by Lola Taylor
Elijah smiled grimly. You got that right.
As the man got in and drove off, Elijah hitched his bag over his shoulder and began walking.
He could feel blisters rubbing on the heels of his feet. This was going to suck.
Different topics went through his head, but his thoughts were mostly preoccupied with what the hell he was going to do with his life. The “buried alive” dream kept replaying over and over in his head. He hadn’t actually been buried alive, or at least, he didn’t think he had. Someone had found him shivering and naked by the highway and had taken him to a hospital. Once he realized where he was, he’d stolen some clothing and scrammed before they could figure out his identity. He wouldn’t put it past Black to have spies everywhere.
He shuddered just thinking about her.
Could he really get away from her? Had it all just been a childish fantasy?
Anger at all the things she’d made him do—all the things he’d somewhat enjoyed doing, before his wake-up call—rekindled his determination.
He would change his name. Move to Europe. Hell, move to Antarctica if that’s what it took.
All he knew was he could never go back there. He’d rather die than succumb to that kind of darkness again.
He took a moment to take in a deep breath of chilly air and survey his surroundings. Tennessee countryside really was beautiful. He hadn’t spent much time here except in passing, but he’d always admired the lush grass and plentiful trees. Yes, he still loved to look at trees in autumn bloom, even after they’d tried to kill him. He sympathized with them, in a way. They were as much Black’s puppets as he had been.
In the back of his mind loomed his brothers’ faces. They were never far from his thoughts. Neither was the guilt at leaving them, or the yearning to see them again.
His fingers itched to call them, but he never did. He couldn’t afford to have them dragged into his mess. There would never come a day when he would ever place them in danger.
It has to be this way, for their own good.
He lost track of time as he walked. Twenty miles really wasn’t that long when you had plenty on your mind.
The city of Destiny wasn’t very big, about twenty thousand people, more or less, according to Google.
Being nearly dawn, the city was just awakening. Wanting to draw the least amount of attention to himself as possible, he cut a path through the woods, well away from the highway.
There weren’t that many pedestrians out yet, though his inner sense of the supernatural picked up on a few signatures. It wasn’t unusual for vampires to be out this late, though they would retire soon. Paranormal creatures in general were more active at night.
The twinkling stars overhead were beginning to fade away as the sky lightened. He glanced at his watch. It was nearly six a.m. His contact would be waiting for him.
He had arranged transportation weeks ago in the black market, as well as a fake passport and other identification, with another werewolf who went by Shade. Shade was an astute businessman, with a knack for staying off the DPI’s radar. Granted, had Elijah known the DPI was staking out this city for some reason, he might not have been so keen to meet Shade here.
Oh, well. It couldn’t be helped. Ever since rumors had begun to circulate about a witch mafia killing off paranormals, the DPI had doubled its police efforts. Stakeouts like these were more common now. He knew he’d have to be careful before he’d even made the decision to escape.
He just hoped all that planning wasn’t about to be blown sky-high.
Elijah was walking by a pay phone when it began to ring.
He stopped.
Shit like that was too coincidental. And his gut was hardly ever wrong. Sensing it was for him, he walked over to it and answered. He waited, not wanting to be the first to speak.
“Is this the traveler?” came a gravelly voice from the other side amid a sheen of static.
Elijah tensed. Shade always did have a very distinctive voice. “Yeah.”
“Your roommate came home early,” Shade went on.
Elijah frowned. “The roommate” had to be the DPI.
Damn. How had they found him? Shade was infamous for evading them. It would be this one time… “That’s too bad.”
“Tell me about it. Location’s changed. Go to location B.”
The line went dead and Elijah hung up the phone. He’d heard the regret in Shade’s voice. For a crook, Shade really was an honest one, at least to his business associates. He would never intentionally throw somebody under the bus. Not many “honest” people could say as much.
Elijah deliberated.
If he had any sense, he’d tuck tail and put as much distance between him and the DPI as possible. And he would have, had he any other trustworthy contacts. The IDs and all his false paperwork—the tickets to his freedom and a new life, away from the Order—were only another block away. Another chance like this might not crop up for a long time, and then he’d be trapped in the States for a while.
Trapped in the same country as Mistress Black.
Chills broke out over his skin as a shudder rolled through him. He’d never relive the horrors she’d put him through again, so help him God.
He took off walking, following the street signs until he got to the right place.
The diner was modest and plain, the type of place that didn’t draw too much attention to itself.
And the perfect place for a back-up meeting.
Scanning every which way for potential DPI agents, Elijah donned his sunglasses and casually entered the diner.
The lights were dim and eighties rock played from an old jukebox in the corner. Guests were eating breakfast, making idle chit-chat. There was so much smoke in the air it was a bit hazy.
Elijah saw Shade sitting in a shadowy booth in a corner. He was wearing a black cowboy hat and a black leather jacket that seemed to blend in with the shadows.
Elijah walked over to him and ordered a coffee from the waitress.
Shade looked up, his gray eyes piercing. “Were you followed?”
“Don’t think so.”
