Beast of All

by J. C. McKenzie

  We’re in place. Everything okay?

  I detected humour in Wick’s tone. Had he witnessed the crows trying to befriend me?

  Just an attempted murder, I replied.

  Wick snorted in my mind but didn’t comment. Yup, he’d seen it all.

  What’s the plan? he asked.

  Front door?

  A little obvious?

  I hopped along the roof ledge. Tucker’s a norm. With the guns immobilized, it will take little to overpower the guards.

  The others?

  Have the Witches stay outside with a phone. Leave Ryan and Steve in human form. You and John can come through the windows or the front door if there are any problems.

  Wick growled.

  What?

  I hate breaking through windows.

  Afraid of a little papercut?

  He snarled in my head again. No. I’m afraid of ramming the stupid stuff with my head only to find out the hard way it’s Were-proof.

  Crows couldn’t smile, but on the inside I did. The image of Wick head-butting a window only to get knocked on his ass sent warmth flowing through my tiny bird body.

  Steve will knock on the door. You and Ryan follow, Wick said.

  I bristled. But—

  My pack. Besides, no norm in their right mind would open the door to you in beast form, and ringing the bell naked would… His voice trailed off.

  I let out a rambling mix of caws and clicks into the night. He had a point. Let’s go.

  When Ryan and Steve walked into the light, I launched off the roof and settled on the ground. Luckily, Tucker had his blinds closed.

  Having already received his orders from Wick, Steve walked up the front steps and rang the bell. Ryan stood to the side, opposite me, out of sight from the entrance. The air around them clouded with rosemary and crayons. They were just as excited as I was to take Tucker down.

  With a deep breath, I focused inward and embraced the beast. The dark energy ran fast and ready. Feathers fell, bones cracked and stretched, and rage poured into my veins as I stretched my long limbs and unfurled my wings.

  In beast form, I resembled something between a dragon and human with hard obsidian scales running along my back and legs. The impenetrable scales gave way to my face and the soft black fur coating my stomach and chest. Large, black wings with almost translucent webbing instead of feathers spread out and a long, spaded tail swished around my feet.

  I caught my reflection in the window. Surrounded by straight black hair and two short horns, my dragon-slit eyes took in my vaguely familiar features before turning my attention back to the attack plan.

  The door creaked open. A guard grumbled, “What do you want?”

  Steve stepped in. A swish of fabric. A bone snap. A grunt. One body down. The soft thudding of strikes and blocks. A muffled cry. A second body down.

  I rounded the corner and moved quickly to enter the house. Steve stood in the entranceway over the two guards.

  Wow. I’d seen Steve in action before, but I always forgot how ruthless and efficient he was as an enforcer. The guards never stood a chance. I followed Ryan and stepped over the bodies. Norms, from their smell.

  Another, less pleasant smell, wafted down the hall—asparagus laced urine and cooked shrimp. My body recoiled. My nose hairs shriveled. Werehyena. Ugh.

  Steve turned to me and tapped his nose.

  Of course, I smelled that! I mindspoke to him.

  He smirked and waved us forward.

  Before his head got disconnected from his body, the late Master Vampire Ethan had loved using a sick, perverted Werehyena called Mark as his lead interrogator. Was there a connection?

  Footsteps slapped against the hardwood up ahead. Three Werehyenas rounded the corner, weapons drawn. Their fingers squeezed against the trigger as their stench barreled down the hall.

  Click, click.

  I liked having Witches on my side. Nice to avoid getting shot for once. Bullet-dodging wasn’t in my Carus skill-set.

  The men glanced down at their guns. Gazes widened. Jaws clenched. They crashed into us with a raging thump. Weres had faster reflexes and more power than Shifters, but as the Carus, I possessed unique skills. Besides, as the MMA fighter Conor McGregor once said, “Precision beats power, and timing beats speed.”

  We crushed them. Sidestepping the brunt of their attack, using arms and legs to deflect their blows, we bobbed and weaved out of the way and countered with deadly strikes. I ripped the head off the Werehyena sporting a greasy blond manbun.

