Bitten 2

by A. J. Colby

  “What am I gonna do, buddy? I’ve got all this crap with Cordova going on, and now Johnson decides to crawl out of whatever hole he’s been hiding in to stir shit up. I’m not sure I can handle all this without Holbrook. And what do I do about Tillman? How can I get him to forgive me?”

  Offering no nuggets of wisdom that would help me haul my ass out of the mess I’d gotten myself into, he just blinked at me and head-butted my hand, demanding more attention.

  “Fat lot of help you are,” I muttered.

  His chirping reply was cut short by a bellow from outside. “Cray! Get your butt out here!”

  I shared a puzzled look with Loki before shooing him off my lap and rising from the couch. “What the hell is his problem?” I asked my furry friend, who could only tilt his head to the side and regard me with a blank expression.

  “Now!” came another, louder, demand as I approached the front door.

  “I’m coming! Don’t get your boxers in a bunch,” I shouted back as I opened the door, my own irritation flaring to life in the face of his anger. Sure, I could’ve handled our last run-in a little better, but I’d been desperate and kinda scared out of my wits. Couldn’t the guy cut me some slack?

  I found Tillman outside holding up a clear plastic baggy sealed with a strip of bright red tape emblazoned with the word “Evidence” in bold white letters. A single sheet of paper, presumably the contents of the envelope, was suspended inside. The look on his face would have made lesser men cower, but I just rolled my eyes at his dramatics.

  “What the hell have you gotten mixed up in now?”

  “What do you mean?” I asked.

  Instead of answering, he thrust the evidence bag at me. Accepting it from him before he could decide to just throw it at me, I looked over the note. The jagged scrawl was hard to decipher at first, and for a moment I wondered if it had been written in a foreign language. Eventually, I was able to pick out a few words, enough to get the general idea, anyway. It wasn’t very original as far as threatening letters go, just the usual psycho rant: Stay away. You’ll be sorry. Vague threats against me and my loved ones, yadda, yadda, yadda.

  “Johnson’s a whacko, we already knew that,” I said with a shrug as I handed the note back to Tillman.

  Frowning, he asked, “Do I look like an idiot?”

  “Not really, though you do look like you decided to start doing steroids. That shit’ll make your nuts shrivel up, you know,” I fired back, sick and tired of his pissy attitude.

  “Cut the crap, Cray. What are you up to?”

  Cordova hadn’t issued a gag order barring me from discussing the vamp murders, but I still figured he wouldn’t want me sharing the info with the FBI. As much as I’d have liked getting a professional’s opinion on the mess I was being dragged into, I decided to keep the details—few as they were—to myself.

  “Nothing I can’t handle,” I said, trying to sound flippant though I got the feeling I just came across petulant instead.

  “Yes, you’ve clearly got everything under control,” he said, his lips twisting into a cruel smirk. The expression was made uglier by the memory of his previously shy smile. “What’s going on?”

  “I can’t tell you.”

  Narrowing his eyes at me, Tillman asked, “Can’t or won’t?”

  “Both,” I said with a shrug.

  I watched Tillman’s face flush several shades darker, reminding me all too clearly of the way Johnson’s face would turn purple when he was fighting the urge to punch me in the face. He’d later gone on to do a lot worse than just hit me, and I couldn’t help shuddering at the memory. I hoped I’d never find myself in a similar situation with the young agent glaring at me.

  “You’re making a big mistake.” There was anger behind his sharp hiss, but I caught traces of sadness too. Perhaps he missed our former camaraderie as much as I did.

  “Story of my life,” I said, suddenly wishing they’d all just get the hell off my property and leave me alone. As unnerving as the anonymous threats were, the tension between me and Tillman upset me even more. I’d spent years living in solitude but had never felt so alone as I did in that moment. Holbrook was god knew where, and Tillman, while not an enemy, was far from the friend I’d once thought he could be.

  Sighing, he gentled his voice and said, “These people know where you live, and there’s nothing stopping them from coming back. I can’t protect you if you won’t tell me what’s going on.”

