The Werewolf Coefficient (The Outlier Prophecies Book 3)

by Tina Gower

  “Guilt makes people do weird things.” Becker dials his office and I can tell when his boss answers because his facial expression gets serious. “Yes, sir. I have proof. A print-out of the original report from the database. Someone was able to wipe the data on the public database. Get a list of who has access to that section and find out who recently logged in. Yeah, I’ll send a scan of the page.” He hovers his tablet over the file page and takes a picture and sends it. “Right away, sir. Just give me a minute.”

  He hangs up. “I have to go deal with this. If we don’t shut it down then we’ll have your latest case all over the news just in time for the morning commute.”

  The TV switches back over to the traffic blip. “And a captive audience.”

  He buttons his shirt. “Do you think they could be related?”

  “I don’t know anymore what to expect from whoever’s doing this. The motive and goals seem all over the place. Right now they’re trying to discredit the fateless.” I turn the TV off, holding back a scream.

  Becker starts the coffee machine and pulls out a to-go cup from underneath to catch the freshly made drink. “Makes sense. Throw the blame elsewhere so nobody questions how they were able to do it.”

  “It won’t stick. You’ll have the proof and it will all go away as quickly as it came. What was Beatrix Morrison thinking?”

  “I don’t know, but I asked them to bring her in and put a detail on her family. She’s obviously been contacted again to pull this stunt. I’m betting she’s been threatened. Nobody that used to a camera on her face sweats that much or is that nervous. She’s in danger and I’m not going to let her die over her mistake.”

  The coffee finishes sputtering out. Becker grabs it and screws on the lid.

  My phone rings and it’s a number I don’t recognize. I frown, answering it.

  “Hello, actua—Ms. Hale.” Orland clears his throat as though he wasn’t about to call me by my profession instead of my name. “Rosa insists—”

  “Kate Hale.” It’s Rosa Germain, the oracle who predicted on Alana Morrison. In the background I hear Orland bargaining for the phone back to handle the issue. “You got a problem.”

  “I know. I know. My witness is on national news spilling her very inaccurate version of events. We’re on it.”

  “Saw that. Problem is that I got a vision just now. Too urgent to go through processing before it gets to you, so we thought you should know that if you don’t get her to keep quiet it’s going to cause a much bigger problem. We’re talking riots, looting, attacks on oracles.”

  Becker shoots me a questioning look. “We should go.”

  Rosa continues. “And that’s not all. Beatrix Morrison is going to get herself killed as soon as she steps out of that station in about ten minutes. Saw her under a tree clutching her chest. Your evidence is going to mysteriously disappear along with the only people who can verify your story just long enough to cause doubt.”

  “Crap.” I look down at my pajamas, tank, and slippers. “Thank you, Rosa, we’re on it.”

  “Sure thing.” She ends the call.

  Becker is out the door and halfway down the stairs. I jog after him. “I’m going with you.”

  “With me? You’re barely dressed.”

  I’m in the car before he can come up with another reason. Although the one he gave was a pretty good one. “We don’t have time to argue.”

  He lets out a long frustrated growl and we’re off to an uncertain doom.

  The bottoms of my slippers scrape on the pavement as I scuttle alongside Becker trying to keep up with his long strides. I clutch the ends of his coat over my chest in a failed attempt to keep the early morning chill away. The fog settles around us like a too-thick quilt. Nearly suffocating.

  Becker calls out over his shoulder, his phone to his ear. “The guy I got on Julia says he’s moved her from her house to the police station and he’s got her secure. We just need to get Beatrix Morrison before they do. Are you sure you’ve got paper copies of all the evidence?”

  “It’s procedure on an active case.”

  He looks at me unbelieving. “Nobody ever actually follows that rule.”

  I glare. “Well, then good thing I still do.”

  He leaves the argument there. Allowing me my well-deserved win.

  He curses. “We had a watch on her and this one still nearly slipped through.”

  “They’re getting better,” I say, but Becker cuts me off with his arm across my chest and we both stop our hustle. The news station is one block away. “What are you doing? We got one more block to go.”

  “I smell gunpowder.”

