Have Lizard, Will Travel

by Eve Langlais

  “A man’s gone missing. A human, I should add.”

  “So why are we being tasked with finding him?” Usually, RI3 only took on special missions. The sort that involved shifters or other protected species. Humans had their own people to look after them.

  “Because, apparently, the professor has been working on something special for the Timber Wolf Alpha Troop.”

  “What’s TWAT doing engaging the services of a human?” He didn’t have to pretend to be appalled. The number one secret of being in the shifter club was: don’t tell anyone about the shifter club.

  “They found some kind of old recipe book. Then needed a proper apothecary to figure it out for them.”

  “What kind of recipes?” Simon asked, suspicious. “Anything with peaches?” Because he loved juicy peaches. A nice handful, with firm flesh when he nibbled. Mmmm. Juicy.

  “Not food. According to—”

  “TWAT,” Simon supplied with a snicker.

  “Er, they thought it was simply some old wives’ remedies. Things for colds and the gout. Elixirs for potty training the young pups. One supposedly to prevent a full moon turning.”

  “Ha. A book of jokes, then.” Simon chuckled.

  S remained serious. “It turns out, the recipes weren’t all bogus.”

  That snapped Simon’s jaw.

  “There’s a video. Let me find it.” S tapped at his keyboard.

  Meanwhile, Simon tried to grasp the extent of the damage. “What did those morons do? Does the professor know about us? Is that why he’s missing?” Had the man run? A possibility, given that his world had just been turned upside down. Or had TWAT eaten him and now pretended concern to draw attention away from themselves?

  “They claim Professor Erwin had no idea, even after the incident. It was chalked up as a prank. Here. See for yourself.”

  S turned his screen so Simon could watch. The video began focused on an older gent at the front of the class. A classic professor-type with long, whitish hair combed back and curling at his nape. Small glasses with rounds lenses. A sweater with patched elbows.

  The room around the professor had the hallmarks of a lab with its row of metal counters, layered in beakers and Bunsen burners. While the professor gestured in between measuring items into a glass cylinder, the class fidgeted and talked. The camera even flipped a few times to focus on students who grimaced at the lens and rolled their eyes.

  “…as you can see, the end product is quite vivid.” The professor held up a finished product, the glass filled halfway with a crystal-blue fluid that smoked and glittered.

  “Oooh, pretty,” exclaimed the one holding the camera.

  “Is it poisonous?” someone at the front asked.

  “Only to shapeshifters. according to this.” Erwin pointed to the old book he’d used to make the potion.

  “Is this like the witch trials, where drinking it and going into convulsions proves you’re a shapeshifter.” The statement drew chuckles.

  Even the professor grinned. “Doubtful. None of the ingredients are toxic. It’s safe to drink.” Erwin proved it by chugging a mouthful. He held it up and gave it a swirl. “Tastes minty.”

  “Can we try?” The beaker was quickly whisked from the professor and passed around. The camera holder declined a sip. The boys next to her chugged the remainder. But they didn’t see that, just heard the hooting and hollering as the young lady taking the video focused on her friend, who had sipped and claimed her lips tingled.

  Suddenly, there was yelling, then screaming, even an oink or two. Flipping around, the camera jostled quite a bit as it showed two boys gaping at the large pig in their midst.

  The video ended.

  “That isn’t proof of anything,” Simon remarked.

  “Those boys claim the pig was their friend, Bryan.”

  “Or they played a prank. A very good one, I might add.”

  “Except for the fact that Bryan is a porcine shifter and has yet to change back.”

  “A potion to force a shift?” Simon’s eyebrow rose high, threatening to abandon his head.

  “So it seems.”

  “We can’t let that recipe fall into the wrong hands.”

  “Indeed. Which is why the disappearance of the professor is so important.”

  “I take it the recipe book is missing, too?”

  S nodded.

  Buggar. Simon didn’t know what kind of market there was for a potion that forced a shift, but he’d guarantee that the proverbial shit was about to hit the fan.

