Carpe Demon (Carus #3)

by J. C. McKenzie

  I forced my shoulders to relax. “Fine. You’re right. But I don’t think you’ll dislike the news. I know it.”

  “Spit it out, already. I plan to get laid tonight and if you stall anymore, you’re going to kill my mood.”

  “It’s going to kill it anyway,” I warned.

  Mel fixed me with a half-decent death stare.

  “Bola.” After all the warm-up conversation and practice speeches in the car on my way over, and I still spat it out like a socially-inept teenager. Forget my ground game. I needed to work on my interpersonal skills.

  The colour drained from her face. She gulped and put her coffee to-go cup gently down on the counter. “Bola?”

  My body tensed as I watched Mel’s reaction. The scent of sweet sweat wafted off her skin and stirred my feras. The wolf growled, demanding I protect her. My mountain lion hissed at her fear. She should be safe, always. I took a deep breath and continued. “I’m sorry. He showed up three nights ago at the Vampire summit, sabotaging a vote they held to decide on a Demon-Vampire alliance. Then he started a bloody rampage.”

  “Steveston and Chinatown?”

  I nodded. “He took possession of someone’s body, and apparently the Witch who summoned Bola forgot to limit his access to the mortal realm, or didn’t care enough to. I thought you should know.”

  Mel nodded before she stared at her cup. Her breathing shuddered a couple times on exhale, but then her posture loosened. Mel had been one of the luckier women in the pack, if such a thing existed. She hadn’t suffered from Bola’s attentions often because she’d accepted the forced bond between her and David. As a sub, she hadn’t acted out or been as defiant as some of the others. She still had to watch though. Watch as Bola was used as a form of punishment to teach the more dominant females a lesson. Like me.

  Her hand flashed across the table to grip one of mine. She squeezed. “How are you doing?”

  “I’ve been better.” I hated the shake my voice took on. It was always hardest to hide my true feelings from Mel. Like she said, she knew me well, including my past and all my tells.

  “Do you want to talk about it?”

  “Not really.” I squeezed her hand back as images from the past slashed through my memory.

  The first time I said, “No,” and Dylan forced himself on me…

  The first time he raped me in front of his pack…

  The first time he ordered the other male pack members to join in…

  The first time I gave up fighting and distanced myself from the pain and humiliation…

  The first time Bola was present and participated…

  My heart clenched in my chest. A wall of shame traveled up my body as nausea sloshed in my guts. Stomach acid bubbled up my throat.

  I swallowed, mouth dry.

  I needed to face my past. Some of the shame and guilt would never go away, but what happened wasn’t my fault. Yes, I was a victim of Dylan’s horrific and perverted abuse. But I survived. Dylan paid the price. They all had.

  Except Bola.

  Mel sat across from me and held my hand the entire time my emotions waxed and waned. Surely, she smelled the changes, reading my mental process as if I spoke out loud, but she remained still and silent, her presence provided welcome and reassuring company.

  This visit wasn’t supposed to be about me. As a dominant Shifter, I protected the subs and the weak. I was supposed to be the rock. My wolf vibrated in agreement.

  “It will be okay,” Mel finally said.

  “What makes you say that?” I attempted a smile, but it probably looked more like a grimace.

  “Because you’ll get him,” she said. The truth of her statement, her belief in its accuracy, warmed my heart. Mel smiled at me and squeezed my hand yet again. Her eyes hardened and narrowed. “You’ll get him. For all of us. And you’ll make him pay.”

  Truth, my wolf growled.

  Chapter Thirteen

  “The only thing that will be remembered about my enemies after they’re dead is the nasty things I’ve said about them.”

  ~Camille Paglia

  My phone vibrated, and the ringtone’s volume increased in strength. A female rock star belted out her classic song of love and battlefields. The iconic music blasted from my phone as I left the coffee shop and a shaken, but ever-confident Mel. I dug the noisy device out of my pocket, and glanced at the screen. Blocked caller. Only a handful of people had this number.

  Not even telemarketers had caught on yet.

  Are you going to answer? Red asked.

