Stan’s face screwed up in a puzzled expression.
“Sure you’re not eating donuts?”
Instead of laughing at my insanely hilarious joke, Stan gave me a flat stare that told me how much he appreciated my humour, which is to say he didn’t. At all.
“What are you here for, Agent?” he asked.
“I’m trying to track down a target.”
He folded his arms and sat back in his chair. “What kind of target?”
“The kind you don’t want running around your streets, increasing your caseload.”
“Why not give me the name and let the VPD handle it? Or is it supe on supe?”
Since I didn’t know if the victim was a supe or a norm, it meant she would be considered norm until proven otherwise. This case technically fell under the VPD’s authority. Only supe on supe crime went straight to the SRD. I did a mental eye roll. “Please don’t take this the wrong way, but I’m more equipped to handle the situation.”
“How so?”
“I work for the SRD.” I gave him a pointed look, but Stan gave me a blank stare.
“So?”
Exhaling slowly, I stared at the ceiling. “So…generally it takes a supe to catch a supe.”
Officer Stevens gave me the once-over, skepticism clear on his face. “What type of supe are you?”
“The badass kind.”
The cop waited for me to elaborate.
“Didn’t anyone ever tell you it’s rude to ask a supe that question?”
Stan shrugged and quickly added himself to the list of people I had little patience for.
“I need to see a list of all elderly women who were victims of robbery in the last week.”
Officer Stevens blinked.
“Now,” I said.
He crossed his arms.
“Please?”
Stan grunted and leaned forward. “How will this information help you?”
“My target is getting a source of income somewhere. This might lead me to that source.” I’d found nothing in the SRD records, but that meant little. The need for sharing resources between agencies glared like an ugly neon sign. If the necessity was so apparent to me, why hadn’t someone done something about it?
Stan tapped his finger on the desk and stared blankly at his computer screen.
“Look. Are you going to help me or not?”
“What’s in it for me?”
“Reciprocation?”
“Why would I need your help?” Stan scoffed.
I leaned forward and let my eyes shift yellow as my cat pressed forward. “I am very helpful in certain situations and I would let you take credit for the takedown.”
Letting my face relax and de-animalize, I waited for his response.
With a thoughtful expression on his face, Stan nodded. He pulled out his keyboard and started tapping away at the buttons. “I need a promotion,” he said as he clicked through some screens. “I’m tired of this ‘off the street’ bullshit.” A quick glance my way. “No offense.”
“None taken,” I murmured.
“One hundred and thirty two.”
“Excuse me?”
“One hundred and thirty two cases reporting elderly women being the victims of robbery over the last seven days in the Lower Mainland.”
“Are you kidding me?” I cursed. “What’s the world coming to?”
Stan shrugged. Years of working on the job desensitized him to the ugliness of society.
“He pawned a watch and figurine. Can you narrow it down by items stolen?”
Nodding, Stan’s fingers flew over his keyboard. “Fifty three.”
“Still too many.”
“Well, do you have any more information?”
“No.” I drummed my fingers on the ends of the chair’s armrests. “Could I get a printout, please? I have to start somewhere.”
Looking at the sheet, I grumbled a “thank you” to Stan before stalking out of the precinct. Somewhere turned out to be almost everywhere in the Lower Mainland.
Chapter Fifteen
“Chuck Norris Forecast: Cloudy with a ninety percent chance of pain.”
~Chuck Norris
After watching five back-to-back I-slept-with-your-best-friend episodes of daytime television, the epitome of not-so-great programming, I came to the conclusion women existed in the world far skankier than me. Yes, I technically dated two men. But they knew about each other. That made it okay, right?
And I wasn’t sleeping with them.
Yet, the devil on my shoulder whispered. Since running into the almond-spiced Demon at the Vampire summit, this voice had gained strength and assertiveness, as if the sheer force of seduction had awakened an evil part of my brain. But that didn’t make sense. I knew evil lurked inside of me, but it wasn’t in my head. It holed up in my gut.
