Shrew & Company Books 1-3

by Holley Trent

  There was something in his voice she didn’t like. It was rough, and not from the sexy brogue that’d been making her private parts clench all evening, but as if he were in pain or had been drugged somehow.

  She’d been told she was a good shag before, but not that good. But, he’d said he was all right, so she stood.

  She slipped around the bed, patted the floor in search of clothing, and stood again with his shirt. She pulled it over her head and carefully made her way to the kitchen, somehow managing not to stub her toes in the dark before switching lights on.

  Her phone was in her blazer pocket, and when she plucked it out, there was one missed call, and one missed voice message.

  She queued it up.

  Hey, boss lady. It’s Sarah checking in. Believe it or not, I’m at a payphone out in Macon County. Shit, hold on. Some guy is staring at me from his truck.

  Dana looked at the clock. It was barely eleven. Sarah had left the message at ten. She must have ignored every single traffic law to get out there that fast. Or maybe…

  Sorry about that. I’m back. Yeah, I took my dad’s plane. Don’t get mad. Flight instructor said I needed some night hours, so he came out with me. He has family in the area, and they loaned me a car. Listen, I’ve already picked up some leads and I’m going to go check them out. Give me a call and let me know where to meet you. I’m going to move out of this area and should have cellular connectivity again soon. If I don’t, I’ll find another payphone and check my messages that way. Bye.

  Dana shook her head in awe. Leads already. When it came to picking up trails, even cold ones, Sarah was better than anyone…even Dana. She would have made a great cop, and it helped that she knew so many people, thanks to her last gig.

  Dana dialed Sarah’s number and when the voicemail prompt ended, relayed directions to the cabin.

  Next, she stood, and decided to keep her phone on her just in case.

  There was cold water in the refrigerator, so she helped herself to a bottle, and on second thought returned to fetch a second.

  Back in the bedroom, she patted the nightstand, found the lamp base, and eased her hand up until she found the switch. She clicked it.

  “Patrick, I brought you some—” She dropped the bottles and climbed onto the bed, shaking him.

  “Patrick!”

  He’d thrown the covers aside and his naked skin had acquired a sheen of sweat in the few minutes she’d been away. Dark circles hung beneath his closed eyes and his cheeks, formerly pink and healthy now stretched drained and white over his bones.

  He didn’t respond beyond eking out a moan.

  She straddled him, clamping him by the shoulders and shaking hard. “Patrick O’Dwyer, you answer me, now.”

  His skin was so hot to her touch. It was as if he’d been out in the sun for hours and his body was now reflecting all those rays back at her.

  He opened his mouth, and a hiss of breath rattled through his lips. “God, you’re…a battleaxe,” he said, eyes still closed.

  If he hadn’t have looked like so much shit, she might have slapped him for that retort, but the fact he was joking with her was a good sign. She hoped.

  “What’s wrong, Patrick? You’re hot as hell.”

  “Sexy.” A grin stretched his lips, and as if that’d been some sort of invitation, he grazed his hands up her naked backside and gave it a squeeze.

  “Not what I meant.” She swatted his hands away and leaned over the bed’s edge. Somehow, she managed to reach one of the water bottles without tumbling off and taking Patrick with her. “Here, drink this.”

  He forced his eyes open with a groan, blinking rapidly as if he was struggling to adjust to the light.

  Startled, she backed off him, mouth open in shock, or…what? Fear?

  Nah, not Dana.

  But his eyes, formerly the lush green of an Irish summer, were now a cat-like yellow-gray—some indefinable hue that didn’t exist in human irises. His pupils had elongated into long slits. “Shit, turn off the light, sweetheart.”

  “Patrick…”

  “What is it?”

  “Not it. They. Your eyes.”

  He managed to work himself up to lean on his elbows. “What about them?”

  “They’re…they’re yellow.”

  It was as if the truth had dawned on him all at once. He took whatever strength he had and forced his legs over the edge of the bed. “I gotta go.”

  “Go where?”