  Nope, I replied and hummed along with the song. An ugly thought wound its way into my lyrical paradise. My pace slowed. What if Bola had struck again? What if he planned murder and mayhem right now? He could be walking on this very street.

  My falcon screeched and demanded I shift to fly home. My wolf growled and the hairs on the back of my neck tingled like rising hackles. I froze on the sidewalk.

  Stop it! I told my feras. Be calm.

  The time of Dylan and his sadistic sidekick Demon was over. I would not allow fear to rule me again.

  Never again.

  I clenched my fists and started walking again, this time with a bit more stomp in my gait.

  The song finished, and my phone stopped vibrating. If the caller had legitimate reasons for calling me, they’d leave a message. I shoved the phone back in my pocket. More relaxed, I strolled to where I’d parked the Poo-lude. Destination: Home. Time to make a list of my priorities before Lucien called me back and ordered me to take care of Bola.

  My ringtone started again, shrieking from my pocket about heartaches.

  I shimmied my phone back and forth to wrench it from the clutches of my jeans just as the chorus started. I might have to rethink skinny jeans. Not only impractical for quick shifting, they made accessing my phone extremely difficult. I looked like a contortionist every time I had to pull it out. Why’d I let Mel talk me into them?

  I stared at the phone. Blocked caller. Again. A persistent unidentified caller.

  What’s the worst they could do over the phone?

  With my index finger, I jabbed the “Accept” button and said, “Hello?”

  “Ambassador McNeilly?” a familiar voice asked.

  Where had I heard this smooth, yet grating voice before? The kind that shredded nerve endings. “Yes. Who is this?”

  “This is Agent Tucker.” He paused for effect, and boy did he get one.

  My phone creaked as my hand convulsed around the plastic in a death grip. Fucking Agent Tucker. If a zombie apocalypse or a second Purge left only me and this guy on the planet together, I’d rather swap spit with lifeless corpses or dance naked for the entire demonic realm than remain alive with him as my sole companion.

  When he’d asked me for the location of my fera, I’d reacted by trying to strangle the life out of him—a completely natural and understandable reaction from any Shifter’s point of view—and now he seemed hell bent on making my existence on Earth miserable.

  I’d rather sit braless with Stan’s wife watching cop drama reruns than speak to this guy. Fucking Agent Tucker.

  “Ambassador McNeilly?”

  Oh crap. He’d been talking. “What?”

  “Did you hear anything I just said?”

  “You had me at hello.”

  A pause. “I didn’t say hello.”

  “I know.”

  “McNeilly, do you know the whereabouts of Agent Booth?”

  Amusement bubbled up my throat. Agent Booth had been my previous supervisor at the SRD. I liked her. She’d turned out to be an Egyptian goddess searching for her long lost husband, Sobek. After she used me to run him down, she’d left the SRD. Pretty sure she was off somewhere doing the dirty with Sobek. Did I know her exact whereabouts? “No.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “Are you going to haul me into the SRD headquarters and strap me to your machine?” I’d pass that question with his stupid norm lie detector with flying colours.

 
“Don’t tempt me.”

  If I didn’t have a hectic life, I’d antagonize him on a full-time basis. Let him bring me in and waste taxpayer dollars. Maybe Daddy, the Director of the SRD, would have to have a stern word with his son about the appropriate use of taxpayers’ money, instead of feeding him everything on a personalized, gilded spoon.

  “I’ll try not to,” I said.

  “Did you know she was missing?” Tucker asked.

  As I continued walking, I turned down an alley, and my canary yellow car came into view. It looked different. Something bright red now adorned the side and faint waves of spray paint floated on the light breeze.

  Motherfucker!

  I stood beside my crappy car, and limply held my phone. Tucker’s irritating voice screeched out of the speakers, but I ignored him to stare at some wannabe-hoodlum’s attempt at creating an artistic rendition of male genitalia on the side of my car. Bright-red cock and balls.

  The artist took time detailing the veins and…er, fluids, but the image wasn’t remotely close to being anatomically correct

  This was the last time I parked this hunk-of-junk in an alley.

