Standard Deviation of Death (The Outlier Prophecies Book 4)

by Tina Gower

Becker was adopted and suspected he’d been part of an experiment gone wrong. The goal had been to breed a shifting werewolf from the sperm of the last known shifting full-blooded wolf with nearly pure females. Becker can’t shift. None of the experiments could as far as we knew, but they came with extra aggression, anxiety, behavioral and emotional issues. Dalia confirmed she was one of those experimental wolves. If Becker matches her DNA, he’ll know: A. He has a sister; B. He’s one of the experiments too.

  Becker breaks the silence. He sighs. “I’m going to fail again.”

  “No. This time you’ll pass. I’ll study group you so hard you won’t have a chance.”

  He moans. It’s not a pleasure moan. Definitely pain.

  I look at the clock, realizing the time. “I thought you were off at four?”

  “I was. I started to look really horrible by the end of my shift and it convinced Morales, who got stuck with me for the night, that I was coming down with something. I tried to beg him off, but I wasn’t super convincing when I proceeded to hurl cookies in the bathroom after our shift. So he drove me to my place. I couldn’t tell him I wasn’t staying there. Dalia fretted over me and wouldn’t let me leave. I finally convinced her to let me call myself a cab.”

  “Oh gods. That’s horrible.”

  “Yeah, so Dalia is suspicious. No wolf ever willingly subjects himself to magic. She could smell it all over me. Made her gag every time she’d get close to hug me, or comfort me. She wanted to use pack to help, but we’re not…in sync.”

  “Did you tell her?”

  “I couldn’t keep it from her. I told her I had to be under the radar tonight for a case. It was enough.”

  “No, I mean, did you tell her that you think she’s your sister?”

  “Not yet. I can’t. Until we know for certain.” He twists his body to face me, curling up closer, eyes closed. “Is the bed moving?”

  “No.”

  “Okay. Thought so.”

  I run my fingers through his hair and his neck goes slack on the pillow. “When will you know? About Dalia.” He’s quiet for a moment, so I continue rubbing and whisper, “If you’re tired we can talk after you’ve slept.”

  “No.” He pauses. “I mean I’m tired, but I’m too keyed up to sleep. Talking helps.”

  He leans closer, allowing his head to rest slightly on my chest while I play with his hair. It brings his mouth closer to one of my nipples. I’m a total creep for noticing. It’s not like Becker is in any shape for that kind of moment.

  “Hank put our DNA samples through to the lab,” he says. “Unidentified. We didn’t want to take any chances. Especially since Dalia doesn’t know what we’re doing. I asked her to trust me and she’s hanging tight for now. Honestly, I think she believes she’s stuck with me as her only option to get out of the Turmoil pack.” I dig my fingertips into the base of his neck. “Mmm, that feels good.”

  “What will you do if it comes back that she’s your sister?”

  He absently strokes his fingers up and down my arm. “Then I have a sister, I guess.”

  “Have you told your parents?” I bite my lip because his stroking is causing my entire body to tingle.

  “Not yet. I don’t want to…get their hopes up.” He uses his free hand to scratch his chin, stopping the teasing touches. And the shift in his mood changes the atmosphere. More serious. “They wanted to adopt more, but it never worked out.”

  It’s not like we’ve never talked about Becker’s dads before, but it’s always been more surface level. The ease with which he mentions something so intimate about his past brings the tone of the conversation to a different level.

  I swallow, carefully choosing my words so as not to break the spell. I want to know more about Ian’s childhood. “What stopped them?”

  “A lot of factors. They didn’t really discuss it with me being the kid and all. Maybe they thought I’d get a complex or something. Like I wasn’t enough for them.” He laughs as though there’s a joke in the details he’s not giving me. I don’t know how to respond or what to say, but the lack of response must be what spurs him to keep going. Or maybe he’s too sick to hold up his usual guard. Or maybe this is what people in real relationships do.