  “I don’t know.” He stood, clenching his teeth in pain and rubbing the muscles of his thighs as if they were causing him considerable pain.

  Then it dawned on her, too. She hurried around the bed and got in front of him, putting the flat of her palms on his chest and nudging him back. “Patrick, you can’t just go out there alone. You don’t know what’s going to happen.”

  Gently, he gripped her wrists, kissed the backs of her hands, and let them fall. “Exactly. I don’t know. But it’s better for me to be out there than in here. I don’t know if I’ll be me or some beast that can’t rationalize. When I leave, you lock the door.”

  “No, that’s ridiculous. I’m not going to let you—”

  He kissed her. Shut her right up by delving his tongue into her mouth and stilling it. When he backed away, she was breathless and could hardly remember what objection she was going to make. With another heart-rending groan, he stepped into his jeans, but didn’t bother buttoning them.

  Her expression must have been so easy to read a blind man could have, because he said, “Dana, this is what I would have been doing even if you hadn’t come.”

  “But, I’m here. Why would you want to do this alone?”

  He scoffed, and then cringed. “Shit, it’s starting, I can feel it. I don’t know what’s happening, but it hurts. Dana, just lock the doors, all right? If I get too close, you take that Ruger and you shoot. There’s silver in it.”

  “S-silver?”

  He shrugged. “Just a precaution. Please. I’ll be back at sunup, I guess, but you don’t have to wait around.” He grabbed her hand and walked her to the front door and pointed to the tree line in the distance. “Once I disappear into there, make a run for your car. Go meet up with your employee, and I’ll check in with you in the morning.”

  “No.”

  She watched a lump travel down his convulsing throat and his grip on her hand tightened. “This isn’t a great time to be difficult, shrew.”

  “You don’t get to call me that.”

  “Is it making you want to leave?”

  Nothing would make her leave until she knew he was fine—that he’d come back whole and with his senses intact. The same Patrick—the man she wanted to take home.

  “I never stop until I’ve solved my case, Paddy. I’m not done.”

  They stared at each other for a long while, and then he nodded. “Lock the doors.”

  “Probably not necessary. Cats don’t have thumbs.”

  He grinned, and she could see his teeth had elongated—his canines forming sharp points that looked vicious enough to pierce a car tire. “Humor me.”

  Her turn to nod.

  And he was gone, groaning as he descended the stairs and padded barefooted toward the woods.

  She watched until his pale skin disappeared into the dense trees, perhaps five minutes, and let out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. She worried for him. He was going to be just like she had been when all her changes started. Alone with no concept of what was happening and when it’d end. But, he had one thing she hadn’t—someone to comfort him when he dragged himself home.

  If he did.

  ___

  Sarah arrived half an hour later bearing a large portfolio case and her usual duffel bag full of firearms.

  Dana wanted to tell her she probably didn’t need them, but what did she know? For all she knew, an entire pack of man-sized catamounts could show up at the door, scratching to get in like zombies on the stalk for fresh brains.

  She shudd
ered at the thought.

  “You all right?” Sarah asked, unzipping the large, flat case on top of Patrick’s coffee table and giving her boss a concerned look.

  “I’m fine. It’s been a crazy day.”

  “I bet. Why’s your hair all messed up?”

  “Huh?” Dana put a hand up to her hair and inwardly cringed when she realized what it must have looked like. She’d put her clothes and holster back on, but had forgotten to check her reflection. Between what she and Patrick had gotten into on the sofa and continued on the bed, it stuck up at odd angles on the sides and had matted a bit in the back.

  She cleared her throat and quickly swatted it together, coiling it into a loose braid. “I had a little nap.”

  “Mm-hmm,” Sarah hummed, her face a blank. The same kind of blank Dana was so masterful at. It must have been a shrew trait.

  “What?”

  “You don’t get involved with clients.”

  “And I didn’t this time, either.”

  Sarah’s jaw ground left to right, and still she stared.

  “You don’t believe me?”

  “No. You’re too damn honest, so when you lie, I know it. Don’t try to lie to me. It’s always going to be a mistake, boss lady. Ask anyone.”