  “Andrea?” Tucker’s nauseating voice cut through my rising anger. “ANDREA!”

  “What?” I brought the phone back up to my ear. Oh right, he’d asked if I knew Agent Booth was missing. “Agent Booth is gone?”

  “Yessss,” Tucker said. The way the “s” slithered out, I got the impression he’d lost patience with me. Maybe he clenched his jaw? Maybe he ground his teeth? Good. I hoped he broke a tooth.

  “She wasn’t in her office the last time I came in for a visit, but I didn’t think anything of it.” Truth! I fingered the red paint. Dry. Dammit. I’d have to drive through rush hour with this.

  “Of course not.” Something crinkled in the background. It sounded like Tucker balling a bunch of papers in his fist. Then he released them and exhaled a quiet breath, as if relaxing.

  Oh crap.

  “Due to Agent Booth’s recent disappearance, I’ve been promoted within the organization.”

  Double crap.

  “Part of my promotion is to assume some of Booth’s previous responsibilities.”

  Triple crap. I could hear his smarmy smile from across the phone.

  “I’m now your acting supervisor.”

  And there it was. The nail in the proverbial coffin. What harm could answering my phone cause? A massive brain hemorrhage, also known as a headache. It started behind the eyes, making my vision blurry, before radiating out to start a deafening throb at the back of my skull.

  “Ambassador McNeilly?”

  “What?” I snapped.

  “I’d like you to come in to discuss some of your recent activities.”

  Oh goody. This got better every second. “Do I have a choice?”

  “Of course not.”

  “When?”

  “Now.”

  I rotated my wrist to check my watch. Four in the afternoon. Dang it. He’d have me for at least an hour before the end of the day. “I can get there in half an hour.”

  “You can get here in ten.”

  “I’m not shifting in front of you.” No way did I want Tucker to see me naked. Plus, I didn’t know if he was aware of my multiple shapes. No need to let the Carus out of the bag.

  “Your phone GPS indicates you’re in the West End. You’re a couple blocks away from the downtown office. Leave your crap car and walk over. I’ll see you in ten.” Click.

  I glared at my traitorous phone. GPS? He’d tracked my phone? How’d he even get this number? Stan? Sergeant Lafleur?

  Red’s beady little eyes stared up at me.

  Looks like we’re making one more stop, I told her.

  Chapter Fourteen

  “I like long walks, especially when they are taken by people who annoy me.”

  ~Fred Allen

  With heavy feet and a heavier heart, I dragged my body through the main floor of the downtown SRD office with Red close behind. The entrance and hard tiles seemed more expansive than the last couple of times I’d been here. The sterile smell, more irritating. Talking with Mel had been emotionally exhausting, and the prospect of sitting down to “talk” with Agent Tucker drained any extra energy I possessed.

  Ben and Matt glanced up from their post at the main desk. When I’d first met them, I thought they were the most boring SRD Witch guards in existence. Now, I knew better. Now, I loved that I had friends who worked security at the SRD.

  “Hey you!” Matt greeted me with a smile. “What brings you in?”

  “Agent Douche Nozzle,” I grumbled.

  Matt’s eyes widened before confusion consumed his plain facial features.

  “Agent Tucker?” Ben asked in a whisper.

  “I think I love you a little more now.” I leaned against the counter and flapped my hand, palm up, for the clipboard. “You guessed right.”

  Ben snorted and gave me the sign-in sheet. “You’re not the only one to call him that,” he said. “Well, actually, your choice of words is more creative, but the staff around here has several names for him.”

  “You, too?”

  Ben tsked and shook his head. His gaze cut to the security cameras. He’d probably said too much already. Of course, Tucker would monitor the staff.

  I shrugged and exchanged the clipboard for a “Guest” name tag. I clipped it to my shirt and inhaled a deep breath, trying to relax my muscles. “Great finale last night. ‘I want to know What Love Is’ sounded pretty awesome with all of you belting it out together.”

  Matt’s chest puffed out a little. “Thanks! My pick. I love Foreigner.”

  Ben squinted at me. “Cut the crap, Andy. We sucked, and Matt couldn’t hit the right note if we spelled him—”

  “Hey!” Matt said.