  Blood thrummed through my veins as sweat pebbled along my nose. The man’s face reminded me too much of Mark, the sadistic Werehyena who’d tortured me. Another sick addition to team Ethan who’d died along with his master.

  Five guards down, two to go, plus the Tuckers.

  Steve rounded the corner, then Ryan. I followed, and stopped short. Waiting for us in the large, opulent living room, as if tea was served and we were late, the men stood in a curved line, crossing their arms across their chests in stiff suits.

  I gently pushed Ryan and Steve to the side as I approached the group.

  “Mighty bold.” Randall Tucker’s voice flowed like smooth liqueur. I hated him instantly. Tall and lean with a hint of a soft midsection, Randall shared similar features to his son, his hair slightly darker, and his hazel eyes duller. His expensive watch and cologne did little to mask his contempt and arrogance. I guess the apple didn’t fall far from the tree in this family.

  “Mighty stupid,” ATF sneered. He snapped his fingers like a bad villain, and the two Werehyena thugs beside him stepped forward. Their AK47s trained on us, and their muscles tensed as they braced to pull the triggers. Amateurs. You don’t tense to take a shot.

  A memory of Mark’s twisted face as he hovered over my prone body slapped through my mind. I shuddered. Mark was dead. Dylan was dead. Ethan was dead. I killed them. And the rest would die soon enough.

  No one appeared intimidated to face the big, bad Carus. Feradea! I was supposed to be the most powerful Shifter currently in existence, and not a drop of sweet sweat dripped from their pores. Instead, the scent of steel and iron barreled through the room, along with a tinge of fresh crayons. Not only were these men prepared and determined to cut us down, but some of them enjoyed the idea. Fuckers.

  Click, click.

  ATF’s smug smile faltered.

  “Mighty stupid,” I agreed and lunged forward. Ryan and Steve followed as we took down the remaining guards with quick efficiency. Their bodies slapped against the shiny hardwood floor, now streaked with blood.

  When I straightened, a stiff ATF glared back at me. Randall tugged on his sleeves, his expression bored. Bored?

  “Enough of this,” Randall said, seething. He took two lunging steps toward me and raised his hand.

  To what? Bitch smack a beast? I barred my fangs in a toothy smile.

  Before he could land his weak blow, Steve snaked between us and caught his arm. The enforcer tensed to retaliate, but a low growl vibrated through the room from the front door. Two large Werewolves slunk into the room and circled around to stand on the other side of Tucker Senior. Wick and John.

  Randall’s actions confirmed the thought bouncing around in my brain since we entered the living room. He was no mastermind. No devious enemy. No plotter of mass destruction; instead, just another stupid puppet for the Pharaoh to manipulate and control.

  Steve slowly, but firmly bent Randall’s hand away from me until it cracked. Randall bellowed out in pain, and fell to his knees.

  Overkill, much? I told them all. I had that.

  “It’s the principal,” Steve snarled.

  Okay… Maybe I’d grown so immune to Tucker’s douche-baggery, I expected pitiful slights whenever and wherever possible. Or was there some other reason Steve’s protectiveness had amped up a notch or two?

  The last time he’d played the over-protective mamma bear was when…

  I shook my head. Wick removed his mate claim over me a long t
ime ago. Steve must be acting out of friendship or working out of some ancient war ethic manual I knew nothing about. Thou shall not strike thy victor.

  ATF remained frozen under the direct, menacing stare of Ryan. He wasn’t going anywhere. Good. We needed him in one piece for information.

  “Andrea McNeilly,” Randall spat. “You’ve turned out to be quite a thorn in the Pharaoh’s side. I should’ve known Maggie and Tyler’s progeny would try to ruin our plans.”

  I faltered. The names of my biological parents sent a chill running along my spine.

  ATF’s head swiveled quickly to his father, his gaze wide. Guess Daddy didn’t believe in honest, open communication between loved ones. Had Randal known all along? Or had the Pharaoh told him after I became a thorn in his side? Randall couldn’t possibly have lived when my parents ran around making life miserable for the Pharaoh.

  “How do you know who my biological parents were?” I asked.

