, and his pink plaid button-down shirt was fitted to his soft midsection under a lilac bow tie. The only thing on this man that says ‘mature’ is his lab coat. He twitched once, his entire body jerking slightly, and rubbed his nose, showing her his left hand and faint pale line on his ring finger. Perfect age for a mid-life crises, and he was sporting all the signs.
Gemma changed tactics again, trying on a shy glance at the older man. Might as well use the tools you got. All’s fair in love and the pursuit of truth.
The nurse spoke. “Dr. Momeyer, this young lady wants to visit Jinelle Spencer, but she’s not on the approved visitor list.”
Gemma grabbed her letter off the counter and tried out the shy glance again, batting her eyelashes. Just a little. She spoke quickly and held out the letter between them, keeping her voice soft. “I have this notarized letter, though, from her parents, saying it’s okay. They would have come with me, but it’s such a long drive from their farm…” She let her voice trail off into the damsel-in-distress tone that worked.
She thought about what her family would say if they could see her now, see how brazen she was about digging for the truth behind her stories. Sakura, her mother, would be scandalized and purse her lips in that way she had of conveying that she wished Gemma really was the docile, unassuming girl she only pretended to be when it suited her purposes. Gemma’s three older brothers would egg her on to outrageous antics, then buy her a drink and smile as she told them the clever way she’d solved the puzzle instead.
And her father, Franklin, would laugh till he coughed, pat Gemma’s knee, and remind Sakura with a kiss that she had been the most badass, determined woman he’d ever seen when they met on Okinawa in the 1970s. Then he’d wink and say something like, “And you know that shit don’t skip a generation,” as he walked out of the room, leaving Gemma and her mother both full of pride.
Gemma straightened her shoulders and met the doctor’s eye, preparing to make her case, but stopped when he smiled indulgently down at her. “Oh, I’m sure there’s no problem. I’ll take you to her.”
Gemma mentally reshuffled as Dr. Momeyer didn’t elaborate, simply turned and started toward the locked door of the psychiatric ward, scanning his badge to get through. Nurse Flying Eyebrows had turned into Nurse Throwing Shade, and the disapproval was thick, but Gemma knew better than to turn back. She’d ride this dude’s HIPAA violation as far as it would take her.
Gemma moved faster, her heels clicking as she caught up with Dr. Momeyer. “Is she talking?” Jinelle’s parents had told Gemma that Jinelle only spoke in bursts, and that once she got started, violence often followed. Not that she ever tried to hurt anyone, Jinelle’s mother had rushed to explain, just that she’d start trashing her room, throwing things around and yelling.
Dr. Momeyer shook his head and offered a sad smile. “I’m afraid not. In fact the meds that most effectively treat outbursts like hers often result in a withdrawal from the world.” He stopped outside a room and waved his hand as if to guide her inside. Gemma came closer and the doctor pointed to the camera in the corner of the private room. “The nurses are always watching. Just wave if you need anything.”
Gemma smiled as Dr. Momeyer turned, pulling his cell phone out of his pocket and pressing a button as he swiped his badge and walked back through the locked double doors. Her smile faded as she continued to watch him.
Something didn’t feel right. On the other hand, she wasn’t sure if it was all that wrong. Maybe Dr. Momeyer didn’t exactly have his security measures on point, but that didn’t mean it had anything to do with her, right? How could it? In any case, Gemma would definitely be making a note about the weirdness as soon as she got away from all these recording devices.
She stepped into the room and caught her breath. The woman Gemma had seen in pictures as a vital, physically-fit powerhouse of authority was now emaciated, curled up on her bed in a hospital gown, staring out the reinforced glass window. Jinelle Spencer didn’t appear to even know Gemma was there. So much for an interview.
Gemma took the opportunity to look around Jinelle’s room. It might have nothing to do with what she was working on, but Jinelle Spencer’s story had captured Gemma’s curiosity. The woman now huddled in her bed had disappeared in the exact same manner as the TSK victims, but, according to Jinelle’s mother, she had turned up weeks later in a hospital ER, mumbling incoherently to herself. Now that Gemma was with Jinelle in the flesh, she instinctively scanned the space, searching for clues to what had happened. That was the question. How could a person fall so fast and disappear so completely without anyone knowing the story?