  Ben turned to him quickly. “It’s true. Get over it.” Then his full attention swung back to me. “Why the compliments?”

  “Just buttering up the security.”

  “What for?” Matt asked at the same time Ben groaned.

  “In case she loses it and attacks Tucker,” Ben explained, confirming his spot as my favourite Witch. He got me.

  “Oh,” Matt said.

  “Don’t worry.” Ben turned to me and leaned forward to whisper with a conspiratorial flourish, “We’ll let you finish the job before apprehending you.”

  “Oh, I know,” I whispered back. “I’m being nice so you don’t fling any of those nasty curses at me.”

  “Tucker’s taken Booth’s old office. I trust you know where to find it?” Ben asked in a loud voice.

  “Yes, thank you for your assistance,” I said and flounced through the metal detectors before making my way to the elevator.

  ****

  The Wereleopard receptionist with a petite curvy body looked up from her desk when I entered the main office area on the tenth floor. Angie, or Angelica as she liked to be called, and I had history. I suspected she loved Tristan in more than an I-respect-you-as-my-leader way, but so far, nothing had come to blows, or scratches. Just a few silent hisses. She wasn’t his mate, and they’d never been involved intimately.

  “Ambassador McNeilly. Agent Tucker is expecting you,” she said. “Please go on through.”

  Huh? Since when did Angie act like a proper receptionist? When I stood gaping at her, Angie widened her eyes and jerked her chin toward Booth’s old office. Ah, since Booth left and Tucker replaced her. What did that mean for Angie?

  I nodded, and walked down the hall to Tucker’s office.

  Fucking Agent Tucker. Propped against Booth’s former office doorway stood the average-looking norm with hazel eyes and expensive cologne. He directed a condescending look mixed with hatred at me. “Ambassador McNeilly,” he said in a smooth voice that scraped against my nerves.

  “Agent Tucker.”

  Without another word, he spun around and sauntered into his office. Guess he expected me to follow? I did. No point in running away now, but the idea I kowtowed to this pr
ick set my back into a straight line.

  Can we kill him? Red asked. My other feras growled and shrieked their approval.

  No.

  Walking into the room, the sharp contrast of Tucker’s style compared to Booth’s struck me sideways. With the exception of a few random trinkets on her desk, Booth’s office had been sparse and professional. Within the same space, Tucker managed to alter the room into a shrine to, well, Tucker. No standard certificates or awards mounted in a tasteful manner. No. Instead, a large realistic painting of himself in a quasi-Thinker pose hung on the wall. On the shelves, intermittent between books I’d never heard of—The Stranger, by Albert Camus, Portnoy’s Complaint, by Philip Roth and Infinite Jest, by David Foster Wallace—were strategically placed photos featuring Tucker with famous celebrities, politicians and his dad, the Director of the SRD.

  The acid from my stomach bubbled up my throat. Maybe if I threw up, he’d cut this meeting short?

  Not wanting to make eye contact with Tucker longer than necessary, I continued to analyze his bookshelf while he rummaged behind his desk looking for something.

  Catcher in the Rye, by J. D. Salinger? What? Did Tucker feel misunderstood, like Holden Caulfield? I shuddered. I didn’t plan to be the first person to delve into that hot mess of a brain.

  Part of me wished Tucker horded a collection of regency romance novels. It might make him a tad more tolerable.

  Tucker made an “Aha!” noise, and I turned to face him. He’d taken a seat and pulled out a file from his desk drawer. My file. The one Angie had told me disappeared with Booth. The one I’d never looked inside, with all my personal details and most likely information about my family prior to my adoption. The one with all the coffee mug stains. The little circles somehow endeared me to the beige parchment. The errant papers that had poked out last time must’ve been reordered, because the file looked neat, tidy…and thinner?

  “Have a seat, Ambassador McNeilly. We have a lot to discuss.”

  I bit down hard, and did as ordered.

  “You’ve been working with the VPD,” he stated.

  “I have.”

  “You don’t feel that’s a conflict of interest, working for a competing agency?”