“You don’t think or you don’t know?”
Elijah stared at him evenly. “I don’t know,” he admitted.
With a grunt, Shade slid a manila envelope over to Elijah, who discreetly slid him an envelope full of cash.
Shade stood quickly and tipped his hat. “Pleasure doing business with you.”
He started out the door when the front door opened and in walked a man and a woman wearing matching uniforms.
Elijah felt Shade’s fear before he read the initials stitched with golden thread on the couple’s jackets.
DPI.
Stay. Calm.
Shade pretended like he dropped something and then chuckled. He pointed toward the rear. “Forgot I was parked out back,” he mumbled, without looking at Elijah.
Elijah knew the man was trying to keep from incriminating him, which he appreciated.
Too bad it didn’t work.
Down the hall, he heard a door open and startled cries from the kitchen staff as a herd of footsteps thundered toward the dining room.
Shade swore and whirled, but the agents were quicker.
Elijah froze, surveying the situation.
His werewolf ears picked up more doors bursting open throughout the building. Agents clad in the token midnight blue uniform of the DPI SWAT team raided the room, their guns raised. He knew they didn’t need them. They were mostly for show more than anything, a “last resort,” in case their spells failed. Most of the DPI was comprised of the most talented witches and warlocks on the planet, since magic usually trumped fangs or fur in any fight.
“You have got to be kidding me.”
All these months of painstakingly planning every move, and he had walked right into a bust.
An agent stopped in front of him and raised her weapon. Everyone in the room froze as the DPI surrounded him and Shade.
The woman’s eyes flicked to his sh
oulder. “Drop the bag and raise your hands, now!”
No problem. He didn’t need the bag. There wasn’t anything in there of much use, anyway, and definitely nothing that could incriminate him.
Frantic, he wracked his brain for options. He could try to run, but he’d be gunned down quickly. And all his exits were blocked.
Gritting his teeth, he slowly held up his hands.
“Fine. I surrender.”
Holy shit. She was going to die.
Verika’s heart pounded as the treadmill beeped, signaling her last lap.
She’d been running every morning for the past week, and she still felt as out-of-breath now as she did on day one. And yet, she relished the breathlessness and the sweat. She always felt more relaxed after a run. Maybe what people said was true—exercise really did help stress.
And boy, could she use some help in that department.
Ever since the witch mafia started its killing spree, all agents had been working around the clock to stop them. Verika didn’t mind being busy—and hey, all the overtime fattened up her paychecks—but she was sick of the investigation not going anywhere.
Where the hell were these witches and warlocks? Why hadn’t they been able to find them yet?
Being a bit of a spellbook-worm, Verika had always fancied herself adept at Tracking spells. Whenever there was a tough case to crack, they called her to locate a criminal in hiding or find a loophole in a spell. And she always did.
Until now.
Whomever the Order was employing, they were very good. And in her world, “very good” probably meant the witch in question obtained such a powerful spell by illegal means.
Her stomach rolled at the thought of some of the dark spells she’d come across in her hours and hours of research and study. Blood magic was so unpredictable that few people were allowed to practice it, and even then, you had to be licensed and registered with the Department of Magical Affairs. Every practicing witch had to register, and each type of magic had a fee associated with it. The more dangerous the magic, the higher the license and registration fees, not to mention the tests you had to take… After all was said and done, the whole deal could be astronomically pricey.
Thus, not many witches or warlocks were actually licensed to practice Blood Magic. Verika thought it would be a breeze to find the ring leader of the Order—the mysterious Mistress Black—but so far, all of their leads had run cold. She’d come across so many dead ends that she was starting to feel like she was getting nowhere.
The treadmill beeped, and Verika slammed her palm down on the stop button with a huge sigh. She slowed to a walk as the track came to a stop. Gripping the rails, she bent over and panted, trying to catch her breath. Her stomach growled and she looked down. “Easy there,” she murmured hoarsely, taking a towel and wiping the sweat from her brow and chest. “I’ll get you something to eat.”
Stepping off the treadmill, which was in her office/study, she walked down the hall of her apartment and into the kitchen. Her scale gleamed up at her from its spot on the floor beside her fridge. She thought it would be a good deterrent to snacking on things that wouldn’t help her love handles disappear. Or the extra flab on her arms, or her thunder thighs, or her—
Gah! Stop thinking about your figure!
She opened the fridge and stared at its contents. Water, non-sweet tea, fresh fruit slices, salad, salad, more salad, dark chocolate…
Her mouth watered as she gazed longingly at the chocolate. The scale seemed to taunt her. “How many calories does that have?” it seemed to say.
“But it’s dark chocolate!” her conscience wanted to argue. “It’s the good-for-you chocolate.”
She could just imagine the scale’s disapproving stare.
With a big sigh, she grabbed a bag of peach slices and some water before shutting the fridge. She set it down on the counter, and while fishing through her silverware drawer, her cell phone went off.
Though it was nearly dawn, it didn’t surprise her. HQ was always calling her at odd hours: in the middle of the night, on Christmas Eve, on her birthday of all days… There were never truly any days off when you were a field agent.
