Werewolves in London
Peyton Brooks, FBI
Volume 3
ML Hamilton
Cover Art by Karri Klawiter
www.artbykarri.com
Werewolves in London
© 2015 ML Hamilton, Sacramento, CA
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without written permission from the author, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review to be printed by a newspaper, magazine or journal.
First print
All Characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
I remember the moment I decided to study English. It was during my senior year of high school when I was reading Hamlet by William Shakespeare.
This past summer I had the opportunity to study at the Globe Theatre, an experience I will never forget.
This novel is dedicated to all those who keep Shakespeare’s genius alive, and to the Bard himself.
My readers and my family continue that inspiration.
Thank you!
Werewolves were far more terrifying than vampires. It is probably the idea of seeing the human within the beast and knowing you can’t reach it.
– Glen Duncan
Table of Contents
Table of Contents
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
EPILOGUE
CHAPTER 1
She’s going to die.
He peered around the pillar at the young woman sitting on the bench, waiting for the tube. Glancing down the platform, he saw no one else waiting with her. It was always like this. Late night, just before midnight, last train to catch. He felt bile rise in his throat and he swallowed hard, grimacing at the burn. It was always like this.
She’s going to die.
She couldn’t have been more than twenty-three or twenty-four, just out of university. Probably drinking at the pub with her mates. She wore the sort of clothes he liked. Short skirt, tight jumper in pale pink, and stilettos. She glanced around nervously, twisting the handle on her handbag around her fingers.
She’s going to die.
He eased out from behind the pillar and approached her, picking at his cuticles anxiously. Her eyes whipped to his face and she sucked in air. People always did that with him. He wasn’t sure why. Maybe the wild hair, maybe the gnarled beard, maybe the run-down trainers and torn trousers – there were so many maybes, he’d stopped trying to figure it out long ago.
She’s going to die.
She eased over on the bench, clutching the handbag to her chest, turning her head away, although her eyes still tried to make contact, keep him in sight. Rocking forward, she looked at the electronic sign. He glanced at it as well. Farringdon, Circle Line, 2 mins. He saw the look on her face, knew she thought the same thing as he did. A lot could happen in 2 minutes.
She’s going to die.
He had to warn her. He had to give her a chance. He sidled up a little closer and she glanced at him, just the shifting of her eyes, her body tense, her instincts telling her not to talk to him. He eased a bit closer still, continuing to pick at his cuticles. A round drop of blood welled out of the torn flesh, momentarily distracting him. He stared at it, thought about licking it off, then worried his hands were dirty.
She’s going to die.
He jerked as the voice whispered to him, and his movement startled her. She met his gaze fully now, her pupils dilated, her mouth slightly open in alarm. She had blue eyes, blond hair, a smatter of freckles over the bridge of her nose.
“I don’t have any money,” she said, glancing down.
He stared at her. Why did people always think he wanted money? “You need to go.”
She shot a look at him and away. “What?”
He wasn’t used to speaking out loud. He didn’t speak out loud very often. “You need to go.”
“I will. As soon as the tube gets here.” She pointed at the electronic sign.
“No.” He shuffled a little closer, too close, too quick.
She jumped to her feet and moved a few steps away, curling her shoulders in as if she could protect herself that way. “Look, just stay where you are.”
He felt his stomach knot. She wasn’t listening. She didn’t understand. He had to make her understand.
She’s going to die.
“No!” He banged his fist against his temple, then glanced over his shoulder. The hairs on the back of his neck rose. He could feel him back there, waiting in the shadows, just waiting. Glancing over at the girl, he noticed she’d moved further away, under the electronic sign, leaning forward to see if she could catch sight of the train. “You need to go, please.”
She turned her head away as if ignoring him could make this stop.
“Please, listen to me. You need to leave here, now. Get out of the station.”
“I’ll leave when the train arrives. Now you leave me alone!”
He shuffled closer, glancing back again, feeling him moving forward in the shadows. “He’s coming,” he whispered.
Her terrified gaze swept up to him and her nostrils flared. “Please leave me alone! If you don’t, I’ll scream!”
She’s going to die.
He opened his mouth to beg her, but the sound of the train filled the platform and he caught himself. If she got on the train, she should be all right. If he waited until she got on the train, he could leave. Then it wouldn’t be his problem.
The train pulled up to the platform and the doors swished open. A male voice echoed through the tube, “Circle line, Farringdon Station, next stop Barbican. Please mind the gap between the train and the platform.”
She hurried onto the car and took a seat, looking out at him. He paced across the front of it, watching, waiting for the train to pull away, keeping her safe. Picking at his cuticles he tore another strip of skin away, ignoring the blood that pooled along the nail. Once the train pulled away, she would be safe. He could leave then. He could give up the vigil.