  “I... I can’t.”

  For a second it looked like he’d continue to try to dissuade me from my stubborn silence. A plaintive expression slid across his face, full of pleading, and then it was gone, swallowed up by his anger.

  “Fine. Don’t come running to me when this shit blows up in your face,” he snarled, thrusting the evidence bag at a passing technician. Turning away from me he called out to the assembled agents and other folks milling around, “Let’s wrap it up everyone! We’re done here.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  THE CABIN WAS eerily quiet after the agents left, leaving me alone to contemplate just how much trouble I’d gotten myself into. I’d shrugged off Tillman’s warnings, pretending nonchalance, but the truth was that I was scared.

  Less than 48 hours on the job and the death threats are already pouring in.

  I supposed it wouldn’t be impossible to find out where I lived; anyone with even a modicum of intelligence could find my address with a few searches on the internet, but that didn’t explain the dead coyote. It was clearly some kind of message, but just what that message was I couldn’t be sure. Was it a warning of what would happen if I continued along the path I’d been set on? Was the coyote meant to represent my other half? Or was it a threat of retaliation against the weres for the attacks on Cordova’s vamps?

  That doesn’t make any sense. Why would the vamps want to keep me from finding out who’s attacking them?

  Feeling more confused than ever, I tried to push the mounting questions to the back of my mind and turned my attention to cleaning up the mess the FBI had left behind. I’d swear that the FBI alone keeps Marlboro and Starbucks in business. I spent the better part of an hour scouring the property to find the occasional discarded paper cup and cigarette butt.

  So much for preserving the scene, I thought as I tossed a handful of trash into the big can in the garage.

  Myrom had said she’d send me the results of whatever the lab found, but I wasn’t holding out much hope on it turning up anything. My hopes that the coyote had been some sick gift from Johnson had been dashed with the presence of the note. It seemed that whoever had written it knew about my work for Cordova, and it wasn’t good that news of my employment was already so widespread.

  Retreating to the house, I went straight into the kitchen to make some more coffee, but found my irritation still running high as I waited for the pot to brew. The gurgling and hissing of the coffee maker made a fitting accompaniment as I paced back and forth across the room. Even the chorus of night sounds outside did little to soothe my temper. Logically, I knew that my anger was nothing more than a manifestation of my fear and feelings of loneliness, but that knowledge didn’t help my mood.

  “Screw this, I’m not putting my ass on the line for that undead prick. Paycheck or no paycheck, it’s not worth it,” I ranted, filling my mug. Adding a generous amount of sugar and creamer, I snagged my cell phone from the kitchen table and pulled up Chrismer’s number.

  “What do you want, Cray? I’ve got an interview to prepare for,” she asked in greeting.

  “I’m out.”

  “Congratulations. I hope your Special Agent didn’t take it too hard.”

  Bitch.

  “That’s not what I meant,” I growled.

  “Oh well. Maybe you’ll find the courage someday,” she said with a smug lilt that made me want to reach through the phone line and punch her. Though to be fair, that was the same urge I felt whenever I dealt with the uppity Day Servant.

  “I’m not gay!”
r />   “So you just have an affinity for plaid?”

  Glancing down at my shirt, my cheeks flushed.

  “How did you know?” I asked, casting a paranoid glance at the window above the sink, half expecting to see her peering at me through the window.

  “You’re seriously wearing some right now?” she asked, laughing. “Oh that’s just priceless!”

  “It was my grandfather’s,” I replied, fingering the soft flannel. Her raucous laughter left no doubt in my mind that she thought it should have been buried along with him.

  “Look, I’m not calling for fashion advice.”

  “That’s a pity. You’d be kind of pretty if you gave it some effort,” she said, and I had no trouble envisioning the smug expression on her face. “Well if it’s not that, what do you want?”

  “I’m done. Tell your boss I’m not interested in playing detective anymore.”

  “The hell you are,” she said, surprising me with the hard edge in her words.

