by Tina Gower
Standard Deviation of Death
The Outlier Prophecies
Tina Gower
Smashed Picket Press
Contents
Copyright
Dedication
Also by Tina Gower
Newsletter Information
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
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Copyright © 2016 by Christina Smith
1st Digital & Trade Paperback Edition, 2016, cover design by Christian Bentulan.
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or person, living or dead is coincidental. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks, is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
For more books by Tina Gower, please visit:
http://www.tinagower.com
To the original Gower. You may be gone, but your stories will never fade (even though I’m pretty sure 99.9% of them were heavily embellished—But hey! I learned from the best!)
Also by Tina Gower
Books in the Outlier Prophecies Series
Romancing the Null (book one)
Kindle
Nook
Coming soon:
Kobo
iBook
Conditional Probability of Attraction (book two)
Kindle
Coming soon:
Nook
Kobo
iBook
The Werewolf Coefficient (book three)
Kindle
Coming Soon:
Nook
Kobo
iBook
Standard Deviation of Death (book four)
Kindle
Coming soon:
Nook
Kobo
iBook
Big Bad Becker~A Outlier Series Novella
Shifter Variance (book five)~Coming Fall 2016
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Chapter 1
If I’m dead, this is purgatory.
Worse than purgatory. I stand in line in the pit of government hell: the Angel’s Peak Department of Predictions Victims’ Center. An older gentleman covered in sores and smelling of urine is in front of me, and a woman dressed in an outfit entirely made of duct tape is behind me.
The office is set up with help windows surrounding one large waiting area. There are thirteen windows, but there are never more than three open at a time. And to be even more torturous, usually at least five of them have employees sitting behind the glass, and a hand outstretches every so often just to lead you to believe a fourth window could open at any moment.
The line to get a number wraps around the room. The lucky few who have numbers sit in the center of the rows of plastic chairs, watching reality TV shows on any hundred different channels to choose from. One guy who obviously doesn’t give a shit is openly enjoying porn on his phone. Not even on mute.
Normally I wouldn’t be here, but the little scrap of paper with my predicted death, fondly called a death certificate, says I have to register and meet with my assigned case worker because I don’t have an exact death date and time. According to the notice I have a week—give or take a few days.
As a fateless, I’ve never stepped foot in one of these offices except on official duty. As an investigative actuary, I’ve never had to work a window either. I calculate the numbers. I don’t have to stick around and explain them.
I clutch my death certificate, reading it over again to be sure there hasn’t been some mistake. But there it all is, my address, Angel’s Peak and a northern California zip code. It has my name at the top: Kate Hale. Somewhere around a sixty percent chance, give or take a dozen percentage points in either direction—perfectly formulated to put me out of commission, but not enough to warrant an investigation.
In my last case I’d gotten too close to the anti-fate group that had been messing with predictions all around Angel’s Peak. I’d stopped their plans and laid them bare. Some offshoot Norn group using the wyrd symbol had been making accidents look like chance predictions or ripples from changed prophecies. I’d exposed it. They obviously didn’t like that and found a way to silence me.
Or my death prediction could be real because I’d also touched a death oracle. Gods, I was so stupid.
I grit my teeth.
So this is how the other half lives.
I’m bumped from behind. “Oh sorry! I just get a little excited.” The duct tape woman holds up her summons. A yellow form. Death notice. “My twenty-first death notice and it’s just like the first time.” The woman giggles with a weird lilt that could be mistaken for glee.
A baby, somewhere behind me, wails.
I turn back around, counting how many people are ahead of me. Three. The exact number it was twenty minutes ago. Some lady is arguing with the employee at the window.
The duct tape woman keeps talking as if we’re buddies now. “Work at Milton’s as an accountant. Gets a lot of death threats.” She shimmies her shoulders like this little tidbit is somehow exciting. “It might be because when I get bored I fill in all the columns with whatever the hells I feel like. Some people don’t like being told they owe more than they’d been expecting.” She shrugs. “Oh well, am I right?”
Lady arguing up front finally takes her number. Two to go.
“So what you in for?”
I ignore her, hoping she’ll go away.
One more person ahead of me. Sore urine dude makes his way to the window. Grabs his number.
My turn. The window snaps shut. Shit. It’s another ten minutes of chatty line buddy before the window opens again. It’s getting weird to ignore her; people are staring at me.
I rush to the counter. “I’m not sure I need to really stand in line. If you’ll just let the guys in homicide know that Kate Hale is—”
“Take a number.”
“No, you don’t understand. I work for Death Predictions. I’m supposed to be meeting with my caseworker. I’m one of you, see,” I hold up my ID badge.