He glanced up as the door swished shut. She visibly relaxed on the other side of the glass and he permitted himself just the smallest of smiles. She was safe. She was going to get home all right.
Turning toward the exit, he saw the shadow slip into the car in front of hers. Whipping back around, he ran for her car, pressing on the door, trying to get it to open. Her blue eyes met his and she rose to her feet, clutching the handbag before her. The door wouldn’t open, no matter how hard he pushed on it, so he banged on the glass.
“Get out!” he shouted at her.
She started walking sideways toward the other end of the car, but he shook his head, banging on the glass. “No! Get out!”
Then the train lurched forward, throwing him backward. He stared in horror as the train pulled away from the station, taking her with it, leaving him stranded on the platform, watching as the shadow appeared behind her.
She’s going to die.
He curled in on himself, wrapping his hands around his head, banging his fists on his temples. She’s going to die. She’s going to die. She’s going to die.
* * *
Marco pulled the Charger into the dri
veway of Peyton’s house, parking next to her Prius. He set the brake and shifted in the seat, looking over at her. She smiled at him, feeling her heart pick up speed. She wanted to continue their time together, she wanted to invite him in, but she didn’t want to be rejected again. She didn’t know where they were, where she stood with him. He’d shown up at the funeral for Finn Getter, the boy killed on the commune, and he’d taken her to dinner, but there was still so much between them, so much unfinished, so much unsaid.
“I enjoyed dinner,” she offered.
He smiled and she felt the old flutter in her belly. God, he was so handsome, the man she wanted, the only one. “I’m glad, but you didn’t eat much.”
She shrugged. “Funny thing is I always think I want a burger, then when it’s in front of me, I have a hard time eating it. You ruined me for cow.”
He laughed. She forgot how much she treasured his laugh, his smile, his touch. He reached out and trailed his thumb along her cheekbone. “I miss you, Peyton,” he said.
She didn’t move, didn’t breathe, afraid anything might ruin the moment. It never used to be this hard with him. It had always been so easy, so very easy, even becoming lovers had been easy, until lately…
He leaned forward and touched his lips to hers, just a light brush, then he drew away. Involuntarily her hand rose and curled in his shirt, pulling him back, deepening the kiss. When they parted, they were both breathing heavily.
She wanted more, she needed more. “Do you want to come in and see Pickles? You haven’t seen him in a while.” Weak excuse, but she was clutching at anything here.
“Yeah,” he said quickly. “Yeah, that’d be great. I haven’t seen Pickles in a long time.”
They both laughed, but before he could change his mind, she reached for the door handle, pushing it open. She wasn’t giving him a chance to rethink her offer. He waited for her on the other side of the car, leaning on his cane. She moved close to him, looking up at him, then she rose on tiptoes and kissed him again.
He curled his free arm around her waist and lifted her against him, pressing her tight to his body. When he finally allowed her to slide down to her feet, she felt light headed and giddy with happiness. Grabbing his hand, she turned toward the ramp leading to her door.
“Come on,” she urged, tugging him forward.
He followed behind her, but when they turned the corner, movement by the door had him reaching for his gun.
Peyton recognized the intruder and held out her arm, stopping him. “Mike, what are you doing here?”
Mike Edwards was Peyton’s most recent stray, or so Marco would say. She’d met him on an ill-conceived night out with her co-worker Bambi. He was also the subject of Peyton and Marco’s most recent fight.
“Peyton, I was worried about you.”
“Why?”
“When you broke our date, I tried to call, but you didn’t pick up.”
“Your date?”
Peyton recognized the edge in Marco’s voice.
“For beer and pizza,” she told him, turning back to Mike. “How did you find my house?”
“I saw your address on a bill in your car when you drove me home the other night.”
“You drove him home?”
Shit. Peyton turned to face Marco, but she could already see the fury in his blue eyes. They so didn’t need this right now. “It’s not like that. He got hit by a car on his bike and I took him home. I called Abe to check him out.”
Marco’s gaze swung back to Mike. “Are you stalking her?” He still had a grip on the gun beneath his jacket.
“No!” Mike held out his hands. “I was worried. I didn’t know why she broke our date…”
“It wasn’t a date!” Peyton cried.
“Peyton, I’m sorry. I just wanted to make sure you were all right. With your job…”
“He knows where you work?”
Peyton opened her mouth to answer, but she realized it wasn’t going to do a damn bit of good. Right now she had to get Mike out of here without him getting shot. “Mike, you need to go.”
“I’m sorry, Peyton.”
Closing her eyes, she shook her head. “Just go, please.”
He moved down the ramp and tried to pass Marco, but Marco wasn’t budging. Peyton pushed Marco in the stomach, forcing him to back up so Mike could sidle past, but as soon as he hurried around the corner of the house, Marco went after him.
Peyton raced around in front of him, bracing her hands on his chest. “Let him go, please, Marco.”
