Shift Work (Carus #4)

by J. C. McKenzie

  “Here.” Stan handed me another bar-fridge beverage.

  I took it, we silently saluted each other, and I drank the burning fluid in one swallow. Ugh. I glanced at the label. Sherry. Who even drank this stuff anymore? An image of me and Stan, gray and wrinkled, sitting around a doily-covered table as we sipped sherry and played cribbage flashed in my mind. Total nonsense. Stan would be long in his grave before I saw a gray hair.

  My heart sank. An extended lifetime kind of sucked sometimes.

  I cleared my throat and blinked back unexpected tears. Before Stan noticed, I flapped my open palm in the air. “Can I use your phone?”

  Stan scrunched his face.

  “So I can text Tristan and warn him about my place? Even if you called it in, I don’t want him there.”

  “No sexting.” Stan slapped his phone into my open palm. “Anything else?”

  “Got any clothes I can wear?” I asked, clutching my towel outfit around me.

  “Yeah. Hang on.” Stan stumbled to his feet and shuffled to the bedroom.

  While he rummaged through his dresser, I sent a quick text to Tristan explaining the attack and warning him off my place. No immediate response. Stan would mock the crap out of me if I clutched the phone all night waiting for my boyfriend’s response, so I placed it on the coffee table where I could see the screen if a message popped up.

  When Stan walked back out, he threw a ratty pair of jogging pants and an old T-shirt at me. They smelled of Stan. “This do?”

  “Perfect.”

  Stan nodded and sat down, sprawling his legs out as he leaned back and reached for the remote control. “What do you want to do?”

  “Let’s get our drink on,” I said. Alcohol metabolized fast in a Shifter body, but it helped to momentarily numb the pain radiating from my butt.

  “Perfect.”

  Before Stan could grab us another round of disgusting and expensive liquor, his phone rang. I glanced at the screen as it vibrated on the coffee table beside me. “The Flower,” I said.

  “Sergeant Lafleur?”

  “Yeah, him.” I yanked on the jogging pants under the towel and pulled the drawstring tight before they could slip down my ass.

  “What’s your problem with him?”

  “Problem? None.”

  Stan’s eyebrows pinched in as he grabbed his phone and hit the accept button. “Stevens,” he grumbled.

  “Got another one,” Lafleur’s low voice carried through the speakers to my sensitive ears.

  Stan nodded. “Where?”

  “At 109th Avenue and 130th Street.”

  “Isn’t that Surrey?”

  “Yeah, the SPD is letting us view the scene as a courtesy.”

  Stan checked his cheap wristwatch. “Be there in thirty minutes.”

  “Bring the Shifter,” Lafleur gruffed before hanging up.

  I pulled the shirt on and threw the bloody towel on the bathroom floor. Maybe I did have a problem with Lafleur. He’d just spoiled a night of bonding with Stan. Nothing said besties better than projectile vomiting over the same toilet.

  ****

  When we arrived at 109th Avenue and 130th Street, it took little time for my nose to tell me why we got the call. Sour, burnt plastic and decaying flesh clung to the air and barrelled down the street to where I parked Stan’s car. King’s Krank and death.

  With only one drink in my system, and a supernatural metabolism, I drove. Each bump and jiggle of the vehicle on the uneven roads sent a little power punch of pain through my body.

  Looking down 130th Street gave a glimpse of the Fraser River and the mountains behind it as the sun peeked over the horizon. Such a beautiful dawn landscape scene. It contrasted sharply with the death in the air.

  “Here.” Stan slapped a pair of gloves in my hand, grunted and turned toward the crime scene. I hadn’t told him what I’d discovered at the tattoo shop or from Westman yet. I liked to verify things before I acted, and if I told Stan anything, he’d jump on it. His body vibrated beside me, the alcohol long gone from his breath. His hands balled into fists as he adjusted his shirt. Even though he mostly walked around in plain clothes now, I still envisioned him in his uniform and marked police cruiser. Couldn’t break the habit.