Wick told me to dress comfortably. I tried to search on the Internet what that meant datewise, but every site said I should wear something that made me feel comfortable and sexy on my first date. Yoga pants? Running gear? Not sure if that’s what Wick meant.
What do you mean by comfortable? I caved and texted.
Like comfortable.
If I knew what you meant the first time you said that, I wouldn’t be asking.
There was a long pause before he replied. No heels or skirts. Wear something you can move in.
We’re not going hiking are we? Some people thought huffing and puffing up the side of the mountain provided excellent stimulus and good dating options. Not a fan. At least, not in human form. My mountain lion and wolf would love it. No, if I planned to get hot and sweaty with a date, I could think of better activities—like sparring.
I have something else in mind, Wick replied.
I settled on black cargo pants, military boots, and one of my favorite Chuck Norris T-shirts—the white one that read, “Chuck Norris Forecast: Cloudy with a 90% chance of pain.” Flicking my hair up into a quick ponytail and pinning back my bangs, I was ready for some physical dating activity or kicking ass. Should I stretch? I glanced at the clock—fifteen minutes to spare.
A quarter of an hour to overanalyze my actions. Was this date a good idea? Probably not. I liked Wick, a lot. But he’d hurt me and due to Lucien’s control over him, he could do it again, and again, and again. But like an addict, I couldn’t shake this need to be near him.
Halfway through my leg stretches, I heard Wick’s truck pull up outside the building. I could only get so limber anyway. After buzzing Wick in, I fished my wallet out of my purse. I pulled out a couple twenties along with my credit card and license, and slipped them into one of my pant pockets. One of my biggest pet peeves included trying to do something active, like hop a fence, and getting smacked in the face with my purse or worse, getting it caught on barbed wire. Made subterfuge a bit difficult to achieve.
Wick knocked, and I opened the door for him. His presence filled the space. Ripped jeans and a faded shirt never looked better. Tall and imposing, he should have an intimidating effect, but all I got from him was warmth. His rosemary scent wrapped around me, embracing my skin and leaving me light-headed. I retreated to allow him more space to enter.
Wick took a step forward and then another, pressing his body against mine. He slipped his hand up to the back of my neck and leaned down for a kiss, his lips firm, yet soft. My toes tingled, but when I started to really get into it, he pulled back with a smile.
“Damn you,” I breathed.
Wick chuckled. “You ready?”
“As ready as I’ll ever be.” Using the flat of my hand against his solid rock chest, I pushed him out of my apartment. Locking the door, I glanced at the Werewolf over my shoulder. “I hate surprises, you know.”
“I think you love to hate surprises.”
“I don’t have to wear a blindfold do I?” I asked as we walked out of the building.
His mouth twisted. “Not today, no.”
When the meaning of his words sank in, my body heated instantaneously as if struc
k by lightning. “You’re not playing fair.”
He leaned over and whispered into my hair, “Never intended to.”
Always the gentleman, Wick held the door open for me. I found his traditional values charming and often in conflict with his heated gaze and dirty innuendos. The man didn’t swear often and rarely used contractions, but he warmed my heart and body and made me want to dance the horizontal mamba.
We drove twenty minutes out of town through twisting forest roads.
“Hunting?” I guessed, for the third time.
“No.” Wick smiled, but kept his gaze on the dirt road. “Let me guess, you were the kid that snuck into her parents’ room and found all the Christmas gifts because you couldn’t wait until the big day.”
“No.” My voice didn’t sound convincing to me at all, and the smell of my little white lie filled the cabin of Wick’s truck. He nailed it. When I was little, I knew all my parents’ hiding places and snuck around to find out what I was getting for Christmas. And my birthday. No need to tell him the extent of my neurosis. My father ended up locking the presents in the shed.
A smile spread across his face and I dug my hands into the leather upholstery. I wanted to wipe his grin off…with my mouth.
Oh boy! Rein it back.