“Do you have an appointment?”
“Well, not exactly. I guess I could have called ahead.” My gaze lowers to my shoes. I didn’t want to call ahead because I used to work for Homicide and it didn’t end well. I’d been involved with my supe
rvisor, uh, make that married supervisor, and when we’d been found out—wait scratch that—when he decided to come clean and throw my name under a bus in HR, I’d been reassigned to rot my brain in Traffic.
Her eyes remain fixed on me, lids half-mast, lips pressed in a tight unimpressed line. “Take a number.” There’s a brief pause and then she taps the ticket machine with her long green painted nails. My receipt prints out with a hum and shimmy. Number B48.
Duct tape lady elbows me and holds up her own: N48. “What are the odds! We can be death twins.”
It’s like a bingo hell theme for my life. Great.
I manage a tight smile and pretend to be busy with something on my phone while she finds a seat. The chairs are set up in rows of fifteen by ten, an aisle and then another block of molded blue plastic chairs. She sits in the center. I snake around and find one in the far back corner.
“Kate? Kate Hale?”
My head snaps up at my name. I do a double take on my number, which has at least a hundred people ahead of it.
“Kate! It is you.”
I look around to see who’s calling me. There’s a goblin woman with her head poking out of the door. Short, round face, long medium brown hair in a loose bun. Her mustard cardigan sweater is buttoned all the way to her chin and it gaps at the chest, but she has a white blouse under it, a taupe calf-high skirt, and red flats. She doesn’t look familiar.
“Oh my goddess, Kate.” The door swings closed as she jogs out to meet me. “Kate.” Hands on hips, she inspects me. “Beth Ormenhisser.”
“Beth. It’s nice to, uh, see you.” I hope my face isn’t as blank as I expect it is.
Beth frowns when she realizes. “You don’t remember me. It’s the contacts.” With her fingers she makes rings and puts them over her eyes. “I had glasses as thick as coke bottles.” She carefully looks at me and plasters on a joking smile. “And I put on some weight.”
It hits me. Elizabeth O. Because nobody could pronounce her last name. But I’m surprised she remembers me. I was an intern and she was one of the senior actuaries. She didn’t take investigative cases; the others usually shoved off the work they didn’t want on to her and she’d gladly take it. Never one to risk anything or put her neck out.
“Oh my gods! Beth. Yes, yes. Of course. Are you still in homicide?”
“Naw, they transferred me out about two years ago. I’m much happier in Finance. I was here delivering some paperwork. What are you doing here? How’s Traffic?” She carefully doesn’t meet my gaze.
Ah, right. She remembers my little drama with Kyle. “I’m in Accidental now, actually.”
She perks up. “Wonderful!”
“Not really. My last case got me in a little hot water with an anti-fate group.” I wave my death certificate.
Her eyes widen. “Oh dear. Wow. Yeah. I’m sorry.”
“It’s not a high probability. Just enough to warrant a really annoying vacation.”
She shakes her head. “But still scary. What are you doing waiting out here?” She grabs my hand and hoists me from my seat, pulling me along behind her. “We should get you going on the paperwork. Sooner they can register you the sooner they can start solving the case.”
We slip through the door to the back offices. She drops my hand.
“That’s just it.” I jog to keep up with her. “It’s not high enough for an investigation.”
“Oh, I don’t think the rules apply when it’s one of our own. I’ll see what I can scare up.” She disappears around the corner. I hear the elevator ding as she hops inside and rides it to the seventh floor.
“No wait. Elizabeth. Beth!” Shit. I slow my gait. My legs become cement the closer I get to the elevator that will bring me to Homicide Predictions. It’s not that they hold the keys to my death. It’s more like the last time anyone saw me here I’d been escorted out by Human Resources with all my possessions in a cardboard box.
My palms sweat. My heart pumps blood a little more forcefully through my arteries at the memory of that humiliation. I swallow, but my throat is completely dry. I check the time. It’s not even noon.
My panic attack is interrupted by a booming, gravely laugh. A laugh I recognize, but it’s usually after he’s told some joke about me or Becker. I frown, going toward Lipski’s voice.
The door to the conference room is open. The woman Hank Lipski is meeting with carefully organizes all her papers into her laptop bag, winding the cord and computer in last. It’s my old boss in Homicide, Etta Grayson of the kishi Graysons.
“Not an issue,” Lipski says to my ex-boss. “I’ll have the report in by the end of the day. I’d be honored to work as one of the liaisons for your department.”
