Animal

by Lexxie Couper

  He crossed the room to her bedroom in two leaps, the urge to transform like a weight on his chest. Flinging open the door, he stepped in, fists balled, nostrils flaring. “Not sure we have time for a phone call, love.”

  She spun about, staring at him with wide eyes, looking for all the world like a small animal frozen in the lights of a speeding truck. A small animal holding the handset of a cordless phone, that was. “How did you—?”

  He ignored her question. She’d figure the answer out in due course. If she was what he thought she was—an animal expert of some kind—it wouldn’t take long for the penny to drop. No matter what form he was in, his hearing was phenomenal. It came with the whole werewolf package. He stormed across the room, taking in the short running shorts and black tank top she now wore with a surreal mix of disappointment and relief. “I’m full of surprises.”

  The woman’s muscles flexed and her grip on the handset tightened. “So am I.”

  Declan gave her a bleak scowl. The low, almost inaudible beep beep of a dial tone spilled from the phone in her hand and his scowl turned to a frustrated snarl. Shit. She’d called someone. “As much as I’m enjoying this whole tête-à-tête,” he said, reaching for the handset, “there are more important things we have to be doing. Like…”

  He didn’t finish. The low sound of an engine thrummed into his head, vibrated through his body into his gut. He sucked in a swift breath and the scent of wolf assaulted his sinuses. Bad wolf. He spun about, staring through the door across the woman’s living room, watching as a large, black van slowed to a complete stop by the curb out the front of her house. Fuck. Spinning back to the woman, he shook his head. “Time’s up.”

  “Time’s up?” Her forehead creased. “What does that mean?”

  Declan gave her a level look. “It means this. Sorry.” And he smashed his fist against her jaw.

  Stunned rage filled her eyes—a heartbeat before her body went limp and she slumped forward. The phone fell from her hand, hitting the floor with a soft thud.

  He grabbed her and threw her over his shoulder, her unconscious frame like pliable rubber. “This is not how I wanted to do this,” he growled, hitching her weight closer to his head and anchoring his arm snugly around her waist. He shot a look over his shoulder, blood hot with the need to transform. He stared at the van on the street through the gauzy length of curtain hanging over the living room window. Watched its doors swing open. Watched a hulking shape he knew all too well climb out of the passenger side seat. Watched the man with flaming red hair and muscles on muscles bend his short, wide neck to the side in an action designed to intimidate. McCoy.

  He bared his teeth and turned back to the woman’s bedroom. In time to see a greenish-grey lizard roughly the size of a small dog, go skittering across the floor and disappear under the far wardrobe. A short, sharp snort escaped Declan. “You’re on your own, lizard.”

  And without further adieu, he crossed the room, kicked out the fly-screen of the main window, leapt through it and took off across the woman’s small backyard. The sound of the van door slamming shut behind him thumped at his senses as he cleared the dividing fence in a single bound, sprinting across the neighbor’s lawn. Just a naked Irishman with a bleeding side, running through the early-morning streets with an unconscious, animal liberationist slung over his shoulder. Nothing unusual about that.

  Nothing unusual at all.

  Chapter 3

  Peter frowned at the phone in his hand. What the bloody hell was going on? “Hello?”

  Nothing.

  His frown pulled deeper. The caller ID display told him it was his baby sister on the other end, but since when did Reggie think it was funny to call and not say anything?

  She wouldn’t.

  Unease twisted in Peter’s gut—cold and tight. She’d pulled a lab raid last night. She hadn’t told him which lab she was hitting in their last conversation but he knew when she was going in and when she’d planned to be out. He made it his business to know when she went on one of her freedom missions. No one else in the family knew what she got up to in the wee hours of the morning. Dad would kill her, even if he did agree with her motives, and Mum would chain her to the sofa, but someone had to be there for her if she was ever—God forbid—arrested, or worse yet, shot. She didn’t like it, but too bloody bad. It’s what big brothers did; they pissed off their little sisters, even if it was for their own good.

  Peter placed the phone back to his ear. “Reggie? Can you hear me?”

  Still nothing. Well, nothing except the irritating scratch and hum of the connection. His gut twisted again. Damn it. What if she was in trouble?