I knew the moment Wick detected my arousal. His smile widened into a satisfied grin, and he relaxed into his seat. Staring at the contours of his face and his expression’s nuances wasn’t helping me douse the flames. I shifted in my seat and looked out the window.
Oh look! More trees. My mountain lion begged for release and sent me images of us winding around old tree trunks and sinking our claws into tender soil and bark. My wolf howled and wanted to run.
Going through a series of rugged switch backs, heading up a wooded mountain, I guessed as many possibilities as I could for what Wick had planned. The activity distracted my wandering brain, and kept it from slipping into the gutter.
With each guess getting more and more outlandish, Wick laughed and kept shaking his head, enjoying my discomfort of the unknown.
“Hang gliding?”
Wick shook his head again. Taking his eyes off the road longer than I liked, he gave me an appreciative look. “You already fly.”
“True.” Sitting back in my seat, I drummed my fingers on the doorframe to the Rocky anthem, the one where he’s running and punching at the same time, while I thought of possible outdoor activities that required forested mountain tops. The potholes littering the gravel road jostled us as the truck continued its slow ascent up the mountain.
When we pulled up to our location, I started laughing. This possibility never occurred to me. “Paintball?”
“You like to fight, but I cannot persuade you to spar with me again. I thought this the next best thing.”
“Last time we sparred, we ended up naked,” I said, my voice flat.
Wick’s smile grew. “I know.”
I snorted and popped my door open. We jumped out of the truck and Wick escorted me to the gear-up location. The man actually winked at me as he handed me paint-splattered coveralls. Holding them up, I figured out two things—under the myriad splashes of crusty paint the mechanic-style coveralls were originally blue, and the mechanic who wore these was the extra, extra large type.
When I glared at Wick, he raised his brow in challenge and stepped into his own outfit. It fit him perfectly. What were the odds of a six-foot-seven mechanic donating his used gear to a paintball business? My eyes narrowed.
“You’re kidding me.” I grumbled, stepping into the outfit. It fit exactly like I expected—awful. Scanning the remaining outfits, I admitted defeat. All that remained were the extra smalls and the extra soiled. Smelling the teenage body odor from where I stood, I’d brave the tripping hazard over cloaking myself in a stench that industrial-strength cleaner couldn’t fix.
I looked like a beginner snowboarder trying too hard to be cool by wearing clothes several sizes too big to be functional. How some of the professional guys and girls pulled off gravity-defying feats with pants that couldn’t stay on their bums, was beyond me. Mine would be around my ankles and my face would act as a snow plow down the entire mountain.
“Briefing in five minutes!” A young man bellowed at all the paintball hopefuls. “Meet under the covered picnic area.” He waved and pointed at the only picnic tables in sight in case we didn’t understand what he referred to. Looking around at some of the people we would be playing with and against, it was probably for the best.
Wick swatted my butt as he sauntered by me to the meeting area. “If you can’t hack it, you may as well admit defeat now.”
“Never!” I ran the zipper up hard to emphasize my point. It caught a bit of flesh. I winced from the brief flash of pain, but bit back a howl. I’d be damned if I let Wick know I hurt myself with clothing. He’d never let me live it down.
Plunking down beside Wick on the nearest picnic table bench, I rolled up the legs and sleeves of my coveralls to allow more functionality.
The man who yelled at us earlier swaggered into the area and started stalking back and forth along the covered cement that I could only assume was meant to be his stage. Although he still suffered from post-adolescent acne, I estimated him at least mid-twenties. Something about the way he smelled and carried himself. He wore camouflage combat fatigues.
“My name is Darryl, and I’m your moderator for today. This voice…” He pointed a stiff finger at his mouth. “…is law. If you hear me yelling, you stop shooting. Right away. No exceptions. Violators of this rule will be removed immediately.”
Oh yeah. This guy took himself very seriously. How many rejection letters did he receive from the local police departments in response to his applications? Did he list first-person shooter games as his relevant experience?