  “I’m not risking my life for you or Cordova.”

  I was already moving to hang up when she hissed, “You owe me, Cray.”

  “How do you figure?” I asked once I’d stopped choking on my disbelieving chortles.

  “I saved your life,” she stated simply, as if the answer were obvious.

  “Saved my life?” I repeated, wondering what the hell she was talking about. “Wait, do you... do you mean the time you hit me? With your car?”

  “You didn’t even get a scratch.”

  “With your car.”

  “Stop being such a drama queen,” she said offhandedly. I could easily picture her rolling her eyes at my supposed dramatics.

  “Fuck you, Chrismer. I’m out.”

  Once again determined to hang up on her, I almost missed what she said next. “So Holbrook’s ready to come out of the supe closet?” My heart constricted at her words, spoken in a voice so sweet I was surprised it didn’t rot her teeth.

  My shoulders went stiff and a shudder of fear ran down my spine even as anger warmed my blood. “Is that a threat?”

  “I’m simply reminding you of what’s at stake.”

  “You ruthless bitch.” The hand curled around my mug flexed, my knuckles itching with the desire to rearrange her pretty features.

  “Flattery will get you nowhere,” she responded in a purr that would have given Alyssa a run for her money.

  “You really don’t have a soul anymore, do you? Did Cordova suck it out along with your humanity?”

  “I’m merely pragmatic.”

  Setting down my mug before I gave in to the urge to throw it across the room, I raked my hand through my hair.

  This would all be so much easier if Holbrook was here, I thought. He’d know what to do about all this.

  Not for the first time since he’d gone out of town for some mysterious case, I longed to hear the sound of his voice. I knew that just hearing him say my name in his sinful Southern accent would make everything seem right in the world again.

  “What caused this sudden change of mind? I doubt you’ve had an unexpected windfall,” Chrismer said, drawing me out of my thoughts of my absent boyfriend.

  “Someone left a dead coyote on my doorstep.”

  “You have admirers. How sweet.”

  “This isn’t funny. Someone came here—to my house—and threatened me. Someone who found out I’m looking into the murders for your boss. It’s been two days. Who did you tell?” I demanded, the hand holding the phone trembling, whether from fear or anger, I wasn’t sure.

  “This may come as a surprise to you, Cray, but I have better things to do than discuss your comings and goings with random strangers.”

  “Like play the part of Cordova’s midnight snack?” I asked, unable to resist getting at least one jibe in about her status as the Shepherd’s ever-convenient blood bag.

  “Yes, because my entire existence centers around the Shepherd of the City,” she said with such venom that I had to wonder if her arrangement with Cordova was as beneficial for all parties involved as I’d originally assumed.

  Was it possible that she was unhappy being Cordova’s go-to snack machine? But more importantly, did I really care one way or the other? It didn’t take a genius to figure out that my answer was a resounding no. Don’t get me wrong: I’m a firm believer that no one is “asking for it” in cases of rape, because in my opinion, and that of the folks writing the laws, being forced to feed a vamp is considered rape. But when it comes to Chrismer, I’m of the notion that she deserves whatever she gets.

  Still, I supposed I could be a little nicer to her.

  “So, what should I do?”

  “Do I look like animal control? Bury it or burn it. I don’t care.”

  Running my hand through my hair again I sighed. “I don’t mean about the body, the FBI already took it away. What do I do about the threat?”

  “Call someone who cares?” she said, and then hung up.

  “That fucking bitch! She hung up on me. Again.”

  * * *

  “Well shit, what do I do now?” I muttered.

  Taking a sip of my coffee, I grimaced at the lukewarm liquid and refilled my cup before sliding into one of the chairs at the kitchen table. With one of his trademark trills, Loki jumped up onto the kitchen table, though he knew full well he wasn’t supposed to.

  “Get down,” I admonished, half-heartedly waving a hand at him.