  “I’m not lying. He’s not a client. Not anymore, anyway.”

  Sarah nodded, and pushed her lips into a smug little smirk. “Don’t worry. You know I don’t spread news. If you want to get yourself a little mountain man action, I won’t say anything to the folks back at home. You deserve a little R&R. Hell, we all do.”

  Dana couldn’t dispute that last part, but she took offense to the action bit. That made it sound as if she hadn’t been careful. That she’d fallen for just anyone. Patrick O’Dwyer wasn’t just anyone. He was the man who didn’t even try to tame the shrew. He was the man who liked her in spite of her being one.

  Sarah didn’t know that, though. She didn’t know Patrick, so Dana held her tongue on that matter. Besides, she didn’t know what would happen when they all got home to Durham. Perhaps Patrick would change his mind and go about business as usual and she’d decide she wasn’t ready to open up to someone again.

  She pulled out one of the kitchen chairs and sat, studying the scads of photographs and maps Sarah had compiled. “Tell me what you found out.”

  Sarah opened her mouth to start, but the sound of a large cat screaming in the distance made them both pause. Sarah’s skin, usually a dark honey color, paled on her face, but she quickly recovered.

  Dana’s recovery wasn’t so quick.

  Was that Patrick? Some other beast?

  “Jesus. I can’t get over the fact shit like this exists in real life. Comic book stuff, you know?” Sarah said.

  Dana lifted her shoulders in a shrug. “The X-Men have nothing on us.”

  “You’ve got that right. Anyway, I found out the Were-cat group here is spread across three counties. It’s somewhat small, but apparently has a strong enough gene pool that they hadn’t died off in the past couple of hundred years. They do have to bring in outsiders to mate with, though. Most people in it have two Were-cat parents. Others had been infected.”

  Infected?

  Dana felt like her heart had stopped. Her head seemed to spin, and breathing was suddenly a chore.

  How exactly was the were-infection transmitted?

  She and Patrick had kissed. Bitten, though no skin was broken. Made love, though protected. Was she at risk?

  “What’s that face for, boss lady?”

  Dana pushed back her seat and walked to the kitchen with Sarah on her heels. She opened the refrigerator and wrapped her fingers around a water bottle first. She changed her mind and plucked out two of Patrick’s gross beers, instead.

  Sarah accepted hers gleefully. “I love this shit!”

  As they strode back into the main room, she pulled her keys from her pants pocket and used the bottle opener she kept on the ring to pop the cap. “It’s hard to find, though. Glad I came.” She took a long sip and her eyes rolled back into her head. “Anyway, from what I’ve learned, you’ve got to be a victim of a pretty bad attack to get infected, and it’s far more likely if two or more carriers attack you at once. It’s like getting a cold, you know? You may be able to fight off one strain from the coworker who works in the cubicle next to you, but not the strain from the coworker on the other side. Double-bombardment.”

  Made sense. Dana breathed out a breath of relief. The last thing she need was to be a real beast on top of everything else that was wrong with her.

  Sarah didn’t seem to notice her distress. “They’re mostly self-policing. Try to stay out of public, and generally are on the right side of the law. When people like Patrick get attacked, and it’s usually by some dumb kids in, like, a robbery gone wrong, they take care of it. They don’t change folks against their will.”

  Dana took a tiny sip of the dark beer and hardly tasted the bitterness given how nervous she still was. Not for herself, this time, but for Patrick. If he really had been changed against his will, what would that mean for him when other Cats in the area discovered him?

  “Whom did you find this out from?” Dana asked.

  “Little old lady Were-cat at a gas station down in the foothills.”

  Dana ogled her.

  “What?” Sarah shrugged. “I’ll tell you about it when we’re back in Durham. My last tests came back weird. I seem to have spawned the ability to make people run their mouths.”

  I ought to give that girl a raise.

  “You’ve probably got some unidentified psychic shit going on, too. Call Doc.”