  In trouble? Reggie’s always in trouble.

  Peter shook his head. She’d been after someone big last night. He’d seen it in her eyes. Someone she considered the enemy. Perhaps she’d finally been caught. Goddamn it, what if she was—

  “You’re on your own, lizard.”

  The muffled words, almost inaudible, fell from the phone. Male? Irish? Peter snapped straight in his chair. Lizard? Shit. Rex. “Hey?” His sharp shout lifted the heads of quite a few people surrounding him but he ignored their curious stares. They were in a cop shop, for Christ sake. Someone shouted down a phone just about every other minute. “Hey? Regan?”

  Nothing.

  Cold worry gnawed at him, joining the tension squirming in his gut. Fuck.

  For a terrible moment, he didn’t know what to do. His gut, as churned as it was, told him to get over to Regan’s house now, but to do so meant hanging up the phone in his hand and what if his little sister was in her home, was on the other end trying to talk to him, needing his help?

  “Thomas?”

  Peter stared at the far window, the blue, cloudless sky outside seeming to mock him. Goddamn it, what the hell should he do? Was Reggie—

  “Thomas!”

  A gruff and very belligerent voice barking his name yanked Peter’s attention away from the window and the ominous thought of his sister’s silent phone. He stared up into his boss’s bloodshot eyes, unable to miss the sour expression on his round, unshaven face. “Yeah, Inspector?”

  “Your wife’s been tryin’ to call you for the last ten minutes.” Tony Muriciano glared at him, leathery skin yellow and dry from far too many cigarettes.

  “Ex-wife, Inspector,” Peter corrected, his grip on his phone curling tight.

  Fat, nicotine-stained fingers jerked on the waistline of wrinkled chinos and Muriciano’s ample gut wobbled under his white shirt. “Whatever. Tell her next time she’s tryin’ to get hold of you to call the switch. I’m too busy to deal with her shit.”

  Peter looked up at his boss, suppressing a snarl of frustration. Reggie. What was going on with Reggie?

  Muriciano managed to look annoyed. “How the fuck she get my number anyhow?”

  Maybe it was when you hit on her last Christmas party, you fat fuck. “I don’t know, Inspector.”

  Muriciano’s lips pulled away from yellow teeth in a snide smile. “Of course.” His red-rimmed eyes glinted. “So, was that your sister’s name I heard you shoutin’ out a second ago? She okay?” He swiped a hand over his pate, licking his lips. “You can give her my number anytime. I’d hate for such a pretty young thing to be in trouble.” He snorted, mouth stretching into a wide leer. “Unless it’s trouble with me.”

  Peter’s fist clenched and he shoved aside the urge to pull his own gun from its holster and shoot his captain in the head. “She’s fine, Inspector.” He held up the phone still clenched in his grip. “Just a lousy connection.”

  Muriciano gave his head a nod. “Hmmm. Well, if she needs a hand…” He chuckled, the sound both low and crude, and Peter had to sink his nails into his palm to keep his hand from wrapping around his Glock.

  The Inspector turned and began weaving his way back to his office on the other side of the room, barking orders and insults at various detectives and uniformed officers as he went. “Your wife’s on line ten, Thomas,” he shot back ove
r his shoulder. “She sounds pissed.”

  “Ex-wife,” Peter growled, returning the phone in his hand to his ear. How the hell the man ever made detective, let alone Insp—

  “Fuck! She’s not here!”

  The harsh shout spat from the handset and Peter jumped.

  “The bitch isn’t here! They’re not here! Where the fuck is O’Connell?”

  “McCoy, look! Near the bed. On the floor. Why’s that red light blinking on the phone?”

  There was a scuffle, the distinctive sound of cotton sheets being disturbed followed by a guttural male voice with a broad Scottish accent saying, “Hello?”

  The phone creaked as Peter’s grip curled harder. “Who’s this? Where’s my sister?”

  “Now? Or after I fuck her?”

  Peter’s blood ran cold. “You touch my sister and you’re—”

  A sharp clunk stabbed at Peter’s ear, followed by the drilling beep of a disconnect tone. Shit! He leapt to his feet, chair tumbling over. Shit!