  Rather than getting off the table, he leaned towards my hand, ducking beneath it to steer my fingers along the top of his head. Giving in to his demand, I scratched the downy fur behind his ears while contemplating what my next step would be. Chrismer had made it clear that I couldn’t back out of the deal without facing consequences, and I couldn’t risk Holbrook being outed at the FBI for being a magi. At the very least he’d lose his job, and at worst would end up in prison. Anyone caught hiding their supe status to gain employment in the government sector will find themselves with a one-way ticket to White Sands Penitentiary quicker than you can say “Don’t drop the soap.”

  I also needed the money that Cordova had promised if I had any hopes of keeping the power on for another month and wanted to eat something besides whatever the wolf caught and my dwindling stash of cookies. Unfortunately, I had no idea how I was going to figure out who was offing the vamps if I was busy looking over my shoulder all the time. That left me with one option—figure out who was gunning for me.

  And how the hell am I supposed to do that? It’s not as if they signed the damned note.

  As the thought flittered through my mind Loki flopped over on the table, rolling around on his back like a dog begging for a belly rub. Ruffling my fingers through the pale fur along his stomach, I struggled to recall what the note had said, but couldn’t remember anything beyond vague threats. Swishing his tail in irritation at my lack of focus, Loki chirped as a stack of unopened bills and papers fluttered down from the table to land in a heap beside my foot.

  “This is why you’re not allowed on the table,” I said, prodding him until he jumped down and stalked off to curl up on his cushion in front of the fire.

  Gathering up the spilled papers, I spotted a business card tucked amongst them and cursed my own stupidity. “I’m such an idiot.”

  Picking up my phone, I tapped out a message to Myrom asking her to send me a picture of the note the FBI had carted off along with the coyote’s body. A short while later I received a reply saying she’d do what she could, but if I breathed a word of it to anyone she’d swear up and down that I used some weird wolf mojo on her.

  Well, not much else I can do about that for now, I thought as I took my coffee over to the couch and decided to call Holbrook in the hopes that by some miracle he’d answer.

  I knew it was unlikely, what with the super-secret, hush-hush case he was working on, but that didn’t lessen my disappointment when my call got shunted directly to voicemail. After the inevitable beep, I left him yet another message letting him know that I missed
him and hoped he’d be back soon. Once I’d hung up, I decided that it was the better part of valor to call it a day and go to bed.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  I FELT JULIET’S presence the instant she walked into the coffee shop. Just as her pack master brother exuded a wave of energy, she gave off an aura of power and strength. Looking up from the doodle of a wrinkled, leathery head tapering down to a vicious hooked beak I’d been sketching, I spotted a slender young woman paused in the doorway.

  There was a vague similarity between her features and those of her brother—something in the arch of the brow and the shape of the mouth—but her coloring was several shades lighter than Hank’s. It was the taste of her energy, so much like her brother’s, that told me without a doubt that she was the woman I was expecting. But that was where the similarities between the siblings ended. Where Hank was a mountain of rippling muscles, his sister was a tiny waif of a woman who looked as though she wouldn’t even be able to stand up to a stiff breeze.

  This is supposed to be my protection? I thought as I watched her approach.

  She looked like the epitome of a brainless hippy wannabe with her flowery tiered skirt, billowy peasant blouse, and crocheted purse slung over a narrow shoulder. It was the calculating gaze that surveyed the room from beneath a thick ring of lashes, however, that stopped me from automatically dismissing her as just another ditz.

  I rose awkwardly from my seat, not sure where she stood within the pack’s hierarchy, or how I was supposed to greet her. She solved the problem for me a second later when she enveloped me in a tight, vanilla scented hug.

  “It’s so nice to meet you, Riley.”

  “Uh, hi,” I said, patting her back while wondering how long I had to wait before I could extricate myself from her grip. “It’s nice to meet you, too.”

  I breathed a sigh of relief when she released me, and following her lead, slid back into my chair.

  “So, your brother seems to think I need a bodyguard,” I said, only marginally successful in hiding the resentment in my voice.