Furniture in the room was sparse; only the twin bed where Jinelle was curled plus a small table and chair. On top of the desk perched a stack of Architectural Digest magazines. Gemma flipped through them. They were months old and had mailing labels showing Jinelle’s previous address, the one she’d disappeared from. A pair of foam blocks, the kind used in yoga, were stacked on the floor beside the table. It didn’t appear Jinelle required anything more.
Gemma sighed and stepped closer to the bed, getting into Jinelle’s line of sight. “Jinelle? Jinelle Spencer? My name is Gemma Jackson, I’m a-”
Jinelle’s eyes flitted in Gemma’s direction and Gemma stopped talking, waiting to see if Jinelle would respond. The wasted woman on the bed licked her dry lips, and her rusty voice broke in, barely louder than a whisper. “Firefly.”
Firefly? She seized the connection. “Sure. I like fireflies. Can we talk? I’m a reporter, and-”
But Jinelle’s eyes were closing. She sighed as she leaned her head to one side, and in another moment she was breathing deeply. Gemma felt a pang of helplessness as she straightened and stepped away from the bed. Can’t do a damn thing to fix this. But at least she had confirmation that Jinelle was not a victim of the Tri-State Kidnapper, or TSK, as Gemma had nicknamed him.
She made her way slowly back out and down to the hospital’s entrance, looking around for clues whose existence she couldn’t even articulate. Something was not adding up. Dr. Momeyer’s quick acquiescence to her request seemed fishy, and it wasn’t like he’d hit on her once they were alone, so what had been his goal? Gemma mulled that one over, trying to keep her clicking heels quiet on the way out of the small county hospital.
The doors to outside whooshed open in front of Gemma, letting in the evening breeze. She barely noted how the click of her heels became a clunk on the asphalt, her mind working over all she had just learned, feet moving at a similarly speedy pace. I need to make some notes before the details fade.
A sound like the scream of a wild animal, a big mountain lion maybe, pulled Gemma’s focus back to the present. She inhaled sharply, tensing before she could stop herself.
Chill. You got this, you have the certificate that says so. Gemma exhaled. Anyway, that was probably miles off. The real dangers were as likely to look as harmless as a housecat. Stay alert, stay alive; a single woman’s mantra. Gemma let go of her racing thoughts and paid closer attention to her surroundings.
Her shadow cut through the puddles of light cast by the streetlights overhead as Gemma crossed the parking lot, using the app on her phone to unlock her car doors. A cold breeze chilled her. She walked faster, but as she opened her car door her shoulders tensed involuntarily and she felt the urge to crouch, to protect her belly. This wasn't just the old fear. Someone was watching her.
; Gemma dropped her purse inside and whirled, ready to fight, but the parking lot seemed empty.
She stepped away from the car on shaky feet that didn’t respond to what she really wanted. Uh, hello? Why am I not shaking off this skeezy feeling and jumping into that car right this minute? But instead she took another step. And another.
Not even knowing what she was after, Gemma walked away from her car and the hospital’s entrance, towards the back side of the parking lot where the streetlights didn’t reach. Where hedges that lined the pavement gave way to forest that stretched on for miles over rocky terrain.
The tense muscles of Gemma’s legs and arms ached. She tried to roll them but they were rock hard. “Ow,” she breathed, finding it hard to even get the word out. The aching muscles started to twitch and Gemma stepped forward, further from her car, from the sanity of shelter. She felt like she’d taken a caffeine pill with an espresso chaser. Twitch, twitch, twitch. Step. Twitch, twitch, twitch. Step.
A weapon. I need a weapon. The thought shot through her mind viciously, full of a hatred she felt but did not understand. Gemma shook her head, hard, her short, black curls brushing her face. She dug in the pockets of her jacket, knowing she had no weapons, but looking anyway. She found only her phone, so instead she searched the ground in front of her as she twitched her way further from her car.
The creak of metal brought Gemma’s head up and she was stunned to see two dark eyes shining back at her, a figure rising from where he sat on the trunk of a sleek two-door convertible. It was a man. Technically, Gemma thought, automatically turned-off by his overdone looks.
Younger than her, early twenties and wearing trendy designer clothes that said he actually gave a rat’s ass and had the money to back it up, with the kind of hairstyle that probably took thirty minutes and multiple products to achieve. There was a malevolence about him, something smarmy in his smile, like he thought she’d make a good snack.