  “Is that it? Are they going to shoot at her?”

  “No. They’ve marked the area. They’re trying to throw us off the real scent and gunpowder is strong. A lesser wolf might have been fooled.”

  Becker motions for me to get behind him. He phones the news station security. “Yeah, we’re out front. Someone’s got the area laced with scent. Gunpowder.” There’s a short pause while he listens to the security guard on the other end. If I were a werewolf, I could hear what he’s asking. “What do I smell under it?” Becker breathes in deep, closing his eyes in concentration. “Magic.”

  He nods and hangs up the phone.

  I tap on his bicep and he leans down to me. “What is it? What do you smell? Is it another M.E.D?”

  He shakes his head. “Something else. Feel the tingle in the air?” I frown and he holds out my hand. “It’s like the fuzz of a soda pop against your skin. Like the air is carbonated.”

  I wait but don’t feel it. I don’t have an affinity for magic.

  I look up to see Becker analyzing me. His facial expression doesn’t give it away, but the subtle way he moves in front of me does. I tense, knowing I’m about to get benched for the remainder of the game.

  He scans the road and points out an ally away from what he must have assessed as the danger zone. “There. You should keep watch from that point.” He pulls my phone out of my pajama pocket. “Here. Keep an eye on my back and let me know if anyone comes close.”

  “What if this whole thing has been set up as a trap? They get you, they have your blood. That’s one powerful spell they could cast with nearly pure werewolf blood.”

  “They want you more. The actuary who’s messing up all their plans. The one who can’t be predicted. Come on.” His eyes beg me to stay. He’s not asking, but he knows he can’t keep me back unless I agree.

  “I’m calling Ali.” I do it before he can protest.

  But he does anyway. “She’s not a professional.”

  “But she knows witches and magic better than either of us do.”

  His jaw clamps shut.

  I place my hand over the receiver. “Don’t worry. I’ll keep her from coming down here.”

  He huffs. “Right. Like she listens any better than you do.”

  Ali answers with chipper trill. “You are so lucky that I keep baker’s hours, Kate. You realize what time in the morning it is?”

  I glance down at my pajamas. “Yeah, I’m well aware.”

  “Well, make it quick, because my boss went out for a sulfur break. It’s a real party trying to convince a demon not to over spice the cinnamon rolls. She doesn’t realize people like them sweet, not loaded with a mouth-numbing amount of cinnamon.”

  “Sounds terrible. Hey look, what kind of magic makes the air fuzz?”

  “Bumble bee fuzz or polyester pillow filling fuzz or Peach fuzz or—?”

  “Carbonated,” Becker and I answer at once.

  “Huh.” She pauses, thinking. “Yeah, that’s a tough one. Could be anything from tactile to visceral illusion.”

  “Tactile to visceral?”

  “Yep.” There’s a muffle on her end of the line. “Oh shit. Gotta go.” She hangs up.

  So much for the phoning-a-witch option in this little game. Not sure how helpful that was.

  I shove my phone down into my pocket. “We go in together. Get Beatrix
before she steps outside. There’s something out here that’s targeted to her. They’re expecting her to come out her usual exit. Get us in there and we bring her out a different entrance.”

  Becker doesn’t move, so I jerk my head to the news station side exit. He jogs behind me. “I don’t like it. You’ll be more of a help if you watch from a distance.”

  “You mean I’ll be safe at a distance. Becker, you’re more at risk than I am. You’re a police officer and you put yourself in danger everyday.”

  “We have the same risk. It’s just yours can’t be predicted.”

  I shrug. “Yeah, well, you can’t keep an eye on me from over there. What if they see me and capture me? Huh? Did you think of that?”

  He frowns. But he stops objecting.

  Something about being fateless. About surviving this long that makes me feel invincible. And maybe I understand what Becker is going through. I don’t like the idea of waiting on the sidelines wondering and worrying if he’s okay. I’d rather be in on the action. Let’s face it, I’d rather be there to push him out of the way of a bullet. Well, not literally. But if I happen to be right there and can prevent him from being a hero, I would.

