Kresley Cole: MacRieve

“How? I scented nothing! What the bluidy hell is this, Nïx?”

“You need to rebreak that bone.” She casually gestured at all of him. “It didn’t set right. . . .”

Time to call out some crazy.

Not long after the end of the game, Chloe was back at home in the McMansion she shared with her dad outside of Seattle proper.

Hoping to catch him before he went on the road again, she’d cut out early from the team celebration. Their next Reign practice wasn’t for months. What was she going to do without her teammates for that long?

Oh, yeah, figure out what was happening to her, heal up, and hopefully try out for the Olympics.

After showering and securing her ankle in a well-used air cast, she limped from her room, meandering around an array of athletic gear: a snowboard, a basketball, a softball bat—all tokens of sports that could never sway her devotion to soccer.

On the landing, she passed the wall of framed jerseys that her dad had proudly hung, then hopped down the stairs.

Inside his study, one banker’s light was on, the rest of the room dark. He was stuffing files from a cabinet into his go bag.

“Heading out of town?” she asked as she dropped into a seat. His travel schedule was one of the reasons she still lived at home at the age of twenty-four. They got along great, and there was a lot of house between them. Besides, it wasn’t like she dated or anything.

Dad nodded. “I’m thirty minutes late.”

For another capture? She gazed away from him, surveying the study’s ego wall—covered with her high school and college diplomas and his many commendations.

“Do you have any explanation for what happened out there tonight, Chlo?”

She turned back to him. How to put this? Either you’re nuts . . .

Or I am.

At least her weirdness could possibly be explained. She figured that since her super-senses ability was physical, there must be a physiological reason behind it. Maybe she had a brain tumor that was heightening everything! Like in that Travolta movie.

Her mom had died of cancer just after Chloe was born. Wasn’t the Big C genetic? Her dad must believe so; he’d insisted that Chloe have her blood tested routinely.

From the few pictures she’d seen of her mom, she knew she favored Fiore Todd’s looks. What were the odds that Chloe had inherited more than Fiore’s tawny hair and strange hazel eyes?

“Talk to me, Chlo.” Though Dad never looked his age—was fitter than most thirty-year-olds—tonight he appeared exhausted, wearing every one of his fifty-five years. Despite his age and salt-and-pepper hair, her teammates all thought he was hot, with his even features and muscular build. Which was too gross to even contemplate.

“It’s hard to explain, Dad.” She peered at the Newton’s cradle on his desk, wondering if she’d ever seen the silver balls moving.

“What happened to your focus? You’ve been one hundred percent scope-locked on the game since you dribbled your first ball. Hell, since you saw your first ball.”

Chloe had been five when she’d watched the first women’s Olympic soccer game on TV, and the entire course of her life had changed. Later Dad would laughingly tell friends that she’d been glued to the screen like a dog watching bacon commercials.

Instead of telling him, “I’d like to play that,” or even “That’s what I’m going to do when I grow up,” she’d informed him, “That’s my sport.”

Unfortunately, she’d had no natural aptitude for the game, tripping over her own feet. But she hadn’t let that get in her way.

Dad had helped her train, ball-gophering over and over as she’d learned to punt, running with her to increase her dismal speed and endurance. She’d declared the sport her own, then followed up with nearly two decades of hard work to claim it.

When Dad had spread out brochures for all the best colleges with soccer programs, she’d pointed out Stanford: “That’s my school.” When a women’s professional team had come to Seattle, she’d said, “That’s my team. . . .”

Dad snagged another file. “A lot of eyes were on that game. Your play tonight—and your injury—might have affected your invitation to tryouts.”

Just for a shot at the Olympic roster, a potential had to be invited to the grueling two-week training camp/tryouts down in Florida.

“I’ll be healed by then.” It was next month; she had time to get fit.

“I’ve never seen you choke like that. Ever.”

She raised her chin. “I pulled it out in the end.” She still didn’t know how , but in the last seven seconds of the game, she’d done a flying reverse kick to score the winning goal, landing on her back just as the ball shot past the keeper’s fingertips. She’d been blinded by the camera flashes. “All anyone’s going to remember was that last score for the hat trick.”

She’d channeled freaking Pele to make that shot. It was an SI cover moment. “I’ll get my invitation, and then I’ll claim my spot.” One of twenty-two players, headed to Madrid.

“Well, I like your confidence, at least.” Dad’s phone buzzed. “You’d think they could manage without me for one day.” Yeah, one would think. He checked the ID, declined the call. His phone immediately rang again, but he ignored it. “Look, I know something’s going on with you. Before I leave, I need you to tell me what it is. We don’t keep secrets from each other.”

Don’t we, Commander?

When he took his pistol from his desk and holstered it, she wondered if his consulting job was ever dangerous.

Wait—one thing would explain that mysterious conversation of his. With dawning realization, she breathed, “You’re a spy.” He’d been using code words! Lykae would mean insurgent or something.

“Why would you think this?” he asked, sounding amused.

Shit. She’d really been hoping he was a spy! “Your hours, your travel, your evasiveness about your job. I don’t really know what you do. And you always wear a gun.”

“No, Chlo. I am not a spy. I’m just ex-mil. Have you been worrying about this? Is that what affected your play?”

“I heard a conversation of yours. It made no sense.”

He paused his packing. “And when was this?”

“I know this is going to sound crazy, but I . . . I heard you on the phone. During the game. I don’t know how, but I did.”

Instead of pointing out how ridiculous this was, he adjusted the framed picture sitting atop his desk with precise movements. She didn’t know why he kept that photo of her mother there. Whenever he looked at it, his lips would thin with anger. Chloe figured some part of him must irrationally feel like Fiore had abandoned him. “And what did you hear?” he said.

“You were talking to some guy, and the topic of discussion was a werewolf. He called you ‘Commander.’ ”

Dad narrowed his eyes. He would now tell her that she was crazy, having imagined all that. Chlo, you’ve done one too many headers.

He cleared his throat. “Has anything else happened physically?”

She reluctantly nodded, having no intention of telling him about her more embarrassing changes.

“I’ve noticed you haven’t been eating as much.”

“My appetite’s totally off. Have to force myself to eat. I’m not sleeping more than a few hours a night, but I’m never tired.”

“I s-see.” With a dazed look on his face, he stood and crossed to his wall safe, placing his thumb on the sensor to unlock it. “I have to go out of town for a week, perhaps two, to service some . . . international accounts.” He retrieved an aged book from inside. “While I’m gone, I want you to read this. Once you’ve finished it, we’ll speak again.”