  It would take approximately forty-five minutes to get to Reggie’s house, thirty with the blue and reds on. Too long. He’d have to call in a Bondi unit.

  Snatching up his wallet and badge, he grabbed his jacket from under his chair and took off across the room. Blood roared in his ears. Christ, what had Reggie got herself into now?

  “Thomas! What the fuck you think you’re doin’?”

  Muriciano’s bellow bounced around the room, and more cops lifted their heads from their paperwork.

  Hot impatience tore through Peter and he slowed down, scowling at his boss. “Gotta go, Inspector.”

  “Detective Thomas!”

  Grinding his teeth, Peter stopped, turning to watch Muriciano lumber toward him. “Sorry, Inspector. I’ve got to—”

  “Just received a call from HQ, Thomas.” Muriciano gave him a smug grin and for a second Peter saw utter belligerence flare in the man’s eyes. “Williams broke his shoulder. Ya getting a new partner. They’ll be here within the hour. Unless someone’s dying, you’re not going anywhere.” The grin stretched wider and Muriciano chuckled, flabby gut wobbling like jello. “Understand?”

  Jaw clenched, Peter nodded. “Understand, Inspector.” And, before rational thought took over, he punched his superior in the nose and sent the fat fuck to the floor. “But as I said before, I’ve got to go.”

  * * * *

  Regan’s house was a shambles. More than a shambles. When Peter crossed the threshold, he felt as though he’d stepped into a scene from a cliché-ridden movie—one of those where a house is ransacked by a crazed criminal looking for something highly important and highly illegal. A crazed criminal who smelt like a filthy animal. Jesus! What was that stench?

  A chill ran up his spine and, nose creasing at the pungent smell, his hand moved toward his gun.

  “There was no one here when we arrived, Detective. Just the mess and the smell.”

  Peter turned to the uniformed cop stepping up beside him, not missing the trepidation in the young man’s face. “What’s causing the stench? Do you know?”

  The cop’s face scrunched in distaste. “From what I can tell, someone’s pissed all over the furniture. Especially the bed. But I can’t be sure.”

  Cold worry thumped through Peter’s chest. “Piss?” He took a step deeper into his sister’s house. “Nothing’s been touched?”

  The cop shook his head. “No.”

  Peter surveyed the mess around him. Whoever had done this, had done so out of anger. There were no signs of struggle. Overturned furniture littered the room, the cushions were shredded, and the curtains ripped from the windows but nothing in the chaos told him Reggie had been involved in its making. Someone angry had done this. Peter hoped to Christ they were angry because his sister had not been here. The piss could be a disgusting, infantile response to their failure, although to Peter’s farm-boy nose it smelt more animalistic than human.

  You’re on your own, lizard. The words floated through his head and he gripped his gun harder.

  “Detective Thomas?”

  Peter started, swinging his attention back to the cop waiting beside him. “Sorry, Officer…?”

  “Paterson. Detective, shall I call in a CSU?”

  Peter looked around the mayhem of his sister’s normally tidy home. He highly doubted the crime scene guys would find anything but, after punching Muriciano in the face, he’d better stick to protocol.

  Yeah, not a wise move back at Command. You ready to be suspended?

  A dry snort burst from Peter’s nose. Muriciano wouldn’t suspend him. He’d bluster and rant and rave and pour a ton of public humiliation down on Peter, but he wouldn’t suspend him. Peter knew where Muriciano had buried the bodies—figuratively speaking. His superior wouldn’t risk the skeletons tumbling from the closet, no matter how shattered his nose and pride.

  “Detective? The CSU?”

  Peter nodded, re-holstering his gun. “Do that, Officer Paterson. The Bondi crew can handle it. I’m outta my jurisdiction here.”

  He scanned the overturned room, trying like hell to ignore the sparks of cold fear in his chest. Jesus, what a mess. I’m coming, Reggie. Just be safe until I get there.

  But where was she?

  Peter’s fists clenched. He didn’t know. But he’d find out.

  “Can I ask whose house this is, Detective?”