“Paintball is a very safe sport,” he started. “Correction: paintball is a very safe sport if you wear your mask.” He paused, as if taking the time to remember his place in the lecture. “There are occasional injuries in paintball, but serious ones are almost always caused by people taking off their mask.” He paused again and waited for the young teenaged boys in the front to stop talking. He fixed them with a cold stare. “DON’T TAKE OFF YOUR MASK.”
Drill Sergeant Darryl propped his leg up on the edge of a bench and rocked forward by swaying his hips. “Why do I harp on safety all the time? Because too many paintball players have the ‘it won’t happen to me’ attitude.” He used a girly, high-pitched voice to mock said players, to which I took offense. I’d bet my entire stash of chocolate-covered almonds the players who most often demonstrated that attitude were young men, not ditsy girls.
“I’ve been around paintball for quite some time now so I know how much you people like being told, time after time, how to be safe. But since players continuously break basic safety rules, it bears repeating, again, and again, and again.
“With the exception of the designated safety areas where there are nets to prevent accidents from occurring… DON’T TAKE OFF YOUR MASK.”
Darryl went on another tirade about the importance of using only the paintballs they provided, but I’d already tuned him out. Instead, I cast my senses out to the forest and enjoyed the sounds and smells. The sweet tang of pine, cedar, and fir trees filled my nose—a soothing balm to my frazzled nerves. When people stressed out, they liked to go to their happy place, which usually involved soothing music, massage therapy, and floral fragrances. My place was the forest.
Hunt, my mountain lion prodded. My bones ached, willing me to change, and boy did I want to. I shushed her instead and listened to the wind whistling through the leaves, joining in a sweet harmony with the bird calls. Music to my ears.
After the monster inside me rose up to destroy the shackles from Dylan’s forced union, and half his pack with it, I’d fled into the woods and survived as a mountain lion for thirty-three years. It took that long for me to find my humanity. Find it. Piece by piece, I’d put myself back together, but I wasn’t
finished. I didn’t need a session with a psychiatrist to tell me that.
I shook my head and tuned back in to reality. Darryl pointed at players and sides, and I discovered Wick and I were on different teams.
“What?” I stumbled over the word. I’d drifted so far into my thoughts, and missed the selection process. Had Wick requested opposite teams?
Wick swatted my butt again before marching off to join his group. He winked at me over his shoulder right as the horn blasted.
Damn him! He did this on purpose. I stuck my tongue out at him and turned to run in the opposite direction to establish a position. When the horn blasted for the second time, it was game on.
I intended to win.
****
After the first round, I regretted Wick positioning us against each other. Our teammates rubbed arms, legs, and bums from paintball welts, while Wick and I remained unscathed. It was fun wreaking havoc on norms in the form of brightly-coloured paint, but it would’ve been nicer to do it side by side. There was no way they’d allow us to play together now. It would be too stacked one way.
I wanted to get Wick. We managed to evade each other the entire first round, but this time, I was gunning for him. Sneaking around the side of the designated safe area, I positioned myself downwind from where all the screams of outrage, shock, and pain came from. I’d always heard getting hit with a paintball compared to being snapped on bare skin by a thick rubber band—it stung. If that was the case, these norms were the biggest lot of babies I’d ever met.
Letting my falcon drift close to the surface, my eyesight sharpened. A dark figure moved in the brambles near the deer path ahead of me. About to step closer, something tugged at my senses.
Come to me, a voice echoed in my head. I froze. An overwhelming urge to walk into the forest on my right consumed my body. I hadn’t felt anything like this since…
Since I was fourteen, and walked into the forest to meet three feras.
Sweat beaded on my brow and the bridge of my nose. I wiped it away, while fighting the compulsion to move.
Come to me, Carus.
Leaning forward, I tried to locate the animal. A branch snapped and my attention darted to where the sound originated from. The forest hummed with the sound of summer insects. My heart beat loud and heavy in my chest.
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