Etta smiles, smoothing out her really flattering, no doubt really expensive teal and grey dress and matching blazer. Her silver and gold eye makeup compliments her darker skin tone. She keeps her black hair with only hints of grey cropped short to her skull. I don’t think she’s changed her hairstyle in the last decade. But heck, if it works, don’t mess with it.
I duck away from my ex-boss’s sight, keeping Lipski in view, and wave my arms to get his attention. If he sees me he doesn’t let on to the fact. I try one last time to get his attention before getting too nervous. Plus, Etta might see me. I huff as I back away from the scene, glaring at Lipski.
His face remains neutral as he listens to the last bit of information for whatever case he’s taking. It must be his practice assignment for Homicide. He’d passed his detective’s exam and now he’d be allowed to “try out” for each department that had an opening until his superiors found a good fit. Homicide had a high burn-out rate, so it’s likely they have an opening.
He clears his throat and says his goodbyes. I tiptoe around the corridor to an empty waiting area, flattening myself against the wall and praying Etta doesn’t come this way.
I breathe a sigh of relief when Lipski pops around the corner.
“Lipski,” I hiss out his name in a loud stage whisper.
He jumps back, hand on heart in fake surprise. He must have seen me. “Katie Cupcake. What are you doing here?”
“I’m…” My words hitch. I still haven’t called Becker. I haven’t told him about the death note. Crap, this is getting messy, but if anyone can give me advice on how to break this news to the most temperamental werewolf in Angel’s Peak, it’s Hank, Becker’s partner. And yeah, Becker’s kind of the only werewolf in the city. There might be more, but with not as much wolf blood in them. Not the kind of wolf that travels in packs or needs to have a pack, because they don’t have enough werewolf DNA.
Unable to verbalize my predicament, I hold up the note. Lipski lets out a little grunt-laugh as though I’m setting him up for some sort of joke. It’s not until Lipski’s smile fades from his face that I know he’s read it.
He snatches it from my fingers and holds it up like it’s a used tissue. “What the fuck is this?”
“My vacation notice.” I cross my arms. “I can’t report in to work until the death notice is resolved. And with no end date on the occurrence, it means I’ll finally be able to take that backpacking trip across Europe.”
He reads it again. “Where’s Beck? Don’t tell me you let him go off on his own after reading this shit.”
“I haven’t told him.”
“You haven’t…?” He straightens, folding up the death notice. He pinches the bridge of his nose. “Fuck.”
My shoulders cave into my chest. “It might not be horrible. He’s a lot better than he was before. He’s got a pack.”
Lipski’s eyes narrow. “And who exactly is that, Kate? Closest werewolf pack is in Turmoil and a few days ago you were all wound up that he couldn’t join them. I doubt he’d have joined and had enough time to regulate himself in that amount of time.”
“He has me,” I say in a very weak, very small voice. It’s not a true confession that I’m Ian Becker’s sole pack member, but it might as well be.
Hank gives me the up-down-all-arou
nd once over look. “You’re sleeping with him.”
I place my finger over my lips, tapping. I’m not sure how to handle this statement. “Not exactly. We’re not sleeping together, sleeping together. But we’re, uh, sleeping together. Just sleeping. Together.”
He balls his ham hands into fists and his teeth clench. He lets out a growl. “That’s even worse.”
“I thought that you wanted this,” I mumble.
“To date him! Not…not this!” He flings his arms around as if to refer to all of it. The whole world of shit around us. Kinda hard to narrow down exactly what is the most distressing news about this situation. And I don’t really care to ask at the moment where he might tell me more than I care to know.
He shoves the death notice back at me. I catch it with a clumsy sort of grace. Hank had accused us of forming a pack before, but neither Becker nor I would confirm it. Becker probably wouldn’t be pleased to find out I gave his nosy partner, soon to be ex-partner, so much personal information, but Becker had told my cousin Ali. I guess that made us even.
Hank smacks his palm against his forehead a few times, pacing the waiting room that looks miniscule with his large body taking up most of the space. “Let me get this straight. Becker and you have formed your own little pack.”
I nod.
“He’s attracted to you.”
I can’t really answer that for Becker, even though we had just decided to try at a relationship a mere six hours ago. I stand still and follow Hank’s progression around the room. He’s pacing in more of a triangle pattern around me. Likely because the chair set-up is too tight for him to circle me like a lion about to rip out my guts.
He pauses, points an accusing finger at me. “You’re attracted to him.”
I nod, because, yes, I am hot for my department liaison.
“So you’re his pack. His only pack. The first pack he’s attempted to form since his last pack was murdered, slaughtered years ago in a crime that to this day hasn’t brought in all the suspects. He’s so attracted to you it’s embarrassing to watch and you like him.”