  Stan got us past the yellow tape by signing in with the officer in charge of maintaining the crime scene. They exchanged stiff nodes and voila, we were in. We entered a standard Surrey home. With at least three floors and more than two suites, this place either housed a multiple generation family or the home owners had tenants to help with their exorbitant mortgage.

  We walked into one of two basement suites. Well, Stan walked, I hobbled and tried not to wince with each step.

  The door separating this place from the rest of the house was open and voices carried from the main floor upstairs. Waves of grief carried in the flowing air, along with unconditional love. Multiple generations, then.

  A couple lay on the queen-sized bed in the main bedroom. Surrounded by framed pictures of family and minimal furnishings, they remained sprawled on their backs, blank eyes staring at the ceiling. Dried foam laid a path from their mouths to the sheets beneath them.

  Another overdose. Two victims this time.

  The sour, burnt plastic hit my face right away, but also something else. Something different. Something “other.” I limped forward, ignoring the alarm bells in my head chiming along with my feras.

  Wrong, growled my mountain lion.

  Leave, my falcon screeched.

  Destroy, rumbled the beast.

  Shut up, all of you! I hissed at the feras and leaned over the female victim. East-Indian, mid-twenties, beautiful. With horns. I pulled on the gloves Stan gave me. I reached out and gently pushed the tip of the horn on the left side of the woman’s temple. Solid, cold. Yup. Horns.

  Repeating the gesture for the other horn didn’t give me any more information, but my OCD kicked in, and I couldn’t prod one and not the other.

  I moved to the male victim. Also East Indian, mid-twenties, attractive, and sadly, also very dead. No horns.

  The medical examiner finished taking notes on his observations, or lack thereof, and turned to me. His eyebrows pinched in as his gaze travelled down my body to take in Stan’s old clothes and probably my limp. His mouth scrunched up before he nodded at the victim. “Check his mouth.”

  With a steady finger belying the unease flittering around in my stomach, I lifted the deceased’s full upper lip. His canines were considerably longer than the rest of his teeth. Long and pointy. I pushed his upper lip farther to look at the gums. Dried blood crusted around the base of both canines.

  “See anything?” The ME asked.

  “He was left handed?”

  The ME grunted.

  I grunted.

  He left me alone after that. I had the cop lingo down thanks to Stan.

  I straightened and turned to my partner. He raised his shoulders and ducked his head as if to ask, “Anything?” He kept his hands deep in his pockets.

  I tilted my head toward the exit. Stan nodded, and we walked out together into the fresh night air. My limp drew the attention of a few officers, but they wisely chose not to comment. The pain continued to radiate down my leg, but knowing it would go away acted like a calming salve for my mind.

  Upwind from the house, I inhaled long drags of the cool air and let it flow through my system as a natural cleanser.

  Stan stood beside me and remained silent until I opened my eyes.

  “So?” Stan asked.

  “Horns and fangs. Definitely Kings Krank. No other familiar scents. No one else had recently been in the room, other than family members.” Takkenmann’s words replayed through my head. One percent of trials experienced extraordinary supernatural abilities. Had Loretta made the connection between her employer and the new street drug? Is that where the KK came from? Is that why someone took her out?

  Stan nodded. “Doesn’t really give us anything new, does it?”

  “No, but…�
� Should I tell him? How much should I disclose? Stan might go off the deep end or off the grid.

  “But?” Stan’s gaze narrowed.

  “Was Loretta doing any research?”

  “For the company? Not that I know of.”

  “She might’ve been doing it on the side. Maybe she didn’t want you to know. Like the storage compartment. Was she on the computer a lot? Acting secretive at all?”

  Stan stilled. “She’d been spending a lot of time on the computer, lately.”

  I waited.

  Stan cursed. “I thought she was online shopping again.”

  I nodded.

  Stan reached out and gripped my upper arm. “You think she was researching King’s Krank?”

  The man had a grip. I tried to shrug out of his hold, but he tightened his grasp and pulled. I had a choice of fighting Stan or turning to face him. I turned. “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “I think her employer may have a connection to KK. Your wife worked for a pharmaceutical company that spent a majority of its profits on drug research, and your wife’s death is connected somehow to King’s Krank, a new drug that has some super freaky-deaky side effects. Yeah, I think there’s a connection.”