  Either way, he continues. “They were always really careful with every decision. Raising a nearly pure werewolf outside of a pack is a huge undertaking. And they were under constant threat to have me taken away. They didn’t seek a lot of help in the beginning, not until I started acting up. Then they went to some local packs. It was a last resort because they’d made some promise to my biological mother.”

  His revelation about his mother is a surprise. “They knew her?”

  “Not really. I was a little over nine months old when my dads adopted me. I’d been in and out of the foster system for that time. My biological mother had been shunned from her pack. On the intake form it said my biological father was deceased and the name left blank. I don’t remember her. But one of my dad’s was working as a counselor at the shelter and spoke with her. She’d had problems with substance abuse, which is common for nearly pure wolves with no pack.”

  “Is that why she’d been shunned?”

  Becker’s lips tighten and he shrugs. “Maybe.” But he’s not convincing.

  We lay there for a minute. The lack of conversation and long pauses aren’t as awkward as they once were. Almost as if the acknowledgment that we’re both attracted to each other and both okay with this relationship blossoming at its own pace has given us permission to be physically close.

  He’s sharing, which is what I wanted. Something I didn’t know I needed. And at the same time it scares me because I have things I’ll need to share too.

  “Werewolf culture sounds very nuanced,” I offer to defuse the tension that built in that silence.

  He answers with a grunt.

  I flatten my palm on the space between his shoulder blades. “You don’t feel like you’re a part of it.” But he is. He’s as much of a werewolf as any of them. Even as I think it, I’m glad I don’t rush to assure him. Being human, only human, I know I’m not special in the eyes of a lot of people. Being fateless reminds me that I don’t even get to claim myself as completely belonging in a group either. I’m somewhere on the outskirts of society.

  “When I was having problems in my pack I wondered…” He hugs me closer. “Never mind.”

  A shiver goes through my body, and my stomach sinks. “You don’t think your mother was kicked from her pack because of you? You were a baby.”

  “A very emotionally needy, behaviorally difficult baby. A regular baby sucks pack resources. Everyone has to be on board for it to work. I might have been too much to handle.” He says it, sounding simple and matter-of-fact enough. Although the insinuation cuts a lot deeper than he lets on.

  “Then why wouldn’t she go back after she put you up for adoption?” I reason. “If it was just you, her only reason to leave the pack, then she would have been allowed to return, right?”

  He takes his time with this one. It’s as though he’s never thought beyond blaming himself for his mother’s problems. Sure, I understand the blaming. I do it to myself, but at least he has an out. He was a helpless baby. Not a grown adult who knew fully what she’d been doing.

  I take deeper breaths, not letting those old thoughts invade.

  His eyes narrow. “She could have been too far gone with drugs.”

  He doesn’t say it with as much confidence or as much worry. He’s breaking down the possibility it couldn’t have been his fault. I focus my efforts back to him—not on me. My own guilt doesn’t belong here.

  I push him a little more. “Come on, you’re a cop. The most likely reason she was kicked out would be because of her drug problems. She most likely entered the experiment for the money to use on drugs when she got out.”

  “That’s what my dad says.” He shifts, moving his arm in a more comfortable position. Well, as comfortable as he can get in handcuffs.

  “See, he’s
a smart man.”

  My own father flashes in my mind. It’s like a sharp rope of thorns wrapping around my chest. I can’t expand my lungs. I can’t move. I hold still, hoping that it will go away.

  “My dads pieced together the information after we suspected I might be a product of the experiments. Maybe it’s truth, maybe it’s a lie to protect me. My dad says my biological mother never mentioned the experiments in the paperwork. She must have assumed I might not get adopted or even be eligible for a pack foster care program if they knew. But it wouldn’t have mattered to either of my dads.”

  “They were good parents.” The rope of thorns tightens.

  “The best.” Becker eyes me. A little less sick, he’s more aware I’m hiding something.

  I hide my face in his chest, so he won’t see my chin tremble. “Mine too.” My heart beats a little faster. A painful lump forms in my throat, just like it does every time I think about my mom and dad.

  Becker’s free hand caresses my face. “Hey, it’s okay.”