  The young cop hovered beside him and Peter gave him a quick look. “Yes you can.” He crossed the room, stepping over upended side tables, shattered lamps, gutted cushions and their exposed innards on his way to the sofa. Something had caught his eye. Something…

  He stopped at the overturned piece of furniture, the overpowering stench of urine almost making him gag. Which was saying something, considering he’d grown up crutching sheep. Crouching down, he ran a slow inspection over the abused sofa, feeling his chest grow tight. Reggie loved the sofa. It had been their great-grandparents’ and their father told—to their mother’s absolute dismay—quite a bawdy tale of Reggie’s conception involving the old, paisley-covered cushions and too many bottles of champagne. She’d be heartbroken to see it in such a degraded state.

  Yeah, but what caught your eyes? What made you come over here?

  A frown pulled at Peter’s forehead and he reached out, removing something small and soft from the armrest of the sofa. This is what caught his eye. Still crouching, he studied the tuft of grey fur, rubbing the soft, almost silken strands between thumb and forefinger. An animal had been laying on the sofa recently. He brought the tuft closer, eyes narrowing at the still slightly tacky, faint crimson stain coloring a few of the soft strands. A bleeding animal. He flicked his gaze to the sofa, knowing what he hoped to find wouldn’t be there.

  Shit.

  Either the Irishman he’d heard talking to Rex had taken the cushions or whoever destroyed Regan’s house had. Peter’s gut twisted. Something told him it was the latter. It seemed they didn’t want the cops finding the injured animal’s blood.

  And yet they piss everywhere?

  Peter’s frown deepened. Something very odd was going on here. And Reggie was right in the middle of—

  A gunshot shattered the air.

  Peter sprang to his feet, spinning toward the direction of the report, Glock drawn.

  “What the fuck was that?” The young cop screeched, aiming his weapon—waveringly, Peter was disgusted to see—at the kitchen entryway.

  Gun raised, breath even, Peter crossed the room, staring hard at the opening before him.

  “There it is again!” Paterson’s gun swung wide, aimed straight at Peter’s feet.

  Peter dropped his gaze to see what Paterson was about to shoot and the breath gushed out of him in a raw laugh. Lips twitching, he dropped into another crouch, scooping up the long, grey-green, scaly creature casually walking toward him. “G’day, Rex,” he said, lifting the lizard up to his face to give it a slight smile. “You wouldn’t be able to tell me what happened to that sister of mine, would you?”
>
  Rex looked back at him, flat tongue flicking out in nervous, little jabs at the air.

  Peter’s smile disappeared. “No. I didn’t think so.”

  Shit.

  * * * *

  Regan opened her eyes. Slowly. She peered around the dark room, squinting at the thin shards of bright light pushing through a narrow crack in the curtains on the far wall. Where was she?

  She pressed her palms to the spongy mattress beneath her and struggled into a sitting position, taking in the kitsch, framed prints on the wall and the sunken bed beside her. A hotel room? Was she in a hotel room? The sound of traffic hummed beyond the walls; cars, trucks, motorcycles, and behind those typical urban noises the distant cries and squawks of seagulls. God, she could be anywhere.

  Swinging her legs around, she placed her bare feet on the floor and pushed herself upright. Black swirling stars filled her head immediately and she flopped back down to the bed, a dull throb pounding up her jaw into her temple. She lifted her hand, running her fingers along the aching beat.

  Damn it! He’d hit her! He’d actually hit her.

  “I’m sorry about that.”

  The softly spoken words with their even softer accent caressed her ears and she spun around, staring through a fresh wave of black stars at the man sitting in the armchair behind her.

  At some stage he’d found himself some clothes. A pair of very faded blue jeans hugged his long, lean legs, emphasizing the corded strength of his thighs and impressive bulge between them, and a black Ramones t-shirt covered a torso Regan remembered being hard and smooth and wonderful to touch. A squeezing sensation rolled through her belly into the warm centre between her legs. Regan scowled. Goddamn it! The man had kidnapped her and here she was feeling horny? She steadied herself on the bed, giving her abductor a mean glare. “Yeah, well sorry doesn’t cut it, mate. If you wanted me to leave that badly you could’ve asked.”

  To her surprise, the man laughed, the sound rich and relaxed. “I did ask. You decided to make a phone call, remember?”

  Regan closed her eyes. Shit. Peter would be going out of his mind. Probably had the entire Sydney City Police Force out looking for her.