  Stan released my arm as if I’d burned him. His face contorted as his lips twisted, and his jaw clenched. “Any proof?” he whispered.

  “Not yet.”

  Stan’s body stiffened and he turned half-away before spinning back. He leaned in, close, so close the mouthwash he’d used earlier to rinse away the sherry wafted against my face. “We need to find proof.”

  “I know.”

  His skin glistened, and he licked his lips. “We need to be sure.”

  “I know.”

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  “The trouble with being punctual is that nobody’s there to appreciate it.”

  ~Franklin P. Jones

  Later that day, after a short morning cat-nap, I found myself sitting at “our coffee shop” with Mel. She’d shown up twenty minutes late, so I held my second cup of coffee, and the caffeine rushing through my veins left me jittery. As much as I tried to blink away the images, I couldn’t get the memory of the dead couple from this morning out of my mind. At least the ache from my bullet wound had abated to a dull, somewhat annoying, throb.

  Mel’s knowing blue gaze, surrounded by a halo of big blonde hair, studied me from across the wrought iron table. I’d wanted to talk over the phone, but my old friend knew me better than that. My ability to dodge the truth decreased, and her perceptiveness increased drastically face to face.

  With a perfectly French-manicured hand, she reached forward and plucked her latté off the table. After a long silent sip, she placed it gently back on the table. “How are things?”

  “Well, I work for the VPD now, and I’m helping my cop friend find his wife’s murderer. You may have seen some coverage on the news.”

  No point telling her about my little date with Sid tonight. Since I couldn’t change the inevitable, she’d worry for no reason. After thinking on the whole Sid thing, the fear I’d experienced dissipated. He wouldn’t harm his anchor. He didn’t feed off pain or fear, and he’d manipulated and schemed too hard to get me just to throw me away.

  “Is that why you’re nursing one butt cheek and smell of dried blood?” Mel asked, gaze narrowed.

  Dang it! I tried to hide that. “Yeah, sort of.”

  Her face scrunched up, obviously unimpressed with my answer, but after a moment, she relaxed back into her chair. “How’s the investigation going?”

  Technically, I couldn’t divulge any information to a civilian on an ongoing investigation with the VPD, but this was Mel. We went way back. We’d seen each other at our weakest and knew what we’d both survived. Her mind was a vault when it came to any secrets I shared with her.

  “It’s going okay,” I said. “A couple dead ends. No pun intended. But, I think I know who did it, and why. I just need proof.” I quickly relayed what I knew about Loretta’s death and the King’s Krank investigation. “I can’t help but feel it’s all connected. The weird overdoses, the KK drug dealer, and Loretta’s murder. I’m just missing the connecting dot.”

  Mel nodded. “Seems too coincidental for it not to be connected. I’m sure you’ll figure it out. You always do.”

  “Why did you demand to see me?” I asked. Mel’s tactics hadn’t changed over the years, she buttered me up for something. Something she didn’t want to tell me, but thought she had to. Since Mel belonged to Wick’s pack, my brilliant mind narrowed down the topic possibilities. None of them good.

  Mel shook her head and tsked me. “Is it demanding to ask to see a friend?”

  I speared her with my best better-start-talking-now-or-I-walk face.

  Mel’s shoulders sagged, and she bit her lip. “Okay fine. We need to talk.”

  Obviously. “About what?”

  “Wick.”

  My spine straightened at the same time my stomach churned. Just as I feared. She wanted to talk about him. Was he okay? Had something happened? I swallowed stomach acid. Had he mated with Christine? Were they having skinny little love babies? “What about him?”

  “Your decision hurt him.”

  I gulped back some more acid reflux before opening my mouth to defend my choice. Mel held her hand up to stop me and shook her head again. Her soft blonde hair brushed her slightly-flushed cheeks.

  “I know you didn’t make your choice lightly,” she said. “But I thought you should know the ramifications.”

  My muscles weakened, and I slouched in my seat. At the same time, a burning sensation spread across my chest. “I saw him two days ago, he didn’t seem to suffer any ramifications. He’s already replaced me.”

