by Star, Amy
Blake’s stomach dropped. “What about Ogre…”
“He’s dead, Blake. They found him behind one of the old portables, out past the pastures on the north end. I don’t know the details. Looked like he’d been mauled proper like, though. Some think it was a bear. Hell, can you imagine?” Jimmy said in a startled voice. “They’re saying it was a grizzly or something. The Ursas here are spooked, man, you should get back. I don’t know why they brought the cops out. It looks bad.”
Blake slammed the cellphone back into his pocket and hunched over his handlebars. Jimmy had been speaking so loudly that Gavin had heard the gist of it, and lowered his own head. There was only one way that Ogre could have died from bear wounds—wild bears had long ago learned to stay clear of Beaver Creek. They could smell their own. Which meant Ogre had been killed by a shifter.
“One of us?” Gavin asked, and when Blake didn’t reply asked, “What affiliation did Ogre have?”
“I don’t think he had any, not yet… undecided,” Blake replied coldly, but didn’t voice his real fear. It would only scare and incite Gavin more than he already was, and he couldn’t afford to make any wrong moves at this point. When did this whole shit storm become a game of chess? he wondered, rubbing his bottom lip.
He needed to see the body, to know for sure.
Something like dread was pulling at the corner of his mind, trying to turn the page, except another part of his consciousness didn’t want to read what was written there. Because if he was right, it meant he couldn’t go back. All the variables were too coincidental—Connor and Melissa’s disparagement, Gavin being attacked, now Ogre ending up mauled and the cops invading in on Beaver Creek?
Oh, hell.
He turned the ignition on his bike, heard it rattle to life under him, and motioned Gavin closer so he could lay out his plan. “About that mission of yours,” he murmured, grinding his teeth, and the novitiate gave a sullen nod, hanging on every word.
CHAPTER FOUR
The first thing that Lily thought when she came out of the washroom was how it would affect her job. Am I that career oriented that that’s the first thing that comes to mind? she lamented, taking a seat on the edge of her bed. Her bare legs caught the afternoon light and she huddled over in her underwear and bra, the pregnancy test clenched between her two fingers.
For the past few weeks she’d felt sick, and not been able to attribute it to anything. Then, when her period hadn’t shown up, it had all come flurrying back. She had done her best to try not to think about what had happened between her and Blake back in Beaver Creek. She’d managed to come up with a convincing—and pleasantly dull and non-controversial—article about the selling of alcohol to minors, and her editor at least hadn’t questioned her.
Things had gone back to normal. Or at least, that’s what she’d tried to tell herself, but she couldn’t really believe it. Something had changed, not just on a biological level, but on an emotional one. Normally so in control of her own thought processes, she had become unusually itinerant, unfocused, even forgetful. Then, when the sickness had started in, she’d had to face facts.
“C’mon,” she said, tapping the test.
She looked back up at the wall. One more minute. A tenseness had started in her belly—she found herself not so much questioning whether or not she was pregnant, but what options she would have to face in the wake of something inevitable. I suppose I could get leave, she thought. No doubt Samson would actually welcome a bit of a hiatus from her.
Her thoughts became a muddle and when she looked up again at the clock it had been another two minutes. Absently she turned over the pregnancy test.
Crap.
She didn’t have to look for the box it had come in to know the result. Yes, she was pregnant. And that meant that the father could be only one person—a one-night stand with a burly tattooed monster of a man who, for better or worse, may have been the leader of a biker gang. Lily actually laughed out loud at the ridiculousness of that statement, and at what sort of story she would have to tell Samson.
“Maybe I should just tell him the truth,” she mused, pursing her lips.
Part of her felt a sadistic pleasure, wondering at the expression that would pass the old editor’s face. Then, on the other hand, maybe he wouldn’t be surprised at all. She sighed and leaned onto her back again. The fan above her was lost in a circular thought and she closed her eyes, feeling dizzy as she watched it.
“What the hell am I supposed to do?”
