The Werewolf Coefficient (The Outlier Prophecies Book 3)

by Tina Gower

  My silence must encourage him in some way, because he explains without me having to prompt it. “I hired Alisa, whom you know as Liza. We were experiencing a shortage of sensitives and she met all the criteria and I skipped over the full background and security check. We’d never had a problem, or an anti-fate group make such an attempt. It was lazy and presumptuous of me. And I believe she used a spell that could have made it easier for her to influence me, but in the end, I believe my breach in procedure left her an opening.

  “Zoey came to me first. She’d had the vision and filled out all the necessary paperwork, but there was no one sent to investigate. I spoke with Alisa. She used some magic on me to not see it as a concern. I know that now, that I was influenced in some way. During that time, I gave away vital information that compromised the security of our compound. I organized the oracle outing to the carnival, believing it to be a fun event that would ease the stress of our oracles and staff. You see, I allowed the group to infiltrate us. I’ve left us vulnerable.”

  “There is no way you could have known. The level of magic she’d exposed you to…I believe they have a much more powerful witch or wizard on their side. Let me in, I can find them if we set the right traps.”

  “I cannot. The level of risk you’ll place us all in is too high. Liza has managed to threaten us even from her cell. She has explained that anyone who actively tries to block their efforts will become her next targets. You see, I made our group a target when I attempted to thwart an anti-fate group a year ago. They had planned an attack on a group of shifters. We focused all our efforts on the prediction and were able to stop it.”

  “Shifters.” I scratch my jaw. Becker’s pack had been the target of an anti-fate group. Ali had said witches and druids used to hunt the species for blood magic. Although the practice had been banned and also it didn’t really work. “What type of shifters?”

  “Rats I believe.”

  Rats. A breed of shifters most wouldn’t notice had gone missing due to their more elusive nature. I would have to ask Ali if magic users had hunted all shifters or just werewolves. But a sinking in my gut won’t stop nagging me. There’s something here, something else I’m not seeing.

  Orland makes a sound, as if he’s realized something for the first time. “Michelle Kitman assisted us on the case. She is also in Accidental Death. Perhaps you know her? She is a very skilled actuary indeed. Maybe she can offer you some pointers.”

  I grumble. Of course I know Kitman. She’s only the most famous investigative actuary of all time and her nameplate still resides on my door—having reached National Monument status at this point—I can’t remove it.

  I massage my temples, trying to find a diplomatic way to explain why Michelle will not be assisting me. I also don’t wish to sound like I’m as jealous as I am that if he can remember at least one actuary’s name, he could at least make an effort to remember mine. “Kitman, she’s, uh, retired.”

  “Pity.”

  There’s a short pause. Orland coughs and his voice gets lower, quieter. “We cannot ignore the larger danger. The danger of the outliers among us. Ms. Hale, if these larger predictions continue to be challenged and changed, and the ripples cascade too quickly for us to calm them, then we have a much larger problem on our hands. The holes in our net will become larger. The inaccuracies will increase. Our oracles will not be able to withstand such an attack. Oracles aren’t just using the net to gather visions, they are psychically linked to the net. It would cause major neurological damage. And not to mention the number of other supernaturals that lean on the net for guidance. They could be injured as well.”

  “That is why I’m trying to find whoever is doing this and stop them. They don’t understand the damage they could inflict.”

  “Or maybe they do. And they feel justified in their actions.”

  Right. Whoever it is, they would see themselves as the hero in this scenario.

  I check the time. Jared’s funeral is in a few hours. I need to contact Becker. He’d want to know about the shifters. Jack was his case too. Even if things between him and me were shaky, we still had an ongoing case together.

  “Mr. Chandler, thank you for being straightforward with me. I wish you hadn’t kept it from me for so long. And next time when I call, pick up the damn phone.”

  He hesitates. I nearly rush to explain that it’s a joke. Although he’s still annoying, I’m a little more trusting of him than I was before the call.