  Maybe Dana did. It’d explain a lot of things, such as how Patrick read her like an open book. He may have been an observant pub-keeper, but nobody read people that well. If she was transmitting everything in her brain on an open frequency…well, that would do it.

  Dana shuffled through the papers and gleaned all she could about Patrick’s condition and what the politics of the were-group were. “Sarah, are there other were-groups?”

  Sarah thumped her chest and suppressed a beer burp as it traveled up. “My sources said yes, but I didn’t stick around to see just what flavors.”

  “Okay, and if these groups are self-policing, what with the arsenal?” Dana bobbed her head toward the duffel bag.

  “Not all of them are. Just the Cats. Hopefully, Mr. O’Dwyer will stumble into one of those tonight and not some outside group. Might get nasty.”

  Dana’s fingers went to her holster before she realized what she was doing. It was Sarah’s gaze on her hand that made her stop drawing her weapon.

  “I’m not going to let you go out there. I can tell you like him. He must be some kind of man, but I wouldn’t be doing my job very well if you went out into those woods thinking you’re doing him a favor. Getting yourself all clawed up isn’t worth it. You may have supernatural vision, and better-than-average reflexes, but you don’t have their speed.”

  “You’re fired,” Dana mumbled. She crossed her arms over her chest and stared at Sarah’s notes in front of her.

  Group of 67. 70% female composition between ages of 18 and 30. New males are often fought over by unattached women.

  “Great. I needed a vacation,” Sarah said cheerfully. She drained the remnants of her beer and set the bottle on the table. “Is there any more of that? Think he’d mind?”

  Dana picked her bottle up and finished it. “Get me one, too. No, get the case. It’ll take that many.”

  Dana had never considered herself to be the jealous type, but if any of those unattached women got too close to Patrick, she would seriously consider growing some claws of her own.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Patrick leaned against a sturdy pine tree and drew in a tentative breath through his human-sized lungs.

  The crisp air did wonders to clear his spinning head, but did nothing to abate his exhaustion.

  He’d never in his life been so tired—not even after he’d relocated across f
ive time zones and got detained by airport customs for six hours over some bullshit.

  He rubbed his eyes.

  What had happened? He remembered shifting, studying his cat’s large paws through new eyes, and then there were only scraps—bits and pieces of memory about what had happened overnight.

  There was a lot of running…

  He’d taken down some animal… A deer?

  He dragged his naked forearm across his mouth and licked his lips.

  God. No wonder cat breath always smells so foul.

  A clammy hand wrapped around his bicep.

  Patrick’s cat forced him to scent the air, and his inner beast recoiled instantly.

  Attack or run.

  His feet weren’t cooperating with the idea of a swift retreat. He didn’t have the energy.

  With a hiss, he turned to face the intruder.

  “Whoa, whoa!”

  The white-haired gentleman put his hands up in a peacemaking gesture and took a step back. His naked paunch jiggled as he moved, and his florid complexion deepened to a plum color. “’S’all right. Ain’t gonna hurt ya.”

  Still baring teeth, Patrick scented the air again.

  Not a predator, per se, but another cat.

  No wonder I didn’t hear him.

  Patrick knew better than to assume the encroacher was safe, especially given how swimmingly his first interaction with the local Were-cats had gone.

  The man cleared his throat and nodded at the ground.

  Patrick looked at the ground and saw nothing of interest. He looked back to the man.

  There was some kind of mental tug—an urging for him to lower himself, make himself smaller for the other man. It seemed this man didn’t like having to look up into Patrick’s eyes.

  Tough. He’d better find a stump to stand on.

  The man sighed. “Shit. Been tryin’ to track you all night, boy, but you was movin’ too fast.”

  “Find me for what?”

  “I’m Billy. I try to keep the peace in these parts.”

  Patrick looked down at the man’s extended hand. No rings. Just wrinkles.

  “I know what you’re thinkin’,” Billy said. He adjusted the grimy string he wore tied around his neck and pulled his wedding band around to front. “Would always lose it when I shifted. Old lady made me tie it on.”