She couldn’t get rid of it—sure, abortions were an option, and even though she knew the origin of the child was something questionable, part of her had already gotten used to the idea of the fetus growing inside her. She had never had any proclivities or sensibilities about becoming a mother, certainly. But to actually be faced with that possibility, she felt herself sliding into a one-eighty.
Nausea welled in her stomach. Not so much out of dread, although that was a part of it, but out of a latent sort of excitement she hadn’t anticipated. I’m going to be a mother, she mused. I’m going to be a mother.
It didn’t take long for Lily’s keen and organized mind to return to reality, and when it did, two things occurred to her: first, she would have to figure out a way to broach the subject with Samson. Second, and this was perhaps where the dread was centered, she felt obligated to at least tell Blake about it—especially if she was intending to keep it.
How would he react?
Lily gulped, suddenly filled with panic. He was a brute, surely he had no interest in fathering a child, and that was fine by her. But how would he respond to that sort of knowledge? She couldn’t ever see him hurting her, even if he had his own reputation among other gangs—no, he would never harm her physically. But she wondered at the sort of emotional damage he could inflict on her, if she let herself be too open. She bit her lip until it bled and sat up straight. I won’t let it come to that. She didn’t really have to tell him at all—it was simply her own interest in being honest. There was nothing he could do to her now.
“Okay,” she breathed out, and stood up.
Outside, the sun was shining and a few mergansers flew past her window, heading for the river bank. It was Saturday and she had the day off. She had planned to simply sleep in, maybe do a bit of cleaning and watch movies, but the news of her pregnancy, however surreal, prompted her to decide to make another trip to Beaver Creek. Her heart was still in her stomach as she redressed in a casual outfit and headed out the door.
In the car, she took off, heading straight for the hills. It wasn’t until she’d reached the town limits again, and the road became curvy, wandering through deciduous tree lines and with the vista of the town behind her laid out across the flood plains, that she let out another nervous laugh. She was heading into Beaver Creek, a veritable ghost town, to look for the leader of a known biker gang with known criminal affiliations, all in order to inform him that she was pregnant with his child that had been the product of a crazy, desperate night. For both of us, she guessed, suddenly remembering the feel of his fingers stroking her body, the heat of his own flesh leaching against hers, that animal scent of their lovemaking that had stuck with her for nearly two days.
She felt a pang of desire rise in her loins again as she recollected that night. Absently, she reached between her legs with her free hand and coddled her groin with the palm of her hand. Even through her pants and underwear, the flat uniform pressure caused a spark of passion to flare against her sex, and she laughed again at how turned on she had become simply by indulging in a memory.
“Gotta be my hormones out of whack,” she said out loud, as if trying to rationalize it. She squeezed her thighs around her hand, mesmerized by the pleasure of her own fingers pressing up against her vulva and sighed as she looked in the mirror. “Geezus, what’s gotten into me?”
She pulled her hand away quickly and straightened her back, bringing her attention back to the road, but the phantom sensation of pressure remained between her legs an
d was uncomfortable. Like an itch that you could only ignore for so long.
Lily had never had a particularly abnormal libido. Perhaps a bit less hesitant to hide that libido than her female colleagues, who had all suffered into a domestic routine with their husbands or partners that excluded the sort of care-free sexuality of youth—but that just made her more honest, in her mind.
Her thoughts became another maze as she fell into a sort of trance, the primitive part of her brain conducting the car and her reflexes while she let the other half, the human half, lose itself in fantasy and possibility. So much so that she almost didn’t realize her phone was ringing in the passenger seat beside her until it was too late. Gulping, she slowed down and her hands flexed on the steering wheel, and reached over, bringing it up to her ear.
“Hey, Lil, that you?” a familiar voice issued through the speaker.
She recognized Samson’s tone immediately. “Who else would it be if you called my phone?” she said, a bit more sharply than she’d intended. He had interrupted her in the middle of a thought, and at the same time she knew it was her way of being defensive.
If Samson noticed, he didn’t offer any comment. “Right, right. Listen, what are you up to today? I know this is your day off, but we might have a potential story—the other reporters I got, Alan and Claire, both are on other assignments. Can’t spare ‘em.”