  Mel glared.

  I bit my lip. Okay, so he hadn’t seemed fine, but he also didn’t appear to be wallowing in self-pity, either.

  “Christine is a part of the problem,” Mel said.

  With a long sigh, I picked up my cappuccino and took a long drink. My shoulders insisted on trying to touch my ears, and no amount of wondrous caffeine seemed to settle the unease circling in my gut.

  “Okay,” I conceded. “Hit me with it.”

  Mel set her coffee down again and nodded. She squared her shoulders, and her blue gaze softened.

  Well, crap. This couldn’t be good.

  “Wick’s wolf has seen yours,” she started. “Wick and his wolf chose you.”

  “I know that. I dispelled my wolf.”

  Mel nodded. “But apparently that makes no difference to Wick or his wolf.”

  My brain cells stopped firing. My skin prickled with unease. “What do you mean?”

  “They both know the wolf isn’t truly gone, just banished to a different reality to make things easier for you.”

  I pursed my lips.

  “No judgement,” Mel quickly added. “I don’t think anyone blames you for wanting to separate yourself from that pain. They just wanted you to separate from a different animal.”

  “Well shit, Mel. What more can I do? I hoped sending my wolf away would make things easier for Wick, not just myself. I can’t and won’t mate to more than one man.”

  Images from Sid’s devious dreams streamed through my head. I shook them away. Not. Happening.

  “I know,” Mel said. She stared down at her cup. She had more to say. The deep furrow in the bridge between her perfectly plucked eyebrows told me so.

  “Have you mated with Tristan, yet?” she asked.

  “No. We’re taking our time.” I folded my arms across my chest, not caring how defensive it looked. Tristan knew how hard trust came to me—how much my past mistakes cast a shadow on the present and threatened my future decisions.

  Mel smiled as if she caught all my thoughts. “That’s good. I’m glad he’s patient. But maybe when you’re mated to Tristan, it will make things easier. Maybe then…”

  “Honest to Feradea, Mel, if you don’t spit out the rest of whatever it is you have to say,
I’ll find your entire shoe collection and burn it.”

  Mel sighed. “Wick’s wolf won’t accept Christine, nor anyone else, not when he knows yours isn’t truly gone.”

  My stomach dropped as my skin prickled. “So Wick is rendered mate-less until…until what? Forever?”

  “Until your death.” Mel hesitated. “It’s not like you’ve neutered him. He can still have relationships, still fall in love, but his wolf definitely won’t. Wick will never have a true mate. At least not right now, and if what I sense through the pack bond is accurate, not ever.”

  My stomach dropped as if an invisible weight sank to the bottom. I hadn’t expected this result. I knew I’d hurt him, but prevent him from mating in the future? My throat dried out and started to ache. Wick didn’t deserve this fate.

  If my decision had gone the other way, I would’ve left Tristan to the same fate.

  Damned if I do…

  The aching subsided and gave way to a racing heart. Mel’s words replayed in my head. What she sensed… I straightened in my seat. “You can sense it through your pack bond?”

  Mel nodded.

  The wheels in my head clanked into place and started turning. “If you can sense it…”

  “So can Christine,” Mel finished for me. “And she’s pissed.”

  Pain lanced across my face as I clenched my jaw. “Well, I’m certainly not happy about Wick’s wolf, more than not happy, but causing that harlot grief is the least of my concerns.”

  “That may change,” Mel said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “The only thing standing between Christine and her perceived happiness—”

  Understanding hit me like a professional hockey defenseman. I stood in Christine’s way. She wanted Wick and believed if I ceased to exist, the Alpha would be hers. She conveniently forgot I’d only recently entered Wick’s life, while she had been around much longer. Had he wanted to take her as his mate, he could’ve done so well before I ever walked, or flew, onto the scene. Unfortunately, morons rarely thought logically. “I’m the only thing she sees in her way.”

  Mel nodded along with my changing emotions, expertly plucking the scents from the air. “That’s why I needed to see you,” she said. “I wanted to warn you.”