  “Surely, someone saw something. Are we sure he was nabbed?”

  “Yes. His place was tossed.”

  “Doesn’t mean shit. Could have happened after the professor skipped out. Have we checked with friends and family?”

  “Being a bit of a recluse, Erwin wasn’t the chatty sort. But he did visit one person. On the off chance she knows something, we need you to track this woman and question her.” S clacked away on his keyboard, and the screen changed.

  Leaning forward in the chair, Simon perused the image on the screen. Not a great shot, he might add. Not by any stretch of the imagination. The woman had been caught with her eyes shut, mouth gaping, and her hair in a messy halo around her head.

  All in all, a right gurner.

  “This is the target?” he queried, putting to rest any plans for seduction to get what he needed. She was a ten-pinter for sure, and he didn’t do pints.

  “Miss Petunia Erwin. Only child of the missing professor.”

  Petunia. What a name to be saddled with along with those looks. Poor girl.

  “What has she said about her dad being gone?”

  “Nothing, yet. I don’t even think she knows. We’ve been monitoring her phone and internet usage, but so far, we haven’t found anything that would indicate her involvement.”

  “When was her last contact with her dad?”

  “From what we could gather, at least a month ago.”

  “A month?” Simon didn’t hide his surprise. “How long did he have that recipe book?”

  “A few weeks. The wolves weren’t exactly sure of the date.”

  “Given the last time they had contact, I’d wager she knows nothing.” Questioning her would be a waste of his incredible talent. Not to mention his good looks. No doubt one look at him, and she’d be all giggly and cow-eyed.

  “Possible, and yet she is the only link we have to Professor Erwin. We believe that if those who kidnapped him don’t get what they need, they’ll probably go after her.”

  “Sounds like you need to hire her a bodyguard.”

  “I’m glad you understand.” S beamed.

  Simon grumbled. “Don’t you have something more exciting for me to do than babysit a chit?” Who could use a stylist, but he didn’t add that part. He was a gentleman, after all.

  “This woman might be our only hope in recovering the professor and finding out what he was up to.”

  “Can’t you find someone else?” There might have been a hint of a whine in that query—a manly one, of course. A man of Simon’s skills should be tasked with more important things.

  “Would it help if I said you could have the Maserati for this mission?”

  That piqued his interest. “Rumor has it, Z had it outfitted with some new toys.” Z being their resident tech geek.

  “She did. Z told me to give you these.” S nudged a box sitting on his desk in Simon’s direction.

  Opening it, Simon saw a new watch, which he immediately fitted onto his wrist. A pen that went right into his pocket. He held up the other items with a frown. Rings, a pair of them, one thin with a single stone, the other a thick metal band of platinum. They appeared rather benign so why did they make his skin crawl. Maybe because they were a matching set, the kind married people wore. “What do these do?”

  “Homing devices. Place one on the target and wear the other one. It will draw you together. Some kind of magnetic thing. Don’t ask me how it works.”

  “Wouldn’t it be
easier to chip the girl?” The tech looked suspiciously like wedding rings to him. Being married to a specimen like that, even for pretend, wouldn’t do his reputation any good whatsoever.

  “Chips are unreliable, and the newer machines at the airport can detect them.”

  Simon shook the box and dumped it upside down. “That’s it?” No secret weapons for his lizard. He managed to restrain his pout. No need to waste it on S. Z would have been another matter…

  “Budget cutbacks. Sorry.”

  That vile term applied to other people. Not Simon, their most effective—and dashing—spy.

  “Best of luck.”

  Luck was for the less good-looking.

  Two

  The doorbell rang as Petunia was washing her face. Hopefully, it was the pizza she’d ordered. Breakfast, lunch, and dinner of champions. Especially the lazy ones who couldn’t cook to save their lives. She existed on frozen meals, delivery, and the deli down the street. One that didn’t see her often, as that required putting on actual clothes and leaving the house.

  The world was a dangerous place. Full of cracks in the sidewalk to trip her, and cars that ran stop signs. It was much safer inside her house.