  We reach the side entrance and he glances around. Through the morning fog I’m not sure he can see anything, but it’s Becker, so he probably doesn’t even notice the weather. He’s too focused on the potential danger.

  He rubs his arms. And I wonder again about the fizz in the air he’d talked about, but I don’t wonder too long because the door opens and a station hand rushes us through. We meet a guard at the end of the hallway. The room beyond is dark and I can’t see with all the blinding white stage lights. I use my hand as a shield from the glare. The heat from the beams already warms my skin, even though we’ve only been standing here for a few short minutes.

  “We’ve got her in the dressing room,” the guard whispers.

  I inch forward, trying to find a spot where I can see a little more clearly. The sportscaster explains the probability of each team winning tonight. The Denver Dwarves are favored with a higher percent forecast than the Rocky Mountain Furs. A woman standing by the camera signals the morning newscasters. The weatherman is getting powdered.

  “Has she been briefed on the situation?” Becker asks.

  I squint. My eyes adjust.

  “Yes. She’s cooperating. We’re very concerned about the danger of one of our employees.”

  Yeah, I think, but is she?

  Becker’s hand stays near his armpit where he’s got his gun under his jacket. “We’ve got officers searching around the building. Any areas that might have less security?”

  The station hand corrals me back. “If you’ll both follow me I can take you to her room.”

  He motions for us to turn around and go down a corridor away from the studio room. But it’s the tensing of Becker’s neck. The tilt of his head as he turns his ear behind us. I see it just as he must have. A fluttering of the lights in the studio. I twist around to see a flash of a familiar figure on the other side of the studio room.

  Beatrix Morrison has her head covered with a scarf, her body is scrunched to make herself seem smaller, but she looks over at us and the whites of her eyes catch mine. Her mouth perks up into a wide “O” and she ducks and makes a run for it.

  I’m closer, so I tear out after her. Becker’s right behind me. I block his way down the narrow corridor; otherwise he’d have been in the lead. I shoot across the stage.

  The director yells, “Cut! Cut!”

  I bump an unsuspecting stage crew member and papers fly into the air and seesaw down like leaves falling from a tree in a storm.

  The newscasters bumble an apology to the viewers.

  I slide all over the place, attempting to anchor myself, but not having much luck in slippers while she’s in—what is she wearing? Leopard print tennis shoes? Damn they look really amazing with her black capris and tan flowing tank.

  Two large guards stop Becker, but I manage to sneak past them and right on to Beatrix’s tail. She tosses a look over her shoulder and pushes through a large heavy door into a stairwell and shoves it closed behind herself. The door nearly smacks me in the face. I fumble with the handle until I manage to get the thing open again. I stumble into a stairwell that is cast in yellow florescent lighting. Beatrix’s footsteps echo down the stairwell as she jogs to the basement level into the parking garage. It’s not out the front like I wanted to avoid, but it’s still not ideal either. I’m just one flight above her, taking the steps two at a time, but slipping around without proper footwear. She whips around to check my progress. Her eyebrows shoot under her bangs when she sees how close I am.

  I’m gaining on her. I clutch the metal handlebars, ready to vault over, but the ground shifts, shakes, sways. Shit. An Earthquake. We both duck down, crouching, covering our heads. It stops as soon as it started. Something below a 2.0, I’d be surprised if it knocked down a deck of cards. But, hells, an Earthquake, in this part of California? Not like it’s unlikely, just rare. And an unpredicted one at that.

  I grip the hand rail, fixing Beatrix in my gaze, making sure I have her attention. “You feel that? That could be one of ripples from manipulating a high probability prediction the way you did. These people do not care who or what they destroy. Do you really want to help them do it?”

  She shakes her head. “Of course not. But I can’t. I can’t…” Her face crumples. She presses her palms against the door as though she’s considering turning herself over to me. She looks up at me, her eyes shimmer with regret, “I just can’t,” and she swipes her employee key card at the door to open it.

  “Wait! Stop!” I yell to Beatrix. “They’re going to hurt you.”