  He places a quick peck on my jaw, his eyes searching and worried. Probably freaked out that I might cry.

  Except it’s not their memory that terrifies me. I’d be lying to myself if I believed that.

  “What?” he asks. “Please tell me. Is it the death notice?”

  “No.” I shake my head against his body. “It’s just you. Talking about your mother. Guilt.” I clutch the sheets, bringing them against his body as though they’re another shield to protect him from me. It’s not fair for me to bring in my own issues. “You should get some sleep.”

  “I won’t be able to. Not while I know you’re lying to me.”

  “It’s fine. We can talk about it when you feel better.”

  “I’m better. Better than I was when I first got here.”

  And he is. His color is returning, or from what I can see through the moonlight. His eyes are a deeper shade of teal. He’s not shivering, or simmering with fever.

  “Kate,” he whispers against my cheek, his fingers tangling in my hair.

  “I killed my parents, Ian,” I blurt.

  He doesn’t move, doesn’t pull away like I expected him to, almost want him to. His head adjusts a fraction so he can look me in the eyes and nod for me to continue.

  “I knew I was fateless and I put them at risk because I believed if I was with them their forecast didn’t mean anything. Their risk had actually gotten lower, but I drove them right into the accident anyway because I was careless. Thoughtless. Inexperienced.”

  My inability to figure out Wyrd sooner, Kyle finding the retired accounts before I could, my utter lack of grace in getting Michelle Kitman to notice me. I’m not good at this. Why did I think I’d ever be?

  I hiccup. My lungs constrict. “And I’m afraid I’ll kill you too.”

  Becker’s leg curls around mine and tugs me closer. Unable to look at him, I shove my face into his chest and focus on controlling my breathing. His hand massages the back of my head while he whispers, “It’s okay,” over and over.

  Chapter 10

  Ali and I pull up to the designated meeting place at West, the witch school, twenty minutes early. I squeal in delight when I don’t see any sign of Michelle Kitman yet. She’s not by the life-sized statue of Morgan Le Fey, or in the quad area below the massive concrete stair platform jungle leading up to the school entrance. She’s not standing by the twelve-foot solid oak plank door held together with wrought iron straps. I scan each area again. The only other people nearby are a group of students under a tree by the grassy area and a Health Department employee that is packing up after displaying warning signs that an outbreak is imminent.

  No Michelle.

  Yes! We’re in the clear. We win.

  Ali parks the car and lets out an annoyed sigh. “This is way too early. You can’t appear too eager. She’ll sense the desperation all over you.”

  “Nope. This is how actuaries work.” I bound out of the car, shoving my laptop bag over my shoulder. “If I’m not here first, then it shows weakness.” I run-jog to find a place to set up. After my pity party, I’d felt better, more energized to get this right. I’m Kate Hale and I don’t give in or give up. Or maybe it was Becker’s soft stroking and whispered words of encouragement that pulled me from that dark place. Either way I’m ready today. Stronger than I’ve felt since I got that death notice.

  “Being early? That sounds exhausting.” Sticking her tongue out, she shuts her car door and it locks with a chirp. “I mean, that’s the exact opposite of the rest of society. Are you sure you’re not doing it wrong?”

  “I’m sure.” I find a spot on a bench right out front of the main entrance, hurrying to drag out some case notes. I set a pile next to Ali. And open another to a random page. Best to look like we’ve been busy, poring over notes for hours. “Welcome to my world.”

  Ali picks up a file, eyeing it, unsure. “We don’t have any of the details from the predicted blood fever outbreak. How can you already have files on it?” She flops it down on the bench between us. “Multiple files.”

  “These aren’t for this case. Becker printed up all of the cases opened with retired accounts while he was at work last night. I’m going through them to find a pattern.”

  Ali lets it go, crossing her arms and scanning the street for Kitman. I pretend to look pensive, going over case files, but really I’m hung up, thinking about Becker. He’d woken briefly before we left, not putting up much of a fight compared to last night. He must have been sicker than he looked.