  Randall sneered. “Please, who do you think Ethan worked for? When his lapcat servant started following you around like a love-sick kitten, it took little effort to track Tristan’s movements. Imagine our surprise, and dismay, to discover you’re the daughter of that Shifter-bitch activist. The Pharaoh thought he got rid of her meddling eighty years ago.”

  I growled, deep and low. Beast fury flashed hot and raced through my veins. So a connection between Ethan and the Pharaoh existed. He was another puppet, and the Werehyenas, the link.

  “Why would the Pharaoh care about a Shifter couple trying to keep the peace?”

  Randall barked out a laugh. “The Pharaoh doesn’t want anyone to get along beside those under his control.”

  The pieces clanked into place. My parents fighting to maintain peace between Shifters and humans, and the proposed Demon-Vampire alliance both failed because of the Pharaoh’s actions. He wanted everyone else weak because it made his power more impressive by comparison, and prompted the most vulnerable to seek protection from him. Once he granted protection, his control and power base grew. A self-perpetuating evil cycle.

  “If the Pharaoh hadn’t tried to manipulate events and position you on our side,” Randall continued. “You would’ve ended up in the lab long before now.”

  I stepped forward and gripped both sides of Randall’s ruddy face and squeezed. Steve dropped Randall’s broken arm and stepped away. Wick growled encouragement. The others remained motionless.

  I pressed harder, and Randall’s cheeks squished until his lips bubbled out. “You need me alive,” he wheezed through fish-lips.

  “Wrong,” I snarled. “I need one Tucker alive.”

  Randall stiffened. His salty, sickly sweet sweat permeated the air. Finally. His gaze shifted to his shuffling, pathetic son. If he planned to say goodbye, he never took the opportunity. Nor did he beg. Too proud.

  I snapped his neck in one swift motion. His body sagged to the floor and slumped against the bodies of the guards. Emptiness met Randall’s glazed stare. In a master game of chess, he simply represented another evil pawn knocked out of my way to get the king. No guilt or feelings of sadness plagued my mind. Randall got what he deserved. Memories of another SRD agent’s fate played in my mind. Agent Nagato died a painful death due to Randall’s orders. The crime scene had reeked of cruelty. Fera loss was the worst way for a Shifter to die, and they’d killed Nagato’s fera not only to slowly watch Nagato die, but to torture him as he drew his final, painful, breaths. His only crime? A hard working SRD employee.

  Randall and Tucker did not deserve mercy or pity. They deserved retribution.

  “No!” ATF bellowed behind me somewhere. He fell to the ground with a sob.

  Wick stepped up beside me, still in wolf form. The Witches are bringing the van around.

  Good.

  You okay? He growled in my head.

  My wolf preened from the attention. One down, a handful more to go.

  Wick pressed his large, furry body against my legs. Not sure why his chose now to do so, but the warmth of him beside me calmed the raging beast. He moved with me when I took a deep breath and knelt beside Tucker. The agent sniffled and swiped at his tears and snot running down his face. His body tensed as my shadow fell over his face.

  “What do you want?” he whispered.

  “Remember what I promised in the lab?” The memory resurfaced in my beast brain like sweet nectar. I’m going to get out of here. And when I do, I’m going to slaughter the fuck out of all of you. Every single person remotely responsible for Tristan’s death will feel my wrath, suffer my claws, and scream as my teeth rip into them.

  His hazel gaze widened.

  “I always keep my promises.”

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Gabriola House

  “Eagles soar, but weasels don’t get sucked into jet engines.”

  ~Steven Wright

  Once again, Team Andy stood around a large planning table with the Werewolf pack, the Witches, Stan, and the Wereleopards. This time, Allan and Clint joined us. And this time, we used Kayne Security Systems headquarters as a meeting place.

  The simple-styled business building with reflective windows and four stories of office space housed Tristan’s security empire. The profitable company offered personal and business solutions for safety and security of people, information, possessions, and property—everything and anything for a pretty little price tag.