  Her card doesn’t work on the first try. It beeps and the light on the door glows red. Her jaw hardens and her forehead wrinkles in determination. “That’s exactly what they told me about you.” She slides the card again. Red. Again. Green. She pushes through. A little boogie in her step for all her perceived success. I sprint to catch the door before it locks me in.

  Becker catches up to me, bounding down the staircase. We burst forward grabbing the door together just before it shuts. He swings it open and I squeeze through, tripping on a large lump of…baggage?

  No. Not baggage. It’s Beatrix Morrison.

  One hand on her chest the other clutching her throat. Her round face is red and she’s gasping for air. “My heart,” she mouths. Her eyes are large, round, and frantic.

  Becker calls into his phone. “We have a victim down in the east side parking garage. KZYX station. Hundred Thirty-Second Street. Chest pain.” He crouches down next to her and slides her behind a concrete pillar. He turns to me. “Get down. They might shoot again.”

  “Shoot?” I ask, but I huddle down next to him just in case. “I don’t see any gunshot wounds.”

  He gently pulls her hands away from her chest. No blood. No bullet holes. “But I smell blood.” He slams his fist into the side of the pillar. “Dammit. How is this happening?”

  Ali said visceral magic. It didn’t make sense before, but now—“It’s an illusion. Beatrix, listen to me. This isn’t real. Your heart is fine.”

  Her lips quiver, taking on a bluish tinge. Her head sways from side to side as her eyelids flutter. “No. It’s my heart. Just like my father.”

  Becker shakes his head. “Her heart sounds normal.” He finds her pulse with his fingers to be sure. “Beatrix, you’re not having a heart attack.”

  “Yes. I am. Please. Please get a doctor.” Her face drains of all color. Her eyes searching wildly for someone to help her.

  Whatever Norn group we were dealing with, they’d chosen their method well. Beatrix could very well give herself a heart attack or die of fear. Her own mind betraying her body even though there was nothing physically wrong with her.

  Sirens echo through the garage. The ambulance must be close. But at this rate Beatrix Morrison will pass out before they can arrive.

  I sque
eze Beatrix’s hand. “Look at me. Listen, help is on the way, but there’s a magic in the air. It’s making it hard to breathe.” I hitch in a breath, pretending to have difficulty myself. “If we move inside it will lessen the effect.”

  Becker catches on to my tactic. He coughs a few times. “It’s very thick, Mrs. Morrison. If we move inside, you’ll feel much better. I promise.”

  “A magic?” Her gaze darts from Becker to me. “But my heart.”

  Her eyebrows furrow together and her lips turn down at the corners, but her mouth is open. She’s skeptical, but willing to believe.

  I rub my chest. “Mine too. Right here, right?” I point to my chest a few times. “Feels like a heart attack.” I try and think of an accurate description that she’ll believe.

  “Burning.” Becker jumps in. “And a pulsing pain.”

  She nods.

  Gods, I hope this works. We each take an arm and half heft, half drag her through the door and into the stairwell. The ambulance circles the garage level several car rows ahead of us. Becker waves his free arm to get their attention, but we’re too far away from them to see us.

  We move Beatrix inside. I take a long deep breath, coaching Becker to do the same by jerking my chin a few times to get his attention.

  He slams his fist against his chest dramatically, maybe a little too dramatically. “Oh gods, fresh air. Wow. That’s much better.”

  “Me too.” I slouch against the wall, one hand over my forehead.

  We gently set Beatrix on the floor and Becker runs outside to flag down the ambulance we saw drive past.

  “Better.” Beatrix takes a shallow, shaky breath, and the blue on her lips fades slightly. “Except I still feel it. It’s not gone.”

  I rub her back. “Take your time. You must have gotten a larger dose of it.”

  Medics would be good right about now. Preferably a mage of some sort. And as if I conjured them, they burst through the door, Becker right behind them. They go to work on Beatrix. A group of officers come in from down the stairwell and another from the parking garage door. Our reinforcements arrived nearly too late. If I hadn’t stalled with the pseudo-witchery trick, I don’t think Beatrix would have stayed conscious. And without a hint of what to look for, she’d have died before they could figure out what was affecting her. Or more possible, they’d have assumed her death had come about from natural causes.