Verika didn’t even bother glancing at the ID as she answered the phone. “The Imperial March” ring tone was enough of a giveaway as to who was calling. “Tate,” she said.
“We need you to come down.”
“What’s the occasion?” she asked, already rounding the countertop and heading to the bathroom to shower.
“We got a new suspect in the witch mafia case.”
Her heart started to beat faster. Despite all the setbacks, she still hoped for a breakthrough, for a lead that would finally shed some light on this abysmal case. “I’m listening.”
“I’m emailing you his file right now. We don’t have much on him. He has some pretty powerful identity spells around him that I need you to crack first.”
Interesting. “I’ll be there in twenty.”
She flipped her phone closed and turned on the hot water. After a quick shower, she applied some light makeup, coupled her favorite pair of pants with some ankle-high, flat black boots and a pretty, black, short-sleeved sweater, and put some silver hoops into her ears. She grabbed her fruit and water and headed out the door.
Traffic was starting to pick up as the sun’s first rays broke the horizon, scattering orange light everywhere. Weaving through the interstate exits, she quickly made it to the main headquarters in downtown Foxboro, Tennessee.
The nice thing about Foxboro was that it was just big enough to feel like a city, but not so big that you felt like you were going to be swallowed up by it. Parts of it still reminded her of the small, Southern town she’d grown up in, back in Florida.
She used a text-to-voice app on her phone to have the suspect’s profile read to her on the way over. Her boss was right; there wasn’t much to go on. “John Smith, Caucasian male, werewolf, Age: unknown, Height: six foot five inches, Weight: Two-hundred and ten pounds, Eye color: blue, Hair color: black. No records could be found.”
Somebody had gone to a lot of trouble to cloak him, and at great expense. Cloaking spells were also illegal and could only be used by the authorities.
The red brick building that housed the DPI’s headquarters stood at the other end of the parking lot. An American flag waved in the breeze out front, right beside the flags that represented every supernatural race. It always made her proud to see those flags, to know she was helping out in her community. Back where she was from, no one really gave a damn about anyone else. It was a rotten feeling, and she’d thought the whole world was like that until she joined the agency.
Her boss met her at the door. “Our perp’s downstairs in one of the de-spelling rooms,” he said as they made for the elevator.
“That’s okay,” she said, changing directions and heading for the stairs. “I need the exercise. What room is he in?”
“Four,” he said, shaking his head with a wry smile. “You and your healthy ways are starting to make me feel bad about my gut.”
“It’s never too late to start trying to live healthier,” she said with a wink and took off for the stairs.
Excitement crept into her veins as she went down to the next level. Please let this guy know something.
There were two levels below the main floor that housed all the administrative offices. One level was their laboratories and archives. The other was for all the rooms they used for interrogations and de-spellings.
Verika had a skip to her step as she cleared the stairwell and walked down the indigo-carpeted hallway to the de-spelling area. The building was decorated in much the same fashion on every floor: indigo carpet, cream-colored walls, and fluorescent lighting. The main staff all wore khakis and indigo tops while the lab techs walked around in long white lab coats. Field agents were always dressed in casual attire, in case an assignment popped up. Most wore their silver and gold badges on lanyards or clipped to their belts or jackets.
Verika wo
re hers on her belt. It shone in the light as she rounded the corner and spotted room four. She could make out the lone figure of a man hunched over the table. His hands were clasped and he had his forehead pressed to them. His eyes were closed, as if he was deep in thought.
From this angle, it was hard to get a good look at him, but she appreciated what she saw. The strong round of his shoulders suggested muscle underneath, and his sleeves had been rolled up to the elbow, exposing tanned, muscled skin.
She might have found his physique attractive had he not been brought in on suspicion of ties to the witch mafia. She didn’t have to ask why he’d been tied to the witch mafia. She could already tell, by the signatures they gave off, that the spells on him hadn’t come cheap and that they would have taken more than one witch to perform.
It definitely sounded like the work of a coven. And so far, the only coven that had been able to afford the priciest spells they’d come across was this enigmatic witch mafia.
A big sigh made his shoulders heave as she stopped outside the door and watched him through the glass. It was one-way; she could see him, but he couldn’t see her.
Eager to get the ball rolling, she cleared her throat and strode into the room. “Good morning, Mr. Smith. My name’s—”
The blood drained from her face as he looked up, and she abruptly drew to a halt.
Those eyes, the set of his mouth… even his face.
Nik?
Elijah blinked. “Me?”
The woman continued to stare at him.
Damn. He knew he looked a little ragged, but come on, did he look that bad?
Or maybe…
A devilish grin slowly spread across his face. “What’s the matter, Red? You like what you see?”
That got her attention. Her jaw promptly snapped shut, and she shook her head. When she looked at him, the shock had drained from her face, replaced by cool indifference. “Hardly.” She sauntered toward him, though she looked stiff. Her movements were jerky and her jaw never quite unclenched.
He studied her as she sat across from him and crossed her legs before digging through what he presumed to be his file.