  When I woke up, my eyes were swollen from my confessional breakdown to Becker. I had pulled the sheet over my head. Ugh. I was glad he was knocked out, recovering from whatever magic Ali had in those fate-blocking cookies.

  I sneaked a peek at the wolf in question, completely lax, face smashed into his arm that was stretched at an impossible angle. He must have curled around me and been too afraid to move or I’d freak out again. I sighed. Sliding, gently easing off the opposite side of the bed. I tiptoed to the keys and unlocked him from the bedpost. I smiled at the memory. He tucked his arm into himself. He groaned with approval, rolling to his other side, and fell into a deeper slumber.

  I’d spent the rest of the morning getting ready for when Ali would arrive and we’d get started on this case with Michelle. It was hard to leave knowing Becker probably would recover quicker if I were wrapped around him or vice versa. I had to settle for arranging the pillows alongside him, so he wouldn’t wake too quickly.

  In his duffle was a weighted blanket, so I draped that over him too. His expression was drawn up in a scowl—not his usual face after a pack session, but he’d only been home for two hours, not nearly as much time as we’d normally get. Not enough time for him with everything else going down. I dimmed the room by covering the blinding morning light streaming through the window with a thick wool blanket.

  I texted Lipski to check on him during his lunch break.

  Ali checks her watch. “Obviously Kitman didn’t get the memo about being an early getter.” She rolls her eyes and then her face lights up. “Oh! I almost forgot.” She reaches into her pocket and pulls out a medical face mask and latex gloves. “Don’t say I never think of you.”

  I hold it up. “What’s this?”

  “We’re walking into a pandemic.”

  “Ali, it’s not going to be widespread. It won’t even qualify as an epidemic. At the moment it’s a few reported cases.”

  She holds up her fingers. “That’s how it starts.” She secures her mask over her face.

  “But I’m not a practicing witch. I can’t catch it, can I?”

  “No, but you could be a carrier. Please think of your witch cousin and don’t give me blood fever. It’s not very nice. I won’t be able to use magic for at least ten days. And you won’t get to be my sidekick, because I’ll be too sick to take you on adventures.”

  “This is my case. You’re my sidekick.”

  She tsks. “Hush, darling. Please.” She spies someth
ing from the corner of her vision and she smiles. “I don’t want to spoil it for you, but it appears that for today we’re both sidekicks in Michelle Kitman’s movie.”

  The oak doors groan open behind us and Kitman peeks her head around until she spots us. “Oh good, you finally arrived. Come on, I’ve got something to show you both.”

  I quickly gather my files, slide the mask over my head, and snap on the gloves. How in seven hells did she get in ahead of us?

  Ali elbows me. “See? Sidekicks.”

  We rush into the main hall, relying on the echoing click of Kitman’s heels to guide us on what direction to head. It’s like I’m a scurrying intern again.

  The main entrance is open to the story above. Students peek down at us from their perch above and then move along as if they find us lacking or uninspiring. Columns separate the main drag from the intimate alcoves to the sides where couches and study areas are set up for students.

  Kitman stops, not to wait for us to catch up, but to jot down some detail on one of the Earth element altars.

  She swipes a clean white cloth over the polished surface and places it into a baggie. “Collecting samples. Whatever magic is in the air we can have processed and maybe traced. If it’s a student, they’ll be sloppy and leave a magical thumbprint.” She hands each of us a stack of cloths. “Here. Get some more samples. I’ve already done the east quadrant from here”—she uses a flat hand to indicate the direction and swings it wide—“to here.” She dusts her palms and moves a cart filled with supplies next to us. There are more cloths inside among other things. “We’ll do every room in the dorms. Cover every base. I’ll meet with the head mistress. If you girls will excuse me.” She pauses before running off. “Oh, and tip number one.” She looks right at me. “Always be the first to arrive on the scene. Investigative actuaries will go nowhere in their careers if they’re not ahead of the game.”

  I shoot a hard look at my cousin.

  Ali shrugs.

  Michelle waltzes, yes waltzes, off to meet with the head mistress. I should be in on that meeting.