  “Of course, Ms. Hale. Please do keep me informed. I’d rather not have my oracles involved if it can be helped.”

  “Just don’t hide predictions from me and we’re good.”

  I end the call and text Ali.

  What time will you be off work today? I need to ask you about blood magic and werewolves.

  My thumb hovers over the send button. I delete the bit about werewolves and make it more obvious it’s about all shifters. She’ll think I’m asking about Becker and I don’t really want to discuss him at length if I can help it. Might as well manage expectations and the parameters of our discussion early.

  I’m off now. At the apartment catching up on Heaven’s Homestyle Cooks.

  Ugh. I hate that show. It’s nothing more than a kitchen soap opera. All the cooks were dating and cheating on each other. Drama and baking. Perfect combo for Ali though.

  I’ve got to go to a funeral, but maybe afterwards I can get Becker to meet us there.

  Funeral? I love those. What time do you want me to pick you up?

  Unsure if I want to drag Ali as my guest or deal with her sneaking her way into the kitchen to harass the caterers, I compose the perfect no thanks. Except I could use a ride and not have to depend on the bus schedule.

  I take a deep breath. Becker’s supposed to be my date for the funeral, but after last night I won’t count on it.

  Can you be here in the next half hour?

  Sure thing

  Either way, I’ve got to suck it up and call Becker. I shouldn’t delay the inevitable. I dial his number, my heart beating wildly, erratically waiting for the first ring.

  My pulse kicks up another notch. My palms sweat.

  I’d become so accustomed to Becker always being available that I never believed we’d become so distant in just a few short days. Will he pick up? I decide to leave a short quick message and leave it work related, so it won’t be awkward. Like I’m pressuring him into any personal decisions.

  Or what if he’s really sick? Maybe I should offer to stop by and bring him soup. He’d heal faster if his pack were near. I could prove that I’m willing and able to fulfill that aspect of our agreement. Build trust and then maybe over time we could look into something more. I’d rushed things before. I could see it now.

  Okay, at five rings I knew his voice mail would pick up. Maybe I shouldn’t leave a message. I’d called too soon—

  “Hello.” A woman answers.

  I blink, checking the number. “Uh, hello?”

  “Yes. May I help you?”

  “I’m sorry I have the wrong number. I was trying to call Ian—”

  “Ian Becker.”

  And there it is. The slight lilt in her voice. The first time I’d met Dalia it had been in a loud bar, but there was no mistaking the cheerful undertone. She’d been annoyed most of the time when we spoke after collecting a drunk Becker, but there was a second where I could pick up her voice, like piecing together a vocal patch quilt.

  The blood that was pumping through my erratic heartbeat drains from my head, fingers, and toes. It settles in my stomach. What is she doing answering Becker’s phone? And she’s calm and collected as though it’s all a happy domestic moment. Like I’ve caught her in-between cleaning and cooking barefoot in Becker’s kitchen.

  “Is this Dalia?” I play it cool. No need to reveal my jealousy yet. “I’m sorry, I don’t know your last name.”

  “It’s Swanson.”

  “Lovely.” I swallow, forcing a smile. Although I don’t know why. She can�
�t see me. “Is Becker available?”

  “I’m afraid he’s terribly worn out. We had a long night.”

  I bite my lip hard. I want to scream into the phone that he’s used her. Because he can’t have sex with me. I’m his pack and he doesn’t want to mix the two.

  I also want to claw her eyes out. Along with Becker’s. Then my own for the images of them in his bed. His pack bed. After the first time I lay there with Becker we never went back. He always came to me. I didn’t find it weird until now.

  If they’ve even had sex. If that’s what this is all about. I know Becker. I know he doesn’t fall into that sort of thing easily. I’d been fooled once with Ali and I wouldn’t let myself fall for it again. I’m just letting my jealousy and anxiety imagine things. But now that the idea has been planted and germinated into a sick, twisted weed, I can’t un-grow it.