  Rinsing her face quickly, Petunia opened her eyes only to yelp as leftover suds irritated.

  “Oh, fudge nuggets!” she exclaimed.

  It burned. Burned so much. Her eye was going to melt into a puddle. She’d be one-eyed Petunia, the crazy lady with the vicious tomcat. Except he wasn’t really hers. He just demanded tuna once a week. In return, he kept the rodents out of her yard. Mr. Odwicki didn’t pay the fee, and last she’d heard, he had an infestation.

  The chime rang again, an impatient rebuke. Petunia hollered, “Coming,” as she splashed more water on her face, which did nothing to fix the stinging eye, reinforcing her belief that she would end up blind. With an eye patch. A cute one with jewels bedazzling it.

  She kept the eye squinted shut, a one-eyed pirate with sloppy hair falling out of a bun, a ragged sweater that slipped off a shoulder, and the bulkiest track pants that didn’t match the bright blue top at all—although she’d bet it would be the exact color of her swollen eye.

  Skipping down the stairs, the world once more tried to kill her, surely shifting on purpose when she hit the last step. Her foot slipped, which caused her to stagger and slam, with a hard thump, into the door.

  Given her extensive experience with knocking herself against things, despite the throbbing pain, she recovered quickly and opened the door with a harried, “Can I help you?”

  “Miss Erwin?” the voice, smooth as chocolate, asked in a query.

  She squinted up. And then up some more at the man who stood there. He seemed tall to her barely five-foot height, probably a good five nine, maybe even ten. Broad of shoulder, or at least faking it well with his suit jacket. He didn’t wear a tie, and the white collar of his shirt gaped, showing off skin. No hair peeked out at the vee.

  Pity. She liked a man with a bit of fur on his chest. The rest of him was nice, though. His features were square and rugged with a hint of sensuality in his full lips. The eyes were a sharp blue and perused her.

  All in all, a nice package, and definitely not her delivery man—which left her tummy utterly disappointed.

  “Can I help you?” she asked, trying to pry her hurting eye open and only managing a slitted squint.

  “I’m Simon Longwatton. A colleague of your father’s. Professor Erwin, correct?”

  “If you work with him, surely you know his name.” She squinted suspiciously. Or at least she tried to. Knowing her luck, he’d probably think she was winking at him.

  “Yes, yes, I know his name. I was enquiring whether you are, indeed, his daughter,” Mr. Longwatton clarified with only the tiniest hint of frustration in his deep voice.

  “I’m sorry, but my dad doesn’t live here.” She went to close the door, but he wedged his foot in the space. A big foot she noted, one wearing a leather loafer.

  “I know he doesn’t live with you. That’s not why I’m here. I’m looking for him.”

  “Then you should try his house in Wooster.”

  “He’s not there.”

  “Then I can’t help you.” She again made to shut the door, but he didn’t get the hint. Perhaps, he was a little slow.

  “I didn’t want to tell you like this, but your father is missing.”

  “Or he doesn’t want to see you,” she pointed out, not quite managing to hide her frustration. “Are you a bill collector? Because that would explain your difficulty in locating him.”

  “No, I’m not a bill collector.” Even exasperated, Longwatton managed to remain handsome. Like glossy magazine handsome. “I’m a worried colleague. He’s been missing his classes. No one has seen or heard from him in well over a week.”

  That brought a frown. “If that’s true, how come no one called me?” They might not be close, her father’s studies often more important than a daughter he didn’t understand, but still…surely, she was the first point of contact in an emergency?

  “You weren’t contacted because no one is taking his disappearance seriously. I, though, am quite concerned and drove all this way to discuss it. May I come in?”

  So polite, and his accent… A hint of something not quite American. Still, a woman didn’t invite strange men into her house. “I don’t think that’s appropriate.”