“It was my day off,” she said, slowing down on a curve. Through the cracked window of the car she could smell the crushed allegation of yarrow, of Douglas fir, somewhere the faint hint of road-kill that had long ago baked into the asphalt. “What’s the problem?”
“I know, I know, I hate to call you on your day off. But you’re the best reporter I got, and it might make up for me putting you on that Beaver Creek alcohol-to-minors story. Where are you right now?”
Lily squirmed and adjusted her glasses. Her dewdrop chin tensed. “I’m just out getting groceries,” she lied, “needed to pick up some new clothes, too.”
“Well, drop all that—we got news that the sheriff’s department down south, the whole bloody county has emptied. Took me some phone calls and a few favors to find out, but looks like they were all convening on Beaver Creek. No word yet on why—in fact, it’s a total information brown-out. I didn’t find out until a half hour ago myself.”
Lily’s eyes widened. Up ahead she could see the rustic and well-worn sign of Beaver Creek welcoming visitors. Samson sounded excited, which was something hard to do. The old timer, despite his attempts to keep his paper as toned down and bland as possible, had been a firecracker in his youth. So Lily had gathered, anyway. It probably was the reason he liked her so much. I remind him of himself years ago, she realized. That said, he’d been a correspondent in some of the craziest parts of the country. If Samson was agitated, then he had his own hunches he was keeping close to his chest.
“All right,” Lily agreed quickly, “I can go and check it out. But you have to give me more than that, Samson. What am I supposed to expect? Some sort of investigation?”
On the other line Samson was quiet for a moment. “We’re reporters, Lily. We seek out facts,” he said, disclaiming something, “so I don’t like to speculate before I know for sure. However, in this case, the sheriff’s department and the local PD have put such a tight rein on any information getting out, a total press shut-down, that it’s difficult—at this point, irresponsible—not to give into a little speculation, for our own well-being. Word is, anyway, there was a murder. High profile, but that’s all I can tell you.”
Lily gulped again and reflexively slowed the car even further. Her hand had become a claw on the wheel. “Wha-what kind of murder?” she asked stupidly. “I mean, who was it?”
“Well, you know about the gangs up there,” he said, as if it were self-evident, “word is one of them got picked off. There are conflicting reports. Some say it was an animal. Some say it’s not so clear-cut. That’s why I need you to get up there pronto. You gotta be my eyes and ears on this one, Lil.”
Lily didn’t realize she had been breathing frantically through her nose and quickly checked herself as she straightened her neck again and trolled past the Beaver Creek sign. “I’m on it,” she said simply. “I’ll keep you informed.”
“Oh, and Lily,” Samson said before the line went dead, “be careful on this one.”
Reluctantly, she dropped the phone back onto the seat and plowed forward again. A heavy dose of déjà vu assaulted her when she saw Jack’s, the notorious pub, and the hotel next to it. There were no bikes parked in the front this time, but there was a police cruiser. So Samson’s news had been right about that, at least.
Pulling into the parking lot of the pub, she reached into the backseat and grabbed her lucky backpack that was always at hand. She hadn’t brought a camera, but at least she had a certified press pass, a tape recorder, and a notepad and pen. But as she grabbed it all, she simply sat in the driver’s seat, unable to get out. Her arms and legs felt paralyzed by something. I came here to deliver news to a biker, she realized, and now I’m on assignment in the same place to figure out why a clandestine police exodus has come here?
That was too coincidental.
For all she knew, the police were here because of a murder that had to do with, if not Blake directly, perhaps his gang of Ursa Majors. The term “conflict of interest” crossed her mind, and she buried it again as quickly as she could as she stepped out and headed toward the cruiser. Just then, an officer came out of the pub, a portly sergeant with a clean shaven face that looked like it still had the remnants of baby-fat, and his eyes were bleary. He had his own notepad and was looking it over again as he headed toward his car, and almost didn’t see the young reporter.
Lily had already sized him up and instinctively reached down, flipping the top button on her cargo pants and pushed her chest out just enough to flash the rim of flesh under her tank-top. The sergeant startled as she appeared in front of him, blocking him in a subtle way from getting to his car.