  Have faith. Have faith in Becker that he’s not this shallow.

  “Oh, well.” My voice shakes. “I don’t want to interrupt you…from whatever you were doing.”

  There’s a long pause. A pause where I can’t bring myself to hang up. I keep waiting for Becker to take the phone from her, angry that she’s taken liberties with his things.

  “Who is this?” she asks.

  “A coworker.” I nearly say more, but I don’t trust myself.

  “I recognize your voice. You were there. At the bar.”

  I nod, pulling my lips into my mouth. Shit. She can’t read my body language through the phone. Pull it together, Kate. “Yeah. That was me.”

  “Kaylee, right?”

  I choke. The blend of my name with Jaylee’s, Becker’s dead pack mate-slash-lover, is too much. “It’s Kate, actually.” I manage.

  “I’m sorry.” And she does. Seem sorry. But just like Becker, it’s as if she’s stretched that word to mean she’s regretful for a lot of things she hasn’t or won’t speak about to me. “So many names to keep straight.” She laughs. At burst of air that’s both awkward and misplaced. She’s nervous. She knows.

  Becker’s been seven hells more talkative to her than to me in such a short amount of time.

  “I need to get back to work. Tell Becker I have some case information for him. When he’s ready. It was nice—”

  “Wait,” she interjects before I can cough up the pleasantries. She clears her throat. “We should meet. Talk.”

  “No. We shouldn’t. Becker and I aren’t—” The familiar lie hangs on my tongue.

  “I know what you and Becker are.” She sighs. It’s not a happy you’re-both-a-cute-couple sigh, but a this-will-be-weird sigh. “Maybe you’re right. Becker should talk to you about it first…” She stumbles on her words, like she’s trying to let me down easy. “Explain it.”

  “Look, there’s nothing to explain.”

  Gods, hang up. Hang up. My eyes water. Fuck.

  My phone vibrates. I pull the screen down to see it’s Ali: I’m down in the garage level one, right next to the elevators.

  “You shouldn’t fight this,” she says. “The transition will go much smoother for Becker if you cooperate. It’s going to be hard enough on him as it is.”

  Shit. He’s leaving me. He’s joining the Turmoil pack. I’d like to believe it’s to clear our pack obstacle out of the way so we can be together, but he knows our work situation would still make that impossible. I should never have kissed him.

  “There’s nothing to work out.” I manage between gasping breaths. “You can have him and I won’t get in the way.”

  I hang up.

  I quickly pack up my computer, shoulder my purse, snag my coat from the hanger, and stumble from my office. Gretchen blocks me off at the hallway and I babble an excuse about feeling sick. I promise to log in from home and finish my work. She doesn’t look happy, but she must see the desperation in my eyes and mistake it for illness.

  Thankfully nobody stops me through security. Maybe they see it on my face too.

  In the elevator I concentrate on not crying, not shaking, not thinking about Becker, not thinking about the inevitable withdrawals after Becker quits our pack, not puking on my new heels.

  I lean over, forehead to forearm, bile rising. One of those things I promised myself not to do is suddenly a real threat.

  The elevator dings and it’s exactly what I needed to stop this anxiety attack. Who is this person? I barely recognize myself. I’d gone into this agreement with Becker knowing it was temporary. It was only this week I’d realized that I wanted it permanent. It wasn’t fair to him. We don’t even know if a human, a fateless human, can handle the commitments of a pack. I’d already failed him by stepping away and my little experiment almost cost Becker his job. It’s the reason his superiors called the Turmoil pack to begin with. I made this bed. It’s time to lie in it.

  Time to lie in it without Becker.

  Chapter 14

  I stand, arms bracing the elevator doors to keep them from sliding in on me. The chill from the garage does little to bring me to my senses. The alarm ding, ding, dings for me to let go, but I won’t. There’s some weird feeling inside of me that doesn’t want to walk through these doors and admit the last ten minutes actually happened.