  “Neither is this, but I’m done arguing.” He shoved at the door, hard enough to dislodge her, then stepped inside. Closed it behind him. Locked it too as if things weren’t already scary enough. Petunia knew how this book ended, which was why she never watched the movie. Too much blood.

  Being a recluse didn’t make Petunia a wilting flower. She grabbed at the handle protruding from the tall vase and drew forth an umbrella. She aimed the tip at him. “Stay back!”

  He sighed, and there was the hint of an eye-roll. “Or you’ll…what? Open it and give yourself a few years bad luck?”

  “Get out.” She swung it. Not hard enough evidently, given he easily grabbed hold of it and pulled it from her grip.

  “Help! Murderer!” she yelled, turning on her heel and running for the kitchen.

  “I am not—hey! Come back here,” he hollered.

  As if she’d listen to a rapist. Harassing women in their own homes. Using her father as an excuse to shove his way in. She needed a better weapon. A knife. Yes. A big one.

  He tackled her, literally flung himself at her, and she felt herself going down. She scrunched her eyes shut, expecting to hit the floor. Hard.

  “Eee…oomph.” She landed atop a solid male chest. A nice-smelling man chest.

  Parts of her tingled. In her defense, it had been a while since she’d been in this position—her body pressed against another’s, their faces close enough for a kiss.

  Or a head bonk!

  “Ow!” he yelled, letting go of her to grab the nose she’d headbutted.

  “Don’t touch me!” She rolled off him and scrabbled for the kitchen counter. The knife she brandished would prove a lot more intimidating than the umbrella. Hence her grin when he got to his feet, clutching his bleeding nose.

  Glaring.

  Uh-oh, she might have made him angry.

  “Are you bloody insane, woman?”

  “I’m a survivor,” she retorted, waving the blade back and forth.

  “That’s a bread knife.”

  “All the better to saw you into slices with,” she crowed.

  “I’m not here to bloody well attack you!”

  “Says the guy who shoved his way into my house then manhandled me. Come any closer, and I’ll geld you.” She dropped her gaze.

  He dug a handkerchief out of his pocket to stem the flow of blood from his nose.

  “Trust me when I say I have absolutely no interest in you. At all.” Flatly said, and kind of deflating.

  Which made no sense. Why would she want a home invader to lust after her?

  She brandished the bread
knife epee style. “Get out of my house.”

  “Not until we talk about your father.”

  “I told you, my father isn’t here, and I haven’t heard from him in at least a month.” Maybe more. She didn’t really track such things.

  “Did he perchance send you anything? Maybe a package? A letter?”

  “No. Why would he do that? He only lives in the next town over.”

  “Emails with attachments?”

  “No. Are you done now? I told you, I haven’t seen or heard from my father at all recently.” And given this man’s persistence, she could see why her father might be avoiding him.

  A knock at the door interrupted further questioning. Tall, handsome, and bloody-nosed froze, a strange expression on his face.

  “Don’t answer that.”

  “I am going to answer that because it’s my lunch.”

  “No, it’s not. Because I saw the lad with your pizza and sent him away.”

  “You did what?” she screeched. He’d sent her food away?

  “It’s for your own good.” He eyed her, his gaze raking up and down her generously curvy frame. “You’ll thank me for it later.”

  “Why you insufferable—”

  Something not Petunia-like might have come out of her mouth if someone hadn’t chosen that moment to kick in her front door.

  Three

  The moment he heard the splintering wood, Simon acted. He grabbed Petunia by the arm and dragged her towards the back door.

  The bloody woman screamed, because that was so helpful. To the bad guys at any rate, helping them pinpoint their location. Simon huffed under his breath, slapping a hand over her mouth to stop the bloody noise.

  He heard a shouted, “She’s at the rear of the house. Cover the yard,” indicating that there were at least two miscreants after the not-so-fair lady.

  A glance out the kitchen window showed a tight yard with high fences. Not the ideal location to get pinned down. Hence why Simon chose to drag Petunia up the stairs to the second floor, the steep and narrow steps, a feature of an older house such as this one, perfect to defend while waiting for help.