“Ah, sorry miss, didn’t see you there,” he said, and made to tip his hat before realizing he had left it in the cruiser.
“No worries,” she said, putting on a flirtatious voice, one she knew from experience that had a certain spell over men, regardless of whether they were gangland fugitives or upstanding police officers. “I certainly don’t want to get in your way—we don’t often get a lot of cops up here,” she said, remembering that in general Beaver Creek was considered “off-limits,” though unofficially, to members of law enforcement. A sort of neutral peace that was abided by, but never acknowledged formally. “Certainly not handsome cops,” Lily added, forcing a blush as she looked down.
The cop bought it and put his hands on his waist, tucking his thumbs into his belt loops and pushing out his own chest, which did little to conceal a formidable paunch. A tight-lipped grin spread on his lips. Clearly, he was either dumber than he looked or simply didn’t get many compliments from stunning women.
“Well, I don’t know about that,” he said.
“Oh, I do,” Lily said, putting her hands behind her back and pointing her toes inward. “Heh, sorry, I can’t believe I said that out loud. Oh my god, I’m embarrassed. It’s just we don’t get many visitors up here. Heh, and none that are in uniform.”
The cop blushed again, and Lily resisted a grin. “Well, Miss, I’m flattered, but I’m only passing through—business, y’know,” he said.
“What kind of business?” Lily asked, trying to sound alarmed. “Nothing serious, I hope?”
The cop flinched and bobbed his head from side to side. “Well, I can’t talk about it too much, you understand,” he said, and Lily drew closer to him, pushing her cleavage toward him. Her breasts weren’t overly large, but the tank top she had chosen to wear was slack enough on her chest that the cop had no problem looking down her bosom. Absently, pretending not to notice, Lily drew her finger across her clavicle.
“Oh, I don’t want to get you in trouble,” Lily hummed.
“I’m just concerned is all.”
“You live around here?” the cop gulped, not even making an effort to avoid staring at the small mounds of her breasts.
Lily licked her lips playfully. “My whole life,” she lied, hoping that the cop wouldn’t interrogate her further—judging by how she’d drawn his attention, that didn’t seem like a possibility at this point. She backed away, teasing him, and put her own hands in her pockets, which forced the top of her cargo pants further down. The lip of her black panties gleamed above the surface, and the zipper where she’d unbuttoned the top started to come undone. “Just a small town girl, that’s what everyone says. But one day, I’m gonna move to the city.”
“Well, it’s a uh, beautiful place here,” he stammered, and sniffed loudly.
“You sure there’s nothing to be concerned about? I know you all mean the best, but my old father sees a handful of police cruising down the street, he’s liable to have a heart attack—he hates trouble, y’know.”
“Well, nothing like that, nothing to be concerned about, Miss,” the sergeant coughed, “just uh, well it looks like there was a death, that’s all.”
“A death?!”
The cop raised both hands, as if to silence her down. “Well, keep it quiet, Miss. But yeah, some poor guy looks like he got attacked by a bear of some sort.”
“A bear?” Lily tried to hide her confusion. “Well, no offense, but if it was a bear—isn’t that under the jurisdiction of the ambulance service or a park ranger or something?” Her voice had suddenly lost its infantile ring, and the sergeant squinted at her.
“Normally, yes, but, uh, if there’s… other things involved, or if it was suspicious then,” he seemed to have remembered himself, and shook his head, as if shaking off the spell that Lily had cast on him, and his orderly demeanor reappeared. “Really can’t talk about it, sorry, Miss. I have to go, if you’ll excuse me.”
She let him pass and watched with her hands in his pockets as he left. The cruiser roared to life and pulled out, and she made a note of which direction it was headed before sliding back into the car and turning the ignition. Lily had learned from one of her old colleagues during university how to tail cars without drawing unwanted attention—and by the looks of him, the cop was a dilettante in all manners of espionage. Probably a desk jockey, most days, she thought, turning her own vehicle toward the road.