He eased her aside and stepped out onto the driveway, staring at the street where Mike had parked his car. Peyton realized it had been parked in front of her house the entire time and she hadn’t noticed it. She’d been so focused on Marco.
“Please, Marco, let him go.”
He watched Mike until he climbed behind the wheel and started the car, then he looked over his shoulder at Peyton as the car pulled away. “You made a date with him?”
“It was just for beer and pizza. It was nothing.”
“How’s that nothing?”
“It wasn’t a date.”
“But he’s been in your car?”
“You already knew about that. You already asked me about it the other day.”
“He knows where you work, Peyton, and you say he’s not stalking you?”
“He’s harmless, Marco. He’s just this guy who’s new here and he’s looking for friends.”
“He’s not looking for a friend from you, Peyton. Where the hell did you meet him anyway?”
Oh, she wasn’t telling him that. “Just around.”
“Just around?” He faced her, his expression a mix of bewilderment and frustration. “I’ve been sober for a week, but this is making me want to drink again.”
“I’m sorry.”
He shook his head. “I’ve got to go.”
Peyton felt as if he’d punched her. She stared at the ground, refusing to let him see the sudden tears in her eyes. She wasn’t going to beg him.
He started for the Charger, then stopped and turned around. Limping back to her, he slid his hand under her chin, lifting her face until their eyes met. “I’m not walking away from you, Peyton,” he said through clenched teeth. “I’m walking away from a situation I can’t control right now. Do you understand?”
She nodded, fighting the tears.
He bent and kissed her, hard, a kiss filled with longing, but he still pulled away from her. “I’ll call you tomorrow, okay?”
“Okay,” she managed to get out.
He took a step back. “I’ll call you tomorrow.”
She forced herself to nod and let him walk away. He went to the Charger and yanked open the door, dropping behind the wheel. The roar of the engine made Peyton flinch. There just didn’t seem to be anyway for the two of them to get beyond this. Every time they made progress, something threw them back again.
As the Charger roared off down the street, Peyton turned and walked back to her door, reaching for her house keys. Suddenly the only thing she wanted was to crawl into bed and sleep away the rest of her weekend.
* * *
Marco drove away from Peyton’s house, searching for the blue Volkswagen Jetta. No matter what Peyton said, it was strange that this guy had been sitting on her doorstep, waiting for her to get home. How the hell long had he been sitting there anyway and how the hell long would he have waited?
He didn’t see the car on the road. Grabbing his phone, he ordered it to call Stan Neumann, the tech guru at the precinct. Stan picked up on the third ring.
“Hey, Captain.”
“Hey, Stan, I need you to do me a favor.”
“Anything.”
Marco suppressed a momentary stab of guilt. He was using Stan for something personal, but the guilt was short lived. He didn’t like the fact that this guy knew where Peyton lived and worked.
“I need you to run a license plate for me. Get me all the information you can.”
“Sure, give it to me.�
�
Marco rattled off the plate number from his memory.
“Anything you looking for in particular?”
“I don’t know. This guy was waiting outside Peyton’s house tonight and I just got a bad feeling about it.”
“He was waiting outside her house?”
“Yeah, he said he got her address off a bill in her car, but…” He caught himself. Something about that explanation seemed particularly off, but he couldn’t place why it bothered him. “I don’t know, I’m probably making more out of it than necessary.” He clenched his teeth in frustration. “Look, Stan, I have no right to ask this of you.”
“If this guy’s stalking Peyton, I’m on board, Captain. I’ll just run the plates and see what I get.”
“Thanks. I appreciate it.”
“No problem. I’ll let you know what I find out tomorrow morning, okay?”
“Great. Thanks, Stan.”
“Anytime, Captain.”
Stan disconnected the call, leaving Marco to worry over the situation. If Peyton found out he’d run the guy’s plates, she’d be furious, but he couldn’t help it. What idiot sat on a woman’s doorstep waiting for her to come home? He dismissed the nagging thought that he’d done it before with that very woman himself.
Peyton didn’t always have good judgment when it came to people and that was that.
When he arrived at Abe’s condo, he wanted nothing more than to slink into his room and pretend the whole thing hadn’t happened. He was already regretting leaving her. He should have stayed, he should have put his anger aside and spent the time with her. It was all he’d wanted since she agreed to go to dinner with him, but he’d let his pride get in the way again.
He unlocked Abe’s door and pushed it open. Immediately he tried to back out, but he was caught. One of Abe’s friends, Serge or something, spotted him and dragged him into the room. The condo was full of men, dancing to Aretha Franklin. Copious amounts of booze had clearly been flowing for quite a few hours.
“Dance with me, darlin’,” Serge said, twirling around with Marco’s hand.
Werewolves in London (Peyton Brooks, FBI Book 3) Page 1