  When we arrived, we walked through the ultra-modern lobby, tracked by security cameras. Suzy, the ocelot Shifter receptionist with graying brown hair and kind eyes, greeted us. Skipping the lower floors used for offices, weapons, and training, we made our way to the third floor that housed the IT department and security programs.

  Returning to this place brought back memories. The short elevator ride had always been exquisite torture, trapped in a small confined space with Tristan’s enchanting smell, but too short a ride to do much about it. Though the sweet memories plagued the edges of my mind, I found them more bittersweet than sharp. The thoughts brought a smile to my face instead.

  Olly, completely ignorant of my walk down memory lane, rolled out floor plans and brought up schematics on the flat screens. “Fifteen thirty-one Davie Street, also known as Gabriola House, is one of Vancouver’s oldest buildings. It was built in 1900 for the industrialist Benjamin Tingley Rogers. The ‘Sugar King’ was the founder of B.C. Sugar and its refinery.”

  Olly brought up some old pictures on a nearby monitor. “Constructed with green sandstone quarried from Gabriola Island, this house is still considered one of the most lavish heritage homes in the area once known as Blueblood Alley. Despite various renovations over the years, converting the structure to an apartment building and different restaurants, in reviewing the building plans submitted to the city, we feel the home is still relatively unchanged. This is good news.”

  I straightened from the floor plans and snapped my fingers. “That’s why it looked familiar. It was a restaurant. I’ve probably sat in one of the rooms.”

  “Stuffing your face with cannoli, no doubt,” Wick said. He obviously knew me well. When I looked up, he held my gaze, irises flashing wolf yellow, before looking back down at the plans.

  Olly grunted. “It recently sold to a developer for over ten million dollars. He plans to remodel the building into condos.”

  “Figures,” Wick spat.

  “You’re a developer,” I pointed out.

  “Not one who tears down historical sites.”

  “There’s more,” Olly interjected, sounding a bit annoyed by our banter.

  “Sorry. Proceed,” I said.

  “The property used to span the entire block with horse stables, greenhouses, and work sheds. But here’s where it gets interesting.”

  Thank Feradea for an interesting part. So far, I could’ve found a textbook with more flair than Olly’s reconnaissance. Not that it was bad, just not exactly helpful. I didn’t care about the age of the old building or what kind of decorations it sported. How did I get in and out without ge
tting dead?

  “The house is rumored to have tunnels linking Gabriola House with another old building. Maxine’s Beauty School at twelve fifteen Bidwell allegedly ran a brothel in the basement.”

  Stan snorted and used air quotes. “Allegedly.”

  I elbowed him in the gut. “Maybe that’s our way in.”

  “Unlikely. The beauty school was torn down in 2012 to develop condominiums.”

  Wick growled.

  “Relax,” Olly smirked. “The Bidwell building wasn’t as lavish or historical as Gabriola House. Any tunnel that may or may not have existed to Gabriola House would’ve been removed or boarded up when the condominiums were built. Looking at the building specs and comparing it with the expense claim for materials, my guess is the Bidwell end of the tunnel is now filled with concrete.”

  “Well, if it had a brothel in the basement, at least we know the purpose of the tunnel,” Stan muttered.

  “Tunnels, as in plural,” Olly continued, shooting Stan a dark look. “And not just for the Gabriola House inhabitants to run to the brothel for a quickie, there’s a lot of rum-running anecdotes connected with the location, too. More than likely they used the tunnels for bootlegging during Prohibition.”

  I nodded, but so far he’d only mentioned a tunnel to the whore house. The silence in the room grew as everyone mulled over what little information we had.

  “Tunnels?” I prompted.

  “There’re also rumours of a tunnel running to English Bay, but if it still exists it’s probably boarded up and concealed with magic.”

  “Anything else?” Stan asked.

  “Yes. Lots of sightings of apparitions.”

  Stan grumbled.

  I shot him a look. “You’re standing between the progeny of a goddess, and a Werewolf Alpha. Really?”

  He shrugged. “You ever seen a ghost?”

  I pressed my lips together. A couple of times. When I was with Dylan’s pack. I didn’t like to remember that part of my life.

  Wick’s gaze flicked between me and the cop. “Go on, Olly.”