  But at least it’s not like with Kyle. At least he didn’t dump me in the conference room fifteen minutes before five o’clock and just before the goons from HR marched in to parade me by every cubical in the office. At least I had the dignity to walk out on my own terms. At least I could hate Kyle for what he did. I can’t muster the same feeling of disgust toward Becker.

  Ali rushes to my side. “Hey, are you okay? You look like shit.”

  “Yeah, thanks.”

  “I was calling your name when I saw you come out of the elevator and you were just standing there with a blank look.”

  “Let’s get to the funeral and then afterwards you can make me whatever high-carb, high sugar food you like.”

  “Okay. Are you going to tell me what happened?”

  “No.”

  She doesn’t say anything. She doesn’t pry. This is how I know the level of concern she has for my well-being. She opens the door without a sound and guides me in as though I’m a feral cat about to claw its way out of her hold.

  “Come on,” she coaxes. “In you go.”

  I buckle my seat belt. “I’m fine. Stop hovering.” Each minute I come to terms with how things will go from here on out. I should be ecstatic. This is what I wanted from the beginning. I find those false feelings and try them on like a too-small coat I’ve kept in my closet in hopes I’ll fit it again someday.

  “You’d texted me about shifters and blood magic—”

  “I don’t want to talk about shifters. Especially werewolves.”

  “Which funeral home?” She switches topics quickly as if the previous three sentences between us were never uttered. She’s a good cousin.

  “The one on Gibbous.”

  “Oh, I know that one. It’s run by a nice Jinn family. I’ve always wanted to learn how to make their patka. They’re little thin pancakes—”

  “I know what they are.”

  “I was just making conversation.” She rolls down her window and lets the cold breeze whip around inside the car. “How was work?”

  “Fine.”

  “The case.”

  “We don’t have to do this.” I massage my temples. “I know you don’t like to talk about my work.”

  “Well, I’m curious. Especially since you think a witch might be involved in one of the largest underground anti-fate organizations in this city’s history.”

  “At least one witch with a very specific skill set. There has to be others. I’m missing something. Something huge.” It’s like a word on the tip of my tongue, but whenever I think I might be close I realize that wasn’t it. “It’s like they know how the system works better than I do.”

  And that’s the frustrating part. The part where they get to be two steps ahead for every move.

  “You think these are the same people who hu
rt Jack?”

  “I’m sure of it. If they could use random items and events to cause accidents that eventually change a prediction, they could have caused Jack’s accident.” There was no way of knowing, but it bugged me. That accident had bothered me since the moment I witnessed him lying on the ground in front of my office, bleeding from a car hitting him as he crossed the street. Legally.

  We ride in silence for a few more miles. The city streets with honking cars, taxis, and busses thin out into residential houses on hilly driveways. We ride up and down, like a carnival ride, stopping at every stop sign until the houses get slightly larger and more spaced out. A few haunted bed-and-breakfasts run by mediums that bring in the tourists who want to connect with loved ones, and a graveyard. We turn into the gates of the property and find a parking spot a few yards away from the yellow and white three-story home.

  Ali parks and we both stare at the home. It’s not the same one we used after my parents died. I’m glad I don’t have to relive that black moment.

  “So what’s the game plan?” Ali asks. “You’re not really here to pay your respects. You don’t know this guy and you hate funerals.”

  Who doesn’t hate funerals? Oh right, Ali doesn’t. I press my thumb into my forehead. But she’s right. I’m not here to pay my respects. Aside from getting guilted into it by Jared Walker’s granny, I’m hoping to collect some more information from family.

  “Keep your eyes and ears open.” I tuck my laptop case under the seat. “Look for any suspicious activity.” We both head for the front door, jogging up the steps in sync. “We can’t assume that just because Jared became the victim, he wasn’t involved somehow.” Ali grabs one handle and I the other. We open the patio style doors in unison. Maybe this will work. Maybe Ali was the perfect choice for a partner. “Anything might be relevant to the case.”